The Muse (23 page)

I ended on a question.
Is this the
s
ecret? Find the good even in your enemy and bring it out?

I sat back and smirked at the screen filled with words. I couldn’t wait to share this with Eva.

# #

I edited the story a few dozen times and then sent it off to Eva. Within fifteen minutes she responded back with twenty exclamation points. Yup – twenty.

My heart soared.

I then forwarded my essay to Larry on a Monday after refining it a couple dozen more times. He barged into my condo moments later in tears, hugging me and telling me he’d never read anything as touching and beautiful. Something strange occurred as he congratulated me.

Instead of balking at his praise as just another fluffy, friendly thing he did, I allowed it in, absorbed it, and cherished it.

I deserved the praise. The piece shined.

Larry promised to publish it in the newsletter that Wednesday.

In between bouts of elation, where I skipped and frolicked in the wonderful paradise of a serious writer’s high, Eva and I flirted like crazy with each other. She would say things to me like, “I’d love to be with you, just the two of us hanging out in a grassy field, wind gently blowing, enjoying you in my arms.” And, I would respond with a reserved, “Ah. So beautiful.”

Her sweet, loving words sent me reeling and took my mind off of waiting for Wednesday’s newsletter release. On Thursday afternoon while at work, after reading my essay in the newsletter ten times, Eva and I hooked up online.

“Come, let’s have lunch, honey,” she wrote.

“I’m eating right now,” I said offering a smile.

“I want you to eat lunch with me.”

“Yum, I'd like that. If only I had a private jet to get me there quickly enough. What would you feed me?”

“Well, I’m standing in the main headquarters branch right now and they’re serving up some yummy Indian food,” she wrote. “I just piled my plate with daal, roti, butter milk, salad, papad, and veggies cooked in different gravies called sabji.” She continued. “Oh, and apparently it’s mango season, so we also have ripe mangoes. Yum.”

I stuck my fork in my mango. My blood pressure spiked. My temples throbbed. Even my earlobes beat with vigor. I dropped my roti onto my daal and scrunched down low in my seat. A bead of sweat sprang onto my forehead. My skin pricked. The little hairs on the back of my neck stood up at attention. I could hear her laughing along with Sanjeev and Katie. “Doreen,” I whispered over my cubicle. She didn’t answer. I bent low and snuck around to her cube. She wasn’t there. Then, I heard her cackle coming towards me, and Eva asked her if she preferred white rice to brown. I glanced around planning an escape. Then they rounded the corner to our aisle and there I stood, crouched down like a cat ready to pounce over the cubicle walls. My face lit up like a red Christmas bulb. I knelt down and pretended to be fixing my sandal. Katie followed right behind them.

“Hey, Jane, there’s still some more food in the collaboration room,” Doreen rang out.

I didn’t look up. Instead, I rose and pretended to be plucking lint from my shirt, hiding my beads of sweat and flushed face. “Thanks,” I whispered and scooted into my cubicle.

Eva’s eyes followed me. I wanted to die.

My Twitter profile filled my screen. I ran in front of the screen to block it and turn it off. Any more shocks, and I would’ve surely passed out.

“Jane, is it?” Eva asked.

I swallowed hard, wiped my forehead with my bare forearm and turned to meet her smiling eyes and extended hand.

“We meet again,” she said.

I tripped over my insecurity. “Yes.”

“I heard you’re going to be writing that piece for the public service announcement.”

Katie coughed.

I couldn’t look directly at Eva, so I landed on Doreen who stood guard against Katie only inches away. I escaped to her concerned eyes. “Yes, isn’t that right Doreen?” I nodded at her, begging her with frantic eyes to save me.

“She’s the best.”

“So I hear.” Eva looked down at my sandals. “At least you know how to match your shoes.” She crawled her eyes back up to meet mine and winked. My heart exploded. My flush reignited.

My eyes darted every which way afraid to set too long on hers. If she recognized them, my life would unravel faster than I could save it.

I reached behind me and gathered my plate overflowing with Indian food. “Please excuse me.” I brushed by her. She even smelled sexy. “I’m going to get a little more.”

She chuckled, staring at my plate. “It’s good stuff. I don’t blame you.”

I rushed up the aisle, rounded the corner, tossed my plate in the trash, and took off to the bathroom where I prayed I’d find some solitude.

Standing in the stall, I tweeted her back. “Wait, so you’re in Maryland again and didn’t tell me?”

A few seconds later, she messaged me back. “They called me last night, and I’m leaving right away back to New York this afternoon to lead an event.”

“Oh, what a bummer.” I played the part well. “So, you said something about mangoes? I love mangoes. I also love roti.”

“Ah that’s why I like you so much.”

“Mmm. I can say the same about you.” How best could I end this? “Enjoy your lunch, Eva. Think of me as you’re spooning some mangoes between those yummy lips of yours (wink).” I ended the messaging with a big virtual hug and kiss and promise to reconnect later when we both returned home.

Five minutes later, safely back in my cubicle and Eva tucked away into the boardroom, Larry called me.

“Your story was a hit. The analytics on that page are showing six hundred and thirty-three hits since yesterday. We typically get fifty or so per page.”

