Chapter One



Opening Statement



January 1



The problem with New Year’s Resolutions is that you’re expected to make tectonic lifestyle changes immediately after the holidays, when your brain is as lumpy and dried out as a slice of fruitcake that someone shoved under the sofa. When I advise a client who is in a state of physical/mental/emotional exhaustion, I always say, “Take time to decide your priorities. Write down your goals so that you can stay on target and identify problems.”



That’s why I’m starting this year by keeping a record of my own activities. I’ll make a special effort to accurately transcribe conversations so they won’t get jumbled in my head when I replay them over and over. I wish life was like being in court: because I can drill someone under oath and have the stenographer keep a record.



Ruth gave me this journal when I stopped by the Avengers Mansion to sign several hundred Christmas cards with “oxox, She-Hulk, aka Shulky” in her childish loopy script. Ruth reminds me of a summer camp counselor, but in a good way, with her khaki pleated pants and pastel polo shirts. I love her carrot-top curls and bright blue eyes that are always open in OMG! amazement.



“She-Hulk was supposed to do this herself,” I said. “These are for her VIP pals, not mine.”



“Here’s something for you, Jen!” Ruth handed me this journal with the cute stripey kitten hanging from a branch on the cover.



I assumed she’d grabbed it from the last minute gifts! display, but Ruth said, “I know things haven’t been easy for you lately, what with all the conflict with the others . . .”



“I don’t take it personally,” I said. “She-Hulk’s not as responsible as they are, so it’s natural that they’d get tired of her antics.”



Ruth reached over and patted my hand. “She’s so OMG! rambunctious and exciting. I don’t worry about her, and I was a little worried about you, but I’m sure this year will be totally awesome if you keep hanging in there!”



I thanked her and was already intending to re-gift this journal, when Ruth added, “You know the reason I like cats so much? Besides their amazing fluffiness! It’s because they have an internal gyroscope — no matter how far they fall, they figure out a way to land on their feet, just like you!”



I informed Ruth that I didn’t even have a job, and she was good enough to point out that I’d lost several positions in the past, always managing to go on to better ones. She’s right. I’m not going to let the dark winter weather get me down. I’m going to be like that fluffy kitten and be brave enough to take an honest a ruthless assessment of my life so that I can improve it:



Current status: No job, no boyfriend, no permanent place to live, no car, and most of my clothes are held together with staples and duct tape. Bank account almost wiped out. Many of my former associates have expressed a desire that I never darken their doorways again for legal and financial reasons.



She-Hulk got us got us kicked out of the Avengers Mansion. People keep posting videos online of her New Year’s Eve shenanigans: twirling flaming telephone poles in Times Square, climbing the Empire State Building while dangling Anderson Cooper, dancing wildly at parties, and commandeering a motorcycle cop’s ride to do wheelies across the Brooklyn Bridge.



Positives: Excellent health. Don’t smoke, floss daily, exercise and train regularly. Allowed to store weapons collection at the Mansion. Allowed access to Mansion’s fleet of vehicles. I have the use of fantastic corporate loft with a private elevator that goes directly from my foyer to a secret subbasement entrance.



I think the private elevator is worth bonus positive points — since I’m the one who has to sneak back home in shredded clothes and clean up the trail of wreckage that Shulky leaves in her wake.



That is why I’ve made a decision that’s as huge as She-Hulk’s ginormous inflated ego. I’m not relying on her anymore to live my life. Okay, I’ve made this New Year’s Resolution once occasionally frequently before. I am a bright and accomplished woman — so why do I always slip up and revert to being a six-foot-seven, jade-green party girl/superhero? Even the other superheroes don’t want to deal with her anymore, not that she cares.



If that happened to me, I would totally care. My reputation means everything to me.



After considerable deliberation, I’ve decided that my problem is that I try to adhere to life-altering resolutions too soon. Marathoners train for months and carbo load before the actual race. Medical students practice on cadavers before operating on a patient. Attorneys draft outlines before drawing up a suit. So doesn’t it make absolutely perfect sense to allow myself a warm-up period before challenging myself with extremely difficult goals? Yes!



Instead of New Year’s Resolutions, I am setting Valentine’s Day Resolutions. Now I have an entire month and a half to prepare for them.



I have narrowed down my list to these important goals.



Valentine’s Day Resolutions



I, Jennifer Susan Walters, being of sound mind and body bodies whatever do promise to try to achieve the following life-improving objectives beginning February 14:



1.  Stop hanging around the loft playing online games (take sabbatical from Skyrim, BF3, Massive Threat, etc.) and get a new job as myself: apply to my five top dream legal firms. Update CV. Replenish business wardrobe with clothes that can survive hulking out.



