She'll Take It by Mary Carter Page A

a large wooden spoon to use as a microphone. And the Kodak moment of the evening ladies and gentlemen, was the moment where I, Melanie Zeitgar, brought the wooden spoon down toward the floor—I’m just singing folks—just doing a little crazed rocker impression, but from the angle at which the picture was taken, it looks like the spoon is sticking directly out of my crotch. It’s my head thrown back in crazed “ecstasy,” my mouth splayed wide open, and my hands gripping the base of the wooden spoon. My breasts stand out clearly in the camera too, with glittery silver letters spelling out the word DIVA. The caption above the picture reads, PINOCCHIO GIRL PLAYS WITH HER WOODY .
    I drop my head into my hands and moan. This is bad. This is really, really bad. How many people have seen this? Kim didn’t say millions of hits, did she? Oh my God. What if my mother has seen this? I mean she doesn’t usually show an interest in kinky things like wooden she-males, but you hear stories every day of the Internet bringing out the freak in people. And my brother Zach surfs the net all the time. What if he sees it and shows it to her? What about Ray? Had he seen it? Is this why he hasn’t called me? I have to get this off the Internet. And then I have to kill Trina Wilcox.
    I am so wrapped in my own misery that I forget all about the fact that I am in somebody else’s office breaking into their computer on my first day on the job. Had I been thinking straight, I wouldn’t have left the offending picture up on the screen while I cried either. But I wasn’t thinking about anything but my wooden penis. Maybe Freud was right. Maybe there is something about a penis that makes one entirely self-absorbed.
    â€œWhat the hell?” She’s out of breath and leaning in the doorway wearing a beautiful lavender suit and wielding a black leather power briefcase. Trina Wilcox is a dark-haired beauty, poised and lethal. “What are you doing here, Melanie?”
    â€œI work here,” I say, scrambling to shut down the Web site. But I hit the wrong button and only manage to minimize it. In a flash Trina is leaning over me, her hair descending like a guillotine between me and my minimized, she-male doppelganger.
    â€œYou broke into Greg’s computer? Move over.” She shoves me out of the way and maximizes the Web page. Once again I stare at the image in horror. Trina’s eyes turn on me and I swear I see them glint. She’s Lucifer with tinted blue contacts.
    â€œI know you did this,” I say, trying to control the anger clawing up my throat.
    â€œGreg’s on the phone,” Margaret says, popping into the room. “He wants to know if you have the laptop.” I jump up and stand in front of Trina so Margaret can’t see the screen. “Melanie, what are you doing here?”
    I turn toward Trina, who is packing the laptop in her briefcase. “I saw Trina run in here and I thought she might need some help,” I say.
    â€œShe’s going to run this over for me,” Trina says, shoving the briefcase in my hands.
    What? What was she doing? “I don’t think so,” I say, holding the briefcase at arms length as if it were a bomb.
    â€œMelanie, I have to finish up a few things here, but Greg and Steve need that PowerPoint presentation pronto. Go.” She’s now physically shoving me toward the door. I look at Margaret for help.
    â€œYou’ll get to see his presentation after all,” she says smiling. “They were an hour into it when Steve’s laptop bit the dust. Am I dating myself? Do the kids still say ‘bite the dust’?”
    Trina gives me another shove. “Hurry.” Margaret takes my arm and escorts me out. Whether it’s to save me from Trina or explain further colloquialisms I don’t know. I do know that I’m being propelled down the hall toward the elevator.
    â€œThe audience is mostly