BAD THINGS SHOULDN'T happen on beautiful days. Bad things should only happen on rainy days. Really bad things should happen during natural disasters.

What was about to happen to me, well, I think the only thing that would have prepared me would have been a nuclear holocaust.

Anyhoo, the day in question was a rare day in early August when there's not a cloud in the sky, and the humidity's not so high as to choke you out. I took one look outside and grabbed my bikini. I was going to the beach.

When I say beach, I mean the beach at Oak Street, on Lake Michigan, right there on the Gold Coast of the best city in the United States--Chicago, Illinois. I was living in South Bend, Indiana, home to Notre Dame University, and after surviving the worst summer of my life, I could finally say everything was back on track.

This year, I had everything planned. I would finally decide on a major. I would get involved in campus activities. I would start participating. I would stop being a spectator. It was my life. My rules. My choice. #TeamSiobhan.

Yep. Everything was right. Everything was good. Everything would be good... except what was going on with my feet? My toes looked like crap. Oh, no. It's happening. Ugly toes mean one thing... you're single, and you've got no mingle.

And okay, sure, I was single. I had no boyfriend, or girlfriend, or friend of undefined gender, but I shouldn't take it out on my feet. After all, it's a slippery slope. If I let my feet go, the next thing I'll be doing is watching Hallmark movies with my cats while eating Haagan Daz as a substitute for sex. N'uh. Not yet. Get it together girl.

I grabbed my purse and quickly made a series of appointments for mani-pedis, facials, and massages, too. Self-care was important. It showed on the outside how you felt on the inside.

Then I marched to the bathroom to strip off the old polish. Can't show up to the beach looking all raggedy AF. Better no nail polish than crap nail polish.

I'd just dug out my bottle of nail polish remover when my phone rang. Oddly enough, it was my landlord. Her name was Doris, and she had this weird "I may be fifty, but I'll pretend I'm still young" vibe going on that was both admirable and off-putting.  "Hello, Doris," I answered. "How are you?"

"Siobhan!" she exclaimed. "Hey girl! Are you back yet?"

I choked back a laugh. Hey, girl? Oh, stop. Doris was one of those women who hated other  pretty women strictly on principle. "I am. Yay."

"Yay, yay. Well, that's great." She paused. "Um, about your rent." Another pause. "Have you changed banks, or something? Because I haven't gotten it, and you know... it's the 6th."

I didn't know, so I didn't reply. I have a trust fund. All my bills are paid through the trust.

"So, um, maybe, you know, you could pay it," she continued, "and then, when I get the check... and I'm sure I will... I'll just credit you a month ahead? Okay?"

By that point, I had contorted myself onto my bathroom vanity and was diligently scrubbing off the remainder of my toenail polish. This was a challenge, because of the cast I was still sporting from a water-skiing accident earlier this summer. "What was that, Doris? I didn't catch the last part."

"I need you to pay your rent, Siobhan," she said. "Now."

Well, snap. I stopped scrubbing. "Doris, by now, do you mean now? I was going to the beach--"

"Yes. I mean now. You're late. Pay it now, or I'll charge the late fee."

I studied my feet. Better, but not great. "Okay. How much is the late fee?"

"Oh, good God. It's not just a late fee." Disdain practically oozed through the phone. "It's the first step toward eviction. We have a no tolerance policy here. I'm being understanding here, Siobhan. Pay your fucking rent."

It was the f-bomb that got my attention. "Okay, Doris. Jeez. Chill. I'll be there in a minute." I hopped off the vanity and stuck my feet into a pair of Jack Rogers sandals. "How much is my rent?"

"$800." She hung up.

Wow. Someone's salty. I grabbed some cash I had sitting around, wrapped a Fendi sarong around my waist, and headed to the manager's office.

"Hey, Doris," I said with a big smile, "don't be mad. Here's your cash." I held out the hundreds. "We good?"

Her face devoid of expression, she took the cash, counted it, and then wrote me a receipt. "We're good," she replied in a tone that told me we weren't. "I know girls like you have a hard time with real world things, but when your landlord says she needs your rent, you need to take it seriously."

Whatever. I get a lot of crap from people who think that, just because I have a trust fund, I don't know how the world works. It's annoying AF. I know how the world works. I just don't let it bother me.

"Did you get a new tattoo?" I pointed at the ink between her ample breasts.

