“This is a trap, isn’t it?” I waved my finger at her accusingly, then shoved more Pop Tart into my face like a ravenous beast on the hunt.

Vicki gave me a disgusted look, as if i was a gang of filth laden plebians.

“When was the last time you showered?” She sniffed.

“I dunno…,” I shrugged. “I sprayed myself with some Febreeze before I left the house.” She wrinkled her perfect little nose, something she had perfected back in the fourth grade to show distaste.

“Mara, Febreeze is for furniture,” she said, “It’s not like its perfume or anything.”

“Yeah, well,” I argued, “It eliminates odors. At least that’s what the commercial said. Not like…I uh, watch Febreeze commercials.” I had to stop myself. I wasn’t really into admitting that I’ve been sitting around my house for the past week watching cable and gushing over Tom Waits.

“Seriously,” I said, “If I’m going to be kidnapped can I at least have some music?” Vicki reached for the stereo.

“I meant something good.” I warned.