Seven Days in June(49)
Grandma Lizette was a true American success story.
She would’ve loved me, Audre mused, her thoughts drowning out Parsley’s tirade about whatever.
As Audre continued to plummet, the supervising TA, Mr. Josh, was quietly freaking out. His blond pompadour was sweaty at the hairline, and his peaches-and-cream complexion had flushed a ruddy red. All session, he’d been glued to Book Twitter on his phone, following gossipy tweets with links from Lit Hub, LiteraryGossipBlog, BookBiz, et cetera.
Now he was pacing back and forth in front of the whiteboard, waiting for an opportunity to interrupt the girls. Parsley finally paused for breath. And then, summoning all the prep-school charm that kept him afloat at Vanderbilt while he really wanted to grow his hair to his knees, climb Mount Kilimanjaro, and write about the journey like a male Cheryl Strayed, he approached Audre’s chair.
“Hello, girls. How are you holding up?”
“We’re good, Mr. Josh,” said Audre. “Are we talking too much?”
“No, no, you’re fine! Audre, could I speak with you for a moment?”
Her heart sank. God, what did she do now? Pasting on a smile, she said, “Sure. Is everything okay?”
“No, no! You’re great. It’s just…ugh, sorry, I’m nervous.” He shook his whole body like a wet dog and started over. “Audre, your mom knows Shane Hall?”
Frowning, she asked, “Who?”
“Shane Hall, the novelist? He wrote Eight and See Saw.”
“Oh, him.” She wrinkled her nose. Shane Hall wrote what she called “F-train books”: the hardcovers grown-ups toted on the subway to flex that they were reading An Important and Culturally Relevant Book. Audre was a compulsive reader but wasn’t into F-train books. She knew about him, though.
“Didn’t he have a DUI or something?” asked Audre. “It was on TMZ, I think. My mom wouldn’t know someone like that.”
“Shane Hall,” mused Parsley. “His name sounds like a dorm.”
“I think your mom definitely knows him,” said Mr. Josh, thrusting his iPhone in Audre’s face.
There was Audre’s mom, snuggling up to Shane Hall on a bench. Eating ice cream. Looking happier than Audre had ever seen her look. A different kind of happy. The kind of happy that is, in fact, reflective of a person living their best life. The kind of happy that isn’t at all held back by a bothersome daughter.
Is Mommy dating this man? she wondered, her mind a swirl of confusion and hurt. Is she in love? What was that “who has time to date” speech about, then? Why did she lie to me? She’s out there, happy AF, while I’m feeling guilty?
“Anyway,” continued Mr. Josh, who Audre had forgotten was in the room, “Shane Hall is my favorite author. And I have a manuscript that I’d kill to get in his hands. I have it on a thumb drive. Do you think if I gave it to you, you could pass it to your mom?”
And then, for the first time in her school career, Audre let go.
“Quick question, Mr. Josh,” she said.
“Yes?”
“WHAT IN THE ACTUAL FUCKSHIT IS MY LIFE?” she wailed. Then she apologized. And burst into tears.
Chapter 15
Dream House
FOR TWO CYNICAL SKEPTICS LIKE EVA AND SHANE, THE DREAM HOUSE, UPON entrance, was a bit too earnest.
DREAM HOUSE RULES
Welcome to the DREAM HOUSE. No smoking, vaping, eating, drinking, cell phone use, picture-taking, talking above a whisper, touching, or exchanging of bodily fluids permitted. This is a safe space, don’t make it weird. Please store valuables in a locker. If you’re in a PRIVATE room, feel free to close the door—but there are no locks. Each person is assigned a freshly washed pillow and blanket (via our eco-friendly laundry service!), please toss in the linen basket when you’re done. When your hour is up, your Sleep Guide will give you a gentle nudge. Please do not strike the Sleep Guide, he/she/they is/are simply doing his/her/their job.
And what’s your job, you ask? To do three things: Relax! Restore! Recharge!
“And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.” —Hamlet
Upon entry, a gazelle-like Sleep Guide handed them freshly laundered plush pillows and blankets. Assuming that they were a couple, she led them toward a private room. Tucked in the first two floors of a classic Edwardian brownstone, the warren of rooms was, indeed, a soporific sleep chamber. Silence was optional, so some light whispers could be heard above the soft, ambient, hard-to-place tonal soundtrack. The smoky-sweet scent of incense wafted unobtrusively through the halls, each room bathed in darkness except for the drowsiness-inducing images projected on the walls. One room seethed with gently pulsing blue dots. Another room glowed burnt sienna, thanks to a crackling bonfire projected on the wall; it was so realistic, Eva almost felt the toasty warmth as she walked by.
People dozed on the floor, lying on massive body pillows, their skin glowing in different colors. In one room, a woman snored softly. A guy in an ill-fitting suit lay next to her, lips murmuring a soundless chant. Or prayer. Maybe he was reciting the lyrics to Lizzo’s “Truth Hurts.” Who knew? The point was, he was relaxed.
Eva couldn’t imagine dozing off within the next hour. Sleep called for five milligrams of Ambien, an ice pack, a painkiller shot, and her white-noise app. But the trippy-hippie vibe was soothing. Damn near sublime. The best part was that it was an unexpected twist. Like Alice toppling down the rabbit hole or Dorothy nodding out in Oz’s poppy fields. When she set out to see Shane this morning, she definitely hadn’t imagined ending up in a hazy, hypnotic fun house. At 2:50 p.m.