Authors: Suzanne Selfors
Mad Love (15 page)
I hadn’t planned on sharing all that information with Errol, but the confession, like a burp, had brought some relief. “I’m sorry,” I said, though it seemed weird apologizing to the guy who’d thrown something at me. “My problem is that it’s really, really hot and I’m having a really, really bad day.”
Errol pulled a pair of sunglasses from his pocket and slid them on. Then he pulled the hood farther over his forehead. He looked like he was about to rob a gas station. “I’m sorry you’re having a bad day,” he said. “Really, I am. But are you always so dense?”
“Huh?”
“You need a love story and I’ve got a love story. The greatest love story ever.”
Here we go again
. “Well, good for you,” I said. “But your story isn’t going to help me. The publishing contract doesn’t have your name on it. They want a Belinda Amorous story.”
“Look, I’m giving you my story. You can write it and put your mother’s name on it and then you’ve got your book. I told you it was your destiny to write my story, remember?”
Mist from a nearby squirt gun war drifted over my shoulders. I sat up straight. “What do you mean you’re
giving
me the story?”
“I don’t need my name on the cover. And I don’t care about making money. All I want is for the real story to be told. As long as you stick to my notes and write it the way it happened, you can have it.”
“What do you mean you don’t care about money? That girl who came by, Velvet, she said she’s paying for the apartment because you’re broke.”
“Yeah, I’m broke. So what? I used to have money. Lots of it. But I don’t need it anymore.” He eyed my lemonade. I handed it over and he took a long drink. “The only thing I care about is that my story gets told.”
I sat even straighter. “It’s a love story?” He nodded. “And you know the entire story? From beginning to end? And all the other parts?”
“Know it? I lived it. Haven’t you been listening to me?” He tipped some ice into his mouth.
“And it’s never been published? You’re not plagiarizing or something like that?”
“It’s
my
story.”
So there I sat, the backs of my legs sticky, my brow furrowed, considering making a deal with the devil. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t the devil but let’s look at the facts. He thought he was Cupid. He’d been stalking me. He’d moved into my apartment building so he could continue to stalk me. And he’d thrown something at me.
“What do you really want?” I asked. “Because I’m not going to have sex with you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
He crunched the ice, then smiled. “If I’d wanted to have sex with you, we would have had it by now. You were pretty lovesick, remember?”
No comment
.
He stretched an arm along the top of the bench, confidence settling around him. He had what I needed. He knew that. And I was listening. “You don’t have to worry, Alice. The only thing I want is for the world to know my story. Nothing is more important to me than that.”
I didn’t even know if his story was any good. What if it was about a killer cat?
People covered every square foot of the park, sunbathing, listening to music, reading, walking, wading in the rectangular pools, but not a single person, other than Errol, was offering to give me a story. I pulled my notebook and pen from my backpack purse. “Okay, tell me what you’ve got and then I’ll decide whether or not it’s right for me.”
“Of course it’s right for you. It’s why we’ve been brought together.”
I tapped the pen on the bench seat. “Just tell me the story.”
“My pleasure.” He folded his hands in his lap. “The year was 535 and I was—”
“Uh, 535?” I interrupted.
“Yes.
BC
. They call it something else now, don’t they?
BCE
?”
My shoulders fell. “Five hundred and thirty-five years before Christ. Are you kidding? No one wants to read about 535
BC
. That’s way too long ago. No one’s going to care about a story like that.”
He slid his sunglasses to the end of his nose and focused his dark eyes on me. “Are you saying that no one cares about Helen and Paris of Troy, the second greatest love story ever told? Because their story is even older.”
He had a point. “Fine. Go on.”
“Thank you.” He slid his glasses back in place, then continued. “The year was 535
BC
and I was waiting for my next orders. That’s the way it worked in those days, all because of that little contract with the gods that I’d signed. One life of pure bliss in exchange for servitude. In 535
BC
, the gods were very busy complicating and manipulating people’s lives. It’s how they amused themselves. So I didn’t get much rest.”
A few tiny beads of sweat appeared on his upper lip. Though the oak tree still offered its shade, the air was hot and heavy. My tank top clung to my lower back. I was about to suggest we go into Neighborhood Bagels, where the air was sure to be chilled, but he continued.
