DISCLAIMER: Are You There, Gaga? It’s Me, Kirstie is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to an actual celebrity, her domestic hired help, or her vagina is purely coincidental. The sun rose mightily up from the horizon, shaking off the morning and easing its way through the silken smog of the sky over Los Angeles. The smoky strands of sunlight glinted off a strange house high in the Hollywood Hills, a house that resembled nothing so much as a flying saucer, crashed halfway into the hillside. A few supporting steel beams that sprang from underneath the outermost edges of the saucer dove fancifully down the precipice for an alarming distance before sinking themselves into the rock. This house, where Lady Gaga lived when spending her time on the west coast, so resembled a space ship precisely because it was one: traditional saucer type, with a band of windows spanning the full circumference - although of course you could only see the part sticking out of the side of the hill. "...the views are lovely, I have to admit," Lady Gaga was saying into the telephone this morning. "On a clear day, you can see....eh, about a mile." She listened intently to the voice on the other end of the line: a wise voice, gravelly and ancient. She nodded, saying, "Well, I'll admit that I've come up with a lot of sick and disgusting fantasies about Alejandro in the 12 hours since I met him, but in my defense, almost all of them were consensual." She nodded again. "Well, thanks, Linda Hunt. Talk to you later!" Lady Gaga set down the receiver and sighed to herself. Out of all of the perks of fame, none had surprised and touched her more than her newfound friendship with Linda Hunt. The tiny, throaty woman gave the best advice, made even better by the fact that it sounded like it was coming from the mouth of God, a sort of female James Earl Jones played by an old white woman. Lady Gaga glanced at her Word of the Day calendar. The topmost page read: Triskaidekaphobia: a superstition and related to a specific fear of Friday the 13th Lady Gaga growled and ripped off the page. She had already ripped halfway through the year and it was only February. The next day's entry was: Pilomatrixoma: a benign appendageal tumor with differentiation toward hair cells. Lady Gaga silenced an inward scream, which somewhere far away gave a parakeet indigestion, and she picked up and threw the Word Of the Day calendar into the wastepaper basket. She made a mental note to avoid accepting any gifts from Doctor Oz going forward. "That was a terrible fucking calendar, Doctor Oz!" The wastepaper basket immediately incinerated the calendar using a clever series of lasers. The ashes fell into a lower chamber and were immediately were compressed into a diamond, which rolled out of the contraption as if from a gumball machine and onto a heap of similar diamonds already on the floor. One could only imagine what her toilet might do, but perhaps it's best not to speculate about such things. Lady Gaga was halfway through fixing herself a cup of Celestial Seasonings Sleepytime tea when the phone rang out again. She flipped up the rhinestone-studded eyepatch over her left eye and looked at the phone quizzically. Who could be calling her at 9am on a Sunday morning, just before bedtime? Was Linda Hunt calling back, perhaps? She shrugged and set down her tea cup on the mortician's table she used as a kitchen counter, and advanced towards the phone with short thumps, hindered as she was with the diamond-studded vanity leg brace attached to her left leg. Each thump sent the concentric gyroscopic metal rings attached to the hips of her full metal biniki swirling around her, and sending sparkling points of reflected light bouncing through her kitchen like a kaleidoscope. "Hello?" "Hello? "Who's this?" "Who's this?" A husky voice at the other end croaked out "Are you there, Gaga? It's me, Kirstie!" "Kirstie..." Lady Gaga began, and then trailed off. She really had nowhere to go with that. Most of her friends had names like Spike, Emil, or Grouchetta. There was probably a Jennifer in there somewhere, but she was pretty certain she didn't know any Kirsties. She had a brief, inexplicable image of a nightgown flash before her eyes, but then it was gone. "Kirstie ALLEY," Kirstie explained, when the pause on the other end of the line had grown awkwardly long. "Kirstie Alley...from Cheers?!" The audibly apparent question mark suggested an additional unspoken question, “Why are you calling me?” Lady Gaga raised her eyebrows in startled surprise, causing her eye patch to flip back down over her eye again. She couldn’t imagine how - or even more importantly why - Kirstie Alley could be calling her. She idly stroked the innermost ring of her planetarium bikini as she mused upon the myriad possibilities, none of which she found even remotely believable. “I need your help!” Kirstie hissed. “You’re the only one I can turn to.” Lady Gaga rolled her eye. She had always found Kirstie to be a little overly dramatic in her rôles on television; it was only natural, Lady Gaga supposed, that she would overact in her private life as well. “Kirstie, don’t take this the wrong way, but how did you get my number? It’s not like I know you. We’ve never, you know, had lunch together.