Kissing Brendan Callahan (8 page)

I can't believe that Antonia would be creatively blocked. What if she never wrote another book? What would her fans do? What would
I
do?

FIFTEEN

“Pass the string beans,” says Georgina at dinner. I do, but I'm barely aware of what is going on around me. I'm too excited.

When I got home, I wrote the last scene of the play. I really like what I wrote. This is how I ended the play: Suzanne sneaks out of the house to marry Richard. Meanwhile, her mother follows her to the church and they have a loud confrontation. Her mother forbids her to marry Richard. Suzanne is torn because she has always been an obedient girl, but Richard has made her realize he needs her. He not only loves her, he respects and cherishes her talents. She has always wanted this respect, which her mother has obviously not had for her. The play ends with Suzanne and Richard walking hand in hand into the church.

“How's work going?” Georgina asks Mom.

“I had quite a day,” she says, patting Jason's back. “It's so hard being away from him.” They continue to talk, but I'm thinking about Antonia. She has honored me by telling me her darkest secret. I'm the only person who knows she has writer's block. I'm the only person who can help her. This is a huge responsibility, but I must find a way.

“Sarah. Sarah, are you with us?”

“Huh?” I say.

“I said, when I got home,” says my mother, “I came to your room to say hello and you didn't even hear me. You must be working hard on a story.”

I hadn't noticed my mother at all. I was too busy finishing my play. I still can't believe I finally finished something. I owe it to Antonia and the confidence she has in me.

“Do you need help with your story? Remember, I promised to help you find another contest.”

“No, thanks,” I say. “Antonia loves working with young writers. She is the most amazing woman I have ever met.”

“Oh,” she says, sounding disappointed. “That's very generous of her. But I really meant it when I said I would help you. Really.”

“Don't worry,” I say. “I'm in good hands.”

Mom shifts Jason to her other arm. “Tell us about this amazing woman.”

“She's so likable, so interesting, so exotic,” I say.

“Really,” says Georgina. “Tell us more.”

“Do tell us,” says Mom.

“She rented a convertible for the day,” I say. “Antonia is like that. She does creative, fun things. But the best part is how sensitive she is. She can see deeply into a person. She told me that she can sense the writer in me. Isn't that amazing, after only knowing me for a few hours?” I look right at my mother.

“Amazing,” replies my mother in a very unamazed tone. “Did she bother to read anything you wrote before reaching that conclusion?”

“She doesn't have to. She understands things the average person doesn't.”

“What sort of things?” asks Georgina.

“Antonia has experienced true suffering and true passion. She has deep feelings, which is why she'll be the perfect judge for the teen writing contest. She'll know which writers are really expressing deep feelings rather than just listing facts and dates.”

“Speaking of the contest,” says Mom, “did you give her the plays to read?”

“Of course.” I left them in the backseat of her convertible, but I'm not going to tell Mom this.

“Do you think I should call her?” asks Mom. “To answer any questions she might have.”

“Not necessary,” I say. “That's what you have me for.” Jason fidgets and begins to cry.

“I have a deep feeling that this little boy needs changing.” Georgina gets up and takes Jason upstairs. “Be back in a bit.”

I chew on a string bean, daydreaming about the wind blowing through my hair as Antonia and I ride around Staten Island. I must remember to wear sunglasses and a scarf next time.

There's a knock on the back door. “I'll get it,” Mom says. I bring my plate over to the sink and wash it. When I look up and see Brendan, I knock over the plastic container of liquid soap, and it drops to the floor, squirting soap all over the place. Brendan probably thinks I'm a dork.

Brendan doesn't look at me. He hands Mom a folder. Why isn't he looking at me? What's wrong with him? Where did he and Anne Marie go after they left the store?

“This is from my mother.”

I bend down and start sponging the floor and the side of the counter.

“Oh, great,” says Mom. “I really appreciate your bringing it over.” He shrugs. I read his shirt: “I used to be schizophrenic, but we're okay now.” “Why don't you stay for dessert, Brendan? I bought mango sorbet. We'd love to have you join us. I can't remember the last time you two played chess.”