2.  Meet an actual human man and establish an actual relationship. He should: (a) be employed, (b) have a sense of humor, (c) like me no matter how I look that day, (d) not be attempting to rule the galaxy, and (e) be considerate (e.g., remember to put the toilet seat down). Cancel account with Smingles.com because they match me with smorons. Stop Severely restrict Moderate cyberstalking and crank calling exes.



3.  Have a real date on Valentine’s Day: flowers, lingerie, the whole deal. Going out for burgers with my cousin again DOES NOT COUNT.



4.  Seek balance in work environment and social life. Have fun and learn how to speak up for myself without doing anything that will get me fired. Participate in more activities and get more culture: buy membership to Met, go to opera, ballet, and theater. Join a book club?



5.  Stretch outside my comfort zone. Don’t automatically reject opportunities to do something new and different especially if there’s a chance to meet friends/boyfriend.



I’m totally psyched to take control of my life and I’m determined that my new year will be the best one yet!



January 2



Bought tickets to see Wicked again, so I’m off to a great start culturewise! If people can get over initial ookiness to green skin, they’d realize that most green people sentient beings have wonderful qualities. Case in point: Kermit the Frog.



January 3



Took my last remaining good suit to the dry cleaner. They said they can fix the ripped seams. Then I went to the bookstore, where bleary holiday survivors hovered around the self-help section, all of us hoping to go from good to great.



I skimmed through several books and there seemed to be a surfeit of banal encouragements and/or magical thinking. I thought everyone knew by now that magical thinking only works if you actually possess magical powers. Even Dr. Doom prefers to use gadgetry to achieve his nefarious ends because Murphy’s Law always applies where magic is concerned. That’s why I advise my clients, “Although casting an enchantment or invocation seems like a shortcut, I strongly recommend that you avoid magic because it has deeply regrettable blowback consequences.”



Then I had brainstorm #2.



Doesn’t it make sense for me to follow my own expert advice instead of taking advice from a stranger who probably made up his credentials? Yes! I was excitedly thinking about the brilliant guidance I could give myself when I received a high-priority message.



Text from Dahlia:          Meet me @ Laundromat STAT!! Bring Korean tacos & raspberry Joocey Jooce!



I bought kitten-hanging-from-a-branch supplies (calendar, notebooks, pencil case, pencils) and slogged out into the frigid sludgy day. I followed Dahlia’s link to a nearby food truck, got two plates of food, and extra Sriracha, kimchee, and lime wedges.



Even though I walked by three Joocey Jooces on my way to Delancey Street, they all had lines out the door. I’ll never understand New Yorkers: people were shivering on the sidewalk to buy cold fruit smoothies.



The blast of heat from the Laundromat thawed me out. Dahlia was ignoring the “Do not sit on folding table!” sign and wearing a black miniskirt, spiderweb stockings, platform boots, and a gray security guard jacket. Her short spiky hair was electric blue today and so were her contacts, making her look like an anime character.



As I approached her, I heard a nasty yipping from the Juicy Couture bag on the floor.



“Hey, Dahl, what’s the emergency?”



“I’m critically hungry. Where’s my drink?”



“I wasn’t going to wait in line at Joocey Jooce. Or like they say here, on line. That doesn’t even make sense.” Naturally, the tacos were cold, but still tasty. After I’d eaten one, I said, “Okay, why are we here?”



“Rodney did a revenge piss on the comforter after I took him to the groomer, and the big machine at the salon is broken. Rodney doesn’t even look that bad. See for yourself.”



The small dog growled at the sound of his name.



“I’m not sticking my hand in that bag. He bit me the last time.”



She scrunched her face. Girls as petite and pretty as Dahlia can scrunch their faces and still look cute. If I scrunch my face, I look like I’m suffering from irritable bowel syndrome. “Don’t be such a sissy, Jen. He’s got itty-bitty little teeth. They don’t hurt that much.”



“I am not a sissy. Azzan says I’m his most fearless student. But it’s not as if I can body slam that glorified rat when he attacks.”



“Is Azzan your sex therapist? Do you body slam him?” She slapped her palms together and pulled them away while making a horrid sucking sound.



“Hardy-har-har. I body slam him because he’s my Krav Maga coach. You’re sick.”



“I’m normal, and you are a perplexing blend of kick-ass chick and honor-roll nerd. How was your Christmas?”



“Beyond dismal. My dad’s condo is so motel-generic and grim that I kept looking around for chalk outlines of bodies. It was smoggy, and my cousin and I sat by the pool and drank lukewarm eggnog from a carton.”



