If ever I felt more in a corner, it was tonight. And I knew there was no graceful way out of it. I had managed to escape after class was over without further embarrassment. I sensed Cinco wanted to talk with me, but I excused myself to the bathroom and then down the dark, creepy stairwell that was worth every heart-pounding moment as long as I didn't have to face anybody.
This ending to the night wasn't exactly a worthy resolution for any hero I would write in a story. And in fact, it had its very own playwriting term.
Reversal.
That's when a character achieves the exact opposite of his or her intention, causing the plot to change either for the better or for the worse.
For the worse, I would say.
Jodie Bellarusa was itching to offer her own insight into this evening's events, but instead I put her to work in the world in which she was supposed to be living. And I fully intended to flesh out the details of how she might survive the dreaded “reversal.”
[She blinks, confused.]
T
he first indication of something being wrong was the feeling that my lips were smashed against my right nostril, causing a restriction of airflow. Then, as I turned my face, I felt a sticky wet sensation on my cheek, which generated another red flag, because I knew my pillow always did a good job of soaking up any unforeseen drool that might leak during the night.
I opened my eyes and saw a mouse. I screamed and lifted my head. Staring back at me was my computer screen, with rows and rows and rows of the letter
L
. Three hundred and two pages, to be exact. I'd apparently fallen asleep on top of my keyboard and, at some point during the night, had turned my head to where my nose was pushing the letter
L
down. Grabbing the mouse, I scrolled to the last page I'd been working on, checked to make sure my changes were still in place, and deleted the rest of the pages. Then I wiped off the slimy keys.
I cranked my mind backward. At some point the Tylenol PM must've kicked in, but I had no recollection of even becoming sleepy. The last thing I remembered was typing out a hysterical diatribe by Jodie on the functionality (not to mention ethical) issues in the movie
Pretty Woman.
I felt disoriented at my own desk, so I decided to go get some coffee, thankful for my automatic coffeemaker. In the kitchen, the pot sat completely full, beckoning me. I fumbled through the cabinet until I found a large mug, then poured so fast that coffee splashed onto the counter. I skipped the sugar and cream for the moment. I needed a boost first. After that I would enjoy the coffee for its flavor.
“Ack!” I spit the cool liquid into the sink. The timer indicated that the two-hour heating countdown had expired. What time was it?
I looked at the microwave. “What?” I gasped. That couldn't be right. Maybe there was a power surge sometime last night. I went to my bedroom, but the battery-powered clock confirmed my fear.
I'd slept until one in the afternoon. The crick in my neck confirmed that I had also slept in a really awkward position. In fact, I noticed I couldn't move my neck far to the left or the right.
Slapping my cheeks, I tried to jostle some sense into my mind, which was currently as chaotic as Elisabeth's children's bedrooms. Then my heart skipped a beat as I remembered why, in fact, I'd drugged myself last night. The conflict resolution class.
I plodded back to the kitchen where I stuck my mug of coffee into the microwave, willing those thoughts to leave. And surprisingly, they did. But what replaced them confused me even more. It was the sound of J. R.'s raspy voice, asking me if I was okay. Was I imagining that? Then I heard her tell me “thank you” and that she would get back to me with her thoughts.
“Her thoughts on what?” I whispered at my coffee.
I rushed to my computer screen and checked my e-mail, but there was nothing from J. R. Where were these thoughts coming from? I could hear myself forcing a laugh at one of her stupid literary jokes.
I snatched up my phone and looked at the caller ID.
“Oh, no . . .” There was her name, recorded at 8:12 a.m. We'd talked? This morning? What in the world did I say? Why had she called? What had I agreed to?
I squeezed my eyes shut, poured the now-scalding coffee down my throat, and tried to think. My eyes flew open.
“Yeah, J. R., it's ready for you to take a peek. I'm halfway finished, and so far I think it's a beauty.” That's what I'd said.
I called it a beauty?
That was practically a curse all by itself.