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Gaga realized: she had lost her phone last night at that nightclub she’d gone to…the Tropicana Room? The Copacabana Lounge? She couldn’t recollect the name of it, if ever she had known it. “I’m sorry Gaga, but I was desperate. I sent my maid, Concepción Guadalupe Inamorata Sagrado Corazaon Del Jesuchristo Jones, to follow you last night when you went out, and you were so bombed she was able to snatch your cell phone while you were dancing.” “Well!” Gaga exclaimed. As a woman who rarely clothed her lower body in anything more substantial than that which she wore on her face, it was hard to shock Lady Gaga, but even she was taken aback by this bit of news. Her mouth drew itself into a thin line that turned down at the ends. “What you’re telling me, Kirstie, is that the nightclub that I went to had the sort of open door policy that they also let in your maid? That is Gagaembarrassing. Where the hell was I, TGI Fridays?” “The Olive Garden, actually, but that’s not important right now. Besides, even at an actual club, Concepción always gets in - the door people just go ‘Oh, it’s Linda Ronstadt!’ and they let her in.” “Gee, I had just assumed she was living off the royalties from that Mas Canciones album or something,” LadyGaga said. “I didn’t realize that Linda Ronstadt was working as your maid, Ms. Alley.” “Please, call me Kirstie. Linda Ronstadt isn’t my maid, it’s just that my maid has this thing where she dresses like Linda Ronstadt on the cover of Mas Canciones whenever she leaves the house, so, you know….” Kirstie trailed off. “Oh, I see,” said Lady Gaga, who did not see. “I don’t get it either, “ Kirstie added. “Maybe it’s because I beat her when she was a baby, or maybe her chains were too tight when she was a toddler, but I keep her on in spite of her strange habits because she really can keep the house spotless. And she’s a steal! I pay her in chewing gum.” Kirstie giggled, pleased with her own frugality. Lady Gaga caught sight of herself in the reflection of the glass door of the microwave and mouthed “What the…?!” to her mirror-self, who seemed just as confused as she was by this recent turn of events. “I never thought I’d say this to someone who wasn’t me, but Kirstie, you’re totally beginning to sound like a freak,” Lady Gaga said. “I mean, I’m totally fine with that, I’m just saying.” Kirstie was unfazed. “Quickly, there isn’t much time! I’m calling from a pay phone – do you know how hard it is to find one of them these days? And you can’t get all picky about finding one that hasn’t been used as a toilet by a homeless person, if you know what I mean.” “Eww, Kirstie. And you really don't need to say 'If you know what I mean' after saying what you mean. If you know what I mean.” “Concepción’s waiting in the truck with the engine running. You see, I’ve…” here Kirstie faltered, continuing in a whisper, “I’ve decided to leave the Church of Scientology, and I need to get somewhere safe before they find out. All my phones are tapped, but I thought I’d chance a call to you. They’ll never expect it.” “That makes two of us.” Lady Gaga nodded, and squared her shoulders. “You were right to call me, however unexpected it might be. I’d be glad to help you. I have three days before my next worldwide concert tour begins, and I can’t think of a more relaxing way to prepare than to spend that time to help an overweight former TV star escape from a popular religious cult.” “Thank God!” “You should thank Gaga, honey – I’m the one that’s going to help you. Sit tight, I’ll pick you guys up in 20 minutes. See you soon – byeee!” “Wait! Kirstie screamed, “I didn’t tell you where we were yet!” “You’re in the alley behind the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf down in LaBrea.” There was silence on the other end, and then a timid, “They got to you, too!” Lady Gaga barked a short laugh. “I may wear some unusual clothing, but I’m not retarded, Kirstie, and I sure as hell wouldn’t get suckered into a religion based on the same principle as a potato clock.” She paused, stroking the peacock feathers on her bodice, then added, “No offense.” Cowed, Kirstie replied, “None taken.” “It’s this outfit I’m wearing, actually. If you could see it, you’d think I was wearing Aughra’s planetarium from The Dark Crystal, but it’s also a global positioning satellite receiver with a Google map interface, and I triangulated your position while you were talking. It can also cook a hot dog, and you’ll never guess where!”