English-Language Arts Network

The National Truth by Steve Trotter

Prologue

Monday, April 1, 10:53 a.m. — Naomi Dudley drifted to the mirror and studied the latest incarnation of her hair. "I love the cut, Rosario, but I'm not sure about the streaks. Do you think they make my face look … fuller?"

"Darling, don't be ridiculous," Rosario said, fluttering around his bloated client. "They take five or six years off you."

Naomi admired her slimmer reflection. She slid a stick of Trident between her surgically inflated lips, attacking it with perfect teeth. "Rosario, you are brilliant." Air kissing his cheeks, she slipped a twenty in his shirt pocket. "What on earth would I do without you?"

With a finger wave goodbye, Naomi sailed into the reality of Greene Avenue.

"Shit," she fumed, scraping a sole full of recycled doggie chow against the curb. Naomi never understood why some pet owners shirked their responsibility. It was considerably easier than cleaning up after kids … and a hell of a lot less expensive. She knew this all too well; the night before she had paid one hundred thousand dollars for a video she would never watch.

The west side of Greene was jammed with winter-weary pedestrians worshipping the spring sun. Sidestepping a stroller, Naomi looked both ways and moved onto the one-way avenue.

She heard the danger a heartbeat before seeing it. There, on the far sidewalk, a whistling meter man, ticket book in hand, marching toward her BMW Z8. "Damn!" Naomi sprinted across the avenue to save her two hundred thousand dollar toy from a thirty-five dollar ticket. She lost more than the race.

Naomi flew out of her Dolce & Gabannas, soared over six double-parked cars, bounced off a Jag, triggering the alarm, and landed back in the path of the speeding van.

The meter man was slapping the ticket on the Beemer's windshield when Naomi flew headfirst through the window of Rosario's Salon de Coiffure. Without an appointment. Rosario collapsed in shock.

He couldn't do a thing with Naomi's hair.