Academic Curveball

by James J Cudney

  I have tons to share re the birth of witch covens in Pennsylvania and the Beguiling Curse of 1689 killing hundreds when the land was first settled. Should I book a flight to Hollywood soon? Will the network cover first-class tickets? I can tell this is the beginning of a lasting partnership. I've also stumbled upon something controversial going on in my hometown worthy of a future season of our TV show, but I've still got more research to do. I'll keep you posted.

  By the way, I keep getting your voicemail when I call. Can you please try to reach me tonight? I'll be home waiting for you to respond. In case you need my cell number, it's…

  Yep, Derek had gotten himself into trouble again. Ever the talented rascal, Derek was known for dumping his crazy groupies on colleagues as well as getting everyone else to do his job for him. The last girl he'd assured could have a walk-on part on the set of Dark Reality hopped a series of red-carpet ropes during a season-one screening party claiming Derek had promised her a front row seat. When security finally called him over, my boss looked her right in the eyes saying, “Never met this woman. Kick her out.” I was there. I saw the confusion plastered on her face. I also noticed him blink twice, then his lip quivered. Derek had a tell I pegged from the first day we'd met.

  Between yesterday's call and this email, a clearer picture of Abby Monroe popped into my head—twenty-six, blonde, hourglass shape, perky, and bubbly. She hadn't even known Derek blew her off and put me in the middle of this atom bomb waiting to explode. I scrolled through the call log for Derek's number and patiently waited to connect. I needed to find out what I'd be walking into before meeting Abby Monroe. Although I'd done most of the work on the first season, my name wasn't listed anywhere in the credits nor were my contributions recognized by anyone at the network. Since I am way more experienced and intelligent—or maybe the better word is talented—than Derek, I'd learn everything I needed to earn my own award and escape his drama.

  “Wussup? You should see the waves at this hour. Primo!” shouted Derek on the phone.

  I'd forgotten he was in Hawaii and quickly converted the time before realizing the sun was just rising over countless breathtaking beaches. For some reason, I've been gifted with the ability to retain way too much useless knowledge. “Oh, I hope I'm not waking you up.”

  “I haven't gone to bed yet, Kel-baby. We're about to rent surfboards. You should be here, man.”

  Any traces of guilt I had about rousing him from a blissful slumber disappeared knowing he's the one who sent me on this foolish diversion. “No can do, Derek. Trying to pin down your source is proving to be difficult. How is Abby Monroe connected to Braxton?”

  A few seconds went by where the waves intensely crashed against the sand as he mumbled about paying for rental surfboards. Someday I'd learn how to get myself out of these situations, but until then, it was best not to get on his bad side. The last time we'd had creative differences, he hired my replacement to trail me all day threatening to cut me loose if I didn't get used to the way things worked.

  “All I know is she's a piece of work, ain't she? Never would have guessed Abby looked like that. You meet her yet? Thanks for dealing with this one, Kel-baby.” He ignored the question about Braxton.

  “It's Kellan.” I've told him before not to call me Kel-baby. It reminds me of a high school girlfriend who forced me to watch every episode of Saved by the Bell one summer trying to perfect her acting skills. I'd had enough of the Kelly Kelly Duo and never again will someone mistakenly call me Kel or Kelly as a nickname. “What's Abby look like? Is this another awful Tinder date I should know about?”

  “Dude, I'm innocent, I swear. She's hot for an older babe. And it's about time you got some…”

  “Stop right there. My personal life is off limits.” He could irritate the most patient of people. “How much do you know about Abby?”

  “I was going to say attention. You're acting holier-than-thou lately, and it's time you took off that faulty halo and engaged in some fun. Seriously, man. Let loose and take some risks while the network's paying for your trip. I gotta jet. My date's getting antsy, and these waves are fierce.”

  “Wait, answer my question about Abby.”

  “I barely know her. We met when I was at a conference in New York City last month. I gave her my phone number and email address. Didn't you read the show bible with all the open questions at the end? Abby needs to fill in those blanks. I'm counting on you, Kel-baby. Later.”