“Each year during harvest season, you couldn’t walk very far without finding a festival to Bacchus, the god of wine. One of the highlights of these festivals was the crowning of the Wine Princess. Think of it as a Miss America beauty pageant but without the talent and swimsuit competition. The cities had the biggest festivals, of course, but even small towns crowned their own Wine Princesses. Anyway, I was on a hillside trying to get some sleep, having spent the night shooting arrows at a bunch of virgin priestesses that Jupiter had his eye on, when the order came in. A rumor had reached the gods’ ears that one of the new Wine Princesses was more beautiful than Venus, the goddess of love.” He curled his upper lip. “That didn’t go over well.”
I was intrigued. A beauty pageant was a great place to start a romance novel. “Go on,” I said.
“Shouldn’t you be taking notes?” he asked.
“Not yet. Just go on.”
He swirled the lemonade cup and drank the last drops. Then he crumpled the cup and tossed it into a garbage can. “The gods didn’t like to walk among people. They could, but they preferred not to. That’s why they needed servants like me. They told me to go and check out the Wine Princess, to see if she was as beautiful as people said. So I stole a horse and set out.” He suddenly winced, the way he’d done in his bedroom. Then he took a long breath and his face relaxed. “Where was I?”
“You went to find the Wine Princess.”
“Right. By the time I reached the town, night had fallen and most of the festivalgoers were lying around in drunken stupors. No one knew the Wine Princess’s name or where she’d gone. I’d be in big trouble if I didn’t find her. A few families were camping just outside the town’s gates and an old man invited me to join him by the fire. He gave me some bread. I asked him if he’d enjoyed the festival and he smiled. ‘My daughter was crowned today. Who would have thought that the daughter of a lowly farmer could become the Wine Princess?’
“What luck. ‘I hear she’s very beautiful,’ I said. ‘More beautiful than Venus, but I don’t believe it.’
“ ‘It’s true,’ he said, and he led me to a little tent. Holding a candle, he pulled back the tent’s flap and I saw her for the first time. She was asleep, the candlelight dancing across her face.
“ ‘What’s her name?’ I asked.
“ ‘Psyche,’ the father replied.”
Errol stopped talking.
I waited, but he didn’t continue the story. Even though the sunglass lenses hid his eyes, I could feel his gaze on me, searching every inch of my face. “So?” I asked. “Was it true? Was she prettier than Venus?”
He kept staring.
“Errol? Was it true?”
He sat up straight, then turned away. “Yes, it was true. So there’s your first chapter.”
It was the perfect first chapter. It couldn’t have been more perfect. The most beautiful girl in the world meets a servant boy who falls in love with her. Except …
“What’s the catch?” I asked. “There has to be a catch. The chapter should end with a cliff-hanger so the reader will want to go on to the next chapter.”
“The catch was that I was ordered to tell the gods the truth, but if I told them the truth, they would surely kill her. And if I lied to them, they would surely kill me.”
“Oh, that’s good,” I said, scribbling as fast as I could. “Truth meant the gods would kill her, a lie meant the gods would kill you. That’s very good.” Excitement bubbled inside of me. Despite the heat, I felt practically effervescent.
“All the details you need are in the envelope. What the horse looked like, what the weather was like, everything I can remember about the night we met.” Then he looked past me, his eyebrows raised in a silent question. I turned to see what had caught his attention.
“Hi,” Tony said, walking up to the bench, a bouquet of flowers in his hand. “I heard you were in the hospital. You’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, smiling guiltily, as if I’d been caught doing something wrong. Which was ridiculous. Errol was giving me the story.
I got off the bench and stood next to Tony. He and Errol looked at each other. Why did this feel so awkward?
“Tony, this is Errol,” I said. Did I need to say more than that? We’d kissed, for reasons I had yet to understand, but he wasn’t my boyfriend. He wasn’t even my friend. But Tony wasn’t my boyfriend either. Or my friend. Really, I didn’t know either of them very well. Yet I’d kissed one and I’d dreamed about kissing the other. “Errol lives in my building.”
“Hey,” Tony said with a nod.
Errol said nothing.
“These are for you,” Tony told me, holding out the bouquet.
“Thanks.” I took it. Little yellow roses snuggled between sprays of baby’s breath and feathery ferns. No guy had ever given me flowers except for Archibald. This proved it. Tony liked me. Even though he knew I’d been watching him from my window, he liked me. Even though I’d turned him down and had fallen like a total klutz on the sidewalk, he still liked me. I wanted to cherish the moment, press it in a keepsake box, but Errol’s story was racing through my head.
