Alyssa Goodnight - Austentatious

Curious, I lifted an eyebrow.

“That out of all the weird souls in Austin, you’d be the one to end up with a fairy godmother.” She chuckled to herself.

That got my attention. “A fairy godmother? Get serious.” I made a point of rolling my eyes for Beck’s benefit.

She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Uh-huh. And what’s your serious explanation for all this?”

She had me there. I straightened my spine and scraped away imaginary crumbs, refusing to meet her eyes. “I haven’t hit on a legitimate explanation yet. Right now, I’m still gathering data.”

“You mean writing in your magical journal and waiting for your fairy godmother to answer?”

“I wouldn’t describe my procedure in precisely that way, but ...”

Now it was Beck’s turn at the eye-rolling. But before I could counter, she had leaned forward, widened her eyes, and begun speaking in an urgent undertone. “Don’t you get it? It makes perfect sense. Your journal is obviously magical—what other explanation is there—seriously? And who else but a fairy godmother would be giving you romantic advice? Think of her as a modern-day, matchmaking Jane Austen—Jane Austen in Austin—Fairy Jane? Given your obsession with her, this is like the mother ship calling you home.”

I was momentarily struck dumb, but I rallied. “That makes perfect sense? Really? No offense, but speaking as your mentor, not to mention your boss, I’m not exactly getting a warm fuzzy here.”

She inched back off the table and held her hands up, palms out. “Okay, fine. Let’s pretend I didn’t say anything. Let’s pretend that you don’t have a magical journal with a fairy godmother, and she’s certainly not Fairy Jane.” She tipped her eyes down casually and nonchalantly inquired, “Have you had a chance to try it out yet, see if it works?”

I stared at her with squinty eyes, giving no thought to the wrinkles surely sprouting on my forehead. “Try what out?”

“The advice!”

“Are you kidding me?” I lowered my voice, sparing a glance for the café’s other patrons, wondering if they’d already gotten an earful, feeling just crazy enough to take them all into my confidence and hammer out a strategy right here, right now.

“What?” she shot back.

“Taking the advice definitely isn’t part of my strategy.”

“Aha! So you have thought strategy!” Before I could respond to this, she was off again.

“Seriously, Nic, what’s to lose?”

“My identity as a sensible, rational human being?”

“It won’t be lost. Just sprinkled with a little fairy dust.”

God, I hoped she was teasing. But I felt the need to clarify. “Except that I don’t believe in fairy dust. Or fairy-tale endings. Or magic in general. This journal is throwing a major kink in the works.”

“Maybe it’s supposed to—maybe that’s exactly what you need, a little kink.” She winked and then looked around behind her toward a table shared by three grungy college guys cramming for something. She then peeked over her other shoulder at a man alone in a suit, poring over his PDA and sipping an espresso. When she turned back, she whispered, “Pull your sweater open a little at the neck.”

Certain I’d misunderstood, I leaned forward against the table, eyebrows raised, and murmured, “What?”

“Try to show a little more skin.” She dusted some bits of coconut off her fingertips and then proceeded to reach across the table to deal with my sweater herself.

I slapped her hand away, wondering how the conversation had spiraled so completely out of control.

I leaned in farther and whispered harshly, “I am not taking cleavage advice from a journal, a nonexistent fairy godmother, or you. Speaking of which—”

I glanced up to see the PDA guy moving past our table. He was looking down at me, and I met his friendly grin with a distracted one of my own before turning my attention back to Beck.

Her eyebrow was winged up, and her smile was definitely smug. She shifted her gaze from my face to my chest, and I let mine follow. Sitting there, boosted up and pushed together by my hunch over the table and partially exposed by my recently adjusted sweater, my bogus cleavage was on display. Perfect.

Tipping my no doubt ruby red face back up to glare at a grinning Beck, I felt an urgent need to get back on familiar ground. Yanking my sweater closed, I decided to play the mentor card.

I sat back and shifted my shoulders primly. “Have you decided what you want to do over the summer—work, school ... both?”

Beck’s eyes went from fantasy to reality in a single blink.

“I was thinking I’d stay at Micro.” Her voice sounded vaguely flat, but I hardly noticed. Not only was I excited that she wanted to stay on over the summer, but I was thoroughly relieved we were no longer talking about road-testing the journal’s advice or fairy godmothers. Definitely a plus.

