Page 78 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
I wish I could jump inside Mike’s mind and see what the smile on his face is all about.
“She wanted to know what happened. I told her I was bored. I couldn’t pay attention. All the words just ran together. English was my last class of the day, and I often dozed off. She handed me her pen. ‘You take this,’ she said. ‘Anytime you readsomething that is interesting, underline it. Star it. Make a note.’ I told her that none of it was interesting. ‘Then will you underline the parts that I think are interesting?’ she asked. I said I would.
“We sat together at her kitchen table and ripped Poe’s story into pieces and built it back together. All with her red pen. The first time we went through it, we looked at foreshadowing and story structure. Second time, we analyzed character development. Motivations. Then themes. Then language. We talked about why, out of all the words in the English language, Poe used the ones he did. And that would have been fine, but then Grandma asked me what I felt and thought about the story. She wanted to know how I connected with it. How the dialogue felt in my ears, on my lips. That, she said, was the most important part. All the tricks of the trade didn’t matter one bit, unless there was an emotional connection in me, the audience.”
I don’t know what to say. I wish I could have met this extraordinary woman. I’m glad she taught Mike how to read literature and how to connect with stories. I like knowing she has a seat saved at every one of his shows.
“Come on, I know you are dying to say something snide and cutting.”
No. Never. “What were her favorite types of cookies? You said she taught you how to bake. She must have had a favorite.”
“Ginger were her favorite.”
“What are yours?”
“I like burnt chocolate chip.”
“Okay, maybe you are a villain.” Who would destroy a perfectly good chocolate chip cookie by burning it?
Mike pops the cookie sheets into the oven. “You want to run lines with me while these bake?”
Completely, but I’m going to play it cool. I take a slow sip of my juice, like I’m not sure. Like I need to be persuaded.
“I have a monologue I’m working on.Man and Superman.”
I choke on my juice. “George Bernard Shaw?”
“Act 3, scene 2.”
“Let me guess. You’re the dead old woman.”
“I’m Don Juan.” He tosses me a book. “You can be The Devil.”
Chapter 25
Another month slips by, and we’ve just enjoyed the most glorious string of hot September weather. I live my life in a bikini, denim shorts, and crochet tops. I walk dogs, pitch in on the occasional busy night at Superhero Escapes, and read. A lot. Mostly cozies. SomeStarship Cruisernovels. Lots of sonnets. Yeah, I know Mike has been looking for those, but he’s never getting them back.
He’s been busy with school, rehearsals for a new show, and the renovation. We don’t see each other, and that’s okay. I think. I’m not sure what to make of the cookie-baking day. It felt like the rules changed…but I don’t know what they changed to.
My once-a-month legal briefing with Mom is today.
I read the articles she sent, but just barely. I care less about law by the day.
“You could take this just a little more seriously,” Mom says over lunch at Sugar and Scribe. “Medical malpractice is a huge market, and you’d be helping people.”
I slice into my chilaquiles. They looked so good when Mike ordered them, but I’m missing my glittery blackberry pancakes. “Sure.”
“What did you think about your father’s latest?”
“Routine this. Thoroughly researched that. Same old, same old.”
“But wasn’t it fascinating when…”
And I know I should pay attention to what my mom is saying, but I honestly am too busy keeping up with my FroggoDoggo app today.
“Something wrong?” she asks.
“Everyone is canceling because of the heat and UV index.”