.” “I probably shouldn’t. That’s amazing - I mean, I didn’t even think science had advanced that far.” “Don’t question me, Kirstie – and it’s not like Scientologists would have taught you anything about science, anyway. The only problem is that it’s so awfully hard to play the piano in it...” Lady Gaga trailed off, her eyes momentarily distracted by the glittering metallic rings gyroscoping around her body. “The intersection between comfort and fashion has never been easy for me to find, to be honest.” Lady Gaga was about to ask Kirstie what she thought on the subject of comfort versus fashion when she remembered who she was talking to, and the image of the nightgown flashed before her eyes again, this time fully-fleshed out and filled up with Kirstie Alley on the cover of People magazine, worn as if it was an actual dress. In all likelihood the best she could expect out of Kirstie these days would be a rumpled and stained peasant dress with an unfortunate amount of handmade embroidery at the hem. She snapped back to reality. “See you in 20.” She hung the phone up without saying goodbye, then immediately picked up the receiver and pressed “Intercom.” “Boys! Boys! Boys! Tell Driver to ready the car; Mama needs to change outfits.” Lady Gaga’s voice rang out downstairs in Gaga Manse through speakers positioned over what at first appeared to be a small children’s pool filled with eels the color of silly putty, but which quickly revealed themselves to be 5 or 6 slickly oiled homosexuals in identical flesh-toned bikini swimsuits who leapt out onto the floor like seals expecting a treat. Two of the “seals” seemed to have gotten entangled with one another in the swimming pool and didn’t leap out, but these were ignored by the others, who leapt to their feet and ran upstairs to help their mistress. Four minutes and thirty-two seconds later Lady Gaga burst from the front door of Gaga Mansion in a flurry of latex and chicken feathers, having changed into what she liked to call her “travelling costume": an all-white rubber bodysuit with a feathered turtleneck, cuffs, bustle, and a black crow-feather merkin in the crotch, and passed through the twin 20-foot high Lava Lamp columns that framed her front "door," which was really a repurposed overhead hatch from the space ship. She stepped delicately down the grass sidewalk that twisted through her cobblestone lawn, balancing lightly on stiletto boots whimsically decorated with flowers made out of razor blades, to the car that awaited her in the driveway. Lady Gaga’s car was a custom-made all-white Scion hearse topped with an 6-foot tall enlarged replica of the famous Damien Hirst diamond-covered skull sculpture entitled “For The Love Of God,” with rhinestones covering the skull in place of the diamonds on the original, and with the addition of flaming eyes made with actual flames that pulsed when the hearse accelerated. Her driver, a robot cunningly made to resemble a chrome-plated version of the late midget actor Billy Barty, sprang forth from the driver’s seat and hopped to the rear of the vehicle to let her in. Setting a small stepstool before her, he held out his hand and helped Lady Gaga into the rear of the hearse. “Thank you, Robot Billy,” said Gaga, and crawled on her hands and knees onto the back of the bearskin rug covering the floor of the car. “We’re going to the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in La Brea, we’re….” she started to explain, but stopped before saying “..to rescue Kirstie Alley from the Scientologists.” Even her midget robot driver would find the idea absurd, she feared. “Oh, never mind, just drive there,” she ended lamely. “Yes, Miss Gaga” replied Robot Billy Barty and slammed the rear door shut. “I daresay I’m feeling a bit tired,” Lady Gaga said to herself, rummaging within the folds of her garment and pulling out a handful of candy-colored illicit pills from the bustle. As the car slowly made its way through the inevitable traffic jams that compromise 50% of the open space of Los Angeles – the other 50% being composed of carefully manicured, entirely uninhabited lush tropical front lawns - she carefully chose three Ecstasy tablets, downing them with birdlike sips of a glass of Campari and soda dispensed from a small bar hidden a glittering silver child’s coffin set to one side of the hearse. She arranged herself comfortably amongst a pile of vintage clear plastic inflatable Peter Max pillows and buckled her seat belt. “Safety first!” she giggled to herself, and sprawled lazily on her back underneath the disco ball hanging from the room, idly stroking the fur and humming to herself. Two hours later Lady Gaga was deeply ensconced in thought-provoking, highly emotional conversation with a new friend she’d just met during the ride, who days later she would realize was an o.b. tampon that had rolled out from under a cushion, as they neared the alley where they’d agreed to meet Kirstie Alley. “…You know, like someone will ask you to bum a cigarette, but if it’s a Newport sometimes you’ll get an ‘Oh, never mind, I don’t need one that bad.’ Ha! 'Spose with you, everyone’s all like, ‘Sorry, I’m not wearing latex gloves like you, Gaga.’” The tampon said nothing in reply, though this did not appear to dampen Lady Gaga's enthusiasm for continuing the conversation. Gaga’s hearse pulled up behind a rusty pickup truck parked at the entrance to the alley and parked. The pickup truck, a 1973 Chevy painted in white and a brick red color that had oxidized to a matte pink over the last 30-odd years, was entirely devoid of faded TV stars of any kind. Gaga got out of the car to investigate, but other than noticing a thick carpet of takeout bags from In ‘N Out burger covering the floor of the cab, she could find no evidence of Kirstie Alley or her maid within the vehicle. As she stood there, pondering her next move, she heard a cry coming from the alley. “No, Meeses Kirstie – not again!” “Ah-ha!” Gaga cried, and strode purposefully down the alleyway, where she quickly spied what appeared to be two longshoremen wrestling over a squirrel next to a Dumpster. Approaching the pair, she could see a short woman dressed in a wide sombrero, red- and green-ribboned braids, and full traditional Mexican skirt ensemble wrestling with a humongous person or animal entirely concealed beneath a full head-to-foot navy blue burqa. The two figures were fighting over a large plastic bag of discarded muffin tops. “Give ‘em to me, Concepción! I’m hoooongry!” said a raspy voice from within the burqa. “No, Miss Kirstie! No is food - is trash!” said the other woman, clearly the maid Concepción who Kirstie had described to Lady Gaga on the phone. Concepción had the grizzled face of a Gold Rush era pioneer, with features that looked like they’d been carved out of an apple that had been left to dry in the sun for several years. It was impossible to tell if she was 15 or 50. Her premature aging hinted at a rough life with unsavory characters, yet as she’d said to Lady Gaga herself, Kirstie had had Concepción since birth. “Who IS this mysterious creature called Concepción!?!” Lady Gaga mused, as she pulled a gun hidden in her feathered bustle and fired it over her head. “Stop it!” she yelled. Starting at the loud noise, the two figures stopped fighting and turned to look at Lady Gaga as a rain of glitter, shot aloft by the glitter gun, snowed down over the three of them. “Thought that would get your attention,” said Lady Gaga, half to herself, and then giggled, holding her hands up and catching the glitter with delight. “Isn’t it just gorgeous? I had this thing made for Hallowe’en but it’s so handy that I…” “You’ve come to save me!” Kirstie’s throaty voice cried excitedly from within the burqa, interrupting Lady Gaga. “Let me go, Concepción. Lady Gaga’s here now. It’s all going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay.” Kirstie began to to repeat herself a third time when Lady Gaga spoke. “If you’re truly in danger, perhaps this conversation would be best continued in my car,” Lady Gaga said, gesturing towards the end of the alley, “rather than next to this Dumpster.” She paused, and when they did not move, added, “Which smells bad, I apparently need to add.” Moments later the trio had settled themselves into the back of Lady Gaga’s hearse, which somehow appeared much larger on the inside than it did on the outside. “Can I offer you ladies a cooling beverage, perhaps?” said Lady Gaga, gesturing to the glittering coffin that served as her bar. “Yes, please, it is hot. I’ll take a milkshake,” Kirstie replied, “but don’t worry about Concepción, I’m sure she doesn’t want anything,” she added, gesturing towards Concepción without looking at her. Concepción closed her mouth. “Perhaps you’d like to that burqa off – I imagine it’s awfully hot under there, and you know what?” Lady Gagainterrupted herself, saying “I’m actually going to stop imagining what it's like under there, in this heat.” Kirstie needed little encouragement and lifted the burqa swiftly up, and had fully cleared her gray-bearded vagina and was rapidly nearing Kirstie’s pendulous breasts before Lady Gaga