Page 137 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“To make fancy cookies. Yes.”
“What type of fancy cookies?”
“Burnt chocolate chip.” Mike presses his lips together, but the smile is still stuck on his face. “With blackberries.”
I gasp. “Can I help?”
“Not if you want me to talk.” He points to the kitchen table.
“Deal.” Keeping my distance is an acceptable price to pay in exchange for answers. “You said you were too scared to call, but then you showed up at Eaton’s birthday party, and I found you sitting on my bed, all smug and judgmental.”
“Mm-hmm. Bravado. We’ll get there, but we have to back up.” He pulls butter, an egg, and the bowl of blackberries from his fridge.
I have to stifle a giggle when he nearly drops them all. “The cosplay?”
“Can I get nerdy with you? You like Shakespeare.”
“I love Shakespeare.”
His grin looks almost hungry in that moment. “My Badpun is a study of Ariel, Iago, and Richard III.”
“I knew it!” I shrug. “I mean, Richard’s a power-hungry psycho, but he’s also charming. Terrifying. Ruthless. But charming.”
“I didn’t mean to bring him into it. That just sort of happened when you showed up.” He braces his hands on the counter. “Your brother’s escape room is a chance for me to get paid regularly to do improv. And improv is one of the best ways to improve as an actor.”
“Acting is reacting.”
“That’s right. I’ve paid for improv opportunities. And here I get paid really well to do it. Elicit emotions. Get feedback in real time. It’s a golden goose. I need it to work because I need to fund this remodel. So I did a lot of preparation. I didn’t want to be a caricature. I didn’t want to be an impersonation of every actor who has ever done the role of Badpun. I wanted to be so good that people would come back, bring their friends, leave reviews. I mean, I was top-billed.”
“Until Catstrike stole the show.”
“Which was inevitable. I had the play coming up.”
I rest my chin in my hands. “Yes, you did.”
“Don’t look at me like that.” He adds the butter to the pot on the stove. It hisses and sizzles.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Keep that up, and these really will be burnt cookies.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Where was I?”
“You wanted to be good.”
“Yes! So I fell back on my Shakespeare. A trickster, Ariel, with the chilling charisma of a remorseless psychopath, Iago. And then you walked into my sad little cell. Not even a word of warning. I could have punched Adam. It was so completely unfair.”
“I remember.”
Mike whisks the dry ingredients in a large mixing bowl. “Spontaneity. Creativity. Confidence. Risk-taking. This is what improvisation does for an actor in the pressure cooker of the moment. A beautiful woman, masking her discomfort with boredom, and a desperate actor in clown makeup. That wouldn’t lead to any ticket sales.”
“Or fun.”
“I pushed things.” He packs brown sugar into a measuring cup and adds it to the bowl of fancy sugar. “I leaned hard into my craft. I felt just the tiniest tug of attraction from you, so I let mine spill out through my character. I tamped it all down and tried to be cool when I actually got to meet you after we were done filming. Then my professor called to tell me I was directingMacbeth. It was just the confidence boost I needed to walk with you to the pier.”
“But you never called,” I say with a pout.
“I was scared to call. ‘Hi, is Beatrice there?’ ‘No, she’s in court litigating with other professionals on behalf of victims who need her help.’” He grabs a lemon from his fruit basket, rinses it, and cuts it in half.
“Corporations aren’t victims.”