"Just an ankh, nothing big." She pulled out a cigarette from her pleather cigarette holder and lit it. "What happened to your arm?" she asked, without bothering to take the cigarette from her mouth. "Did you break it, or something?"

I toyed with the idea of saying casts were a trend, but it took less energy telling the truth. "Water skiing accident," I replied. "Got a few more weeks in the cast."

She made a face. "Ouch. Well, I'm glad you're okay. I knew a guy in high school who got decapitated water skiing." She drew her hand across her neck and made a face. "I heard they never found his head, either. That's why you'll never see me water skiing. Too dangerous."

"Yeah. Wow. That's some story." I opened the door. "Huh. Have a great--"

"Jenny's coming home this weekend," she yelled after me. "She might give you a call to go out."

Jenny was Doris's daughter. Jenny worked as a flight attendant for one of the major airlines, so I didn't see her that often. When she was in town, she usually hit me up as her wingman. I liked Jenny better than her mother, but she was a mess in dress, and a bad influence to boot.

I was starting a new school year. No more bad decisions. No more bad influences.

I scratched at my cast and pasted on a smile. I had plans this semester, and they did not include binge drinking  in downtown Chicago with a fake ID and an international flight attendant who'd ditch me in a heartbeat. "You know, Doris, I have such a heavy schedule this semester. I'd love to see her, but I can't make promises. See ya!" I slipped out the door and headed for the mailboxes.

I hadn't checked the mail since I'd gotten back to campus, and boy, was there a lot of it. I took it home and started sorting.

That's when I discovered that my rent was only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.

Stuffed between all the Bed Bath and Beyond circulars and Papa John's welcome back to campus coupons were a stack of final notices from all my utilities threatening disconnection if they weren't paid immediately. I sat down on my couch. What the hell? This was bad. Very bad.

Then my eyes fell on a letter marked University of Notre Dame, Office of the Bursar. I ripped it open.

Dear Ms. McIver,

According to our records, you have yet to submit your tuition in the amount of $48,000...

The letter fell from my hands and floated to the floor. Holy crap.

My rent. My utilities. MY TUITION? I reached for my phone and called the family's Accounting Center. A pleasant voice answered the phone. "McIver Group Accounting Center. Greg McIver speaking."

"Hi Greg. This is Siobhan McIver. I'm calling about my trust." I was surprised at how steady my voice sounded. Inside, I was screaming.

"Account number?"

"19991031." I paused. "I'm checking on the status of my trust."

A long pause. "I can't seem to find you. What's your patronym?"

"FitzEdward."

"What number?"

"Six."

"FitzEdward six... okay...and there you are." He paused. "Siobhan, there is no trust account listed under your name."

The phone slipped from my hand. In the distance I could hear Greg asking if it would be under another name.

I picked up the phone and cleared my throat. "Greg, there must be some mistake. I should have a trust fund administered by my brother, Patrick McIver, in the sum of 15 million dollars, give or take."

"I'm sorry, Siobhan, but there are no accounts listed, either for you as sole beneficiary, or with a Patrick McIver as trustee. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

I ended the call and fell to the floor, my legs too shaky to continue holding me up. My trust fund. What happened to my trust fund?

A memory flashed through my mind. I was twelve. It was after my father's funeral, and the McIver accounting representative sat with me as she explained the paperwork. I wouldn't recognize her today, but details about her stuck in my mind, like her White Shoulders cologne and the glob of lipstick on her front teeth. "Your father has set aside fifteen million dollars for your care and education," she explained. "It's not a lot, but with good investing it should be enough."

"It'll be more than enough," my brother—and guardian—Patrick assured her. Up to now, he'd been right. It had paid for my boarding school, my college, and provided me a reasonably opulent lifestyle.

I took a deep breath and reached for my phone. Patrick would know what was happening. He knew how much money I had.

I got his answering service. "You have reached the law office of Patrick McIver, esquire. Unfortunately, Mr. McIver is in a client meeting and cannot be reached..."

I left a message. "P-pat, it's Siobhan. Um, there's something going on with my trust. Call me back. Okay? Please?"

I hung up and called my oldest brother Aidan. He was a managing partner; he too would know if something was up. Unfortunately, he was in a deposition. Next, I called my brother Collin, but he was in court. Lastly, I tried my brother Sean, but he was do-not-disturbing in Los Angeles.