Errol slid his sunglasses down his nose again and he and Tony locked eyes. The tension was as thick as the heat. “Am I interrupting something?” Tony asked, leaning on his skateboard.
“As a matter of fact, you are,” Errol said coldly.
“We’re working on a project,” I told Tony. And as much as I wanted to walk away with him that moment, into some kind of happy ending where we’d be totally into each other, I couldn’t. I had a story to write. “These flowers are really pretty,” I told him. Then I led him away from the bench and spoke quietly. “I’m helping Errol with some writing stuff.”
“Oh. Okay.” Tony shrugged. “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better.” And with that, he jumped on the dragon’s back and glided off down the path.
Why was our timing always off?
“You were rude,” I told Errol, who was still sitting on the bench.
“I’m just looking out for you. You need to focus,” he said. “That guy would only be a distraction.” Then he stood, slowly, and started to walk away, but in the opposite direction of our apartment building.
“Errol, where are you going?” I asked, following.
“I’ve got things to do. Go write chapter one.” And that’s when he doubled over. As I grabbed his arm, a few people turned and looked at us. “Errol? What’s that matter? Are you sick?”
“We’re all sick,” he said, yanking his arm away. Then he straightened, shoved his hands into his jean pockets, and walked away.
Late
last night I finished chapter one. Sitting at the keyboard, I wrote the scene as Errol had told it to me, filling it in with his details—like how the horse’s hooves kicked up dirt in the road, and how the fields of lavender rustled in the breeze, and how the farmer’s bread had a thick crust but was soft inside. I loved the first chapter and couldn’t wait to hear more of the story. This was it—my mother’s next book. I still needed to figure out a title but I knew, without a doubt, that Heartstrings would love the story too. I’d need to get some sort of legal document because it would be a nightmare if Errol showed up at Heartstrings six months from now, claiming his story had been stolen. That could happen. He’d told me he didn’t need money, but everyone needs money. What if his friend Velvet stopped paying the rent?
Archibald would help me. His being a legal secretary sure came in handy. And he wouldn’t tell anyone that I was writing my mom’s book. I could trust him with yet another secret.
After hitting the print button, I did a happy dance.
Untitled Work in Progress
by Belinda Amorous had a first chapter!
Friday was a new day. I showered and dressed, even sang out loud. Errol was upstairs reading the chapter, and when he finished reading he’d tell me how good it was, and then he’d tell me what happened next so I could write chapter two. Then chapter three, chapter four, and soon I’d have the entire story to send to Heartstrings Publishers. Now this was the way to write a romance novel—let someone else figure out the plot. At this rate I’d easily get the book done in a few weeks. Then the publisher would send us a big fat check for one hundred thousand dollars and I’d pay the hospital and have plenty left over. And Mom’s medication would start working, and she’d come home and be so grateful that I’d saved the day. Finally there’d be lots of time for me to do other things like … dating.
Dazed with happiness, I traipsed upstairs to see Errol. “Alice,” Mrs. Bobot called from her doorway. “Come on in. I’ve just made breakfast.”
“Okay.” There was time for breakfast, and my stomach was empty after I’d written most of the night. Creativity burns a ton of calories.
Realm sat in the living room watching the morning news. The weatherman was talking about Seattle reaching 104 degrees and warning people about heatstroke. “Did you read
Death Cat
?” she asked.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t had time.” I offered no other explanation. Her dirty looks ricocheted right off my shield of happiness.
Toast, eggs, and juice were on the menu, along with Mrs. Bobot’s homemade marmalade—a bit chunky but edible. She’d added something that was bright green. “I made a few jars for William,” she said. A few jars turned out to be ten jars and they sat on the counter, a pretty ribbon tied around each one. “He doesn’t eat enough fruit.” Counting marmalade as a fruit serving was a bit of a stretch but Mrs. Bobot just wanted an excuse to cook for the reverend. “What are your plans for the day?”
I smiled innocently. “I need to sort through the mail. And do some laundry.” I was wearing my last clean tank top. “Stuff like that.”
“I wish you’d waited for me yesterday. I could have taken you up to see your mother. You shouldn’t go through those visits alone.” She rubbed my shoulder. I nodded, but didn’t say anything. Then we both sat at the kitchen table. Mrs. Bobot added sugar to her coffee and stirred. “I spoke to one of the lawyers at Archibald’s office. She’s going to draw up a thirty-day notice to terminate the rental agreement. That should give Velvet plenty of time to find a new place for that boy. I’ll even help them look.” She pointed to the newspaper, where she’d already highlighted apartment rentals in the classifieds.
