Page 63 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
It’s Mike’s fault that I can’t stop thinking about him.
It’s Mike’s fault that now I read Shakespeare with his commentary running through my head.
The DVDs. I’ve watched all of them, but with my headphones on. I didn’t want to run the risk of Mike overhearing. And…he’s a star. He’s a freaking meteor, catapulting through thestratosphere, burning with an intensity that is unmistakable. I could diminish what I saw atMacbeth, cram what I felt into a little space in my nightstand next to the borrowed sonnets. But I can’t do that after watching (and rewatching) all of those DVDs.
It’s not fair. I can’t unsee those either. And I want to unsee them. Because if I unsee them, I can go back to ignoring what I feel for the majority of my waking hours. I can’t now. I know better.
I’ve been clocking a lot of hours at the art museum, trying to contain the breadth of my emotions in this space. Maybe I hoped I could hide my feelings for Mike here and visit them on my terms. Study them like I would any contemporary sculpture. But this doesn’t work either. Because even though the study of art, like the study of Shakespeare, is ultimately comforting, it’s painful too. You confront things that you’d like to pretend aren’t there. You see the parts of yourself that make you squirm.
It’s worth it because with the struggle comes the embrace of every other human—artist or not—who is trying to make sense of this life we all share. But in the moment, it can feel unsettling. I thought art was exclusive before—like when you stand in front of a Rothko and don’t feel anything, but the person next to you is sobbing. I now see it’s subversive. Narratives are challenged, and that’s hard. Narratives are all we have.
Maybe this is why I recorded copies of all my favorite snippets from the DVDs before I returned them. Maybe this is why I’ve started adding my own comments to Mike’s sonnets, scattered in the little space that remains in the margins. My purple ink twists in and out of his blue.
I stand in front of you, and I feel things. So many things. I feel the tug of attraction, the pull of intrigue. I feel jealous. I feel frustrated because you don’t feel the same way. I feel despair. I feel hope. I feel so much desperation for more. I feel. Therefore, I am.
Yeah, Mike’s commentary is better. No contest.
Chapter 22
“I can’t do the pancake makeup anymore. I’m breaking out… You would care if you were auditioning all next week…”
One thing about living in the back cottage of a beach house is that you can hear quite a bit of everything. This includes some of Mike’s phone calls. “Of course I’ll still be in character. The creepiness isn’t all skin-deep.”
I almost laugh at that one.
“What? No.” He trips over something and swears. “No, of course not. And how would I know if she’s home? … We donotlive together… She’d eat me alive and then grind my bones to make plant food for her cactuses… No. No. I’m not going to giveher the message… That’s right, I’ll freely admit it… No, you can’t be afraid of her too. She is your sister! Fine. Fine!” He hangs up, tosses his phone down, and snarls.
Passionate, that neighbor of mine.
I check my hair, my makeup, and my flower crown before bouncing through the gate.
Mike looks up from his saw, and his expression is a mix of exasperation and something more dangerous. “Why are you wearing flowers?”
“It’s SummerFest.” The way Princess Kitty’s owner explained it to me, it’s the day when La Jolla celebrates the summer solstice, but it happens at the end of August when May gray, June gloom, and no-sky July finally dissipates, the tourists leave because school is in session, and sunshine and heat finally kick in for a few glorious weeks when the locals have the beaches to themselves.
“Huh.” Mike stands there a moment, blinking. What was he thinking? That I was regressing? That I was reverting to some magic fairy, crystal-clutching woman who aspires to influence and nothing else? “They still do that?” He heads into his kitchen with a stack of cut baseboards.
I follow. “Apparently. I have to film content for a client later and was told crowns aren’t optional.”
“Filming?”
“Princess Kitty 2000 pays extra for filmed coffee chats.”
“What are those?” Mike lays the boards carefully on the floor.
“A cat pushes random buttons on the floor, and I respond with enthusiasm, much the same way I do when I’m babysitting my nephew, Eaton.”
Mike’s smile surfaces. “You can’t wear silk flowers for SummerFest.” He grabs his keys from the hooks on the interior of a cabinet door.
I feel a pang of envy. How is it even possible to have this level of organization on a construction site?
“Come on,” Mike says.
“Where are we going?”
“To Adelaide’s.”
We drive across town to a smart flower shop in downtown La Jolla. Mike lives a charmed life, so naturally there is a parking space ready and waiting for him when we pull up.