managed to stop her. “Oh, oh, oh, oh my I hadn’t realized you didn’t have anything on underneath! Allow me to fetch you my robe, it’s a lot more comfortable.” Lady Gaga reached into a hidden compartment near the wheelwell and extracted a generously cut hooded bathrobe in a metallic fringe resembling fur, however upon closer examination the “fur” revealed itself to be a multitude of sewing needles. “I’m not entirely sure I’ll be more comfortable covered in needles,” the now entirely nude Kirstie said hesitantly. “I guess I was unclear. It’s me that will be more comfortable if you put on the robe,” replied Lady Gaga. “And don’t worry, it’s lined with latex, so you won’t get poked.” She paused, adding, “And so I can hose it off afterwards. Now, about that drink!” Lady Gaga lifted the glittering lid of the child-size coffin set in the side of the car, revealing a porcelain toddler demon baby dressed as the Baby Jesus. “Bartender, we’d like a milkshake and another Campari and soda!” Lady Gaga said, and then – glancing briefly towards Concepción, “And also a double mojito.” Kirstie started to open her mouth but then shut it again having said nothing. The porcelain baby sat up in the coffin, spun its head around twice, and then vomited out a perfectly mixed black-and-white milkshake into a large cup that popped up from a hidden dispenser within the coffin. Two more spins produced the mojito. Lady Gaga’s eyes danced with delight as she handed her two new-found chums their drinks. “Isn’t it neat?” she queried, “it’s amazing what you can find on E-bay if you’re willing to root around a little.” She pressed a hidden button on the coffin and a small sideboard emerged with a small snack tray spread with an array of crackers, manchego cheese, and quince paste. Taking a small sip from her Campari and soda, she turned fully to Kirstie, who was busily sucking down the milkshake. “Now, what’s this you tell me about leaving the Church of Scientology?” she prompted. Kirstie moaned, although it was unclear if it was due to the milkshake or her change in religion. “Let me start at the beginning…” Kirstie began. “Oh, no…” Lady Gaga muttered under her breath. “At first it seemed so easy. I mean, the networking possibilities at the Celebrity Center were worth a few hours spent auditing. You want me to ‘take a stress test’ and then spend two hours holding tin cans in exchange for a role in The Wrath of Khan?!? ‘Beam me up, baby,’ is what I told them. The money and the roles flowed in like magic. But then it stopped seeming so magic…” “MMmmm hmmm.” “I did all the normal things you’d expect – attend a few fundraisers, speak about Scientology in public, carry an alien proto-baby for Tom Cruise – you know, totally normal things. And it was going great, except they promised me that not only had I cured myself of the invisible body thetans that had been infesting my body, they also promised me that I’d easily be able to lose the weight I gained carrying that damn alien proto-baby. But I didn’t lose weight like magic! It was’t like magic at all! It was like…work.” Kirstie said “work” with evident distaste. “I mean, some of the hardest I work I’ve ever had to do was a seven-day stint in a recording booth doing Look Who’s Talking Too and Look Who’s Talking Now back to back. After that I was effing exhausted, and I’d never even changed out of my pajamas.” “Miss Kirstie, she no was happy,” Concepción chimed in, shaking her head. Her braids gently swayed. She added, somewhat unnecessarily, "Miss Kirstie no happy, ain't nobody happy." Lady Gaga snorted. “Listen, Kirstie, you can’t expect someone else to lose weight for you – Jenny Craig can’t make you thinner – for long – and you certainly can’t expect Scientology to do it for you.” . “I mean, Scientology is just a shop, and they sell classes to gullible people. You want to leave, just shut up and stop buying stuff from them, silly!” Kirstie, unused to such plain logic, was struck dumb momentarily with the thought that perhaps she had not even carried an alien proto-baby, and that perhaps she had gained a lot of weight due to eating too much. But hadn’t she given birth three times, with only two children to show for it? She made a mental note to call the nanny and have her count the number of children she had and see how old they were now. She certainly remembered giving birth at least two times, and then there was a very hazy period and then there was that Annie Lebwowitz photoshoot with Tom Cruise and what was so very clearly an alien proto-baby on the cover of Vanity Fair. It was possible, Kirstie began to think, that perhaps she had imagined the alien proto-baby during the 9 month period immediately following her Jenny Craig endorsement period, when