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VOLUME 2

STEP-BULLY

One

LULA

I’ve been known to take thefull400mg dosage of Advil sometimes. I’m not proud of it, but desperate times and all that.

With music vibrating the floor and dollar bills being shoved into sparkling elastic, I’m contemplating another dose and it’s not even beensix hours.

Turning to anti-inflammatories is not my usual coping mechanism, but today is special.

So, sospecial.See, I’m meeting my mother’s new husband. At hisstrip club. One of three he owns.

“Stop staring at your phone,” my mother chirps in that squeaky, urgent tone she gets when she’s trying to impress people and she thinks I’m ruining the vibe. “Mingle. I’ll introduce you to Larry as soon as the time feels right.” She shakes her head making atsksound watching me tap the screen on myiPhone, “You and your social media. You singing on TikTok again? For what?”

“It’s forwork, mother. I’m posting on Facebook Marketplace for the scrapyard.” I lie. I do that as well, but right now I’m lost in the dopamine hits I’m getting from watching my latest video get tons of views.

My reply only intensifies the sour twist of her lips. “I mean, who cares about a scrapyard onFacebook?” She waves at someone across the room while fluttering her lash extensions that curl all the way up to her micro-bladed brows.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the hundred or more people that have found usbecauseof Facebook. Scrapping’s a big thing on Facebook. Lots of scrappers out there and I want them coming to Z’s Scrap all day long.”

I grew up helping my dad run the business. Z’s Scrap is a third-generation venture. It’s ‘Z’ is instead of Zdzinski since no one seems to be able to spell or pronounce my father’s family name. The work is messy and hard. It’s hot in the summer and freezing in the winter, but the yard is his baby. Well, hisotherbaby besides me. And since Mom bailed on him and his blue-collar ambitions, she’s lost her baby status as well. Only problem is, running the yard includes long hours, lots of coffee, stress and junk food and my dad had a heart attack two months ago just after I graduated high school and I almost lost him.

One quadruple bypass later, he’s on 24/7 oxygen and a crap ton of home health, meds and rehab, but he’s stable, thank God. I’ve had to take the helm at the yard and with his care and any ideas of jumping in my beige 1999 Buick and heading to Nashville to be the next Taylor Swift are on permanent hiatus. Instead, I’m working every strategy in my arsenal to try to save what I now know is a business on the downslope of solvency. This is not what the summer after my senior year was supposed to be.

But, it’s okay. My dad is everything to me and losing the yardwould be the death nail for him. That, and losing me. My singing dreams are secondary to keeping my father alive and that right now includes getting his business back in the black.

Mom makes a raspberry sound drawing my attention back. “Well, whatever you’re doing is only encouraging him. He shouldsellthat place. It was always trashy, barely paid the bills. It’s going to bring you down too. Get out as fast as you can, convince your dad to move on, for goodness’ sake.”

I leave that subject on the sticky floor for now, just grateful my dad is getting stronger and I’m handling things the best I can. My mom can go pound rocks.

When she left, I went back and forth for a year or so, but in the end, I think she wanted her space so when I made the decision to be with Dad full time, it went over better than I’d planned. She had one condition, which was she wanted me to take her maiden name Laurence, from my father’s Zdzinski. She always hated his last name and truth was, I sort of wanted the switch.

Not because I didn’t like the name, but if I was going to be a star, well, LulaZdzinskididn’t really have the same ring to it thatLula Laurencedid. Dad agreed, wanting my dreams to come true so Mom did the paperwork and as far as the law is concerned, I’m Lula Laurence now. Stardom dreams on permanent hold.

“Don’t worry, Diedre,” I say. She hates when I use her first name, but right now, I think she’s earned a little rebellion. “I’ll be waitingright herewhen my new Daddy is ready.” I jab my index finger to the tabletop and release a dramatic exhale, keeping my eyes pinned to my most recent TikTok of me singing Lovestory with my signature slower, sultry style. The video is already up to 40K views in just a few hours. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be thanright here.”

“Stop that sarcasm. You know I hate that. It’s trashy.”

I’m not sure my mother’s version of trashy and the world’s version are the same. She taps a crystal-encrusted white fingernailon her matching blazing white teeth. Her white-on-white cheetah print jumpsuit is clinging to her like desperation, but I will say, she’s got the body of Heidi Klum with a high-end boob job.

A boob job she’s still paying off in installments. Zero percent interest though, so, that’s a plus.

“Well, when in Rome…” I look at the ceiling again on an eye roll, as the disco ball twirls loosely above us and the black painted drop ceiling tiles threaten to crash down onto the sticky two top I grabbed against the wall when I came in.

“Strip clubs aren’t trashy. Don’t judge, Lula. There but by the grace of God go you, young lady.”

“I agree. Notallstrip clubs are trashy.” I huff, rolling my head back and around, listening to thepop pop popof my vertebrae and watching my mother cringe.

She’s known Larrytwo weeks, and yet here we are at hispremiergentleman’s entertainment center, The King’s Palace, to celebrate their nuptials.

Well, it’s no palace, and there’s not a king in sight.

Trash would be offended by the comparison.

“I hate that sound.” Mom reaches for her rum and coke sitting on a drenched square napkin next to her now empty shot of Amaretto.