The Precious Dreadful Page 4

  Stifling a germ-cringe, I ask, “How many are signed up?”

  “Right now, ten; not bad for summer. Eleanor likes to split into groups, so she’ll probably go with three teams, two threes and a four. You’ll be able to do some good work.”

  “But not Pulitzer quality.”

  “Never can tell. Give me a hand, would you?” He rolls this round plywood table into the center of the room. As he steadies it, I unfold the metal legs.

  “Let’s set this up for four. One group of three can take the school desks; the other can have the couch and chairs. Of course, once you get started, folks’ll be free to roam.”

  “That’s reassuring. So, tell me about Eleanor. Is she nice?”

  He just smirks. Then he says, “It’d be a stretch for me to describe her as nice. Colorful may be a more appropriate word.”

  “Oh, great.”

  “What?”

  “Colorful is generally a polite way of saying abnormal. Oddball. Nutjob.”

  He grins.

  “Am I getting warm?”

  “Oh, you’re hotter than that barista boyfriend of yours. Eleanor is undeniably odd. But she’s a talented writer and a great teacher. She’s not a bad sister, either.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, she’s had a couple stories published; her chapbook, Mulberry Bush, won honorable mention in a national contest, and her college students give her high marks on rankyourprof.com. I mostly steer clear; it feels wrong knowing her sexiness quotient.”

  “Because she’s your sister.”

  “Wouldn’t you be grossed-out by folks proclaiming your sister’s ‘boner-worthiness’?”

  “Ick. Makes me glad I don’t have siblings.”

  “So you’re an only?”

  “More like an anomaly. I’m the one mistake my mother didn’t make repeatedly.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Sorry. Too heavy on the self-loathing?”

  “A tad. But you should write that down. It’s a killer line.”

  “Uh . . . thanks.”

  We smile stiffly; then he scopes out the room, making a few furniture adjustments, and says, “Guess we’re good to go. I need to head upstairs for a few. Feel free to chill. Folks should be arriving soon.”

  Flopping into a dusty armchair—mites be damned—I glance at the owl clock behind the podium: 5:35. I hate being first to arrive. Of course, I also hate walking into a full room. This is better, a head start. That gets me thinking. Spotting a sharpener mounted inside the door, I christen my giraffe pencil with a fresh point. Then, returning to the armchair, I close my eyes, attempting to beckon creative thoughts.

  Cracking open the blank book, I write my name inside the cover, turn the page, scribble the date. Then, per Joy-los’s suggestion, I carefully print: I’m the one mistake my mother didn’t make repeatedly.

  “No head starts!”

  Evidently conditioned to sudden exclamations, I don’t jump this time. Closing my journal, I say, “Sorry?”

  “You’ve started without me. Hardly fair to the rest of the group.”

  “You must be Eleanor.” This is obvious not merely because of her surprise entrance, an uncanny echo of Joy’s, but also because she plainly shares his ironic, teasing nature. Must run in the family.

  I stand.

  As she extends her hand, I notice two things. First, though her brother described her as a writer and teacher, Eleanor also moonlights as a Scandinavian crochet master. She’s the woman on the flyer. Second—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—she is, indeed, boner-worthy.

  I suppose I expected a physical resemblance, and, though lacking green hair or piercings, they are similar, the freckly complexion, those hazel eyes. But, where her brother has this guarded quality, Eleanor’s face is wide open. Her cheekbones are skiable; she’s a couple inches taller than Joy, and while his green hair’s choppy, Eleanor’s—would it sound too fan-girly to say her brown hair “cascades”?

  She breaks my reverie with “And you are?”

  “Oh! I’m Teddi, Teddi Alder.”

  “Alder? Like the tree?”

  “Um, yeah. I guess.”

  Scanning her clipboard, checkmarking my name, she says, “Alder, the Goddess Tree, c’est fascinant.”

  “Goddess?”

  “Yes, let’s bear that in mind. Just remember, even a goddess needs to know her place.” She taps her chest. “Eleanor is in charge here.”

  “No worries.”

  “But qualities of the alder: Strength. Resilience. These are aspects to explore in your writing. Absolutely. Did you have any idea, for example, when submerged in water, alder wood hardens to the toughness of stone?”

