Wendy told herself firmly,Do not get used to this, he’s just being polite—it won’t last, before saying, “Thank you. I’ll take you up on that.”
That gave her time to take Sam aside, and question him further about Squirrel Woman Nobett.
Sam admitted that this was the third time he’d seen her. “I never talked to her,” he said earnestly. “This time, she grabbed me. That’s whenhecame, and made her go away.”
“Mr. Tzama,” Wendy corrected gently. “It sounds like he came just in time. You must have been really scared.”
Sam nodded, his eyes huge behind those thick lenses.
“Listen, Sam, I don’t want to forbid you the garden. That’s letting her dictate to us in a place where we are welcome and she is not. But I want you to be extra careful, okay? If you see her again, you come running for me, instantly. No more not telling me. Got it?”
He nodded again.
“Good. I’m going out tonight, to the writing group Granny Godiva belongs to. So you are on your own to read your chapter, and then you can watch some anime, or playAnimal Crossing. Since it’s Friday, you can stay up an extra hour. But then to bed, right? Because you know you have to be ready first thing in the morning when your father honks for you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Wendy kissed him, and kept her smile pinned to her face until his door was shut.
“All right, then,” she muttered as she turned the hot water on.
A short time later, showered, dressed in the outfit she had spent far too much time thinking about, and carrying her printout in her old film school binder, she headed out again. The car started right up, then trundled obediently down the driveway.
It was strange to be at the bakery at night. She parked in her usual spot behind the building, then let herself in through the back door. Here she paused to take in a pleasurable breath of the yeasty things rising, then began to weave her way between prep tables and huge machines toward the light switch.
The readings always took place in the room alongside the prep room, divided by a flimsy wall of plywood. Wendy could hear voices as she crossed the silent prep room. She checked her watch for the fiftieth time. 7:30 on the dot.
As she moved for the door, voices rose, Bill’s above the others. “…I’m justsaying,” he started in that strident, blaring tone that never failed to spike her anxiety. “We’ve had twofee-male group leaders in a row, and it’s time for us men to have a turn. Let us show you how it’s done. Just kidding, ha ha. All I’m saying is to think about it before we vote.”
Wendy firmly reminded herself that she no longer cared what he thought. He was responsible for his own toxicity. Her concern was Sam.
Linette’s voice then rose, and Wendy could hear suppressed annoyance. “I believe you’ve made your point, Bill. Several times over. Believe me. We get it. But at this rate, we won’t get out of here until midnight, so let’s move on to our pages, okay? Since you’re already speaking, why don’t you read first?”
Bill’s voice changed to the smug one he invariably used when he had won the argument—or assumed he had. Wendy gritted her teeth.
He began reading, and Wendy leaned against the wall. Stryker? Yep. Sounded like the same book he’d pressed her to read once, years ago. Or maybe this was a “further adventures of” volume? She still remembered how careful she had been to offer more praise than she felt, but at her first tentative criticism, he had turned red in the face and shouted, “You’re just jealous.”
“Jealous?” she’d repeated, totally bewildered.
“All you’ve sold is that single low-budget teen flick. This book will be a bestsellerandan international blockbuster film. It’ll make the Bond franchise look chintzy. Can’t see that, or are you just being blonde again?” On and on he’d gone, cutting her down into smaller and smaller pieces, until she realized he hadn’t wanted her opinion at all. He’d expected praise. Not just that. He really didn’t care if she read it or not. What he expected was her to immediately hand it off to her agent, the agent at a prestigious agency that she’d gotten after four years of film school, and another four years of hard work, submitting, getting rejected, and submitting again and again.
Lost in unpleasant reverie, she barely heard the words stream on, slightly muffled. “…Stryker’s lethal hands… the Russian mobster… Sig Sauer Romeo8T rifle…Cindy the Slob.”
Wendy’s attention snapped to the wall between her and the rest of the writing group, as Bill’s voice rose.“…asked the FBI agent. The men, tired from the gun battle, looked up as Cindy the Slob marched in, wearing pants too tight for her enormous ass the size of a dump truck, her dyed blond hair looking like a two-dollar hooker’s cheap wig, as she whined, ‘Stryker, give me my alimony!’ The FBI agents all looked at Stryker with pity as the squealing voice ...”
Shock ran through Wendy’s nerves, and from the depths of memory rose a voice shrill with the exact same tone of scorn, “Wendy the Whale.”
She shook her head. Those days were long gone. She had ceased being that pitiful kid four decades ago. But on the other side of the wall, the derisive voice went on and on, describing a caricature of Wendy, taking every one of her features and turning her into some kind of grasping, greedy monster.
As she stood there, her stomach churning in the familiar way, sheknewthat if she walked into that room five minutes from now, or even half an hour from now, those people would not hear her story. They were going to be hearing the echo of the disgusting Cindy the Slob. Some might even believe it, but even if they didn’t, pity would be nearly as horrible as contempt.
Sick, almost frightened, she tiptoed back to the door, aware that once again, she was in retreat. Bill had won again. Petty meanness had won. She quickly, quietly let herself out, hyper-aware of every jiggle of her body as she fought the old fears rising up again.
She reached the car and turned the key, her hands shaking. Godiva—Linette—they didn’t take Bill seriously. They had not spent years striving to please him, to make herself ever smaller not just physically, but mentally, creatively. In every way.
She drove back toward Godiva’s, then realized that it was far too early to return. She’d get questions. Why had she gone and blabbed about her plans? She couldn’t face any of them, especially Sam. He would see her upset, and he’d mirror it. And he already had what promised to be a tense weekend ahead.
She drove on past the turnoff to Godiva’s street, and found herself turning the corner that led down to the shoreline, and finally to her old house, the one she had first come to as a miserable ten-year-old. The first place she had called home.
