Just North of Whoville by Turiskylie, Joyce (free children's ebooks pdf .TXT) 📗

As I started wondering about the etymology of the word “figurine”, Celia asked, “Would you be my bridesmaid?”

“Me?”

“I’ll pay for everything---the dress and shoes and…”

“Oh god. Celia….no…don’t…”

“I know things are tight for you right now, but I really want you there.”

“I’ll be there. I promise. But I’ll take care of it myself.”

“No. It’s my treat.”

“No! No!” I almost knocked over a crystal bouquet of azaleas. “You don’t have to pay me to be in your wedding. That’s ridiculous. God…am I that much of a fuck-up?”

“I wouldn’t ask a fuck-up to be my bridesmaid. I asked you.”

“Well…it’s a package deal.”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could help you with this stuff. But most of my friends are in design or fashion…”

“Okay---just shut up. I’m fine.”

“You’re so talented and you should be working.”

“Stop. Stop,” I ground the offers of help to a halt. “Look---this is the deal with the devil you make when you go into theatre. I’ll be fine,” I declared with more confidence than I’d had in years. “And I’ll be your bridesmaid.”

Where I was going to get the money for this, I had no idea. But they hadn’t set a date yet, so the earliest would be a spring wedding. I could have a whole different life by next spring.

It could happen.

That night, another hunk of the ceiling came down. No matter how much Christmas cheer I released into the world, I was still living on borrowed time.

In a moment of utter terror, I put in a call to Alex and left a message on his machine.

“Hi. It’s Dorrie. Um…more of the ceiling collapsed today. And I know I called before because the maintenance guys came by, so I’m sure you’re on top of this… But I started thinking… you know, maybe I can fix this myself. Because the thing is, with a leak, I knew they’d just be up on the roof so that was pretty safe. But with the whole interior thing… I mean, they’re gonna have to come in here…and inspect, and… I’m just worried they’re going to find me out. So maybe if you haven’t already called, just don’t say anything about the ceiling, okay. I have a few friends who do set design and I can maybe get them to help me fix this…”

But I knew I was a goner.

Maybe it was time to give up. Maybe this was a sign. Move back home to Milwaukee. Maybe get a teaching degree. Become one of those bitter drama teaches whose breath smelled suspiciously of Peppermint Schnapps.

The next morning when my alarm went off, I shot out of bed in a panic, fully thinking it was the Illegal Sublease Police knocking down my door. Like a felon on the lam, I jumped out of bed and quickly hopped in the shower, knowing the coppers would be on my tail any second now. As I lathered up, I realized that being in the shower left me at my most vulnerable. That’s when Norman Bates attacked. They’d probably been waiting for me take a shower. Oh no. I had to get out of here.

But as I shut off the hot water, the only sound was the distant scratch of Heidi pushing the litter around her box. Apparently no one had knocked or rang the bell. If they had, the cat would have gone into hiding like Anne Frank.

I tried to relax as I turned on the hair dryer; but it was difficult to relax knowing the sound would deafen me to their approach. Under the white noise of the hair dryer, I tried to think my way out of my predicament. In order to move, I’d need a few thousand dollars to cover a deposit, first (and possibly last) month’s rent and moving fees. With what I was making at ABC, it would take me over a year to save that kind of money. And by that time, they would be throwing smoke bombs in the windows and blaring heavy metal music to get me to disperse.

My own little Waco.

They’d bring in negotiators. Helicopters flying overheard. CNN would show up. Maybe even Jesse Jackson. It would be all over the news. They’d use that horrible picture of me taken at the cast party for Too Much Salt, a showcase featuring Jenn Baggs in the works of Chekhov. This last known photo of me with my left eye closed and my bangs plastered to my forehead would be displayed all over the national media. Clips from my previous directorial effort---Bedazzled: A Night With Porter Wagoner would be shown on all the networks. Why did I ever agree to direct that? Oh god why?

Eventually, they’d drag out my friends for interviews. Celia would look stunning as she purred into the camera, “Gosh, we tried so hard to help her. We gave her a place to live for almost a year, but she just couldn’t make it in New York. Dorrie, sweetie, if you’re listening, come out of the apartment and nobody will get hurt,” she pleaded as she flashed that convent-winning smile. Reporters would swiftly cut to a live remote from Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

“Honey,” my mother would begin as the tears started to fall down her cheek, “I just want you to know that we love you and if you need a place to live, you can always come home.”

“Dorrie,” my father would speak up, choking back the emotion, but trying to appeal to my mental state, “maybe we can turn the garage into a little theatre. I’ll put up some lights and some curtains and you can do your playacting with your stuffed animals like you used to. I have Mr. Zippy right here,” he would say as he held up a stuffed monkey. “Mr. Zippy misses doing Shakespeare and…we just want