  “Can’t say I did.”

  “Names are significant, Miss Alder. They shape—to some degree, they even dictate—the people we become. It’s a shame about Teddi, though.”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Is it short for something?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Barely audible, she says, “Pity.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Oh, just thinking aloud.”

  My first impression of Joy was “Bridge Troll,” but his sister must be a sorceress, because I freeze as if enchanted, devoid of a smart-ass comeback.

  She retrieves her bag—needlepoint, monstrous—from the floor and crosses to the table.

  Welcoming the interruption of voices and feet on the stairs, I turn to greet my rescue squad.

  If these are my heroes, I’m in for it.

  Two life-sized Barbies saunter past. Unmistakable self-tan fans, they resemble human/carrot hybrids in painted-on booty shorts and sky-high wedge sandals. Perched side-by-side on the plaid couch, Left Blonde says, “Wow, couldn’t they have tried to de-scum this place? Seriously, I recognize that couch from my days in pre-K reading group.”

  Right Blonde says, “Seriously.”

  Trailing the Barbies is a trio arranged in descending order of attractive. The first guy’s chunky, cute in a forest creature way, with a shag of reddish hair and giant glasses.

  Pumping Eleanor’s hand, he announces, “I’m Ken.”

  I almost steer him toward the couch, to plant him between the Mattel twins.

  Guy number two is skele-slim, with fearful brown eyes and a Superman tee. He scurries to the back of the room alongside Ken, and they hunker on the edge of the stage.

  Guy three, so pale he seems to glow in the hallway gloom, wears a cropped muscle shirt and board shorts. Stepping in, he scans the room, chimp-sneers at the Barbies; then, with an exaggerated eye roll, he proclaims, “I’m out.” Leaving, he nearly collides with a sixth arrival, this tiny girl with thick, black braids.

  I recognize Marisol from school. She’s in my grade, but we’ve never said much beyond hello. She lives with her aunt, I think. Last year, rumors spread about them being witches. She smiles, apparently relieved to see a somewhat familiar face.

  Sidling over, she says, “Hey. Teddi, right?”

  “Yep, and you’re Marisol?”

  Three more kids wander in. I barely have a chance to notice them—two girls, a guy, tall/short/tall—before Eleanor chirps, “Greetings, all! Welcome to SUMMERTEENS Intensive! Let’s get to work!”

  Unsure of Intensive decorum, I wave, to get her attention. Oblivious, she uncaps a marker, scrawls Eleanor Edlenson in foot-high letters on the whiteboard. I briefly picture Brenda tailing Eleanor with squirt bottle and ink-tainted towel.

  “Um, Eleanor, shouldn’t we wait for . . . uh . . .” I almost say “Joy,” then “Carlos.” Ultimately, I finish with “your brother?”

  I guess decorum prohibits speaking out. Eleanor confirms this; eyes narrowed, glaring, she says, “I’ll thank you to refrain from speaking over me, Teddi.”

  “Well, you weren’t actually talking, and I had a question. Sorry.”

  “Accepted. Yes, my brother. I’m not sure how you got the idea he’d be joining us.”

  “Oh. He said—”

>   “Edwin says a lot of things, Miss Alder.”

  Edwin? Edwin Edlenson? So. I’ve uncovered the real reason he swaps name tags.

  “He will be around. To help set up, to offer an occasional thought on someone’s work, to facilitate activities, but Eddie’s not really part of the group. Is that an issue?” Her brow hitches.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Good. Then, if there are no further questions, shall we continue? I’m sure your comrades are eager to leap into the creative process. And we frankly cannot afford to waste writing time. This is, you’ll recall, an Intensive.”

  I glance at my “comrades.” No eager leapers evident. The Barbies fix on their phones. Ken and Superslim examine their footwear. The three late arrivals paw through musty costumes, and Marisol stares straight ahead, trying not to laugh.

  I make a “speak no evil” motion. Then, through laced fingers, I say, “Let the writing brilliance begin.”

  Eleanor prints three words—COLOR, ANIMAL, GARMENT—on the board, instructing us to choose one item for each category. She calls this a getting-to-know-all-about-you exercise. As we prepare to read our lists, she tells us to “imprint these identifiers.”