  “You mean you gave her your fake number, right?” Various methods of revenge formulated in my head. I wanted to remind Derek-baby what people said about payback, but halfway through my witty comeback, he'd hung up.

  Derek was the second person since I'd arrived in Braxton who chose that route. Was I doing something wrong? What happened to proper manners? There were rules. One person initiated a goodbye sequence, and the other held it up to share any remaining thoughts. There's an awkward moment as to how to end the call, and then you both said goodbye at the same time before the actual disconnect. Either I was getting old, or other people were getting crazy. I mentally added it to the list of things to ask Nana D the next time I saw her. Despite her age, she always had all the answers about the new etiquette system of my generation's people.

  Hoping to shake off the conversation with Derek and alleviate the knots in my back, I went for an hour-long run in Braxton's fresh mountain air. Many parts of the town—topping out at about three-thousand citizens—offered natural, untouched beauty everyone had protected for roughly three hundred years. Shortly before Pennsylvania officially became a state, my ancestors developed the sheltered land where the Finnulia River emptied into Crilly Lake at the base of the Wharton Mountains. Though the landscape was intoxicating, I had little time left before the party started. I returned home, showered, and dressed for the event.

  Promptly at four thirty, I stood outside Memorial Library assuming Eleanor would be late. Inevitably, there would be some crisis at the diner, a lost car key, or a last-minute wardrobe change. It's lucky my sister's saving grace has always been she's the most intelligent, loyal, and caring person in my life, or her constant tardiness and indecisiveness would drive me batty and send me running in the opposite direction. We were once forty-five minutes late for Easter mass because she couldn't be sure about taking an umbrella. When we finally arrived, she joined the queue to receive Communion acting as though she'd been there all along. It hadn't mattered there was no rain in the forecast that day.

  Memorial Library was originally erected by the Paddington family before a fire damaged the first floor in the early 1970s during a Vietnam War protest that had somehow gone off the deep end. For some reason, the powers-that-be in charge of the campus at the time had rebelled against old-world charm and preserving history. The result was a cheap repair of the antiquated structure and an institutional, utilitarian-looking addition reminding everyone of a grammar school cafeteria gone wrong. It needed to be demolished and re-designed more than our town's government.

  While waiting for Eleanor, a woman wandered past me explaining to someone on her cell phone how she'd already finished marking the exam and was on her way to enter the results in her grade book. It sounded like an unhappy student was trying to change the professor's mind about his or her grade. The last line I caught before she was out of range made me laugh thinking about how far someone would go to demand a better mark. “Yes, come to my office at eight thirty to discuss it one final time. But trust me, there's nothing you can do to change my mind. Nada. Zilch. You're simply killing me with this persistent pressure and the multiple diversion tactics,” she chastised.

  My gaze switched to several students milling in and out of Memorial Library surprising me how popular it was on a Saturday evening. Although I'd been a decent student during my time at Braxton, weekends had been reserved for fraternity parties, off-campus troublemaking excursions, and strenuous visits with my family. Saturday nights at a library were uncool a decade ago. It seemed much had changed.

  I con
sidered following one of the students inside to get a gander at the dreary interior décor but stopped when a few snowballs slammed into my shoulder. Not one to back down from a challenge, I quickly bent to the ground to gather up a handful of snow and steadied myself to throw a powerful curveball. Had an immature student taken advantage of my distraction, or was the professor using me as a way to express her frustration with the caller? I turned around gearing up for a fight.

  “So, he can clean himself up for the proper occasion,” taunted my sister preparing to throw another snowball. “I'd have placed a bet you'd be wearing the usual jeans and a gray t-shirt tonight.”

  Nope, my expensive black suit and herringbone topcoat looked quite dapper. I rolled both eyes in her direction several times with enough emphasis they almost got stuck on the final lap. “Funny! I'd have placed a bet you wouldn't be here until five thirty so you could tell Mom it was my fault we were late.”