“I was hoping you’d say that.” I grinned at her. “I’ll need to get final approval from David, but I can’t imagine them letting you go. Do you think you might want to transition to another project—try something new?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Her voice had flattened further—like roadkill—and she was glaring at me, breaking Rule #1 on purpose.

I glared right back. And then, ever so slowly, her eyebrow creeped up, as if to say, what’s it gonna be?

Hell.

I slumped down against the table, saw one of the frat boys turn in our direction, and jerked myself erect, now totally self-conscious, thanks to my pimp of a mentee.

“Can’t we discuss any mentee-related topics?”

“Like minty-fresh breath? An absolute must for those romantic indulgences!”

“You’re teasing me? I just told you the biggest, weirdest secret I’ve ever told anyone, and now you’re teasing me?”

“Maybe a little. Does that bother you? Because I can not do that.” Her mouth quirked up at the side and her eyes twinkled.

“Can you? I wonder.” I dredged up a smile and took a deep steadying breath. “Okay, well, I’m done chatting about Jane Austen and J.R.R. Tolkien, so unless you have another topic in mind ...”

She shook her head in the negative. “Nothing that could come close to this.”

I checked my watch—just past eleven. “There’s a sandwich shop down on SoCo—”

“Jo’s? Definitely, let’s meet there—perfect vibe.”

“O-kay.” I couldn’t help but wonder what constituted a perfect vibe for Lord of the Rings–style strategizing over a magical journal. I guess I’d find out. “Jo’s it is. I’ll bring the journal.” I crumpled up my wax paper sleeve, ready to pack it in.

She nodded, clearly delighted with the arrangement, and we walked toward the exit, tossing our trash in the bin by the door.

The trees in the parking lot were underlit by spotlights and seemed vaguely otherworldly. With a shiver, I turned back to Beck.

“Thanks for calling. It feels weird to have said any of that out loud, but I’m glad I talked to you, even if your idea of ‘perfect sense’ is a bit loco. At least you didn’t freak.”

She laughed. “That makes one of us. Just consider the possibility. . . And by all means carry on with the data collection. I’ll expect full deets tomorrow: What you said, what she said...” Her head was tipping back and forth, and the sparkly pink star in her nose was winking at me. She shooed me away. “Go home! And write juicy,” she called back over her shoulder.

I rolled my eyes in the dark, deciding I wasn’t a big fan of surreal. I’d had a mind-numbingly normal day until words had disappeared from my journal and my intern / mentee had announced that they’d been stolen away by a fairy godmother channeling the spirit of Jane Austen. And there was no end in sight, because as self-appointed sidekick, the mind-blowing Mulder to my strait-laced Scully, Beck was very likely going to crazy up my day tomorrow too. At this point, it was unclear—at least to me—which of us was the protégé in this fledgling relationship. I worried what that meant for the future.

Alone in my kitchen, I dropped into a chair, positioned the journal in front of me, and considered Beck’s parting words, trying hard not to think about her other, “fairy” words. Juicy. She thought I should write juicy. She should know by now that my life was about as juicy as a prune. I was, however, exasperated to the hilt and not above responding to the journal’s latest little gem of wisdom with a certain amount of snark.

Rummaging through the assortment of quirky writing implements stuffed into an oversized mug on the kitchen counter, I pulled out my black fine-line permanent pen. Wouldn’t want to make things too easy for little Fairy Jane.

Cleavage is as cleavage does, huh?

Normally I’d feel ridiculous speaking this whole thing aloud, but in this situation, I couldn’t seem to help myself.

Just for the fun of it, just for a moment, let’s pretend that I have cleavage. In that case, I might possibly make a tiny effort to decipher this mysterious bit of wonky “wisdom.” But since, in reality, it’s a nonissue, I’m not gonna worry about it.

And just for your clarification and future reference, I’m not a lesbian, not even experimental, nor do I have plans for men in my near future, which is why I’m going to the wedding alone. That way I get cake but not complications. I think we might have gotten off on the wrong foot here—I’m not cleavage obsessed—I’m not. It’s just a fact of life that in dealings with my boobs, right is right, and left is left, and never the twain shall meet.