Determined to wallow in a puddle of irrational bitterness, she directed her hostile feelings at Holden. After badgering her in person Wednesday, he’d called her no less than three times with “suggestions” on Thursday and showed back up at her house again Friday afternoon. His follow-up ideas had kept her chained to the drawing table until he finally accepted her work well after nine at night. Damn him. She groaned. “Fucking Holden.”
If she were in the mood to be sensible, she’d acknowledge her editor had only been doing his job, but after declaring maturity overrated, she plunged into a metaphorical vat of self-pity while chowing down on spring rolls. Why do I like him? She glanced up at the ceiling and sighed. He’ll never see me as anything but an artist he has to handle. The most juvenile part of her subconscious wanted Holden’s revisions to cause a stink on her Twitter feed so she could throw his failure in his face, but the part of her that liked to make money and eat regularly had better sense.
Getting up to grab her iPad and a plush blanket, she ran through a small checklist in her head before parking her rear back in front of her flat-screen television to hunker down. A full series Firefly marathon topped off with a showing of her favorite movie, Serenity, would purge Holden Carter from her brain faster than a fist full of antidepressants.
As the first episode played, she felt relaxed for the first time in days, putting her feet up and snuggling in her blanket while enjoying the show. After a scene showcasing Gina Torres faded off to the first commercial break, Mary Allison opened her iPad cover and logged on to Facebook.
Pictures of her dressed in a Seven-of-Nine costume for a friend’s Halloween party had garnered some attention. Also, of note, the chatter from former high school classmates had increased as their ten-year class reunion loomed closer.
From a sociological standpoint, Mary Allison found social networking sites fascinating. Somehow virtual meeting places like Facebook and Twitter managed to urge people who hadn’t wanted anything to do with her back in school to seek her out online and constantly exchange niceties with her. She chalked up the puzzling phenomenon to idle curiosity.
Many of these Facebook “friends” were the same kids who’d tormented her during parochial school with taunts of toothpick, chicken legs, homo hag, and her personal favorite, BCG. For the longest time, she had no idea what BCG meant, but so many of her classmates had been referring to her by the three letters she had started answering. Eventually Melvin Tame, an unpopular, four-eyed loser himself, told her the letters stood for birth control glasses. Mary Allison might have been appreciative if Melvin had broken the news to prevent her from continuing to answer to the insult, but he had been bored and thought it would be fun to see her reaction.
Determined not to give him the response he wanted, she had shrugged his revelation off. “I’ve been called worse.”
Since she hadn’t gotten upset enough, the jerk had followed up, “Those damn things make you look so ugly no one would fuck you even if you were giving it away.”
Having Melvin spell out the humiliating insult pissed Mary Allison off to no end but not because of the rudeness or cruelty. She had grown to expect those things. What drove her insane was his assumption she was too dumb to understand the slur without his help. Worse, any rebuttal would have given Melvin some degree of satisfaction so she had been forced to keep her mouth shut and pretend she wasn’t seething. Being thought of as unfuckable would not have been nearly as bad as being bested by a sniveling crybaby whose mother still walked him to school every morning.
Those painful memories and the anger, resentment, rage, and loneliness she felt during those days inspired and fueled a lot of her works. Adversity had helped her become a better writer and allowed her to make a living doing what she loved so in the end, she’d won.
As she scrolled through some of her current photos, her memory flashed back to her Sophomore class photo—she’d been a gangly teenager with buckteeth, braces, and Coke-bottle glasses. A pit sat heavily in her stomach, and her insecurities closed in on her until her gaze fell on a recent pic of her in a sexy green dress her best friend, a talented designed, had tailored for her to wear to a party, fitting the garment to show off her large breasts and a plump, round bottom. Thank God for that late growth spurt during my first year of college!
Smiling to herself, she remembered the old proverb about revenge being best served cold. Hugging herself, she quoted the Klingon equivalent, “bortaS bIr jablu’DI’ reH QaQqu’ nay’.” She relaxed against the couch cushions, clutching her remote as she regarded the television with interest.
Just as a commercial break ended, she posted an obscure reference from Firefly on her Facebook page to see if anyone lurking out there was awesome enough to get it: Status is we need some Gorham air support!
By the time the scene where Mal and his crew were being interrogated for some of the Reavers’ handiwork was playing, her comment had garnered some responses. Most of them were question marks but a few of her friends, who she knew got the reference, had liked her comment. The only surprise was a comment from her editor: Great show, I’m watching too.
Her jaw dropped and her heart rate soared. Say what? Holden Carter was not a man she expected to be even remotely familiar with Firefly, much less catch the reference. She palmed her heaving chest, attempting to settle the drumming beat within. Have I misjudged him?
