The Story Until Now: A Great Big Book of Stories (76 page)

I think.

Was it
so
bad that I said his prose was too big for the story? I was only trying to help him, and as for me?

I’ve scuttled projects X, Y and Z for this exciting new idea I got in the night. I’m channeling smug, pimply Alvin Gelb, and my novel is just pouring out!

Last week Roger found out that the wonder kid is writing a book about Strickfield and all of us. The nerve! Alvin’s hero is, like, gushing out his puerile
thoughts day by day as the summer unwinds. Roger pulled a printout out of the kid’s trash while Alvin was outside his studio getting loaded in the woods—so much for rules—and gave it to me, but of course that was before we had Crit Night and Roger stopped speaking to me.

It was still on my desk when I choked down toast and dragged my grieving, wounded self downhill to the shack. Excuse me. Studio, where we’re supposed to write. Alvin’s first chapter was lying there like a gift. I won’t bore you by quoting Alvin’s ostensible book, it’s stupid and callow and mean, but for me? One look and … Wow!

It was the moment when they zap the corpse with the paddles and the patient comes back to life.

A writers’ colony is like a foreign country. Not the right place for paranoid, inner-directed people—introverted, most of us, with careers built on failed efforts to bring order out of the chaos inside our heads. We do what we do in hopes of … In hopes. In territory like this we are all xenophobes: touchy, paranoid. Every little thing said or done by the others sinks into sensitive ground, takes root and grows. Like foreigners, we assess the others. Are we the only outsider and they’re all native to this place? We’re uneasy. Aliens, feeling our way, timidly trying to master the language and to make sense of the currency, calculating everything we do, trying it this way, that, in hopes nobody will find out how foreign we are, rehearsing our lines in perpetual fear of saying something wrong.

Dear Davy, I’m sorry I haven’t written. It’s been busy here …

You bet I am a smug little bastard, I, Alphonse Frankenstein, son of the most notable critic in the whole fucking country, head and shoulders above every single writer in this entire fucking place which they sent me into like a babe unto the wilderness because Dad said my head was getting too big for my body and I was out of control. Well, fuck that, one look and I know I write better than every single one of these half-baked old writer wannabes in this fucking colony, oh not you, Thalia Fineheart, for you are my best friend in this weird, weird place where Dad planted me like a fucking guidon, like a Crusader in one of his old black-and-white movies that he looks at 24/7, you know, “In the name of God I claim this land for France.”

I’ve found my voice! I came to dinner last night with two thousand words under my belt, and I loved it. Everybody changed color when I told them,
which makes me think all those suppertime scorecards flashed by certain people are a lie.

I could win this. I could!

Two writers were eliminated during the campfire sing and six more were gone after the staged readings of Serena’s astonishing play. Four more lost on wardrobe, deportment, last week’s fox trot contest, which was if you ask me, totally unfair. Leslie Strickler announced it and Miss Nedobity made us practice at cocktail time every night. I wore Florence’s handkerchief point dress and everybody thought I’d flown it in from Bergdorf’s or Neiman’s, I got points for my look, so, cool, but the contest was a put up job. Leslie’s been taking lessons and puffy as he is, turns out to be quite the twinkler in his patent leather loafers. He danced everybody into the ground except Serena, Alvin, Roger and Melanie and me.

There are so few of us left that I’m getting scared. So far everything’s been—well, unpredictable but not unexpected, but we’re all strung tight over the Outside Event. Will it be dangerous? Targeted? Specific to each player, which is, face it, what we are, or something bigger and worse?

I should bond with whoever’s left because by God it is strange out, and getting stranger. Even the dreadnought in the diamond dog collar is getting strange. I caught Miss Nedobity on her knees in front of the portrait of the late Ralph Strickler, and the monster of the manor was in tears! Upset much? I couldn’t help it, I freaked. And worst part is, now that Roger isn’t speaking to me, I don’t have anybody to tell. I need somebody I can sit with at these dinners so we can talk and laugh—you know, like friends. I need a friend!