A huge smile sprang to life. I squealed. “Am I getting a raise?”

“I’ll see to it that you get a company car, too.”

“I love you, my friend.”

“I love you more,” Larry said. “Oh, and be sure to check your email. You may get some responses because I included your email address at the end of your article.”

I memorized my short story enough to have already known this.

“Will do,” I said. “Oh, Larry. Thank you for asking me to write it. What a rush.”

“Good because we need more.”

“I’ll get started on more right away.” I hung up on a smile.

“Hey, Doreen?” I asked.

She popped up. “Glad to see you’re back to your normal color.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“You were purple at one point.” She scrunched her face. “You looked adorable. You have such a crush on her, don’t you?”

I groaned. “Stop.” I raised up my hand. “Can you tell Sanjeev I’m working the rest of the day from home?”

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Yes. But you’re going to tell him no.” I pointed my finger at her. “Right?”

“Right.” She winked and disappeared back over to her side.

# #

For two days, I received numerous emails thanking me for writing the story. Some sailed in from grandparents, from parents, from teachers, from school administrators, and one even came in from a former bully. “I knew I hurt people, but I didn’t realize just how deep I cut until I read this. I am a few years past those horrible days when I used to bully a classmate of mine, but not a day goes by that I don’t regret what I did. Reading this story hurt for obvious reasons, and I needed to hurt. Sometimes in life we need these painful reminders to keep us pointed in the right direction. Thank you for sharing and for opening up a pathway to greater change.”

I sat in my cubicle at work with a knot in my throat, pushing back the tears when I clicked into the next message from a boy named Travis.

Ms. Knoll, I just wanted to let you know how much your story has meant to me. Just three days ago, I sat in my bedroom with a revolver in my mouth ready to pull the trigger. I contemplated my troubles and spent several hours with my finger on the trigger trying to decide if shooting myself would be better or if I should just swallow a bottle of pills. I couldn’t decide. So, I stuck to my original idea and left that gun in my mouth, ready to shoot when bravery kicked in. It never did kick in that day.

I eventually removed the gun, but kept it ready and loaded in my hand, staring at it, raising questions in my mind as to my purpose on this Earth and why God would’ve made me gay, scrawny, and the only black kid in a school full of white rich snobs. These kids are mean to me. They torture me with their stares, their snickers, their rolling eyes. If just one of them could stand up and respect me, I’d be able to live out my high school days in peace. Instead, they all clamor together, one big pack of weak people who together run an army too strong to defeat with my tormented soul. There’s only so much a kid can handle.

I sat on my bed staring at my dad’s revolver, thinking how much easier it would be to just shoot myself. I would no longer have to hide in the bathroom stalls at gym time, eat lunch in the nurse’s office at the chair reserved for sick kids who had real issues, sneak around school buses to avoid being seen walking home, stress about standing in front of a class and public speaking to a group of kids who made faces at me the entire time, or to ignore the fact that all of my teachers, principal included, turned the other way when kids attempted to trip me and pull at my shirt.

Public humiliation hurts as you can imagine, but not nearly as much as the scars left behind. Scars cover my arms and legs, these left behind from vicious attacks on my walk home. For no reason kids jump out of bushes and launch full scale attacks on me saying they don’t need any gays at their school. It hurts. I’m a good person and I know this. I’m scared, which is why I wanted to kill myself. I eventually placed the gun on the desk and went on to the LGBT website of my community center and found your story. God sent me an angel that day. He wrapped me in His arms, nudged me forward, and placed me in the softness and light of your beautiful words. I felt comforted, united, and understood. I just wanted you to know that you saved my life and I will forever be indebted to you, Ms. Knoll. Your words touched me and I don’t know if that means a lot or not, but it sure meant the world to me. Thank you is all I want to say. Thank you for helping me to see through the hurt by reminding me that I’ve got my own spotlight to shine and light my path. With that, I’ve got strength and am hopeful I will be just fine. Yours truly, Travis.

I stood up, straightened my wrinkled shirt and pants, and marched my butt towards the bathroom, keeping it together even as I passed Katie’s double cubicle and her fake smile. I carried myself to the last stall, closed myself into it and then unable to hold it back, lost it.

Chapter Twelve

I attributed my newfound success in writing completely to Eva. In between flirty, sexy messages, she would encourage me to write her something that would stir her soul. So each night, after saying goodnight, I would pound away at the keyboard writing short stories like they were emails. They just flowed and poured out of me. I’d share them and she’d go nuts, begging for more. At her insistence, I sent these stories to magazines and waited out responses without much regard. Eva kept me focused on producing more. Within a month, I banked up several dozen short stories and quite the ego.

At Eva’s prompt, I started a blog and shared my short stories on it. It seemed CarefreeJanie had quite a bit to say and the world wanted to hear it. I started to gain more of a following on Twitter. People commented on my stories using descriptive words like ‘talented,’ ‘touching,’ and ‘powerful,’ and this further stroked my ego. But, nothing stroked my ego more than the way Eva responded to all this attention CarefreeJanie earned.