Message From Viola Mari (3 page)

I should have buried my face in my notes, with a pencil poised to scratch out possible solution scenarios. Instead, I wondered if Justin sat on his patio, peering out at the same ocean, admiring the same moon.

Chapter Four

On Sunday morning, I left a message for Jennifer saying I intended to drop the class. Then I paced around, anxiously waiting for her angry call.
She has to talk me out of it.
My head spun with giddiness when the phone rang and her familiar voice greeted me.
Get a grip.
You’re acting like a horny teenager.

“You can’t back out now!” she shrieked. “All these people are going to read my work. What if they hate it or say it completely sucks? I’ll never get through this without you.”

Done, sold. I guess I have no choice but to soak up this guy’s amazing eyes and physique three hours a week for the next four months.
“Jennifer, you’re a great writer,” I said, feigning argumentative. “They’ll love your story. There’s no need to worry.”

“But having you there matters to me.”

“Jennifer, I’m not sure I can take it. Not only because I can’t write worth a damn, but because teacher man keeps making me feel even more out of place than I expected in this class.”

“Did you say feel? I rarely hear an emotional word come out of your mouth…Hmm…” She paused. “Uh, oh…You like him, don’t you?” Her normally deep-pitched voice leaped up to a curious soprano.

“No, of course not!” My too-loud, defensive answer must have pierced her eardrums almost as much as her ebullient laughter impacted mine. I pulled the receiver further from my ear.

“No wonder your face looked like a radish when you read that sex scene. You wanted to go for it with him right then and there, didn’t you, Mar?”

“Hell no!” I might as well have screamed the very opposite. If I didn’t like him, I wouldn’t have to shout so loud to convince myself. “Fine, I won’t drop the class,” I grumbled. My lips curled up in a smile and I skipped across the room. “But only if you promise to use your magic writing wand to make my submissions passable.”

“No problem. Just email them a couple of days before class and I’ll doctor them up for you so he’ll be really impressed. Then before long, you’ll be playing doctor together. Did you notice the size of his fe—”

Images of Justin naked, enormous and erect popped into my head. “Stop, will you?”

“Fine, but no more talk about dropping out. He’s much better than any of your options at work. I may not make the bucks like you but at least the guys I work with aren’t pimpled at age thirty.”

No, they’re more like good enough to eat.
“I get it, OK? I won’t drop the class.”

An hour before our second class, I stood in front of the mirror, fussing with my face, violating my normal rules by applying a light layer of foundation and dabbing blush on each cheek. I rolled shiny gloss over my lips—I wanted them to look kissable—and changed outfits five times before deciding the one I wore adequately showcased my well-toned, tanned legs.

In class, everyone stared with furrowed brows at their copies of five manuscripts, including Jennifer’s and mine. I’d read each one during the week, written tidy notes in the margins, and typed up comments. I knew how to approach this scientifically—you read it, you corrected grammar and punctuation, and summarized what you did and didn’t like. My summaries on works featuring female protagonists usually said something to the effect of
she’s a spineless, wailing, miserable excuse for a woman who needs to be committed to an institution or put on a strong dose of antidepressants.

Justin had laid down the ground rules the first week of class. The writer wasn’t to comment or ask questions until after the class had done so. Readers were to comment on voice, structure, dialogue, and description. Instead of saying what they liked or disliked, they were to say what worked or didn’t work. I didn’t understand the last part.
If I don’t like it, it isn’t working, right?

We critiqued Amanda’s manuscript first. Once again, her foundation had been thickly applied—like frosting on a cake. A few people commented—the dialogue was very realistic, she created a great setting. I nodded my head in agreement.
Too bad the protagonist is such a pansy
.

“What do you think, Marissa?” Justin gazed at me over slightly tilted reading glasses.

“Me….Um. Well, I think it’s very well written. I’ve never been to Savannah, Georgia, but I feel like I could go there now and almost know my way around town. I agree the dialogue is great. It’s just the…”
I really shouldn’t say what I’m thinking. Then everyone will say even worse things about my work.

