Austentatious

by Alyssa Goodnight

  Beck hopped up to greet me with a giddy look in her eyes and a mischievous smile curling her high-gloss lips, and I relaxed a little. Giving me a quickie shoulder massage, she turned me toward the lanes and gestured up at the video screen suspended above. Apparently we’d be playing incognito as “Mentor” and “Mentee.” I couldn’t wait to see which of us was which.

  “Go get your shoes,” she yelled in my ear, “and come right back here. I’ll find us some balls.” She wiggled her eyebrows and turned with ponytails flying.

  I figured it was going to be virtually impossible for me to tell her about my date in this obnoxious environment. While one of us was on deck, swinging a nine-pound ball in a dangerous arc, the other really should stay out of the way. And I wasn’t about to shout the whole thing at twenty paces. It should definitely be interesting.

  As I was sliding my stockinged feet into a pair of slightly moist leather bowling shoes, Beck walked up cradling a neon orange ball, its three holes turned toward me. “This work for you?”

  Fitting my fingers into the holes, I nodded, and she half rolled/half dumped it into my hands.

  “You’re just a tad overdressed for bowling.” She shook her head dismissively. “Don’t worry—nobody cares.” Stepping closer and widening her eyes with a very gratifying urgency, she prompted, “Take it from Sunday brunch.”

  “Now?” I glanced around uncertainly, concerned that someone might be waiting for the lane, ready to step up and complain if we were caught squandering precious Glow Bowl minutes.

  “He’s up,” she said, indicating the six-footer in loose-fitting madras in the lane to our left.

  I tried to shake off the Punk’d vibe and just go with it. This was less of a girl talk and more of a drive-by. But what did I know? Maybe this was how it was done now. I took a deep breath, ready for launch, just as Beck held up her hand. ‘Hold that thought. Your turn.”

  Evidently I was bowling as “Mentor” this evening.

  I turned to face the clutch of ten pins at the far end of our lane. Stepping up, trying to resist the thoughts of Sean that persisted in tickling my concentration, I strode forward with measured steps, swung the ball back, and let fly.

  Gutter ball.

  I glanced at Beck to see her frantically waving me over.

  “Go—you’ve got a minute before your ball comes back. And we can let that guy cut in if we need to,” she said in cavalier fashion.

  “Okay ... since brunch ...” My normally ordered mind was stumbling over all the unexpected happenings of the last day and a half. Probably best to go chronologically. “Let’s see: I got passed over for a promotion—again, decided to switch jobs, found the key to the journal—you have no idea!, had a surprise visit from Sean at work—he brought flowers, we went to dinner, I got serenaded. We kissed, and I agreed to another date. The complete nutshell.” I glanced back toward the ball return to see my ball waiting patiently. “I’m up.”

  Feeling slightly more relaxed now that it was out in the open, I stepped up, swung the ball, and watched it glide smoothly down the lane. This time it hit just right of dead center, and with a satisfying crack of pins, I picked up the spare.

  “You, my friend, are unstoppable!” The smile Beck flashed had my lips curling up cautiously in response. “Tell me about the journal—is it even better with the key?” Her eyes were impossibly wide and her attitude unflinchingly giddy.

  I met her gaze, wondering if Beck was above I-told-you-sos. “Turns out you’re pretty in tune with the wackiness in the world. The journal was a gift from Jane Austen—the Jane Austen—to her niece.”

  Beck’s eyebrows dropped into a wrinkle of disbelief. “You have proof?”

  That knocked me on my ass. “Proof? Seriously? You need proof, Mulder?”

  “I don’t need proof; I just assumed you had proof. Besides,” she said with a smirk, “it’s not long before I’m a full-fledged, degree-toting engineer. I gotta walk the walk on occasion.”

  “Okay, fine. My proof is that I saw the signed inscription she wrote, and it looks legit.”

  She interrupted before I could continue with my seemingly impossible explanation.

  “So why didn’t you see it before?” she quizzed, hefting her ball from the ball return.

  “I needed the key. The key brings back everything that’s been written in the book since the very beginning—we’re talking a veritable tomb of diary secrets. My entries, the ones that disappeared and were replaced with snarky little instructions? They’re back. The book is huge with the key in and a skinny mini with it removed.”