  I go over details, memorizing folks by color, animal, garment. Surprisingly, the Barbies don’t claim eye-poking pink as their favored hue, and woodland Ken chooses neither chipmunk nor vole, but “the genus Gymnogyps, species californianus. The endangered California condor.”

  Once we share our lists, Eleanor divides us into three equal groups. The Tardies disregard her attempt to split them, and, plainly lacking energy to insist, Eleanor lets them remain clustered. She demands, however, that the Barbies part. This leads to Marisol and me being assigned to different factions. Mine includes Ken and Left Barbie—not her given name. Eleanor says we’ll mostly stick with these groups, occasionally sharing among the whole gang.

  She gives us thirty minutes to build our lists into “spontaneous script,” cautioning us not to feel pressured, not to self-edit. Assuring us if we “trust the magic percolation of ideas, words will intuitively emerge,” she places an egg timer on the table, probably to reinforce the no pressure thing. When the timer buzzes, she says, “Pencils down.” Then she asks for volunteers.

  Met with silence, she approaches our group. “How about it, Teddi?”

  I duck my head, pretend not to hear her.

  Left B’s no more eager, but agrees to read. Her pages detail her cosmetic process, a haunting account, narrated by her bedroom mirror. Honestly, it’s informative. I never knew, for instance, such diversity exists in the world of makeup brushes.

  According to Eleanor, Left Barbie’s created a “rumination on reality versus reflection.” Left appears insulted by the word rumination. It’s tempting to question her grasp of complex vocabulary, but I won’t perpetuate the dumb blonde stereotype. For one thing, I’m blond. Plus, she correctly used disingenuous in her piece. No flies on her, vocabwise.

  When Ken points out her lack of an animal, she hisses, “There are no animals at the makeup table.”

  Eleanor soothes, “Prompts are meant to inspire, never to limit. Petra is simply following her muse.”

  It’s funny, but now that I’ve learned her true name—Petra Rio—I have a feeling we’re going to be very good friends. Not really.

  Ken reads next. After a promising start, “I am a sweatshirt, black as a breast feather,” his condor obsession surfaces. His piece, though fact-filled—wingspan/diet/pesticides/habitat—is hardly engaging. Plus, he somehow manages to recite nearly three pages on a single breath.

  When Eleanor abruptly stops him, he beams, clearly anticipating praise, but all she says is “That was . . . uh . . . thorough, Kenneth. One word: edit.”

  Up next, I scan my piece. COLOR: Green. ANIMAL: A lonely giraffe roaming the savannah. I’ve gone nontraditional with GARMENT. Rather than a piece of clothing, I’ve draped a daisy charm around the giraffe’s neck.

  The pendant just makes sense, given that I haven’t taken off the real one since the other night. I’m used to it; barely notice it beneath my top. It may seem wonky, but I believe it’s some kind of talisman connecting me to Pool Girl.

  As I mentally prepare to read, Eleanor frowns and says, “Teddi, would you mind terribly if we skipped you? We’re a mite short on time.”

  Badly concealing relief, I say, “Wow, really? That’s a disappointment.”

  “I promise you can read first tomorrow. And I’d love to make copies of your pages for each of us to take home. If that’s all right with you.”

  I’m not wild over the idea. It’s not as if they’re classified documents, but it’s embarrassing, the idea of Left—okay, Petra—and Ken spending the evening poring over “Ballad of the Sad Giraffe.”

  Since she’s given me the option, I say, “Would you mind making just one copy? For yourself? No offense, guys.”

  Ken does look offended, but Petra barely listens, newly engrossed in her lip liner.

  Eleanor agrees. Moving on to Marisol’s group, she gives our threesome a chance to further bond. Amazingly, this does not happen.

  8

  Marisol and I exit the ’brary, and I hear, “Teddi, wait up!”

  As Aidan jogs toward us from behind the building, Marisol fans herself and says, “Super Fuego!” before jumping into a waiting VW. Its bumper sticker reads 100% SPIRIT-FUELED.

  After a quick kiss, Aidan asks, “How was writers’ club?”

  “Interesting.” I touch his forehead. “All better?”