We couldn’t kick Errol out. Not now. At least not until I’d finished writing the book. “I think we should let him stay.”
“What?” Mrs. Bobot set her spoon on the table. “Why?”
“Mom really needs the rent money. Maybe we should just see how things go.”
Mrs. Bobot folded her hands, her brown eyes staring into my very soul. “You and that boy aren’t—”
“No. We’re not.” I quickly buttered my toast. “It’s only about the money.”
“I hope that’s what it’s about because that boy strikes me as very odd. What’s the matter with him? Why does he need a place to get better? And why does he have so many girlfriends? I saw two of them yesterday, bringing him food. They were wearing uniforms from Velvet’s beauty parlor.” She fiddled with the red and white rosettes that she’d glued to the collar of her apron. “A boy with so many girlfriends can’t be trusted. You need to meet a nice boy.”
Realm barged into the kitchen. Her baggy sweatshirt hung to her knees. “How come you didn’t read it?”
“Read what?” Mrs. Bobot asked.
“My book. Alice said she’d read it.”
“Oh?” Mrs. Bobot smiled. “That’s so nice of you, Alice.”
“Yeah, real nice,” Realm said. “So when are you going to read it?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got a lot of … fan letters to answer for my mom. But I’ll read it when I can.” It wasn’t a total lie. I’d look it over. Skim it, probably. Just not today.
A flash of anger widened Realm’s eyes. Then she marched back to the living room. “Realm,” Mrs. Bobot called. “Come back and eat your breakfast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Mrs. Bobot looked at the plate she’d prepared for her granddaughter. The toast, cut into triangles, the pile of eggs, the dollop of marmalade. “It’s not right,” she told me quietly. “She barely eats enough to keep a bird alive. I don’t know what to do.”
I’d read all about eating disorders in the health class at Welmer Girls Academy. I knew what anorexia looked like because I’d seen it on Oprah. And there was this one anorexic woman who walked in Cal Anderson Park every day, whose legs were like chicken bones. Realm wasn’t that skinny, but even though she hid her body beneath layers of clothing, her weight loss showed in her thin neck and sunken cheeks.
“It’s so nice of you to help her with her book,” Mrs. Bobot said. “She needs something like that—something to help her feel better about herself.” A tear sparkled at the corner of Mrs. Bobot’s eye.
I felt about as slimy as a peeled grape. “No problem,” I said. Okay, I’d help Realm. I’d read her book, and I’d even show her how to submit it to my mother’s publisher. But not today. Today was all about chapter two.
I ate my toast. Then I ate all the scrambled eggs, even though they were speckled with burned bits and way too much pepper. “Thanks,” I said, rinsing my plate in the sink.
“Don’t forget that we’re all going to the lake tomorrow for a picnic and a swim,” Mrs. Bobot said. “That includes you, too, Realm.”
“No friggin’ way,” Realm said from her grandfather’s chair. “I don’t do bathing suits.” While they argued about the lake and the benefits of fresh air, I slipped out.
Muffled television sounds drifted from Errol’s apartment. If Mrs. Bobot heard me knocking on Errol’s door she’d get all worried. Fortunately I didn’t have to knock because the door opened and two girls walked out, both dressed in pink aprons that read “Velvet’s Temple of Beauty.” One of them held a laundry basket filled with jeans and black hoodies. They smiled at me, then hurried down the stairs.
Weird
, I thought, then shrugged. It was his business, not mine. If he wanted to have a million girlfriends, who was I to say anything? We were working together, that was it.
Furniture and packing boxes, unarranged and unpacked, were crammed into the corners of Errol’s apartment. Nothing had been organized. But a feast was laid out on the kitchen counter—lattes from Tully’s, bagels and cream cheese from Neighborhood Bagels, a bowl of fruit, and a platter of cold cuts.
Gifts from the girlfriends
, I thought.
I found Errol in the living room with the lights off and the curtains closed. He sat on the carpet, real close to the television the way a kid sits, its eerie glow dancing across his face. A tear-streaked sweet sixteen filled the screen as she sobbed about life not being fair. “She wants to tattoo her boyfriend’s name on her ass,” Errol told me. “But her parents won’t let her.” He wore the usual black hoodie, its hood nestled around the back of his neck. It looked like he’d plugged his white hair into a socket, like each strand was a filament of light. Chapter one lay on the carpet next to him.