  Eleanor meandered over and gave me the biggest hug I'd had since the last time I was in town. “I miss you so much. Why do you have to leave me here in this boring arctic tundra alone with our parents? Can't you find a way to work from Braxton part of… oh, fine, I'll stop. The stars are telling me not to pester you anymore tonight.”

  I agreed about the arctic part. I'd never get used to it again especially after looking at palm trees and listening to ocean waves in Los Angeles. When we separated, I looked her up and down in a bit of shock. Eleanor had pulled off a major transformation. Her curly, dirty-blonde hair was pinned to one side of her head with a bright crimson bow matching the color of her dress. She wore heels which I hardly ever saw her in for two reasons—one, she was a tad clumsy, and two, she claimed it made her tower over all the potential men who might be interested in her. We were the same height, but in the sparkling Christian Louboutin stilettos she'd chosen, I couldn't reach her even on the tips of my toes.

  I only know the brand and type of shoes because Francesca had me well-trained. Many Sunday afternoons were spent window shopping up and down Rodeo Drive guessing the prices of everything she loved but refused to pay full cost. Despite being raised with money, she loved a good bargain.

  “You could always move to the West Coast if you can't hack it here anymore.” I smiled at how grown-up my baby sister looked in her red-sequined gown. She possessed a unique sense of fashion imposing her own spin on each outfit. Today, it was the dark gray sash worn across her hips. Eleanor had always been sensitive about inheriting the Danby bone structure and found ways to either accentuate or hide it—whichever made her look better depending on the garb and the position of the moon that day. She was a fanatic about horoscopes, astrology, and numerology. “Or consult that crystal ball of yours to see what's in store for your future.”

  “Oh, shut your trap door. Someday we'll live closer together, the cards have already decided so. Tell me, who do you think will be there tonight besides the usual stuffy colleagues and friends? I've had a premonition about something dark happening. Not sure who's in trouble, but someone's aura is dust!”

  As she said her last line, thunder struck in the nearby Wharton Mountains. We both jumped. Our eyes bulged with heightening shock. “Yeah, let's get to the party before you invoke some sort of ancient curse on us. You've got the worst luck lately.”

  Chapter 3

  Eleanor grabbed my hand leading us toward Braxton's main entrance gate. As we walked, I summarized the incendiary blog posts about our father and his mysterious phone conversation.

  “I hope the blogger doesn't show up or do anything to embarrass Dad tonight,” Eleanor said.

  “He can take care of himself.” We agreed not to confront him about the call since it wasn't really our business.

  Braxton's campus was spread out across two parts of town and connected by a charming, antique cable car service covering the one-mile distance in between. The fashionable transportation system functioned like an airport trolley going from terminal to terminal—leaving North Campus every thirty minutes to make the return trip back and forth to South Campus. When the weather cooperated, it was a brisk fifteen-minute walk to reach either end. The streets were lined with quaint shops, the occasional college bar, and student rental housing.

  “Even though most of the primary academic buildings and student dorms are on North Campus, I've always found South Campus more idyllic,” I said. Besides hosting the executive offices and the campus coffee house, The Big Beanery, South Campus was also where the music, humanities, and communications departments called home. Paddington's Play House and Stanton Concert Hall were the big entertainment attractions keeping me from being bored as a student.

  Eleanor nodded. “I'm looking forward to seeing Mom's artisanal handiwork in person tonight. She thought it would be a fun twist to re-arrange all the tables in the Stanton Concert Hall to face the center of the room. Even brought in a temporary dance floor and a raised platform for the speeches.”

  Eleanor filled me in on her exciting day at the Pick-Me-Up Diner. Braxton's baseball team had caused a big ruckus at their impromptu lunch.

  “It was odd when the cheerleading squad showed up, too. They should've been discussing strategies to win the opening game,” Eleanor said.

  “Aww, were you jealous? Did it stop you from flirting with the players?” I was on fire today.