I spent the next half hour calling around, trying to get in touch with anybody, but nobody was available to take my call. My family's law firm was over 150 years old. It has over 10,000 employees worldwide. It was statistically impossible for there not to be someone to speak to me.

I was being ghosted.

I choked back a sob. Why? What'd I do to get ghosted? I mentally went through the McIver family disapproval list: I wasn't on social media, so no embarrassing posts... I hadn't committed any public crimes and gotten caught... I wasn't on a reality television show... I wasn't working as a surrogate for a political party... I hadn't informed on any clients or family members to law enforcement (came close once, but no harm, no foul).

The answer? Nothing. I'd done nothing. So, what the hell?

Fine. If they weren't going to talk to me, I would go and talk to them. It was a beautiful day for a drive. I would go home and talk to Patrick face-to-face. I stripped off the bikini and hopped in the shower.

Twenty minutes later, I stood in front of my closet, trying to decide if should I go strong and powerful with a suffragette white power pantsuit, or if should I go manipulative and coy in this cute Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress I'd just bought on Net-a-Porter, when the beeping of a truck backing up interrupted interrupted my Halsey playlist.

"Yeah, this is it," I heard a man shout. "The red one."

The red one... oh no, no, no... I opened the blinds. Outside, a young guy in a gas station shirt was loading my beautiful cherry red Porsche onto a flat bed truck.

I shrieked and pounded on the window. "Stop! Stop! Thief! You're stealing my car!"

They didn't stop, so I ran outside. "Get my car down now!"

The driver responded by staring at my chest.

"That's my car! It's mine!" I waved at him. "Dude! Hello!"

He continued staring at my chest.

I looked down. Oh. I ran out before I made a clothing choice. Whoopsie. Still, the bra and the panties covered me more than my bikini did, though, so whatever. I snapped my fingers at him. "Dude. Dude. DUDE. Eyes up here." I snapped my fingers again. "Stop staring at my tits and get my car off your truck."

"Oh. Sorry." He shook his head, as if to clear it. "It's not your car. Belongs to the McIver Group. They want it back." He winked at me. "Nice tits, though."

"What? It is too my car!" I pushed out my chest. "And my tits are not just nice, you sexually harassing douche, they are proof that there is a God in Heaven, but that's not the point. The point is... hey, stop walking away from me!" I ran after the man as he climbed into the truck. "You are stealing my car. Thief! Thief! He's stealing my car!" I pointed at the truck. "Can somebody text 911? This asshat is stealing my car!"

The driver blew me a kiss and pulled out of the parking lot.

"No, no, no!!" The frustration was too much to take. I started jumping up and down. "That's my car! Mine, mine, mine!"

The squeal of tires and the crash of metal on metal interrupted my temper tantrum. Out on the street, two cars plowed into each other, hard enough to explode airbags. Someone yelled, "It's that naked girl's fault!"

I looked around. Who me? Oh, crap. I ran inside before the police got there and got dressed.

I decided on the wrap dress. I wasn't in the mood for a suit.

First my trust, and now my car? I loved that car. So not right! It also meant I would have to detour to Chicago to pick up a new one at the Firm's  Chicago office, but that wasn't the point. The point was, I loved that car.

I also owned that car, or at least, I thought I did. But again, only Patrick could prove that, and Patrick wasn't answering his phone.

I grabbed my Birkin and headed for the door... then paused and dug out my phone. Please still work, please still work... thank God. The phone worked. I tried Patrick one last time. "Pat, listen, the Firm just took back my car... what is going on? I owned that car, right? Pat, you know that. What did you do with the title? It's got to be with my papers at home... can you get it for me?" I sighed and nearly hung up, but then added, "What's going on, Patrick? I feel like I'm being punished... call me when you get this."

The accident out front had tied up traffic, so I went out the back door and took a path through the woods to a different bus stop. Even then, the bus was late. When it came, I took it to the South Shore Amtrak station. I caught the train for Millennium Station, downtown Chicago by the skin of my teeth. I grabbed a window seat and checked my phone.

No messages.

My broken arm ached. Should have popped some Aleve before I left.

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Welcome to FlyGirl 2.0. Thank you for stopping by the millionth FlyGirl re-write attempt. Have a seat and help yourself to some coffee and cookies.

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©Copyright Liz Charnes September 2020

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