Brendan looks down at me. I look at the sponge and begin scrubbing again. “I guess I should be going,” says Brendan.

So go, I want to shout.

“Just a minute,” says Mom. “I have something for Beth.”

The phone rings and my mother answers. “Oh, hello, Antonia,” she says. “How is everything going with the contest?”

I pop up and run over, wanting to grab the phone out of her hands. Antonia says something that makes my mother nod. “I'll put her on,” says Mom. My mother isn't angry, so Antonia couldn't have told her that the plays are still in the car. I'm positive Antonia found them and has begun reading. Mom hands the phone to me and I take it.

“Hello,” I say. Mom leaves the room. Brendan stares at me. I turn around because I can't concentrate with him looking at me.

“Sarah,” says Antonia. “I'm having a gathering. Unfortunately my cohorts have found me. Would you pop over? Say in an hour? I could use your calming energy. Actually, you might find some of these people interesting. I used to.” I smile. She's inviting me to hang out at her gathering. I like the idea of a gathering. It seems informal, spontaneous, yet filled with possibilities.

“Sure,” I say. “I'll be there.”

“Wonderful. Do you have my address? I'm staying in a lovely little bungalow.”

“I know where you are.” I hang up the phone and turn. Mom is back, carrying a large envelope, which she hands to Brendan.

“What's up?” she asks me.

I'm not about to tell her that Antonia is having a gathering. “Antonia needs help with the contest,” I lie.

“Whatever for?” she asks.

I shrug. “I'm her assistant.”

“You mean
now?
”

I nod.

“It's getting dark,” says my mother. “You can't go over now.”

“I have to. She needs me.”

“Georgina is leaving, so I can't drive you and I won't let you go alone. Call her back and tell her that you'll help her tomorrow.”

“But, Mom. Antonia is a spontaneous person. She needs to work now, when the mood strikes her.”

“Tell her to strike the mood tomorrow.” Mom leaves.

How can I tell Antonia I'm not coming to her gathering? She needs me because I have a calming effect on her. And I can hand her my finished play.

Brendan's still staring at me. “So what are you going to do?” he asks. “Tell Antonia you can't come, or do what I'd do—go anyway?”

“How can I go if Mom forbids it?”

“And I thought you were starting to show some spunk.”

“I have plenty of spunk.” I'm hurt when he looks at me like he doesn't believe me. “Didn't I stand up to your mother about not selling the raffles?” He just looks at me with a smirk on his face. I hate Brendan Callahan. “If you're so spunky, then why are you doing an errand for your mother?”

“Because,” he begins, then he changes his mind. “Oh, why did I bother? See ya around.”

“See ya,” I answer. When he leaves, I pick up the receiver and put it down again. If I don't go, I'll probably regret it the rest of my life. I pace around the kitchen. I finish putting the leftovers away. I pace some more and look at the clock. Brendan's right. If I want to be an amazing creative person, then I can't allow my mother to stifle me. I'm going to that gathering.

In the living room, Jason sleeps in my mother's arms. She puts her finger to her lips when she sees me and motions to the baby. Georgina waves and slips out the front door.

“I'm going upstairs to write,” I whisper.

She nods. Next to her is a lot of paperwork. Probably stories she's editing for the paper. That will keep her busy.

I grab my play, which I've already put in a pretty purple envelope. I put it, my notebook, and a flashlight in my backpack.

I haven't climbed out of the house from my window since I was a kid. I ran away once, when my mother wouldn't let me go on a class trip to the zoo. “The animals are being mistreated,” she said. If only she had stopped there. But Mom became obsessed and wrote an exposé about conditions at the zoo. The zoo closed down for six months. Mom got congratulations, but my classmates gave me the silent treatment.

Quietly and carefully, I make my way along the tree branch close to my window and shinny down the tree, trying not to make any noise. I know I can bike to South Beach and back in a half hour. I'll stay for an hour, and that should get me back at a decent time.

