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Class is at one, but I leave the apartment early, claiming errands. Maggie and I were perfectly civil to each other on the surface, but I was walking on eggshells. It took a concerted effort not to bring up Ryan, and even more strength not to mention Bernard. I promised myself I wouldn’t talk about him, because if I did, I was afraid I’d accuse Maggie of ruining my relationship. And even to my illogical brain, this seemed a bit extreme.
When Maggie turned on the TV and started doing leg lifts, I made my escape.
There’s still an hour before class, so I head over to the White Horse Tavern, where I can load up on decent coffee for a mere fifty cents. To my happy surprise, L’il is there, writing in her journal.
“I’m exhausted,” I sigh, sitting across from her.
“You look fine,” she says.
“I think I slept about two hours.”
She closes her journal and looks at me knowingly. “Bernard?”
“I wish. Bernard dumped me—”
“I’m sorry.” She gives me a sympathetic smile.
“Not officially,” I say quickly. “But after last night, I think he will.” I stir three packets of sugar into my coffee. “And my friend Maggie had sex with Ryan last night.”
“That’s why you’re so pissed off.”
“I’m not pissed off. I’m disappointed.” She looks unconvinced, so I add, “I’m not jealous, either. Why would I be attracted to Ryan when I have Bernard?”
“Then why are you angry?”
“I don’t know.” I pause. “Ryan’s engaged. And she has two boyfriends. It’s wrong.”
“The heart wants what the heart wants,” she says, somewhat cryptically.
I purse my lips in disapproval. “You’d think the heart would know better.”
I keep to myself in class. Ryan tries to engage me with talk about Maggie and how great she is, but I only nod coldly. Rainbow actually says hi, but Capote ignores me, as usual. At least he’s still behaving normally.
And then Viktor asks me to read the first ten pages of my play. I’m shocked. Viktor has never asked me to read anything before, and it takes me a minute to adjust. How am I going to read the play alone? There are two parts—a man and a woman. I can’t read the man’s part too. I’ll sound like an idiot.
Viktor has managed to divine this as well. “You’ll read the part of Harriet,” he says. “And Capote can read Moorehouse.”
Capote glances around the room, peeved at the request. “Harriet? Moorehouse? What kind of name is Moorehouse?”
“I suppose we’ll find out,” Viktor says, twirling his mustache.
This is the best thing that’s happened to me in at least two days. It might even make up for all the bad.
Clutching my script, I make my way to the front of the room, followed by a red-faced Capote. “What am I playing?” he asks.
“You’re a forty-year-old guy who’s going through a midlife crisis. And I’m your bitchy wife.”
“Figures,” he grumbles.
I smile. Is this the reason for his continuing animosity? He thinks I’m a bitch? If he actually thinks I’m a bitch, I’m glad.
We begin reading. By the second page, I’m into the part, focusing on what it must be like to be Harriet, an unhappy woman who wanted to be a success but whose success has been eclipsed by her childish husband.
By the third page, the class gets the idea it’s supposed to be funny, and begins snickering. By the fifth page, I hear spurts of actual laughter. When we finish, there’s a smattering of applause.
Wow.
I look at Capote, foolishly expecting his approval. But his expression is firm as he studiously avoids my glance. “Good job,” he murmurs out of obligation.