  “Bite me, Kellan. Even Coach Oliver couldn't control them when he handed out the team's newest college jackets. The deep burgundy and navy-blue colors looked like a cool design,” Eleanor said as the cable car arrived.

  I assumed the real reason the team's arrival annoyed Eleanor was because cash-limited students were notorious for failing to leave any tips. When all the passengers disembarked, several of us boarded through the front door. Eleanor and I squeezed into a two-seater near the back plastered with characters from Marvel comics. Each year, the graduating class presented a gift to the college to re-design the cable car as their outgoing mark on Braxton.

  “Bring back any memories, gladiator-man?” asked Eleanor.

  I'm ashamed to admit my class had chosen a Spartan theme since the movie 300 had just hit theaters. At the unveiling ceremony, I was forced to wear an extremely short, body-hugging tunic while wielding a plastic shield and spear. I'd almost died of embarrassment when the fabric split open as I kneeled down for a picture. I didn't look nearly as good back then as I do now.

  We arrived at Stanton Concert Hall, aptly named for Lavinia Stanton, an elderly spinster ancestor of Marcus Stanton's who'd left her entire life-savings to Braxton in the early twentieth century. I was greeted by a lippy security attendant who scanned my driver's license, snapped my picture, and typed in a few commands on a keypad. Thirty seconds later, he returned my license and a second identification card with a bunch of codes and symbols.

  “Can you make the machine explode when you create Eleanor's badge?” I said to the attendant. Unfortunately, he didn't find me very funny, and the process completed flawlessly.

  The guest list topped out at two hundred colleagues, family members, and friends. Knowing Derek's type, Abby would be fairly easy to locate among the crowd. I skimmed the expanse of the room with a fleeting thought I could pick her out, but no one matched the imagined description.

  My mother had outdone herself this time. The hall was transformed into full-on party atmosphere complete with authentic, old-fashioned lampposts retrofitted as conversation tables where we could eat endless amounts of hors d'oeuvres, ornate beverage carts rolled around by penguin-clad waiters serving some sort of fizzy blue cocktail, and a fine mist spraying jasmine from the ceiling. Eleanor went in search of our parents while I tested the aqua concoction it appeared everyone else was enjoying. A bit tart for me, but I could see the appeal.

  While mingling, I caught up with my former art professor and shook hands with Councilman Marcus Stanton—his palm was so clammy I'd never wipe off the pungent pool of sweat. The handshake was also too weak for a real politician. No wonder Nana D had it in for him.

  When a
n incoming text vibrated, I hoped it was Abby saying she was ready to meet, but it was from my daughter, Emma. She was back from the neighbors and wanted to tell me she missed me and loved me. I sent a video of a papa bear cuddling with his baby bear. It was our way of sharing a hug when we weren't in the same place together. She was intelligent and intuitive for her age and loved our quirky relationship. Six going on sixteen was the best way to describe her.

  Before putting the phone away, I texted my father's assistant asking where she was hiding. Lorraine Candito had served as my father's right-hand woman for twenty years including following him from his prior position at Woodland College across the river. I was certain she was the only reason I'd get birthday cards in the mail or frequent packages from my father. My mother was too busy and had her own way of showing how much she cared, but Lorraine was like a favorite aunt you could always count on. My phone buzzed with her response:

  Lorraine: Let's connect after dinner. Need to get your gift. I left it on my desk.

  Curiosity brewed regarding what she meant, and then I remembered something about a present when I was here at Christmas. She'd probably bought me something with the new Braxton logo Eleanor had mentioned on it. I texted back a confirmation and caught sight of my father approaching from the dance floor.

  “Let me introduce you to someone, Kellan,” he began while a woman with short, spiky partially gray hair followed nearby. Her natural dark black had begun to fade and rather than dye it, she accepted the graceful aging process. I commended her as I knew if my hair color ever began to change, I'd be the first in line at the salon. I can be a bit vain sometimes about these things. Although her hair was striking, it was her pursed lips and cold stare stealing the focus of my attention.