"I keep pressing the space bar, but I'm still stuck on Earth."

~Anonymous

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I sigh as John Maverick stops in front of me.

"What was that all about, Bev?!"

"The fight for survival," I reply.

The next five minutes are filled with Maverick giving me a long lecture about being rude to well-paying folks. As if I've never worked with customers before.

But, miraculously, he doesn't fire me. I suspect it's because there isn't exactly a long line of people beating down the door to dress up in a giant chicken costume and wave around a sign for five hours a day.

I try not to be too disappointed. There's a small part of me that wishes he would've fired me. Then I'd be free from this job without the humiliation of quitting.

But, as it stands, I live to cluck another day.

I go home, ready to pass out. Sweating sure takes a lot out of you. I feel a thin layer of salt across my skin and I'm already planning a two-hour bath to get the stench off of me and a Hamburger Helper Extravaganza.

I'm about to dive into a bucket of strawberry ice cream when the phone rings.

I grumble at it before grabbing a spoon and tearing off the lid of the container.

I sit on one of the bar stools surrounding the island in the middle of the kitchen and let it ring.

"Hello, and thank you for calling the Sunnybrooke Mental Hospital..."

I shovel a spoonful of creamy goodness into my mouth. One time, when I was thirteen, I was friends with a kid named Eustace Stain. We snuck into his mom's barn freezer and ate five pints of pistachio ice cream between the two of us. We threw up so much green liquid that his mom called the ambulance.

I've never been able to eat pistachio ice cream ever since. Even the thought of it makes my stomach churn.

The beep on the machine sounds and chills run down my arms when I hear the voice.

"I know you're there, Beverly."

Aimee?

I haven't heard from her in at least a year, ever since she called to tell me that there'd been a coffee bean recall on the brand I like.

I'm certainly not about to answer it, but, in typical Aimee style, she persists.

"You know I'm not going to hang up until you answer!"

I huff and pick up the phone. "Well, look who called. Did the government shut down? Is there a zombie outbreak?" I gasp. "Did they make another Pirates of the Caribbean movie? Say it ain't so!"

"Beverly, this is serious," Aimee says measuredly.

I roll my eyes. I can sense that she wants something from me. I should've booked a hotel in town until she stopped calling.

"Go ahead, sis. Call me Dumbo, I'm all ears."

"I need a favor," Aimee blurts.

I knew it. "Well, that is bad news."

"I don't know what else to do," she says. I hesitate. I've never heard Aimee so stressed. "Calvin is refusing to take the girls, Bev," she went on.

I bite my lip. Calvin is Aimee's ex-husband. They were high school sweethearts, lived the fairytale dream, got married, had three kids...and then they got divorced four years ago due to "irreparable differences", so they told the court to make things easier. The real reason became clear when Calvin got remarried a mere six months later and suddenly had a new and more important family. Ever since then, it's almost like he's been trying to forget his other family altogether.

"You know Calvin and I have this on-and-off thing with the kids," she explains. "I've had them since January, and they were supposed to go to Wisconsin with Calvin in August."

"Six months on, six months off, got it," I say. I absently open the refrigerator door and find that I don't have any milk. That's really going to put a damper on my Hamburger Helper Extravaganza...

"I don't know how to ask you this," Aimee says. I can picture her rubbing her thumb across the crease in her pants just like she always does when she's anxious. "I'm flying to Japan next week until December 31st on business. And we thought Calvin and his wife were going to be able to watch them...but Calvin told me she's pregnant and that he doesn't have the time or room to juggle the girls anymore."

"So you need a babysitter," I say.

"Yes." Aimee sounds relieved.

Pause.

I lift an eyebrow. "Okaaay, so what are you gonna do?" I prompt.

"Oh—well, I thought..."

"You thought I was offering?" I laugh. "Look, I know we're sisters or whatever, but that's so far out of the question, I can't even see it through a NASA telescope."

"Bevvy." How dare she try to sound sweet. Was she being serious? "I know, I know it's a lot to ask, and honestly I can't believe I'm asking you...but right now I don't have a choice. The kids can't know their dad doesn't want them, and I don't even think he'd take them if I begged." She draws in a long breath. "And I've tried to do everything I can to stay with them, but the law firm is counting on me. We're trying to work with our partners in japan, and if it doesn't work out, we're going under and I'm out of a job. I need this, Beverly."

"Call someone—anyone—else!" I plead.

"I can't!" Aimee shouts, and I can hear the panic in her voice. "Everyone else I know has kids of their own, and don't want to have my three for six months. And it's not like they have grandparents to look out for them. I have nobody else to call. Believe me, I've tried."

I sit back down and swirl my spoon through the now-melted ice cream. "I get it, Aims. But seriously, this is an all-around bad idea. I do laundry maybe, like, four times a year, I cook most of my meals in the microwave, and do you remember that one time I took care of Abel's parrot? It died because I accidentally left the fan running on high after it escaped its cage. Do you remember that?! Because I still think of that parrot's head flying through the air every time I close my eyes! I can't take care of your children!"

Aimee sighs again. "I know. I don't know what I'm thinking. But Eloise is thirteen now and knows how to take care of herself and her sisters. She's so responsible, and I trust her. Jemma is nine, almost ten, and Dusty's six."

"Yeah, thanks for the profiles." I frown at the soup of pink cream. "But I just can't. I only look out for myself, and those kids are your responsibility."

"But I need you, Bev!"

"It's not my problem."

Aimee sniffles on the other end of the phone. Is she crying? "Okay...fine. I thought you'd say that, so I have a deal for you. I'll pay you. Thirty-thousand for six months. Plus I'd cover the costs that would come with the girls--food, clothes, gas, so on."

I drop my spoon in the bowl. Thirty-thousand dollars? That would exceed what I would've made working at Red Ribbon's full-time. I wouldn't have to work at Shaky's anymore. I'd never have to step into that stupid chicken suit again.

I lick my dry lips. But I'd have three kids for six whole months. They'd wreck the house and drive me insane. But if Eloise was old enough to take care of them...I wouldn't have to do anything.

I could maybe even stay at Sacha's sometimes, let the kids have free rein. It could even be the best six months of their lives! What trouble could they get into around here, anyway?

I nod slowly to myself. This could work. It could actually work.

"You've got a deal, Aimee. Bring it on."