“How is Bruce? The last time I saw him, he looked seething in a very intriguing way, like he was about to erupt, but maybe trying to teach science to teenagers has that effect.”



“He’s always had anger issues,” I said, so she wouldn’t get any ideas about him. “It’s hard to tell with Bruce, because he’s not exactly ‘peppy’ — one of my mom’s favorite words—but he seemed as morose as I felt.”



“No wonder — Lost Angeles! Smell-A! Hell-A,” Dahlia sneered. “My years there were a nightmare of enduring bleached blond hair-tossing and ‘Hi, I’m Wendy!’ Grown men wear shorts all year round. Ugh.”



“You’re a terrible snob for a girl from El Paso. You met me at UCLA.”



“Being your roomie and clubbing in West Hollywood were the only things that kept me sane. Even then I had to self-medicate.”



“Yes, I remember when I had my wisdom teeth removed and you appropriated my Percocet for your alleged psychic pain. How was your Christmas?”



“It was like Sarajevo but with endless football games, tamales, and lumpia. All the ethnic and religious factions sniped at one another. My parents got in a shouting match about the best way to peel a potato, I kid you not. Total spud wars between the moms and pops! That’s what happens when you live with someone too long — you look for drama in the minute random shit.”



Dahlia had left her radishes on the paper plate so I snagged them. “One, stop being so dour. Two, I like your new hair color, but the turquoise contact lenses make you look like you’re trying to mesmerize people. And, three, I came up with a list of personal resolutions that will begin to take effect Valentine’s Day.”



“Sounds fascinating. Can you elaborate, Counselor?”



I described my plan and my goals, leaving out the She-Hulk details. Dahlia thought they were genius, but she’d also convinced me to wear lederhosen and pigtails once to a dorm Oktoberfest dinner, so she’s not the most reliable judge.



She swung her pixie legs and said, “Starting on Valentine’s Day seems completely arbitrary. Why not go for the gusto now, and if you slide back, you can start again.”



“That never works. I think it’s like the Hokey Pokey. You can put your left foot in and your left foot out, but at a certain point you realize you’re going in circles and abandon the greater plan of action.”



She grinned. “That incisive mind is why you get paid the big bucks — when you actually have a job. Let’s move on to a more fascinating topic. Where are you going to find a boyfriend, Jen? Should I go through my client list? I have a top-secret grid that grades every interesting man on an extensive range of talents — from A for abdominals to Z for zexterity.”



When I made a face, she said, “Zexterity is zen plus sex plus dexterity — it’s for laid-back guys with tantric endurance, but frankly I don’t like getting friction blisters on my girly parts.”



“After all these years, Dahl, you still enjoy squicking me out. The people who go to your salon are all too trendy. I want someone . . .”



“Dull as a tater tot? Bland and processed as instant mashed?”



“So you’re committed to the tuber theme?” She nodded and I said, “I want someone as hot, crisp, and irresistible as excellent pommes frites.”



“You say that, but you only go out with megalomaniacs or drips.”



“Tony Stark isn’t a megalomaniac or a drip,” I said, even though Tony thrives on the massive attention he gets as Iron Man while most of us prefer to keep our human identities secret.



“Please, Jen. The most important thing I got from my history degree is an ability to recognize the narcissistic personality disorder that is characteristic in dictators. I will concede that he does have fantastic hair.”



I agreed that his hair is fantastic, and she quizzed me about how he achieved the look, and I admitted that he woke up with fantastic hair, and she discussed natural wave, texture, and hue, before returning to the previous subject and saying, “You never date anyone interesting and creative.”



We watched the comforter spinning around in the industrial dryer and I said, “I have so. Ellis Tesla.”



She let out a hoot that set Rodney to barking. “You’re calling the one time you had a weekend hookup a date?”



“It may have been a hookup, but we had serious, meaningful talks.”



“Naked talks always seem deep. Yeah, Ellis Tesla was ten kinds of hot. Did you ever find out where he went?”



“The last known sighting of Ellis and Fringe Theory was at that concert in Oslo when they proved that they could destroy a tank by precisely targeting pumpkins from a catapult. Ellis was fond of medieval weaponry in general, and catapults in particular. I’ve visited — okay, snooped around — MIT alumni sites, but no one’s telling his real name. I looked for anagrams of Ellis Tesla, but can’t find any Leslie Lasts or Teasel Sills. For all I know, Fringe Theory might not even be on Earth anymore.”



She patted my arm. “I don’t know what it says about a drunken hookup — I mean meaningful relationship — when the guy won’t even stay on the planet for a second drunken weekend — I mean significant liaison.”