I scrambled back to my computer and clicked on my Sent folder in e-mail. There it was! I'd sent her the half-written play in an attachment! Squinting, I tried to focus on the time it was sent: 8:14 a.m. Falling into my desk chair, I pinched the bridge of my nose, knowing that the play was in absolutely no condition for anyone to look at. It was a little over halfway finished, at least as far as word count was concerned, but I still had a long way to go.
The phone rang, startling me to a degree I wasn't aware existed. The caller ID announced it was J. R. My fingers hovered and twitched over the receiver. She was calling to tell me I'd lost my mind, for which I actually had a good explanation. Okay, well, not a good explanation. And truthfully, not an explanation I could explain in less than five minutes.
On the fourth ring I snatched it up. “Hello?”
“Leah, hello. It's J. R.”
I inserted surprise into my voice. “Hi, J. R. How are you?”
“How do you think I am? I've just spent an entire lunch hour and more reading the first half of your play.”
I grimaced while sounding pleasantly serene. “Oh?”
“Leah . . . this is . . . well, there's no other way to say it. This is good.”
“Good?”
“Darling, this Jodie Bellarusa that you've come up with is a character like none other. I don't know whether to love her or hate her. She just pops off the page. Most definitely your best character ever, Leah. Really. Very impressive. Peter will love it.”
My hand was clasped over my chest, the way I might look observing a newborn that was actually adorable.
“And I must say, you've really engaged me with this new technique you're using.”
“New technique?”
“Well, yes. I mean, I'm on page thirty-eight, and as engaging as Jodie is, I'm still shocked that we haven't even seen a hint of conflict yet.”
“No?”
“Maybe I'm missing it, but it doesn't appear to be there.”
“Well . . . yeah, that's a new . . . you know, a new technique I'm playing with,” I lied. I had no idea what she was talking about. I pulled up the play on my screen and paged down.
“I have to say it's interesting, but I'm not sure it's going to hold for much longer. At some point, I want Jodie to have to face
something.
As romantically challenged as she is, perhaps what she must face is a romantic date.”
“Right. Yeah.”
“Anyway, I have to run, but I just wanted to tell you how much I'm enjoying this character. I'll put in a good word to Peter. Keep up the hasty work, and I'll be in touch. Oh, and have a good time tonight.”
“Tonight? What's tonight?”
J. R. paused. “This morning you told me you were going to meet your sister's new boyfriend.”
“Ooookay, thanks. Bye.” I hung up the phone. Going to meet my sister's boyfriend? What was she talking about? It was as if I'd lived an entire other life while unconscious by way of Tylenol PM.
I turned the phone over and checked the caller ID. There was J. R.'s number twice, and then, at 10:40 p.m. last night, my sister's number.
My sister hardly ever called me. And when she did call me, it usually ended with my apologizing for something I could never identify. I pressed the backs of my hands into my eye sockets and tried to push out a sliver of the conversation we'd had last night. Nothing rang a bell. So with great trepidation, I dialed her number.
It wasn't surprising that she picked up. Her work hours at the new restaurant started at five, according to my mom.
“Kate, it's Leah.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. How could I have disappointed her this early in the conversation? Anger simmered beneath my skin. “You're backing out, aren't you?”
“Backing out?”
“You were so agreeable last night about it all. It was weird, but I fell for it.”
“Noooo, no, no,” I said, trying to resist the urge to clear my throat. “I'm just . . . just wanted the details, that's all.”
“What details?”
“I must've forgotten to write down the time.”
“Six. At Dillan's placeâ631 Westchester. Suite 1209.”
Westchester?
That was a nice stretch of real estate.
“Is he . . . cooking?”
A sigh filled my ear. “You're acting like we didn't even talk. What are you, on drugs? Yes, he's cooking. I told you he's a wonderful cook. Mom and Dad are coming too, in case you forgot that little detail.”
“Sounds serious.”
“You said that last night too, and yes, it's serious. Dillan's a wonderful man. I just hope my family doesn't screw up this relationship.”
