Story Girl (31 page)

chapter
45

S
HRILL RINGING STARTLED
me out of the space station.

And I plummeted to Earth with a thud. I’d torn myself away from writing preliminary notes on
The Demon Slayer
in order to plot my own possible endings for
Space Boy
. James was not necessarily going to have the last word – or the
FADE OUT
– as the case may be.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Tracy – it’s me, Sheila.”

“Did you talk to Mitch?”

“Yeah, and I have good news.”

“Did you set up the pitch meeting?”

“Well, it turns out he’s going through a really bad break-up – I think it’s even humbled him a little. Anyway, he’s looking for distractions and wants to see a copy of your script immediately.”

“But, Sheila – I’m still in the mid-west!”

“So attach it in an email.”

“You were supposed to set up a pitch meeting – period.”

“Well – this is even better.”

“No – it’s NOT! I haven’t finished the damn thing yet – remember?”

“Oh shit – I forgot. I’m sorry. Can’t you just quickly finish it?”

“In a couple of hours?”

“I don’t know. I asked him about it, and this is what he suggested. I did the very best I could.”

And then it hit me –
there was a completed version
. The James version.

“Is this all some sick conspiracy between you and James?”

Three seconds passed before she answered.

“What does any of this space script nonsense have to do with James?”

I wanted to accuse her of being the worst person in the world – a boyfriend stealer and a career saboteur.

“You know James is a writer.”

“I do not know that.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“So what did you two talk about on your
date
?”

“Not much.”

“What the fuck did you talk about?”

“You’re completely unraveling, Tracy.”

“Sheila!”

“If you must know, we talked about YOU!”

“In a good way?”

“Yeah – you, you, you. Glorious fucking YOU!”

I couldn’t help but feel the ends of a smile creeping up, lifting the entire geography of a face that wanted to remain skeptical.

“Got it?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“So – should I just cancel this entire absurdity? Tell him that it was a false alarm?”

I suddenly saw my life flash before my eyes. And there I was – the old stooped spinster without a man or babies, but I’d be damned if I’d be without a career.

“No – do no such thing. Just give me his email address and tell him that he can expect one hell of a script.”

“But you don’t have a script.”

“Well then, that would be my problem, wouldn’t it?”

“I guess so.”

“Just give me his address.”

I wrote his email address on my hand and hung up the phone.

But how could I email him a script I didn’t even have?

Unless – of course – Sheila and James were sleeping together, and she well knew that he had finished it. And once it became clear that I had nothing to send – they would slide his version across Mitch’s desk.

I poured myself a cup of coffee, and stared at the microwave clock. Part of me wanted to make a mad dash for the bakery, where I could lose myself in donuts, rolls, croissants, and crullers – but I couldn’t just give up before I’d even hunkered down. I had to begin the ending.

First, I had to call James.

The phone rang until I was almost ready to hang up.

“Hello, this is James.”

“It’s me. Listen, I have to ask you something.”

“Okay?”

“Are you and Sheila working together – against me?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“No, I’m not sure I did.”

“Do you know who Mitch is?”

“Mitch who?”

“Come on, James.”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”

I set my jaw and considered my predicament.

“I asked Sheila to set up a pitch meeting with this agent named Mitch. She knew the script wasn’t finished but went ahead and promised him he could read it. So I wondered if maybe you two were in cahoots or something.”

“You think I’m in cahoots with Sheila? Do you really think so little of me?”

“You’re the one that went on the date with her!”

“And I haven’t seen her since.”

“She doesn’t call you?”

“No.”

“Does she know where you live?”

“Of course not.”

“She’s probably watching you from the street as we speak.”

James was abruptly silent.

“James?”

“I have to tell you something.”

“You always have to tell me something.”

“I’m not even in Los Angeles. I’m not even there.”

My heart dropped into my stomach, “So – where are you?”

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean you’re not sure?”

“I mean, I know where I am. I’m just not sure I should say.”

“James!”

“Why don’t you look out your window?”

“James?” I whispered.

I ran over to the window and nearly ripped my mother’s hand-sewn curtains off the rod. At the far end of the street, I could make out a lone figure walking in the direction of the house.

My house.

Me.

I hung up the phone and looked down at my ratty apparel. My hair was knotted in clumps, and I still had bike grease caked on my skin. But despite all this, I couldn’t move. For a split-second, I fantasized that future explorers would find me here – frozen on the spot – waiting for the prince I never thought I believed in, and still rather suspicious of the ever after.

chapter
46

I
WASN
’
T SURE
I’d even existed before the doorbell rang.

Then I wondered if maybe I was just playing tricks with myself, lost in another interesting – yet pointless – reverie. There was no way James was
really
standing at the door, pressing the doorbell – it must all be in my head.

But when it rang again, I opened the door.

He was standing there – holding a script – with his purple blue hair shining in the sun. And suddenly there was a majestic symphony piping itself through my senses.

“You’re here.”

