Reb snorts loudly. “This is the stupidest idea I've ever heard.”
Thea shoots her a smug, sly smile. “You just don't like it because you didn't think of it.”
“No.” Reb gives another exaggerated pout. “Maybe. But also, it doesn't make sense. The idea is for Meg to impress these bigwigs at work, right? If she gives this presentation dressed up as some alternate persona, then won't her bosses just think she's mentally unstable?”
As Reb ticks off each of her objections on her fingers, I look at Thea, who merely chuckles, patting Reb's hand reassuringly.
“Oh, you silly girl, you've misunderstood me completely. I'm not suggesting she try to fool other people into thinking she's a different person. She only has to fool herself. Her persona will be all up here.” Thea taps her temple. “If she believes she won't stutter, then she won't.”
“Sure, I guess.”
I draw out the word, wishing I felt more confident about this plan. “Is this going to work?”
“Of course it will work,” Thea gushes with her normal over the top enthusiasm.
“You know, I think I read about a local newscaster with a stutter who does the same thing.” Reb pulls out her phone and starts typing. A moment later, she mutters, “Yep, here it is.”
She holds out her phone to me. I take it and scan the article. Sure enough, a guy I grew up watching on the evening news speaks with a stutter when he's not on air.
“Well, shit,” I mutter. The article links to another article about other famous people. I automatically start reading names out loud. “Marilyn Monroe had a stutter? And James Earl Jones?” I look from the phone to Thea and then to Reb. “Mufasa. Fucking Mufasa has a stutter, and I didn't know it? What the hell? How is this even possible?”
“Actually, my dear,” Thea says gently. “Mufasa, the character, didn't have a stutter. That's the point.”
“I know, I just ...” I glance down at the list again. “I think if Emily Blunt and Julia Roberts both have stutters, shouldn't someone have mentioned this to me before now? Do you know how many times my mom made me watchThe King's Speech? A lot. But somehow this never came up?”
Reb takes the phone and glances at the article. “Isn't this just a Wikipedia page?”
“What's your point?”
She hands the phone back. “Just that this is commonly available knowledge, I guess. Didn't you ever google famous people with stutters before now?”
When she says it like that, I just feel stupid, so I'm sure I sound grumpier than I should when I say, “No, I didn't. Obviously. Or I would have known the voice of Darth Vader had a stutter, too.”
I can't help feeling annoyed at having to justify my ignorance on this issue. Reb knows my dad left when I was eight. She knows how tight money was when I was a kid, how sparse resources were in my family. Mom did her best, but as a single mother of three girls, her best covered only the barest necessities. We barely afforded things like food and rent. A private speech therapist was out of the question, and the one the school provided me barely scratched the surface.
Yes, recently I started therapy on my own, and my therapist is pleased with my progress, but I can't help feeling frustrated by the pace. By the feeling that I'm still waiting for my real life to begin.
Thea gives several sharp claps, and I'm not sure if she's determined to get my attention or if she's just that excited about her plan.
“You'll need a makeover,” she says when I finally meet her gaze. “Of course you'll need a new haircut. New clothes. None of your current potato sacks will do. You'll need a whole new look, obviously.”
A whole new look? A makeover? I don’t know if that should make me nervous or excited. One thing is for sure, I’m too desperate to dismiss any possibilities.
I may be willing to get a makeover for the sake of this presentation. I don’t love the way Thea says I need one. Like it’s a foregone conclusion that my sense of style sucks.
While processing how I feel about that particular criticism, I reach for my drink. The ice sloshes against the glass as I tilt the bubbly lemon seltzer toward my mouth, the fizz tingling my nose as I sip. Tart lemon mixes with a vanilla simple syrup, creating a lemon-pie flavored drink I’ve been addicted to for years.
I can’t take full credit, of course, since it’s Keegan’s place. Though Iwasthe person who initially argued that he should explore offering custom sodas for the menu—non-alcoholic options that still are delicious. After presenting him with a few simple syrups, herb, and seltzer combos, Keegan became a convert, and the mocktail menu at Hung Out to Dry was born.
I tip the glass back a little more, catching a few nuggets of the perfectly crunchable ice the restaurant has had for years now—also one of my favorites—and chew, decimating the little bundles of frozen joy.
Good ice, craft sodas, and tacos.Life is good, I remind myself.Even if your friends think you dress like a slug.
The crunching is helping, the chill cooling the tinge of embarrassment that’s threatening.
“Yes,” I say drolly. “Obviously,I need a makeover.” I've always valued comfort over style, and yes, my work “uniform” has a sort of Doby-in-a-clean-dish-towel aesthetic, but hearing Thea sum it up so succinctly stings a bit.
“Oh, a makeover! Yay!” Reb leans forward, clearly thrilled. “What are we talking? New hair? Glamorous clothes? What?”
