How to Look Happy Read Online Free PDF Page A

feels like it’s challenging me to a duel.
    After debating over and over in my head and imagining a range of scenarios each worse than the last, I hold my breath and dial the office number. Jeremy will be here any minute, and I don’t want Candace to have my unexcused absence as a ready reason to fire me. Jeremy. The mere thought of his name makes me feel like I could start vomiting all over again.
    “Greenlee Designs. How can we help you?” Carson Cullers, our office manager, interrupts my anguish in a voice that seems brighter than usual this morning. I’ve always suspected that Carson doesn’t like me, so I’m sure my incriminating Facebook status is the reason for her good mood.
    “Hi Carson, it’s Jen,” I say, my voice dull by comparison. “Is Candace in yet?”
    “Jen!” She squeaks my name so loud my throbbing head gives an extra pulse. Then her tone turns all low and conspiratorial. “No, she hasn’t shown up yet. You can try her cell.”
    I almost laugh at the thought of my name showing up on Candace’s phone screen this morning. “No thanks,” I say. “Do you mind sticking a note on her desk that I called you and that I don’t feel well today?” Even though I’m sure it’s pointless, I want a record of the fact that I did call in sick.
    “Sure thing, sweetie,” she says, and I pull the phone from my ear and stare at it in surprise. Carson has never used the word “sweetie” to address me. She’s efficient and brisk and generally reserved. I’m not sure what to make of it.
    “Um, thanks,” I say. “I’ll be there tomorrow,” I add for good measure.
    “Sure, okay,” she replies, and I can hear another line ringing in the background. “Gotta run, sweetie. Hope you feel better.”
    My brow furrows as she hangs up, and, thinking our conversation didn’t match any of the scenarios I’d envisioned, I shake my head and heave a giant sigh. I have bigger issues to deal with right now. I move into the living room, flip open the laptop that’s resting on a small desk in the corner by the front window, and fire it up. For some reason, I think a bigger screen might offer a broader perspective on the scope of my social media fail.
    While the computer warms up, I peek through the front blinds to see if Jeremy’s car has made an appearance yet out front. My house is a compact foursquare I bought with my dad’s co-signature and shared with a roommate for the first two years I owned it. Once I began building a big enough clientele to earn a decent salary, I found I could cover the mortgage without help, so when my roommate Murphy decided to move in with her boyfriend, I didn’t advertise for another roommate. I’d been expecting Jeremy to move in soon since the lease on his condo is up in July, and I’d finally eked a long-term commitment out of him, but now I guess I understand why he wouldn’t give up his bachelor pad.
    My stomach gives another sick lurch.
    I crane my neck and peek as far as I can through my blinds and down the street, which is quiet on this weekday morning. My neighborhood is urban and settled, with mature trees lining the sidewalks and a diverse cast of characters occupying the neat rows of Craftsman bungalows, foursquares, and Tudor revival cottages. I don’t have a covered portico or even much of a driveway, so when Jeremy or anyone else comes over, parking is a fend-for-yourself situation. Right now the street space in front of my house is empty.
    I plop down in my molded-plastic, Eames knock-off desk chair and steel myself for the onslaught. Even though Carrie pulled down my post, my wall keeps getting new comments asking if I’m okay, what happened, etc. Some of the comments are from friends, but most are from Facebook “friends” who are more interested in the juiciness of the gossip than in my well-being. Per Carrie’s instructions, I’m answering the comments one by one in private messages and hiding the wall posts from my public feed.
    I had no idea I