Savages

171

Yes, she wants fucking Internet.

She wants Internet, a computer to use the Internet, she’s hoping like hell they have Wi-Fi wherever the fuck they are and not DSL or, God help them, dial-up. She wants all that plus she wants a TV, satellite TV—if I miss one more episode of The Bachelorette I’ll never catch up—an iPod and access to her iTunes account, and could they mix in a salad every once in a while because if she keeps wolfing down these starches they’ll need a forklift to get her out of here and deliver her to some fat farm in La Costa, which would make Paqu very happy and speaking of her mother …

“You want to let me use the Internet,” she says through the door, “because if Moms doesn’t hear from me every twenty-seven minutes she will call the FBI and I think but I’m not sure that one of my stepfathers—Four, maybe?—anyway, it doesn’t matter, might have been in the FBI”—actually it was the FDIC but who fucking cares—“so she knows people, and, oh yeah, I want to contact my friends to let them know I’m all right, or at least some version of all right, and would it kill you to whip up a martini?”

Esteban comes into her room.

He doesn’t know what the fuck to say.

She snaps, “Okay, what’s your name?”

“Esteban.”

“Nice,” O says. “Okay, Esteban, I want—”

She repeats her demands.

Esteban agrees to go ask.