DEAR DAVY I NEED YOU. DROP EVERYTHING. COME
!

All any of us wants is to
belong
. We try, but we’re always a little off. Hypersensitive. Judgmental. Jumping to conclusions inside our heads: occupational hazard, right? Every little thing we say comes out wrong, or it’s taken wrong. Even small gestures are misconstrued and although we try to hide it, at every turn we are assessing:
are you a winner? Am I?

As if the worst thing that can happen is losing. Unless it’s taking sides and finding out that we chose wrong. Is that why I’m here? Because fiction is the only work I know how to do, but all I really want is to belong?

It’s getting weird here. Dinners are weird, just us five and the staff, everybody at the same table, everybody but Roger on edge, no bragging, just nervous blablabla like rain dropping into the hush. We toasted Ralph Strickler’s birthday,
and everything got even weirder. How could I sleep? I’m in the Confessional at, what is it? Dawn. If I don’t win this thing and get on
TV
,
somebody
needs to know.

It was four a.m. when it started up overhead—shuffling, moaning, I guess—but instead of fading, it intensified. Grief outgrew the attic and poured downstairs. I heard it in the hall, so I had to look, and,
OMG
. There was a great, quivering blob crouched at the bottom of the attic stairs,
OMG
, I mean
really
, it was Miss Nedobity in her diamond choker! Slipcovered like a Strickfield sofa in her white canvas nightie. She had her hands over her face and she was crying so hard that I was scared to touch her.

She was sobbing, and I was like:
Is this the Outside Event?

I said, “Are you all right?”

“I’m so tired. I’m just so tired.” I can’t afford to get on her bad side so I patted her shoulder. She spread her fingers and peeked through them. “Oh, it’s you.” Then she wailed, “I wasn’t
always
this big!” and cried so hard that I was afraid the others would hear and come out into the hall and, what. Get in on this. “It wasn’t always this way.”

I kept pat-patting and shushing until she nodded and swallowed hard. Her whole body was heaving but she managed, “I’m sorry, it’s his birthday. Again, and I have to make sure he has enough … Agh!”

Score. That’s
her
in the attic every night. Grieving, like every day is Ralph Strickler’s birthday to her.

For a minute I wondered if this show of weakness put me ahead in the run for the finish line, but reason kicked in. Her freaking was in no way organized. Patting and there-there-ing, I rethought.

No, this is not the Outside Event.

I tried to go but she grabbed my wrist and sobbed out her story, which, Wow. I need sleep to win this, but I showed solidarity and heard her out. Good thing I did. Her first line was a zinger.

“Ralph and I were in love.” By the time she finished I knew more than I want to know, and exactly what I needed to know. If I want to get home in one piece, I have to win!

At the end she deflated and went comatose. I tucked in her feet and the tail of her canvas nightshirt and shut the attic door. If somebody else wins this, if I don’t make it, I want the world to know.

What happened to Ralph Strickler was her fault! It bound her to Strickfield with hoops of steel, and now that Dame Hilda’s dead, she’s the one keeping him under control.

It isn’t just the guilt.

They were in love, and she still isn’t over it. In fact, she …
OK
, Long story short, Miss Nedobity was having sex with Ralph in the elevator; at the bottom the doors opened he tumbled partway into the hall. She was so scared of Dame Hilda firing her that she pushed the wrong button and the doors slammed shut on the heir of Strickfield’s bare neck, blood started gushing out and then … What happened to Ralph happened on her watch, but that isn’t the worst thing. The worst thing is what she did about it, and what things are like here as a result. She said it was terrible, but if you want to know the truth, it was
disgusting
, what she swore, to keep from losing him …

I’ll never tell, if I want to win I can’t tell you. No! I have to win or I …

I have to go.
Really
. See, Miss Nedobity confided that two heads will roll today, unfortunate metaphor, right? I have to hang in until I win. Or Else and no, I won’t tell you about the Or Else, it’s my big advantage, but I can say this much. It’s a matter of life and death. Right now I’m the only player who knows the Or Else and I will damn well win.

