Authors: J. J. Murray
I'm Your Girl (15 page)
No. You are mistaken. Though I kind of like an intelligent, well-read man, this man is too freaky and too flaky for me. Using Shakespearean plays as a horoscope? Give me a break!
I reread the page and realize that Willie’s nailed me again. Here’s Jewel, Beth the she-boy, and Cat Eyes staring up at me from a 400-year-old play. William Shakespeare was a clairvoyant.
I shut the book and turn out the light, juggling three women in my mind, none of whom I have an ice-cream sandwich’s chance in hell of ever getting with. Jewel’s gone, end of story. When a woman says, “Don’t call or write to me or try to contact me ever,” and throws an engagement ring at you, she means it. Beth’s gone, too, but she was gone long before I met her. When a woman wears flannel shirts and boots and hangs out at Hooters, she means business, and it doesn’t involve men. And Cat Eyes—I guess she’s long gone as well. As if she’d ever think of even speaking to me after I stared so long and hard at her legs, nodded at her, and waved at her.
I hear Cat Stevens howling away beside my bedroom window.
“I know what you mean, girl,” I whisper. “I know what you mean.”
And a few seconds later, I hear the sounds of wood splintering in my living room, a Hispanic voice shouting, “Stella, ya know I loves ya, baby!”
The next howl I hear is my own.
Instead of reading Ty’s next installment, I go to my library and get out my thesaurus. I look up “ridiculous” and find “ludicrous, preposterous, absurd, silly, nonsensical, farcical, foolish, daft, strange, illogical, meaningless, bizarre, incongruous, outrageous, outlandish, unreasonable, unbelievable, laughable.” I circle the words with the most negative connotations: “preposterous,” “foolish,” “illogical,” “meaningless,” and “laughable.”
I think I’ve found all the words for my first sentence of this travesty of a novel.
I also write down “travesty.”
Time to give Ty her last chance to save this novel.
4: Ty
Ooh, shoot, these contacts are driving me crazy.
I knew it! Ty is fake, too. D. J. Browning, you’re making this too easy to hate!
I can’t wait to get home and take them out. I just can’t believe I left my rewetting drops at home, knowing good and well that I’m going to a bar where the cigarette smoke clouds are heavier than the ones outside dropping rain by the bucketsful. The clouds outside are not the only things dropping rain. My right eye is so irritated it’s raining buckets of tears, thus the heavy foot on the gas pedal. I normally try to be extra careful driving in the rain, but right now, I’m having an eye crisis.
With my right eye closed and tearing, I make a sharp left onto Summit Hills Lane. I drive about another hundred feet and make a right into my driveway, hop out of the Beamer, hit the alarm, and race up to the front door of my town home, being careful to keep my mouth closed so I don’t drop or swallow the contact lens that I rubbed out of my eye on the way home.
After slamming the front door closed, tossing my purse on the sofa, and kicking off my shoes, I hit the light switch on the wall and run upstairs to the bathroom. I squirt some solution into the contact lens case and put the lens from my mouth into the solution first. After removing the left lens from my eye and placing it into the solution, I throw myself on my queen-sized bed, close my eyes, and cover them with a cool, damp washcloth from the bathroom. It’s ironic that I paid four grand to have Lasik eye surgery to get perfect vision and to get rid of the hassle of contacts, yet I still wear them. No, it’s not that the surgery was a bust. I just want to have a different eye color to match my mood and sometimes my outfits. I wonder how I would look with blue eyes. Probably like a damn fool.
But that guy at Hooters wears them well. Dan has some of the bluest eyes I have ever seen. They are a Pacific blue, just beautiful. They had to have been contacts. So at least he has good taste in eye color, but that outfit he was wearing wasn’t hitting on anything. I mean, the flannel shirt he had on, I wouldn’t let my scarecrow wear that out for Halloween. It was red, which clashed with his beautiful blues, and the stripes, checks, or whatever you want to call them, were black, white, and yellow. The black corduroys he wore were a little too faded and badly worn. I could see the wallet outline in his back pocket, and from the looks of his knees, he must spend a lot of time on them, hopefully begging and praying that the fashion police will come and put him out of his misery. And, of course, everything he wore was in dire need of an iron. I chuckle a little, thinking about what a mess he was.