“Did you read it?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Well, what do you think?”
He pressed a button on the remote. The sobbing girl disappeared and the bluish glow faded. “I’m disappointed,” he said matter-of-factly, his face expressionless.
“Disappointed?” Surely I hadn’t heard him correctly. Surely he was joking around. “That’s not funny. I worked all night on it.” I waited for him to break into a grin, then say, “Just kidding, it’s great!” But he said nothing. “But I wrote exactly what you told me to write.”
“Yes, that’s what you did. You wrote exactly what I told you.” He sighed. “I could have done that. Anyone could have done that.”
“What?”
He grabbed the pages. “It’s dry. It reads like a textbook. He saw this, he saw that. He moved here, he moved there. She did this, she did that. It’s like a newspaper article, informative, but it’s …” He paused, closing his eyes as he searched for the right word. His eyes popped open. “
Boring
.”
“Boring?” The word cut like a paper’s edge, sharp and stinging. “BORING?” My bare toes gripped the floor. “What do you mean it’s boring? It’s
your
story.”
“Yes, but you’re supposed to make it readable,” he said, waving the pages. “You’re supposed to infuse it with … I don’t know … with …
feelings
. Emotion. Stuff like that.”
I folded my arms. “You didn’t tell me your feelings.”
“That’s why I need a writer. I can tell you what Psyche looked like. I can tell you about the weather and about the landscape, but I can’t put into words the way I felt. It’s too difficult. I’m not good with feelings. I imbue people with love, Alice, but I have no idea how to describe love. I’m not a poet.”
Something brushed against my leg. I reached down and picked up Oscar the cat, who must have followed me inside.
Errol slowly got to his feet. The hems of his jeans swished against the floor as he walked across the kitchen. With Oscar tucked in my arms, I followed. Errol set chapter one on the counter—the chapter I’d worked on all night, the chapter that had put me into such a good mood, the chapter that was NOT boring. Errol grabbed a can of Craig’s Clam Juice from the refrigerator, then popped open the lid. Oscar wiggled madly as the scent escaped its aluminum prison. After pouring the juice into a bowl, Errol set the bowl on the floor. Oscar hurled himself from my arms, then settled in front of the bowl, lapping blissfully. “Cats love the stuff,” Errol said.
Sunlight poured through the kitchen window and Errol’s white hair practically glowed. Did he bleach it at Velvet’s salon? With hair like that he’d fit in with any rock band. At that moment he didn’t look sixteen. There was a sculpted strength to his chin and nose, a maturity to his features that most teenage boys have to grow into.
I laid my hand protectively over the chapter. “I don’t think it’s boring.”
“Well, it’s not exciting.” He tossed the can into the sink.
Chapter one stared up at me, a bunch of neatly typed words on crisp white paper. Could Errol be right? Sure, there were sweeping descriptions of the Roman landscape, and a whole mess of details, but had I written a step-by-step rehash of the event itself—Boy Meets Girl—without the most important part? Writers call that “inner dialogue” and without it, a story is as flat as a slice of Wonder Bread. I grabbed a pencil. “I can fix it. Just tell me how you felt.”
“I told you, I don’t know how I felt. It’s too hard to describe. How do you feel when you see someone for the first time and you know you’ll love her forever? How do you feel when you talk to her for the first time? When she looks at you for the first time?”
Suddenly I was standing in front of our living room window, watching Skateboard Guy glide past, my heart racing, my legs turning to cement. Waiting, waiting, waiting for his face to come into focus, and then there it was—like when you’ve been sitting in the dark during a storm and suddenly the power turns on and everything jumps out, brilliant and on fire.
But then I took a deep breath. The living room window disappeared and Errol stood directly in front of me, so close that his breath tickled my forehead. As I tilted my neck, his eyes locked with mine. “What does it feel like?” he asked as he slid his hand around my waist. A tingle spread down my legs and I forgot how to breathe. “That moment just before …” His hand moved up my back and he pressed closer.
This was crazy. One second I was drooling over Tony and the next second I was tingling over Errol. Maybe it wasn’t Errol, exactly. Maybe it was simply the way he was touching me. Yes, that was it. It was his hand on my back and his breath on my neck. Because there was no way I was going to have “feelings” for this guy. He was too confusing. Too unstable. Too dangerous.
“Do you remember how it was?” he whispered. “When we were together? When you were my wife?” Just as his lips touched mine, I snapped out of it.