Page 50 of Script Swap
The vision came together in a flash: me standing with one foot on a chair, declaiming poetry or, uh, something, while a classroom of enraptured students looked on.
“Last week, you said they should put every teenager on an island until they’re twenty-one.”
“That’s because Keme wouldn’t stop touching me, even after I told him to stop touching me.”
“You said it should be likeLord of the Flies.”
“I said itwouldbe likeLord of the Flies.Because that’s how teenagers naturally are.But it’d be different if I were a teacher.”
“Dash—”
“Or maybe it wouldn’t be high school.A community college, maybe.Somewhere else.”
Bobby took the pen from behind his ear and set it on top of the documents he’d been studying.“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.You talked about moving.Twice, actually.I’m saying I think it might be a good idea.”
“Why would you teach high school?”
“Because I need a job.I mean, I’llneeda job.Eventually.”
“You have a job.You’re a writer.”
“Yeah, well, I need a job with a salary and benefits.”
Bobby put his hand on my leg.He moved his thumb slowly back and forth.And then he asked again, “What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on.Quit asking me that.”
As soon as it was out of my mouth, I wanted to call it back.It sounded petulant.It sounded childish.Worse than childish.Kids were cute.This sounded adolescent, like somebody needed to shipmeoff to an island.(God, no, I’d obviously be Piggy—although maybe not now that I had contacts!)
Bobby let me have a few seconds.“Babe, you’re a writer.You’re so good at it—”
“I’m not, actually, but thank you.”
“—and you’ve worked so hard.I know it can be discouraging.But this is your dream.”
“Dreams don’t pay the bills, Bobby.”
“We talked about that.We’re okay, money-wise.Everybody’s fine.”
But itwasn’tfine.That’s what I wanted to say.Because—because there was afuture.There was this time in my life coming when it would be too late, when all my chances would be shot, and I wouldn’t have accomplished anything, and I wouldn’t have a career, and is that the kind of person Bobby wanted to be with?
The answer was definitely no.
I mean, I wasn’t even sure he wanted to be with menow.He was sweet.And patient.And loyal.And that was the problem—Bobby had a habit of sticking it out in relationships long after he should have left.And I couldn’t help thinking of how quickly he’d gone to rinse off.
“What would help you feel better about this?”Bobby asked.“Do you want to put together a budget?Because I promise, sweetheart, we’re okay, but if it would help you to see the numbers—”
“God, no, not numbers.”
He didn’t miss a beat.“You’ll feel better after you finish these revisions.Isn’t that what you told me?Heinlein’s rules and all that.You finish revising, you send it off, and then you write something new.”
Thatwasthe essence of Heinlein’s rules, and I seriously regretted telling Bobby about them.(They appealed to his rule-loving side.) But I could already tell I was too deep in this conversation, so I said what every smart boyfriend in the history of the world knows is a good way to get out of a conversation andfast: “You’re probably right.”
“Maybe we make a schedule.”
I was trying to go back to my sad dancing detectives in the Tana French book.“Uh huh.”
