Page 56 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“Monique, this is my neighbor, Beatrice McKinney.”
“Hi. Bea.” I rise to shake her hand and try not to focus on how perfect she is, or how tiny her waist is. Or that twinge of annoyance at how casually she’s touching Mike. Because who would touch Mike that way? Not me. Because I don’t want to touch Mike that way. I don’t want anything to do with Mike outside of the pages of fiction.
“Bea, this is my friend Monique. We’ve known each other since—”
“Since forever. Since before the move to Texas. Hi! It’s so great to meet you! And a fellow art lover! All my other friends make fun of me. Tell me this is pretentious, bougie nonsense. But hello, how can you teach art therapy if you don’t practice what you preach?”
“Art therapy?” I ask.
“Yeah. Well, I’m applying to PhD programs this fall, but I’ve already fallen deep into the child psychology world. The literature was overwhelming when it came to kids and art, and all good early modalities incorporate multisensory approaches to therapy. Art’s a natural fit, and I’m rambling. Sorry.”
Oh no. She’s smart, and she’s gorgeous, and she’s passionate. And I need to leave.
“You heading out?” Mike asks with a smug smile.
“No! Come with us!” Monique pleads. “I swear I’ll behave. Contemporary art is so fun, and the scope of it lends itself well to group discussions. And now I sound like a teacher.”
“No. No. I… I don’t… I can’t… I wouldn’t want… I…”
“Use your words, Bea,” Mike says. Insufferably.
“I’m not going to be a third wheel.”
Monique laughs. Full-throated. Tilting her head back. “I’m going to fix the mascara that I cried off. You convince her, Mike.” She runs off.
“I am not joining the two of you.” I shove my book into my bag.
“Why not? Monique is incredible.”
“Clearly.”
Mike tugs the lanyard with my membership out of my tote. “Didn’t think you were the jealous type, Bea.”
“I’m not.” I snatch the lanyard and pull it over my head.
“Prove it. Come with us.”
I’m in ratty jeans and an oversized sweater. I dressed for comfort. I’m not wearing a stitch of makeup. My hair is in a messy topknot of necessity—I’m long overdue for a wash. And I hate—hate—that this evaluation is part of the mental calculus that I’m doing right now. Stupid sonnets. I could have gone my entire life not knowing that Mike contained those depths. But he does—they’re hidden away among all his cocky arrogance, but they’re there—and I hate that I find him—I mean,that partof him—attractive. Maybe I’ll see a bit of that side with Monique and realize it’s no longer yummy when it isn’t clandestine. Maybe this is my cure, and tonight I’ll find a way to return his sonnets, and that will be that. He probably doesn’t even realize they’re gone. I’ll be free of this weird push and pull. “You know what? Sure.”
“So, Mike!” Monique loops her arm around mine when she learns I’m joining them. “How’s life? How’s work? I heard you’re doing some voice acting.”
Mike shrugs it off. “Audiobook narration hardly counts.”
“It does when they want you to read all 154 of Shakespeare’s sonnets and his narrative poems.”
“Hey, speaking of,” Mike says, “did I leave my copy of sonnets at your place?”
Oh no. It’s worse than I thought. They’re serious. They’re probably secretly engaged.
“I don’t think so, but let me text Stacey.” Monique pulls out her phone, and moments later, it rings. “I’ve got to take this. Back in a sec.”
Mike and I stare at a twelve-foot-tall prismatic triangle.
“I don’t get it,” I whisper.
“You don’t have to get it. It’s still art.”
“It’s pretentious. It’s silly.”