I gave her a warning look. “Dahlia, you do know that I can grab you by your peewee ankles, hold you upside down, and then shove you into that dog carrier bag and let Rodney bite you all over until your guts leak out like spaghetti sauce in a colander?”



She grinned. “He wouldn’t do that because his doggy brain senses that any other pet-sitter would flush him down the toilet. How come you never talk to other people like that?”



“Because I’m shy.”



“Only when it’s convenient for you to avoid things you don’t want to do. Add this to your list of goals—‘Learn to talk to people like I talk to Dahlia’?”



“That might be fun, but I’d never get past the first round in a job interview.”



“Well, I do like it when you get a paycheck and can support me in the manner to which I’ve become accustomed, i.e., food truck lunches.” She reached over to look in the bag from the bookstore. “A cat calendar? Is becoming a cat lady one of your resolutions?”



“It’s a gift for Ruth. You met her once when we toured the Avengers Mansion, remember?”



“The one who always talks like everything is OMG! AMAZING!”



I nodded. “Yes, she handles all of She-Hulk’s admin work, and she’s always really nice to me.”



“You and your fancy-ass friends at the Mansion. When are you going to introduce me to She-Hulk?”



I have thought long and hard about telling D the truth about Shulky and me, but she’s safer not knowing my secrets. “My relationship with her is strictly business. All we talk is contract law. It’s as exciting as supermarket potato salad.”



D gave me one of her skeptical huhs and then made me promise to come to dinner and watch a movie with her. I said yes, even though she only chooses movies based on historically significant hairstyles, like Shampoo and Love Story.



As part of my wardrobe makeover, I went to Mood Fabrics. I wandered around hoping to spot my imaginary gay boyfriend, Tim Gunn, but no luck.



A supercute clerk was very helpful, and after talking to me for a few minutes, he recommended iron-on tape that he said “looks as good as sewing to most people” and a variety pack of safety pins. He also gave me the name of a designer who specializes in what he called “breakaway costumes.” I guess that’s a technical term.



Feel as if I’ve made important inroads in preparation to beginning my resolutions!



January 5



I called Holden’s office at 6:30 a.m. and he answered, “Goodman, Lieber, Kurtzberg, & Holliway. Holden Holliway here.”



Holden never answers his own office line, and I was so shocked I blurted, “What are you doing answering the phone and so early?”



“Jennifer, is that you? I haven’t left from last night. What are you doing calling this early?”



“I was going to leave a message.” After an awkward pause, I said, “I’m applying for positions at other firms and I was wondering . . .”



“You were wondering if I’d have a drink with you and we could discuss things.”



Holden is a crafty bastard. “Yes, that’s exactly what I was wondering.”



“Will you be coming or will your glamorous jade friend meet me?”



It’s a relief to talk to one of the few people who knows both my identities and prefers me. “It will be me. I’d like to try to stay Jennifer more often this year.”



“I can’t say that I mind. Shulky’s a real pistol, but at my age, I prefer a rubber chicken.” He named a bar I’d never heard of and said, “Seven p.m. Be there or be square!”



Did that mean that Holden thought I was the rubber chicken?



6:00 p.m.



The weather was miserable and cold. I didn’t want to go out, especially since there was a Hoarders marathon on TV, but I put on a businessy-type pantsuit and yanked on waterproof boots. I was taking a chance because boots are always a problem if I have to shift.



I schlepped to First Street, shivering against the sleet, and arrived at a grimy little dive. I peered in the window to make sure it was the right address and spotted Holden immediately since his snowy hair practically glowed in the murk. I stepped into the dark bar and hung my coat on the rack. There was a distinct pickled smell in the air, but I couldn’t tell if it was the ancient wooden floorboards or the patrons.



Holden waved to me and I went back to his booth and slid in across from him. We did the handshake-and-hello thing, and when a brimming martini was set in front of me, he said, “Jennifer, come back to GLKH and work for me.”



I’d just taken a sip of the martini, which tasted like paint stripper and Pine-Sol, and I started coughing. When I’d gotten my breath back, I said, “Absence makes the heart et cetera, Holden. I’d like to work at a more normal place for a while, where every case isn’t an end-of-the-world-type calamity.”



“Come on, Jennifer — I’m going to establish a new specialty branch and you know you loved the excitement.”



“It was fun pounding my fist on a table and challenging witnesses, but I’m trying to be more professional and resolve issues without things going ballistic.”



“It’s nice to have good intentions, Jen,” he said, and then his expression grew more somber. “Did you hear the news that the latest clone twins died? It happened this afternoon, and they still had the balloons in their rooms from their second birthday party. Total organ failure.”



