I want my writing to do that for others, and I’d believed my latest idea could offer a new world for when people felt out of place in theirs. Apparently, I’d thought too highly of it. Now I hate it.
I’m in the Hollywood District of Portland, where author Beverly Cleary grew up. I came down here because director Zach Price is in town for his latest premiere and agreed to meet me at the Hollywood Theater—the historic landmark this neighborhood is named after. Our meeting didn’t last long.
“It seemed fortuitous,” I confess to Ramona.
A couple of moms side-eye me and motion their children to play closer to Ribsy. I would feel sorry for the women and their lack of imagination if I wasn’t too busy feeling sorry for myself.
Imagining how Ramona might respond to my predicament, I sigh. “No, the script isn’t finished on paper, but it is in my heart. Zach was only going to be here for a few days, and I honestly expected him to jump at the premise. Rom-com is supposed to be a hot genre right now.”
I study the expression on the laughing bronze figure and naturally assume she’s laughing at me. However, had Beverly Cleary’s debut novel been accepted the way she’d first written it, Ramona never would have existed. She and Beezus were added in later drafts.
I bite my lip at the implication. Perhaps I need to not only finish the screenplay but revise it in order to touch more lives. The way Beverly Cleary touched mine. The way she’s still touching people beyond her years on this earth.
“Okay,” I finally agree.
Though I can’t help wondering if Mrs. Cleary’s success required more than her talent and tenacity. I always pray for God to bless the work of my hands, but sometimes it feels as if He plays favorites. Though maybe I only feel that way because I’ve always been compared to someone else. And found lacking.
It doesn’t seem fair that my sister is the one with the house, kids, and career. I’ve worked just as hard. Maybe harder, with my multiple jobs and location changes. Sure, I have the looks, but they just seem to keep people from seeing anything deeper.
Chilly drops of water flick against my bare calves, reawakening me to my surroundings.
Giggling preschoolers in swimming suits race past, their feet slapping puddles. A gentle breeze follows them as if playing tag, then it lifts to rustle the awning of leaves high overhead. Sunshine dances through the openings created, its teasing warmth luring me away from the shade, and I suppose I should move on.
My desire to prove myself is what keeps me going in the film industry despite overwhelming odds. My wish is to be as successful as my sister. I’d been feeling stupid for having hope, but maybe my hopeisGod’s blessing.
Or maybe it’s a curse.
I feel the same way about having hope for a relationship with Karson. I’d thought we connected, but I haven’t heard anything from him since. Not even about the chalk. Hope for a relationship with him could be nothing more than setting myself up for more rejection.
I head back toward my car, staying on the paved walkway so my heels don’t sink into the dirt. After leaving the theater, I should have gone straight to the precinct, but I was in such a funk that I’d debated even going at all. I’d impulsively pulled over at my childhood playground, where Ramona gave me just the pep talk I needed. Now, if I’m going to keep working on my screenplay, I’ll have to attend tonight’s safety academy class, whether I feel like it or not.
The idea of seeing Karson is not the motivation it usually is. I shared my heart with him, and he’s ignored it. Maybe I got him wrong. Maybe he doesn’t care.
I’d wanted to return to class today with industry interest in my screenplay. It would validate my career aspirations—aka my presence in class. Then Karson would know I’m not only there to get alone time with him or whatever.
I drive to the precinct in a haze, then sit in the parking lot, blinking to bring myself back to reality. The last time I sat facing the entrance to this tan brick building, Karson had told me to leave before he arrested me.
I do my best to shrug off yet another threat and grab my purse to go inside, but last week’s doggy disaster gives me pause. I’ll just stuff whatever I need into the pockets of my jumpsuit. Lip gloss, phone, keys, and wallet—in case there are any more ID issues.
Though Karson didn’t call me to verify that my sandwich baggie of chalk was actually chalk, I know it was, so I’m not worried. Jewel might have swapped it out for cocaine or some other illegal white substance had she known it would get me into trouble, but she doesn’t even know about the trouble her steak got me into. She’d get too much enjoyment from my predicament if I told her.
I stride through the door to our classroom only to find it empty. Did I get the date wrong? I know I’m a little distracted, and I often forget the days of the week during the summer when I’m not teaching, but I’d just met with Zach, and he specifically said he wanted to meet on a Tuesday.
Maybe I got the time wrong. I scan the boring walls to find a boring, round clock. It’s seven on the dot.
It looks like class was canceled. Maybe I’ll go buy myself an ice-cream cone since my stomach is already churning.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Zach? Telling me he’s reconsidered? Or simply offering me another roll as a floozy? I flinch in anticipation and pull out my cell.
It’s not Zach, and I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or rejected all over again. I roll my head from shoulder to shoulder to release tension, then swipe my thumb across the slick screen. At least my roommates believe in me. “Hey, Charlie.”
“Did you forget we’re meeting in the back lot to race police cars today?”
My heart rear-ends my rib cage. This class hasn’t even started, and already it’s a wreck. “It’s hard to forget something nobody ever told me.”
Charlie pauses, which is not his usual MO. “I forgot you left class early last week. But it’s on the online syllabus.”
I close my eyes. As a teacher, I have no excuse for not having read the syllabus. “I’m just going to go home.”