Then I frown because I can’t believe I’m at home thinking about this man.
I can’t believe it either. Dan is a mistake in so many ways, and anyone reading this book is making a mistake. I know I’m supposed to suspend my disbelief, but there are limits. This book is an insult to anyone’s intelligence.
I add “insult to intelligence” to my list of synonyms for “ridiculous.”
Speaking of man, I notice the light on my Caller ID unit is flashing, which probably means that Charles has called. I check the box and notice that both he and Kevin have called. I also see that there is a message waiting. I hit the speaker button on the phone base and say, “Check messages,” and the phone dials my voice-mail service.
“Welcome to Verizon’s voice-messaging service. Please enter your pass—”
I interrupt by putting in my pass code.
“Two new messages—”
I interrupt again by pressing one to listen to my messages. “First new message, today, eight-fifteen P.M…. Hi, Aunt Ty, it’s me, Kendra, and I made the AB honor roll at school. I even got an A in Mr. Pace’s class! When are you gonna come take me shopping again? I love you. Bye.” My niece and her Mr. Pace. The only thing she says about school is Mr. Pace this or Mr. Pace that.
No…way. Dan Pace? This is how they’re going to meet? As if this would
ever
happen in real life! The author needs a reality check. I mean, it’s almost like having two people meet in a library to start some romance!
It
never
happens!
Wait. Didn’t Uri and Lara meet by chance in a library in
Dr. Zhivago?
Oh, and didn’t Streisand and Redford meet in a library in
The Way We Were?
Hmm. I mean, I guess it works for white folks. The only black librarian I’ve ever seen in a movie was in that
Men of Honor
flick I saw a few years ago. And she was only part-time, helping Cuba Gooding pass his tests. Only in the movies. That kind of stuff would never happen for me.
And speaking of movies, why is it that librarians are stereotyped so damn much on the big screen? We’re all supposed to be elderly with our hair in a bun and our glasses on tight, mean, intelligent, single, quiet, neurotic keepers of the holy Dewey Decimal System with a “hush” ready to fly out of our mouths at a moment’s notice. And we’re all supposed to be lonely, too. I am
not
lonely, because I am
not
looking for a man.
Just look at
It’s a Wonderful Life
. Jimmy Stewart gets the gift of never existing, and what happens to his sweetheart, Mary? She turns into a shy spinster with a bun who works at a library! And don’t get me started on Marian the Librarian from
Music Man!
Who stamps books and sings while she does it? And not all librarians are intelligent at all. Take
Sleeping with the Enemy
and that Julia Roberts, as if anyone like her would ever work in the stacks. She intelligently fakes her own death except for that ring in the toilet, but when she takes on her new identity, she goes back to working in a library, making it easy for her psychopathic husband to find her!
And what’s up with these movies that have scenes in libraries with no library staff visible? The main characters find the information they need the very
first
time without any help! Amazing! I wish every kid were like Harry Potter. He never needs
any
help when he’s in a library.
And why am I stressing over this so much? I know, it does no good to fuss over what
Hollyweird
puts out. I know that I’m not a prim and introverted librarian, and that’s all that matters. And I’m not all “anticensorship,” like some of those movie librarians. I believe some things are meant for anyone to read. That’s why I review books before they get out to offend and muddy the minds of the reading public.
Which is why I’ve just about had it with
Wishful Thinking
. It was “wishful thinking” on D. J. Browning’s part to think anyone would buy this book. Hmm. That sounds like either the first or last sentence of my review. I had better read some more, you know, to get more fuel for the flames I’ll be writing later:
“To repeat…” I press three to erase the message. “Next message, today, nine-thirty P.M…. Hey, baby, give me a call when you get in.” Click. It’s just like him. “Give me a call,” he says. Put this all on me. After pressing three, I grab the cordless phone and dial Kevin’s phone number. Charles can wait.
“Hey Kevin, it’s Ty,” I say, as I walk downstairs to set the dead bolt and place the chain on the door.