DAVY: IGNORE FIRST TELEGRAM. LETTER FOLLOWS
.

Melanie went this morning. Aline was poisonously sweet about it. Before breakfast she read Dame Edna on “attitude” straight out of her will. What she really meant was, Melanie’s sharp, she’s stylish and a great writer, but way too feisty to win Miss Popularity which,
OMG
, is one of the things they’re judging us on! Plus, her sexual persuasion is not popular with rich fuddy duddies on the Strickfield board. Which leaves just four of us, Roger and Alvin and Serena with her fantastic wardrobe and her surefire blockbuster. And me.

Gorgeous Serena’s a definite threat, especially if they’re scoring our videos. If it wasn’t for that business between her and Alvin on Crit night, I’d be a lot more worried than I am. The affair’s still going on and it will bring them down, leaving only Roger and me. They’ll get expelled for moral terps. I mean, if the judges freaked over Melanie, no way will they have a winner who gets brought up on charges. It’s illegal to have sex with a minor in this state. Now, Alvin’s big for his age, but, hey. He’s fourteen!

We had special breakfast: rashers of bacon and individual omelets. It was because today was Pitch Day.

Aline said, “As you may have guessed, this is a very special day. You four have been chosen on the basis of staying power, and although some of you think production is the main issue here, you might as well know that there’s a lot more to writing a book than writing it.” Aline Armantout, first-ever Strickfield
winner and international best seller, loved this! She went on with that convicted winner’s fuck-you glow.

“There’s more to publishing your book than just getting published.” I would swear she went: a-
hem
. “Starting with the pitch. Futures hang on promotion. Who makes it and who won’t … “Then she scared me. “You aren’t just selling a book. Who wants a book? There are billions of them out there begging for people’s time. They don’t need your book.”

I looked at Roger. We were both freaking.
OMG, OMG, OMG
!

“You’re selling
yourselves
. Today, we work on the pitch.” She flashed a savage smile. “Now, you need to pound protein. Caffeinate, add lots of sugar. Dextrose for energy, darlings. Sparkle! If you put on writing clothes, go put on something
CLASSY
. Not you, Roger, that craggy look will help you sell, sell, sell.”

“Think marketing. Think saturation. Think,
SALES
.” Then she said the scariest thing since Miss Nedobity sobbed out her story last night, including the Or Else. “Your futures depend on it.”

Interesting, they downloaded Web components for us to work on, for judging only. Aline said, “Understand, you won’t see your postings uploaded, you have to
win
. Only the winner’s postings go up on the Web.” Then on the way into the next meeting, she grabbed my elbow so tight that I squeaked and she whispered. The words came into my ear in splinters, like truth squeezed through a cheese grater:
“Understand, the winner will be sworn to secrecy, under pain of—you don’t want to know.”
But she only told
me
, so, wow, wow!

I aced them all, including photo upload and necessary links,
OMG
I’m posting a new eyecatcher that, the minute they decide I’m the winner, this .jpg of me in Florence’s backless shift goes up on my blog! Besides, I’ve had FB, MySpace, Friendster pages since I was ten, so when I win, Cormac McCarthy and Junot Diaz and all my other invisible friends will be the first to know; before I came to Strickfield and lost my connection I texted gazillion people daily, I’ve tweeted squatrillion tweets that got re-re-tweeted around the world, and if I need to give lap dances on Second Life to sell me as a writer, Aline has my demo, although maintaining my Internet presence may cut into work time once I’m famous, and the rest?

I scored at dinnertime schmoozing, wardrobe less so, but if I sell
anything
that will change, unless they expect me to steal to stay gorgeous, which I am totally prepared to do. Personal interview: I used the pitch that got me into Strickfield, although I haven’t exactly written the novel: Score! Video presentation: Score. So I’m sitting here in the Confessional after a long day on no sleep saying
OK
, guys, so far so good, and I’d like to thank you all for …