  He looks puzzled, ’til I say, “I stopped at JJ’s this morning. Norah said you were sick.”

  “I’m fine. Just couldn’t deal with customers today, opted for a sleep-in. Don’t worry, Norah will forgive me.”

  “I don’t know. She was pissed; she called you an ass-dragger. I almost felt obliged to defend your honor.”

  Eyes darkening, he says, “Let me handle Norah! It’s no big deal.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “No, it’s . . . no harm, no foul.” His smile returns, and all is right with the world. “So tell me about the group. Anybody cool?”

  “Depends on your definition of cool. There are some characters.” Just then, the last emerge.

  Ken shouts, “Good night, Teddi. Nice work!” Then, he lopes over, trailed by Skinny Guy, a.k.a. Todd. Fist-bumping Aidan, he announces, “I’m Ken, Teddi’s writing partner. This is Todd.”

  Aidan says, “Partner, huh?” causing Todd to snicker. Ken turns bright red.

  I poke Aid in the ribs and say, “This is my friend, Aidan.”

  Eyes on the sidewalk, Todd speaks above a whisper for the first time. “We’d better mosey.” His voice is Mufasa low.

  Trudging toward the bus stop, Ken calls back, “Pleasure to meet you, Aidan.”

  Aidan yells, “Back at you!” Then, faux-scowling, says, “Should I be threatened?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Ken and I have a real spark, don’t you think?”

  My phone peeps. A Willa text: we rocked it!

  I text back: hoopla!

  She replies: meet @ sprinkles??

  Aidan asks, “What’s up?”

  “My friend Willa and her boyfriend, Nic, nailed their Twelfth Night auditions. She wants to meet for ice cream. You up for it?”

  He frowns. “Wait, she’s the one with the hair—and the x-ray vision, right?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “I’m shocked to hear she has a boyfriend, honestly.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The way she’s always checking me out.”

  “Oh, that’s just Willa. She and Nic have been a couple for practically ever. Besides, you, my friend, are highly checkable.”

  “Why thank you. And a big back atcha.” He leans in, lips puckering.

  Stopping him pre-kiss, I say, “Hold up. I thought you were attracted by my refreshing lack of physical appeal.”

  “Shit, I was hoping you’d forgotten my accidental douchery. Y’k
now, that came out all wrong. You just made me sort of nervous.”

  “Wait, I made you nervous?”

  “Well, yeah. You’re just so . . . there. Sort of uber real. I’ve never met anyone like you.

  And you’re remembering it wrong. It was a reference to your incredible natural beauty.”

  “Well, in that case, you may kiss me.” He does. “So, want to hang with my friends, Mr. Graham?”

  “Well, if they’re as cool as Kevin and Tom, how can I resist?”

  “Ken and Todd. Be nice. Those guys aren’t bad, once you get past the halting speech and cut-it-with-a-knife awkwardness.”

  “I’ll take your word.”

  I text Willa back: we’ll c u there

  She immediately replies: WE???

  I text back: ARG & I, to which she responds: EEEEEEE!!!!

  I fear that girl’s going to use up all the Es one day.

  Aidan puts his arm around me, but as we’re about to step onto the path toward Morris Street, I hear “Ahem.” It’s that Edlenson Boy.

  “Oh, hey.”

  “Sorry to bother you, Teddi.” He locks eyes with Aidan. For a moment, I sense this zing of recognition between them. Then he extends his hand. “Hi, I’m Ed.”

  Aidan freezes for a beat; then he squeezes Edwin’s hand and says, “Aidan.”

  It starts to seem like they’re stuck, joined à la Harry and Voldemort with wands fused, so I add my hand to theirs and say, “So. Ed. Good to be able to call you by your legit name at last. Though there’s something to be said for Joy. It suits you.”

  Aidan drops Ed’s hand, wraps his arm back around my shoulder. Then he says, “Can we help you with something?”

  Ed’s jaw twitches as he says, “No, just . . . you forgot this.” Pulling my giraffe pencil from his backpack pocket, he hands it to me.

  “Oh, thanks.” I slide the pencil into my satchel with the leather book. “Would’ve sucked to lose that the first night. Cost me nearly four bucks.”

  The three of us stand, stalled, unsure what else to say.