Page 23 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“Malcolm, actually.”
My eyes narrow. “Right, the most boring character in the whole play. Typecasting at its finest. Tell me, did they cut all your monologues? Is your job just to stand there—”
“And look pretty? You should come watch me and find out. If you sit in the front left, I’ll wave. It’s the only spot the lights don’t glare.”
Tempting, but I know for a fact that Mike isn’t the type to wave. “Not a chance.”
“Not a fan of Shakespeare?”
“Oh, I’m a fan, but not of cringe-worthy student productions.”
He laughs. “You’re cute when you’re stereotyping.”
“And you’re one kiss away from a potential lawsuit, being a daddy, or falling in love.” I suck my teeth. “I hope it isn’t all three.”
Mike’s eyes narrow. “So do I.”
“I’m not kissing you.”
“I’m not offering!”
“Fine.” I slam the door of the washing machine closed.
“Fine!” Mike leaves the laundry room before rushing back in. “This is the weirdest birthday party I’ve ever been to. I wasn’t even going to come, but—”
“But you did. And you humiliated me. And insulted me. And ruined everything for me. I’d say your work here is done.”
“Bea—”
“Bye, Mike. Let’s never do this again.”
Chapter 7
It’s a week later, and I am still smarting from everything Mike said. Not that I’m thinking about him or the way his wet hair looked. I’m a big enough girl to separate the message from the messenger.
I’m in a polo and golf skirt and am furiously whisking idiotic waffle batter. Nine freakin’ holes await me and my parents after breakfast, and it is enough to make me scream and throw the bowl of chopped strawberries through the window.
“Morning, Bea,” Dad says upon entering the kitchen. “Good work on those briefs. I saw you filed them yesterday.”
I thought burying myself in work this week would prove that Mike was wrong, but it only proved he was right. I am a parent-pleasing cactus, completely stuck and becoming pricklier by the hour.
Dad helps himself to a stack of waffles I plated with powdered sugar and cut strawberries.
Why am I doing this? I hate waffles, and I definitely don’t need the extra carbs.
Mom click-clacks into the kitchen in her heels. “Don’t you look adorable in those plaid pants,” she says, greeting my father with a kiss. “How are you this morning, Bea?” She reaches for the second stack of waffles, this one with blueberries and maple syrup and a tablespoon of clotted cream. “Ready for nine holes?”
I shudder as Mom pours more maple syrup on her waffles. I hate the sticky, cloying smell.
I hate golf and all the prissy etiquette associated with it. I hate law. I hate spending every last moment of my free time with my parents or hiding from my parents. I hate that I was so buried in the coursework to become a lawyer that I survived undergrad and law school without even a single friend to show for it. I hate that two years later I still have no friends, no life, nothing besides my cacti and fiction.
“I want to quit,” I say.
“What?” Mom says.
“I need a change.”
Mom and Dad both look at me like I’m three and I’ve fallen off my tricycle. An abundance of concern, fear, overreaction.