We were quiet for a minute, and I said, “It’s cruel and unethical to keep growing them when they just die.”



“We can’t ignore the inevitable. Clones will soon be as viable as the robot maid. Per usual, the law is far behind technology. Right now, cyborgs can’t even vote or marry.”



“You know that I believe in full civil rights for alternative human entities, Holden.”



“Yes, but it’s good to hear it again,” he said. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind.”



The voices at the bar got louder. Two burly men were shouting and shoving each other.



I smiled at Holden and hoped I looked friendly, not panicky. “Actually, I wanted to make sure I could give your name as a reference since I left in such— Well, I understand that the final bill for damages was unexpected. However, I will point out that I won every one of my cases.”



“My accounting team already gave me a big binder with the cost/expense breakdown to the penny, but I told them to recycle it. You’ll always be a valuable asset in my eyes.” A stool was thrown against the mirror over the bar and shattered glass crashed down. Holden glanced at the commotion and said, “They’re getting pretty noisy. Jen, do you mind?”



I needed his job reference, so I said, “Of course not, sir.” I slipped off my jacket and went to the bar.



One man was holding a beer bottle and the other was waving his hands and saying, “Come on! Come and try, asshole!” Each was drunk, angry, and solidly built.



I cleared my throat and said, “Erm,” but they didn’t notice. I had to step close to them and speak louder. “Uhm, gentlemen, would you mind keeping it down a bit? It’s difficult for others to have a conversation.”



One laughed and said, “Oooh, a conversation!” and the other one said, “Mind your own business, girlie!”



If he’d said that to She-Hulk, she would have snatched him up and thrown him through the plate-glass window. “I really don’t want to interfere with your—” I started, but the bottle-man swung at the come-on man.



I reached out and blocked the swing. One of them shouted, “Bitch!” because they always do, and tried to shove me with one of his germy hands, eww! I deflected the strike with an upward thrust of my forearm, which threw him off his balance. Then I jammed the butt of my palm directly into his solar plexus.



I couldn’t enjoy watching him go “uh-uh-uh” and collapse backward because the come-on man screamed, “Whadidya do to my brother?” and charged me like a rhino.



I took a step aside, hooking my foot around his ankle to trip him. As he stumbled, I gave a firm chop to the back of his neck and let gravity do the rest. He landed on top of his brother.



By this time, the bartender had come forward with a Louisville slugger. “I’ll take it from here. Thanks, ma’am,” he said, and other customers came over to drag the brawlers out into the street.



I took a deep breath and went back to the booth.



“Jen, you’re as pale as a ghost!” Holden said.



“He called me ma’am! Holden, am I really a ma’am?”



He had the nerve to laugh, but I knew the truth: once a girl gets her first “ma’am,” her chances of ever getting an interesting, sexy, intelligent boyfriend are numbered. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock!



As if things weren’t bad enough, Holden told me that the GLKH partners wanted to know when I planned to move out of the company loft. “I’d let you stay as long as you like, but as the premier firm specializing in superhuman law, our out-of-town and interplanetary guests have plenty of occasions to use a private elevator.”



My heart skidded sideways as I thought fondly of the loft’s panoramic windows with bulletproof glass, the heated floor, the deep whirlpool bathtub, and the elevator that allowed me to sneak in and out. I thought of the friendly doormen and the proximity to both Dahlia’s salon and her longtime pet-sitting condo. “I really appreciate you letting me stay there.”



“Frankly, I was hoping you or Shulky or the both of you would come back to GLKH and then we could work the transfer of the property into your signing bonus.”



“Holden, I thought you didn’t want Shulky working for you.”



“Caught me. I don’t, but only because she prefers using her muscle even when she could resolve a situation more calmly with her impressive brain. I’d sure like you back, though.”



“You know I loved working for you, but the cases at GLKH require 24/7 involvement. I want to participate in activities other than intergalactic negotiations. I want to have a life outside of my profession.”



“I understand.” He patted my hand in that nice grandpa way of his. “There’s no rush. Take your time finding another place.”



We chatted a while longer, but I couldn’t remember anything we talked about because I was FREAKING OUT. There are lots of things I don’t like doing (tax returns, walk-of-super-shame barefoot and in shredded clothes after a hulk-out, yearly performance reviews at the Mansion), and moving was right there at the top of the list.



New priority resolution: find a new apartment as soon as I have a job and can pay deposits and rent.



10:30 p.m.



Extremely disturbed by Holden’s rubber chicken comment. Also perturbed by being called ma’am. Have I become an old lady rubber chicken? Shulky is annoyed with me trying to analyze this, and she’s grousing, which feels like someone is putting up drywall behind my eyes.