I hadn’t heard from Oakley in more than three days; I was getting nervous. “Just call her,” prodded The Husband helpfully, “Pick up the phone and call.”
I did as
instructed and she answered on the first ring.
“Oh, it’s
you,” she said with the identical level of enthusiasm normally reserved for emergency
dental work, “I can’t talk long.”
“Why, what’s
going on?”
“I was just
waiting for a supervisor at American Express to call me back. Seems your little friend Muse has a spending
addiction.”
I thought
very carefully about my next choice of words.
Being the older sister, my role in our growing up years was to tell her
I told you so. However, now that we were
adults, I realized those same four words, even from a place of sisterly love, could be misconstrued as insensitive.
“Well, Oakley
… I told you so.”
“I knew you
were going to say that. Look, I don’t
have time for your preachiness. Muse
made some unauthorized purchases and I am in the process of returning the
items, even though the policy was no returns.”
I was dying
to know what she had bought. I couldn’t
contain it any longer. “Oak, what did
she buy?”
“Oh, you
mean besides the Ferrari?”
This was typical
Muse. My sister might not have noticed if
Muse had bought, say, a Honda. But a
Ferrari would most likely draw attention.
“Wait—so your
credit card can take a charge for a down payment on a Ferrari? Wow.”
“Down
payment? No, MOV, she charged the whole
thing.”
I was instantly
envious. Not only did Muse have a new
Ferrari (red, is there any other color) ...
... but apparently Oakley had stellar enough credit to
support such a purchase. I usually would
develop a nervous twitch if I tried to charge a grande latte and a blueberry
scone (Please don’t say declined like last time, please don’t say declined like
last time, Please don’t say declined like last time, I would chant out loud at
the Starbucks counter).
“Oak, your credit
is that good? I had no idea. You must have the gold Amex card.”
“Gold? Are you kidding? I have black.”
“Black? Don’t you mean platinum? There’s no such thing as black.”
“Uh, yeah,
there is, Sis, ‘cause I have it. Black.” She said black the way someone might say, I
own my own Concorde supersonic jet, which come to think of it, she probably did
if she had credit that good.
A normal
person would NEVER ask another normal person how much money they made or what
exactly they did to earn such a large income, an income that apparently
American Express deemed worthy of charging a Ferrari or perhaps a small continent. And, in fact, I did not have to ask Oakley
because I already knew: she was a pro
bicyclist. I internally vowed to become
a pro bicyclist myself, and I would start by biking at least half a mile every
day on my stationery bike. Or maybe just
once a week to ease into the competitive training schedule.
Oakley's voice cut out. “Oh, MOV, that's Amex beeping in, I gotta go.”
“All right, that’s
fine, but could you put Muse on the phone first? Or tell her to call me on my cell? I need to talk to her.”
“She’s not
here. She left three days ago to do her
bike across America thing.”
“Without
you? But did she even buy the right
biking gear? The helmet, the special
shoes, the reflective clothing?”
“MOV, I
can't talk. I need to straighten this out
with Amex.” She hung up abruptly, as if her financial security was more important than my question.
It didn’t
matter, though, because Muse was already at my door.
“Hey MOV,” I could hear her familiar voice on the front lawn, “Come out here! I am biking across America!”
MOV