“How could we screw it up?”
“Just please, try to make a good impression, will you? I'll see you two tonight.”
“Two?”
A pause. “Edward, Leah. He is coming, isn't he? I told Dillan he's coming.”
“Yes . . . yes, of course. We'll be there.”
Kate hung up the phone. I checked the time. One o'clock. Edward would be in class. I would have no way of getting a hold of him until five when he left, as his department was horrible about getting messages to him.
As I slid my feet toward the bathroom, my mind toyed with a few good excuses to get out of this thing. Had it not been for that stupid Tylenol PM, I would've been able to come up with an excuse on the spot.
You could always tell her tonight's dinner conflicts with
your conflict class.
I could only be so lucky that something good like that would come from that despicable class. Unfortunately, tonight I was free. And I had no plans with Edward. As I stared at my face, still bright red with the imprint of my keyboard, I decided I must take the higher road. Kate had a chance to turn her life around, find someone who might motivate her in some good way. I couldn't stand in the way of it. Not once had Kate ever wanted her family to meet one of the men in her life. The only one I'd met in the last six years was Jinx, when I went to bail Kate out of jail after a bar brawl. That relationship fizzled when Jinx took a deal from the DA and tried to blame the entire incident on Kate. Luckily, her lawyer was able to prove that a woman of her weight couldn't turn over an entire pool table by herself.
I got dressed, braided my hair to avoid the frizzies, and decided I would have to try to catch Edward at the university. He wasn't one for surprises, but there was nothing like coming home from work to find you were due to arrive at a dinner party in an hour.
I decided to take my car. I could use the drive, or rather the “slow crawl toward insanity,” as the town liked to refer to it. I ignored the growl and scowl of the traffic. Instead, I turned on my radio and tried to relax. In the middle of the madness of the last twenty-four hours, I did, after all, get the good news that J. R. liked my play.
I switched through the stations, trying to find something that would soothe and inspire. Nothing was doing the job. Then I heard a frightful noise coming through my radio.
“You're being a wimp. You can't stand up for what you believe in. Come on, you're going to sit there and try to convince me that this is for the good of people you love? Everybody knows that's not true, and the only person you're fooling is you.”
My heart stopped and I stared at my radio. It sounded just like . . . Cinco? I reached to turn it off, but another voice came on.
“Look, Cinco, you're one of the most pompous people I've ever had the curse of knowing. Yes, I happen to think that abortion is helping this nation. I think women are choosing what's best for them, and their lives are better for it. But neither of us really knows, since neither of us is a woman.”
“But both of us came from a woman, and I thank God that my mom decided not to choose what was âbest' for her. If she had, neither I nor any of my eight brothers and sisters would be around, now, would we?”
“This isn't about convenience. It's about their right to their own bodies.”
“So the child inside has no rights?”
My heart restarted and fell into a slightly accelerated rhythm as I listened to the two men go back and forth. I finally switched to my favorite classical station, hoping to hear Milbert's unexcitable voice.
My mind drifted to thoughts of Cinco and the class that I'd decided I would never again attend. Strangely, I felt a little remorse, and guilt, for not going back. But who would know, really? Edward said it didn't matter to him, and the chances of running into one of those people again were scarce to none.
Why the apprehension?
I chalked it up to another one of the bizarre side effects of the sleep medication and pulled my car onto the campus of Boston University. I drove around the visitors' parking lot for ten minutes waiting for a space to open up. Thankfully, the visitors' lot was near Edward's building.
I parked, got out, and started walking along the pristine sidewalk, lined by a thin strip of perfectly manicured grass. Boston University was considerably beautiful and, for an urban university, had the look of a sprawling Midwestern campus. It seemed like forever since I'd been a college student. I felt out of place with my comfortable jeans and white, properly fitting T-shirt.
I turned toward Edward's building and immediately noticed commotion ahead. A white tent erected in the middle of the grass drew a small crowd of about thirty students, almost all of them with backpacks swung over their shoulders.