“Go on, Marissa.” He raised a blond brow.

“Well, the protagonist is supposed to be someone the reader cares about, right? Well, she was such a basket case that by page four, I rather hoped a serial killer would burst from the bushes and put her out of her misery.”

“Why do you say she’s a basket case?” Justin’s brow arched up higher.

“She cried on page one, for heaven’s sake. Need I say more?”

“Not every reader would agree that a woman who
has her act together
is a protagonist who punches the lead male on the second page.” He tipped his head to one side and bent two fingers on each hand to accentuate his quotation marks.

I winced. Now he was talking about my work. I’d written the whole scene thinking about Justin. I’d wanted more than anything to punish the male lead—who in my story was basically Justin portrayed as a coworker instead of a teacher--it was his fault I kept picturing him sprawled out naked on my couch, aiming six feet of rippled muscles toward me and making me all hot and wet down there.
Writing is a dangerous practice. It makes you feel unstable.
Once people start writing, they go stark raving mad. Like Hemingway, for example. Except he could actually write. I’m just doing this as a favor for a friend.

Man-of-muscles Steve chimed in. “I found Amanda’s protagonist very likable. After all, men aren’t attracted to women who punch people. They’re usually either dykes or they have body odor.”

“Is that so?” I said, my voice pitching upward. “Well maybe you should smell my underarms before you make a statement like that.” I raised my arms and waved chicken wings his way.

“I think I’ll pass.” Steve rolled his eyes and shook his head. “This isn’t fifth grade. Man, have you got issues. Just reading your manuscript made that clear to me.”

“Excuse me?” I leaped from my chair and lunged toward him with raised fists.
What is happening to me? Get me out of here and send me back to a safe, comfortable laboratory where I rarely have to speak to anyone.

“Okay, people, let’s cool it.” Justin grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back from Steve.

Pouting, I dropped into my chair. Pacing the floor, Justin said, “Let’s take a ten minute break. After that, I expect everyone to stick to the text rather than getting personal.”

I nearly turned my chair over as I bolted for the door. “Marissa, can I talk to you for a moment?” Justin said. Even facing the other direction, I felt his gaze on my back, like a warm laser beam.

Shoulders hunched, I turned and reluctantly approached his desk. “What is it?” I’d preferred watching him from a distance—it felt safer studying him without being seen. In his uncomfortably close proximity, my insides went squishy.

He leaned in toward me as he spoke—his deep voice resonated in a distractingly sexy kind of way. I imagined him saying something far more suggestive.
Stop that.

“When you read someone’s work, you may not always like the characters or agree with the author’s point of view. What I would like for you to focus on in this class, is, what does or does not work with the story the author wants to tell. Can you try to do that?”

I cleared my throat and tried to shut out the images clouding my brain. “Sure, fine,” I said. “Now can I please get some air?”

I stepped from the room, craving a cigarette. This was a bad sign. I’d only smoked a handful of cigarettes in my entire life and in every instance, the trigger had been man-related. The more irritating the man, the stronger the desire to smoke.
That would explain why I’d almost be willing to commit murder to get my hands on a cigarette right now
.

Reviewing my summaries, I crossed out whatever I thought might offend Justin before jotting down the most complementary comments I could come up. I had little material to work with, but the break was almost over. I shrugged and returned to the classroom.

We reviewed a manuscript by Alicia, the Hispanic girl with the waterfall of dark hair. On paper, my edited comments were milder, yet somehow I couldn’t keep my judgments from leaping from my lips. To my credit, I never used the words
spineless protagonist
—instead I said the author had done a brilliant job of making the female character appear weak and dim-witted.

At that, Justin rolled his eyes and laid his head on his desk.

Jennifer’s manuscript featured a male astronomer with a serious addiction problem. Employed to collect spectroscopic data on various heavenly bodies, he instead passed his nighttime hours travelling to other galaxies through cracks in the fourth dimension and getting it on with heavenly female bodies despite the fact that he was engaged to be married. The piece really hit home with me. I remembered a certain man—my former fiancé—who begged me to spend the rest of my life with him and then fell for someone else three weeks later.
Justin is probably just like him
.