“Hey little sister, what’s up? I was just about to call you.”
“Kendra called me asking when I can take her shopping. Do you all have plans this weekend?”
“No, as a matter of fact, we don’t. Her mother called to say she won’t be able to get her this weekend.”
Figures. “Is Kim all right?”
“Yeah, she just has a business meeting out of town this weekend.”
As usual. She’s probably spending the weekend shacked up with some guy. “Okay, I’ll pick her up around nine on Saturday.”
“That’s cool. I’ll let her know. I also need you to do me a favor. I have a conference scheduled for tomorrow at six-fifteen with Kendra’s teacher. I was just told today that I have a mandatory sales meeting tomorrow when I get off and…”
“So you need me to go to the conference for you tomorrow.”
Uh-huh. What a coincidence.
“If you would.”
“Okay, I’ll do that, but you owe me one. Bye, Kevin.”
Ah, man, I really don’t feel like talking to Charles tonight. I’m tired, and I just want to go to bed. I have to work tomorrow. But I know if I don’t call, he’ll give me nothing but attitude when we finally do speak. Shit, shit, shit. Hey, I know—I’ll just leave him a T-mail, so I dial my voice-mail number and skip through the prompts.
“Hi, Charles, it’s me.” And he’d better know who “me” is. “I just want to let you know I got your message”—even though it was short and a tad rude—“and I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I don’t want to disturb your sleep. Bye.” Whew. That’s done. After snatching my Crips do-rag from the dresser, I start the water running in the tub, adding some Bath & Body cucumber-melon-scented bubble bath. After lighting the honeydew melon candles, I turn the radio to WQMG’s Quiet Storm.
I smile. I do the same thing sometimes. And here I was all fired up to torch this book. Okay, just a little more:
I tie my hair up and slide underneath the bubbles, closing my eyes to shut out everything and everybody. But, unfortunately, the next day’s events slowly creep into my mind. After relaxing for half an hour, I get out, put on my black satin and chiffon baby doll, and head to the bedroom. On the way, I stop to check my contacts, making sure they are taking back their original shape, and they are, thank goodness. Colored contacts are not cheap. I gently yank the corner of the plum comforter back, sending the three accent pillows flying through the air. I tug slightly on the crisp lilac sheets and fall into the bed. I close my eyes and imagine how I would look with blue eyes.
I fall asleep with the image of Dan’s beautiful blues imprinted on my brain.
Riiiiiight. This is all so wrong! Why would she be thinking about Dan at all? She has Charles. She said she had a thing for blue eyes, but is a “thing” enough to keep her dreaming at night about Dan?
Trifling.
I throw a look at
The Quiet Game, P&Q,
and
Thicker Than Blood,
but I shake my head. Three stinkers and a maybe.
Thicker Than Blood
has kept my interest best, but it’s still trifling at times. When am I going to get to write another five-star review and have my name travel the world? I might as well keep going with
Wishful Thinking.
I have nothing better to do.
I flip through about twenty pages until I see:
I have just enough time to vote at Breckinridge Middle School, so I roll into the parking lot, park next to a Verizon van, pop my umbrella, walk past a black man in a hard hat carrying a roll of phone wire, and enter the gym.
It’s not very crowded, and after showing ID, I stand in the voting booth wondering which cookie-cutter politician to vote for. Decisions, decisions. Warner? Who are the other two? Okay, Warner. And this guy’s running unopposed? Why put him on the ballot, then? Just give him the job. On to the bond issues…Blah blah blah court system. Okay, I’ll vote yes. Anything to clean up that mess. Blah-ditty-blah blah parks. Cool. Blah blah education blah-ditty-blah $900 million! I wish I could vote yes twice! Blah blah blah-ditty-blah blah—Is this written in English? What is this bond issue asking me? I vote “no” just because it’s poorly written. Now what have I just done? Gee, I’ve put Virginia into even greater debt. After flushing my votes, I get my “I Voted” sticker and rush out the gym doors, nearly colliding with the Verizon technician who is carrying even more phone wire.
“Sorry,” I say, and I check out his face.
Only it’s not a him. It’s a her.
Hello, Cat Eyes.