“Yes, Tracy. I am.”

My hands scratched at my sides, but my eyes never left his face.

“Can I come in? This back-pack’s a little heavy.”

I moved out of the way and watched as he looked around at the place I’d always feared was some sort of white picket prison – one I’d surely end up in if I wasn’t careful.

“How long have you been in town?” I asked.

“Not very long. Just putting some final touches on the script – and walking around. And I wasn’t riding a bus in L.A. – I was on a bus from Minneapolis.”

“So not a lot of job searching?”

He shook his head, “I fibbed about that.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were here?”

“I wasn’t sure how. You weren’t exactly warming to any of my suggestions.”

I stiffened against whatever it was that had just started to melt inside me, “So you got a room in town?”

“I did – checked out this morning.”

“Maybe you could bunk with my dad over at Bud’s motel.”

“Yeah, wow,” he laughed. “What a trip.”

“Yep.”

“Tracy?”

“So how’s the weather out there?” I asked.

“Tracy?”

“Well?”

“It’s sunny.”

“That’s wonderful. Cup of tea?”

“Sure.”

I hurried to the kitchen and tried to get a grip on myself, but everything was loosening into shapelessness. My senses were betraying me; I felt like I might faint. I struggled to put tea bags and water in large mugs, and then I struggled some more with the buttons on the microwave.

Stick your head in the freezer and get some cold air
.

But instead I discovered a miniature bottle of Kettle One vodka and promptly guzzled it. I came back into the living room with the tea and sat on the sofa.

James was sitting in the exact same chair that Kyle Steinke had occupied not so long ago; it was amazing how dramatically a scene could change given the right player.

“I’m sorry about Sheila,” he said.

“I know.”

“The date consisted of a bowl of chow mein and a twenty-minute chat about how awesome I think you are. And I booked my flight the minute I left the restaurant.”

I stood and hid behind my oversized mug, completely unsure of my bearings, “Is your tea okay?”

He nodded that it was.

“Do you want some honey?”

The look in his eye assured me that he did indeed, but he said nothing.

“I’m also sorry I just left you in the park that night.”

I shrugged my shoulders as if it had meant absolutely nothing.

“I’m a big girl.”

“Are you okay, Tracy?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You seem a little – ”

“Yes – I sort of am.”

“I understand. It’s not every day that someone just sort of drops in on you like this.”

Not a particular someone like you
is what I wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, I looked at him over my tea mug, “No – it’s not.”

“Your parents have a nice place.”

“I guess – when pipes and marriages aren’t exploding.”

I sat back down on my mother’s sofa and stared at her latest carpet – a color that could only be described as heated bran muffin. Part of me was still waiting for this fantastic new reality to fade into thin air.

“I haven’t exactly been honest, James.”

“Okay.”

“There was something I wanted to say – that night in the park. Something I wanted to tell you. You sensed it, but I was too scared to admit it.”

“Was it something about me that you couldn’t confess?” he asked.

“No – it was something about me. Something I realized.”

“What did you realize?”

“I realized that you were right.”

“About what?”

“About how much I really do love writing.”

James dropped his gaze into his lap as if this was a pivotal moment for me, and he should give me my privacy.

“How much I do miss it, and how much I hate myself for not allowing myself enough of – I don’t know… whatever it is that allows for it.”

He kept his head down.

“Remember that song by Prince – When Doves Cry?”

“Of course.”

“I think I was ten when I first heard it. Remember how he screams and screams at the end – and the guitars are wailing?”

“Yes.”

“Everything was purple and electric for me – for weeks after. And I wanted to be able to write even just a fraction of the way he played – make someone feel just a touch of what he made me feel. Does that make any sense?”

“It makes total and absolute, uncompromising sense.”

“I knew you’d get it. You can look at me, James. It’s okay.”

He looked up and into my eyes.

“It’s just that all the rejection got to be so painful. I couldn’t deal with it anymore. So I pretended it didn’t matter – just like you thought.”

He nodded and let out a sigh of relief.

“I am a writer, James.”

“A what?”

“A WRITER!”

“I know you are.”

“And while I’m alive – so help me God – I will build, shatter, and re-build people’s lives… no matter what becomes of it.”

I didn’t realize I was crying until James was telling me that it was okay to let it all out – which took me a while since I was crying for so many reasons. He went to the kitchen and brought me back a paper towel.

“Do you want some privacy?” he asked.

“No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“What would you like?”

“I’d like you to read me the script.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

I rested my head on the pea green pillow my mother had stitched when I was just entering elementary school. James sat back in Kyle’s chair, and watched me for at least a minute.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Don’t be afraid.”

He cleared his throat and slowly began introducing me to the beginning of my quest – and all of my dusty imaginings were soon roaring back to life. I listened as he described the journey of the boy – the one who longed to find some meaning in a world that seemed so random. He wanted answers where there were no questions. And no matter how much space he managed to cross, he could never get past what was infinite within himself.