I drop to the ground and slink over to the garage. I use the back door and walk the bike to the side of the house. I check to see if my mother is looking out. She's not, so I walk my bike out of the yard and down the block.

When I think I am safely out of sight, I mount the bike and start riding down the dark street. I feel free and very excited. I'm going to a famous writer's gathering!

“Hey!” I almost fall off my bike. “It took you long enough,” says Brendan, smiling.

I smile back, proud of myself.

“Let's get going,” he says.

“You're coming with me?”

“I figure you need guidance,” he says. “Since you're so new to spunkiness.”

I pretend to protest, but I'm happy to have company because it is getting dark and South Beach might be deserted.

“Let's do it in ten,” he says, speeding off.

“Suit yourself,” I say. “But I'm planning on eight.”

SIXTEEN

We would have made it to Antonia's in less than eight minutes if we had known exactly where she was staying. As it turns out, we got a little lost. Brendan insisted he could find it if I gave him a little time, but I was in a rush to get to the gathering, so I asked a jogger for directions. She pointed to a group of bungalows in a secluded area overlooking the beach, called Quiet Retreat. Number 18, where Antonia is staying, is the most secluded of all.

We leave our bikes and climb the steps, with only the moonlight to guide us. South Beach is deserted. I won't let Brendan know I am the least bit scared.

When we get to the top landing, I knock on the door and a woman answers. At first I think it's Antonia, but then I realize this woman has a similar face, except her hair is darker and she's thinner.

“Hi,” she says. “You must be Sally.”

“Sarah,” I say. She steps back to let me in. “This is my friend Brendan.”

The lady looks at Brendan and gives him a sexy smile. Brendan totally blushes. She extends a hand to him. “I'm Charlene DeMarco.”

“Nice to meet you,” he says. As I walk inside, I wonder if she is Antonia's sister. The bungalow is dimly lit. Candles burn all over the large front room. Antonia sits grandly at the dining room table, talking with a man and a woman. She is wearing another breathtaking ensemble, of turquoise and white chiffon. A cat, probably Ophelia, whizzes by my feet in pursuit of a fly.

“Dear girl,” Antonia says. “I'm so glad you've come.”

“I hope you don't mind that I brought a friend,” I say.

“He's cute,” says Antonia. This makes Brendan blush more.

Antonia introduces us to Charlene, who is her cousin and her agent. A super-thin lady named Margo is an assistant at a Hollywood studio. The tall and stocky man next to her is Roland, a producer. People from Hollywood! It makes me wish I had practiced a new cool, sophisticated look.

“Hello,” I say to them.

Roland and Margo both give me an annoyed glance as if they don't want me here, but Antonia smiles warmly. “Do sit down,” she says.

I sit in an empty seat and motion for Brendan to sit next to me.

“Have something.” Antonia points to an assortment of delicious-looking desserts. She nibbles on a cream puff.

“We really have to talk about the script tonight,” demands Roland. “You've been avoiding the issue since I got here. I have a meeting in LA tomorrow afternoon. Can I see what you've written so far?” He snaps his fingers.

“Impossible,” says Antonia. “If I show you the script before it's finished, then that would destroy the entire creative process.” She looks at me. “Isn't that right, Sarah?”

I nod.

“Tell them how involved and busy I am with your precious little contest.”

“Antonia is very busy,” I say to Roland. “She's judging our teen writing contest and there are
twenty-three
plays for her to read. She is our inspiration.”

Margo rolls her eyes and the producer shakes his head. “At least give us an outline,” says Margo. “Carl has to begin scouting locations.”

“I can't presently divulge any information,” says Antonia.

“And why not?” asks Roland. “Last month, you said you were almost finished.”

“And the month before that,” says Margo.

“The creative process cannot be put on a time schedule,” says Antonia. “The muse works in strange ways. Only those blessed with the gift could possibly understand the process.” She looks directly at me. Is it because she thinks I'm also blessed with the gift?

“I'm really getting agitated,” says Roland, tossing back his head. “You promised me a great love story. I spoke to Bronson today. He's considering starring in it, but he wants details.”