When it was time for my manuscript review, I longed to do what every wise woman does in a crisis—cover her ears and hunch forward with her head securely between her thighs. Instead, I fidgeted in my chair until squeaky bolts made me stop.

I didn’t have a clear voice, said gray-haired Sandra, who’d buttoned even the uppermost button on her blouse. “It almost sounded like the work was written by two people,” she went on to say.
Gee, what a shocker
?
Given that Jennifer spent more time working on it than me. “
But
the description is really good,” she added.
Thanks, Jennifer.

Steve chimed in next. “This protagonist is so obnoxious—like a linebacker with breasts. If I was on a date with her, I would pretend I had to go to the restroom and split.”

I really don’t like that guy. I should have knocked him unconscious earlier.

“What do the rest of you think?” Justin asked.

The others’ sentiments mimicked Steve’s. “This protagonist chick was way annoying,” said Amanda. I wanted to cry and shout at the same time.
How can this be happening?
The scientist renowned for keeping a cool head can’t cope with strange people criticizing a protagonist who is basically her
.

“I don’t know,” Justin said. “This protagonist does have her strong points. Her intensity captured my interest. And there’s an incredible passion about her. She’s annoying but she excites me.”

“That’s true,” said Steve. “But I think somehow it needs to be toned down. A woman can’t be this impregnable and this strong. No person is. A woman’s vulnerability is part of what makes her sexy.”

You got that right.
A woman can’t be that impregnable. I’ve been a fortress tumbling down ever since I entered this room. Attractive men and writing classes are clearly a lethal combination.

“I agree that the character’s vulnerability must be shown. These pages suggest Claudia is terrified of getting emotionally involved,” Justin said.

At the end of class, he looked at me without blinking. His green eyes bored into me as he said, “If you have questions about my comments, feel free to call me to set up a meeting.”

When Jennifer elbowed me, I wanted to punch her in the teeth.

Chapter Five

“You’re gonna call him, aren’t you?” Jennifer shouted almost the instant we stepped outside.

“There is no way in hell!” I answered, lying. I craved six days of stress free peace, but not as much as I wanted to see him again.

“Why not? Just pretend you didn’t understand his comments and then when you get together, you make your move.”

“My move?” Once we reached the car, I clicked the unlock button and we slid into our seats. “I already glanced at his comments and I can’t even read them.”

“Good—then you won’t even have to lie. Have you considered the possibility that he scribbled on purpose just so you would call?” As she spoke, her large brown eyes widened and her eyebrows drew upward. She was the matchmaking detective who never shied away from theorizing about what brewed in any man or woman’s head.

“No, I haven’t considered that possibility.” I flipped my tidier-than-usual hair in annoyance.

“Simply call him up, thank him for his comments, which you were disappointed to find were illegible, and ask if he can meet to review them with you. What do you think?”

“He makes me nervous.”
Not to mention excited, hysterical, and insane.

“You’re one of the best damn scientists in the country and you can’t even talk to a guy?”

I turned the key in the ignition. When the engine started, I pushed down the pedal angrily. The smell of gasoline made me cough. “Fine, I’ll touch base with him. But no phones. I’ll email him so I can express myself coherently. Are you happy now?”

“E-mail? You’re such a chicken.”

I made a tire-screeching turn onto Torrey Pines Avenue.

I pressed my hands together and paced in front of Justin’s office door at eleven AM, the time we’d agreed to meet. I inhaled a you-can-do-it gulp of air and then tapped on the door.
I really hope he doesn’t answer
I thought, as I bounced on my toes and waited. I drew in another breath when his muffled voice behind the wooden door instructed me to enter.

I clutched a folder containing my manuscript in my right hand and had my purse slung over the other shoulder. I wore what I hoped he would think was an attractive mini-dress.

“Hello.” My unsteady voice didn’t belong to the scientist I knew as me. I pulled on the fabric of my cotton dress with my loose hand. “Hi.” He looked at his watch and rose to his feet. “It’s good to see you.”