she modified Jenny Craig’s miniscule portion sizes by adding a dollop of homemade Klonopin-Bubblegum Crunch ice cream to every meal. The heavy dose of sugar, fat, and Schedule II sedatives left her with a distorted sense of time and cankles. “Take a look at Nicole Kidman, “ Lady Gaga continued, “She left Tom and Scientology and didn’t do or say anything more dramatic than put on a pair of decent heels. You’d be wise to follow her lead...especially the part about not talking and also the part about wearing decent heels. I imagine Scientology will ignore your departure, I’m sorry to say.” “Ignore me? Me?” “Kirstie, if you feel you need to lose weight, you need to do it for YOU. Do you know what I mean?” “Yes, Gaga, I think I do.” Kirstie nodded thoughtfully. “I do understand! I think what you’re saying is that what I need to do is lose weight on a reality television program centered on ME. Not some lame Celebrity Fit Club where there are other people in the way, but a show that’s only about ME.” “Kirstie, what I meant was…” Gaga tried to interject. “…and sell my own line of weight-loss supplements using cartoons as before-and-after, because I’m still a ‘before’? Is that what you mean?” Lady Gaga sighed. Her initial amusement with the present situation had cooled frighteningly rapidly. Two paths opened before her: truth and convenience. “If I say ‘yes’, will you get out of my car?” Kirstie turned joyfully to Concepción. “She said yes!” In a burst of breathless enthusiasm, Kirstie bounded from the car, flinging Lady Gaga’s needle-robe back into the hearse with a reckless abandon that nearly blinded Concepción with its recklessness. Tragedy was narrowly avoided as Concepción executed a remarkable dodge-and-turn maneuver that caused Lady Gaga to raise her brow with curiosity. “To the ConceptionMobile!” Kirstie yelled, her robust form lustily leaping and rolling forward towards the rusty old truck, looking like nothing so much as a peach Michelin (wo)Man made flesh. Lady Gaga glanced at Kirstie’s retreating form and shuddered. She turned to Conecpcion. “I thought your name was Concepción – isn’t it?” Lady Gaga asked, taking pains to pronounce the third sibilant C. “It is – that truck no named for me.” Concepción rolled her eyes heavenward and laughed. “You no wanna know why. Dios mio!” She grinned shyly. “Listen, Lady. Gracias por el mojito. Es mucho appreciado. You good lady, Lady. “Thank you. And Concepción, one more thing – I guess I should let you know, I put a few pills into Kirstie’s milkshake when she wasn’t looking. I wanted her to relax and feel good about her body, but perhaps just not quite this good.” “I wanna ride in the back!” cried the fully nude Kirstie, gesturing towards a stained mattress in the rear of the pickup truck. The dark shapes on the mattress swirled in menacing shapes suggesting terror, evil, and an incredibly weak bladder. “No problemo, Lady. But I guess I better get Miss Kirstie home hay sap before she blind someone with them yams of hers.” Concepción said to Lady Gaga, a twinge of regret plain in her voice. “Thank you berry much!” Kirstie clambored over the sidewall of the truck bed, giving several patrons seated in the front windows of the Coffee Bean And Tea Leaf a view that seared itself into their memories so deeply that three of them required several sessions of psychologist-assisted talk therapy to mitigate the effects of what they had seen. In fact, one of their number had to pay entirely out of pocket, yet found the $300-an-hour fee a more than worthwhile endeavor in attempting to erase the sight of Kirstie Alley’s gray vagina bristling before him over his Ice Blended as she heaved and rolled herself into the business end of the ConceptionMobile. None of them were ever fully able to enjoy coffee again. Concepción bustled forward towards the truck. “No, Miss Kirstie. You canna ride in the back, you fall out!” she yelled. Under her breath, she added, “…again.” With a childlike frowny-face, Kirstie heaved herself back out of the truck bed and into the front side passenger seat. In a stroke of kismet, Kirsties free-ranging breasts drooped low enough that her nipples rested peacefully in her lap, preserving a small shred of modesty, at least on those occasions when the truck was viewed from the side. It is these small things one clings to in times of great terror. “You get back in that burqa, Miss Kirstie!” “No, Concepción, not now – I’m free! Lady Gaga told me! I’m going to be thin and pretty and everyone’s going to look at me. I’m going on a diet and I’m going to have my own TV show!” Concepción kept her eyes on the road and nodded. “Ever’body going to look at Miss Kirstie. Again.” | 
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