Because I had a lead part.
Terri tore the cover page off my script book and crushed it into a ball. He smiled at me. “Open your mouth, Flinch.”
It never helped to fight back—my best bet was to stay quiet and small and hope he got bored of me soon. Shove the pain and humiliation as deep into the corners of my mind as they would go and focus on, despite everything, continuing to exist. I could hear the onlookers laughing, some of them even goading me on like I was in on it—letting Terri see how many pages I could fit into my mouth before I choked.
This part of my life was supposed to be over. Terri Bishop wasn’t supposed to behere.
This didn’t happen to leading man ingénue heroes. This happened to the kind of person I didn’t want tobeanymore—a sad, bullied theater kid and disposable extra.
I kept my eyes closed, letting the laughter wash over me like waves. I was safe at the bottom of a deep, dark ocean.
July 16th- (Still) Thirty days until the convention
I stepped away from the glass entryway, found a secluded corner of the lavatories, and attempted to slowly cram my fist into my mouth.
Nervouswas to an understatement what Stalin was to the descriptionbit of a dick.
I closed my eyes and took deep breaths through my nose, trying to discourage my heart from its current velocity. I did not do well with figures of authority, and I was about to meet with a whole lot of them who planned to temporarily induct me into their ranks.
I should’ve shaved. Maybe got a haircut ...
... Finished university.
Moment of truth, Demetrio, gird your fucking loins.
I was far too sober for this. That was what it came down to. The world was rushing at me at an unprecedented pace, and I’d been left exposed, unprotected, with nothing between myself and the yawning void. Luckily, there awaited a tastefully sized bottle of Sonoma Bourbon Whiskey among the chocolates and fruits I’d found in the welcome basket the day before, which was, at this stage, the only bright point in my future.
I’d wrestled with my conscience—after all, I’d worked hard this past year to get as clean as I was—but there was only so much that could be expected of a man. It was one thing to face an empty flat while sober, quite another toperformwithout at least the promise of relief down the line. I just had to make it through the luncheon, and then the introductory class later that evening, then I could reward myself with a little numbness.
Once I’d got myself in hand, I found the correct conference room for the luncheon and was given a folder full of papers by a frighteningly blonde woman, who told me to enjoy the buffet. I sat down at the large round table and glanced around, wondering which of the people in it could tell that I still wasn’t capable of doing maths without a computer and wasn’t entirely confident of the meaning ofDeconstructionist.
There were eight of them, all over forty and dressed casually but well. Most of them were raiding the aforementioned buffet; one woman, however, was seated across the table, smiling alternately at me and at— Oh bloody hell, last month’s issue ofSurrogate Goose.
My collar grew hot.
Watching people read my work always made me feel as if I were standing naked in the middle of a crowded room; I had to fight the urge to grab it from her hand and bolt out the door. Instead, I managed a grimacey little smile the next time she looked up, and she beamed.
“I love the new storyline.” She leaned forward, the beads on her glasses’ chain clinking softly against the table. “A bitracy, isn’t it?”
I swallowed hard, but mercifully wasn’t made to answer as the remainder of the board, or panel, faculty ... whatever they were, finished their grazing and took their seats. After a few introductory statements in which I was warmly welcomed, interspersed with chewing noises, a bearded man wearing aTanglewoodsweatshirt told me not to worry about teaching.
“People aren’t coming to this workshop to learn how to draw.” He gave me a Father Christmas smile, eyes disappearing behind folds of happy cheeks. “They’re coming to learn how to draw fromyou! All you have to do is be yourself, and they’ll be getting their money’s worth.”
I nodded brokenly.
“Your agent, Ms. Ranjit, informed us that you may have a few ... hang-ups”—this was from a much less kind-looking man in matching polo shirt and toupee—“about speaking to the class. Some anxiety issues, I gather?”
If I’d been blushing a minute ago, I was now in danger of permanently bruising my cheeks. It might come as a surprise, but Ihave, in fact, spoken in public before, and aye, all right, I get a bit nervous, but I wasn’t in the habit of pulling an A.J. Rimmer and claiming that I was, in fact, a fish. Well, not yet anyway. Still, Lakshmi had always been conscientious about limiting my performance in front of a microphone to a few well-rehearsed soundbites. Until now. “I th-think I’ll b-be fine.” I swallowed again. “I’ve b-been practicing a-and, er ...” I used both hands to push my hair out of my face, “I’ve g-gotten better.”
Polo-Toupee smiled thinly, but Father-Christmas-Tanglewoodreached over and thumped me twice on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit! You’ll be fantastic, kiddo!”
I did my best to smile at him, but then Beaded-Glasses-Chain pointed to the schedule in my folder.
“The first class this evening is just the introductory portion,” she said, “so don’t feel too pressured to showcase your best work. Take it as easy as you like. You’ve got a whole month.”
“Don’t worry, we’ve worked with plenty of Drake House artists. This is an easy gig: fans pay money, the schoolmakesmoney,youmake money, everyone’s happy!” Father Christmas-Tanglewoodpatted my shoulder again. “Easy as pie.”
The rest of the meeting was a lot of talk about “the enterprising culture of Norsemen,” which mainly involved, as far as I could gather, an innate understanding of what phrases likeenterprising culturemeant. I was turned loose with an hour or so of free time, and I spent it worrying myself sick.