  “Whoa.” After a pause, she said, “I should probably bowl. Be right back.”

  Despite glancing curiously back at me several times while she waited her turn in the bowling queue, Beck evidently managed to shake off the shock and come back raring to gossip.

  “And there’s more weird where that came from,” I told her. “And honestly, I need some advice.”

  “Shoot,” she said, sipping from a jumbo Diet Coke.

  Taking a deep breath, I confided, “I think Fairy Jane may have left the journal. So to speak.”

  Beck squinted. “She’s gone? What makes you think so?”

  “No, not gone per se, just foolin’ around.”

  “You’re saying Jane Austen is fooling around in Austin, Texas?” Her gaze was unwavering.

  “Well, I don’t know how else to describe it! She’s messing with the calendar in my kitchen, and she’s finagling things I don’t want finagled!”

  “Come again?”

  I closed my eyes, digging deep for a calm, rational-sounding response. “Today I not only agreed to transfer departments at Micro, thereby backseating my bid for management, but I agreed to go out with Sean after I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved. That doesn’t sound like me, does it?”

  “You’re switching out of Product Engineering? Into what department? Will I stay where I am, or can I come along as your intern, sort of a two-for-one package?”

  Hell, I’d forgotten all about Beck. I shook my head. I’d deal with that later.

  “Try to stay focused. What I’m saying is, I don’t think I did either of those things on my own—I think someone interfered, worked some magic, messed with my head. Does that seem possible to you?” I couldn’t believe I was asking this. “Is that common for ... magical things?”

  A grin stole over Beck’s face. “This is painful for you, isn’t it?”

  I rolled my eyes. “A little, so could we just get to it?”

  “Go bowl. Let me think on it for a minute.”

  I couldn’t concentrate knowing that no matter what it was, I wasn’t going to like Beck’s answer. I’m lucky I managed to bowl down the right lane. I think I downed a total of two pins in the entire frame. When I got back, her mouth was set in a grim line. “Come up with anything?”

  “Well, I should probably preface this by saying that I have no real-world experience with anything magical, other than your journal.”

  “Lucky you,” I muttered.

  “And,” Beck continued, “any magical advice I’m able to give you is drawn from books, movies, mythology, etcetera.”

  “Talitha’s not into magic?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  “Fine, fine,” I assured her. “I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

  She held up a finger. “Probably best if I played this frame.”

  I waited for what seemed an eternity for her to come back.

  “Okay,” Beck said, “so now that you’ve actively engaged the journal, i.e., the magical item, it’s invested in you. The spirit that’s enchanting it—we believe, Jane Austen—clearly has an agenda, which you, in both words and actions, are resisting. So it would appear that she’s stepping beyond the bounds of the journal to convince you.” She nodded sagely. “Sorta scary shit,” she said, grinning hugely.

  “So she’s not going to let up?”

  “I don’t know ... maybe?”

  “Maybe? This is my life!
How the hell am I supposed to deal with this?”

  “Well, how bad would it really be to go along with it? She’s not asking you to do anything dangerous or illegal.”

  I stared at her, taking in her pink hair, sock monkey pajamas, and the bowling alley around her. Honestly, I couldn’t believe any of this was happening. She slung her arm around my shoulders.

  “Okay, executive decision: Let’s put a kibosh on the magic stuff. I’m willing to take a lot on faith, but for obvious reasons, I’d like to see this stuff for myself. Right now, why don’t you relax and tell me about Sean. We’ll get to the Micro situation later—it can wait.”

  In no time, Beck and I had developed a rhythm, seamlessly alternating bowling frames and concentrated bouts of gossip as I temporarily tried to overlook the invasion of magic into my well-ordered life.

  “What kind of flowers?”

  “Red gerbera daisies.”

  “Definite points for originality.”

  “As a bribe, they worked wonders.”

  Beck raised her eyebrow, but I could tell she was impressed. I hurried up to bowl with a blithe smile on my face and remained undeterred by my paltry two-pin showing.

  “He drives a motorcycle,” I told her in a break between frames. “So we drove separately.”

  “What? Why? Have you ever been on a motorcycle? It’s awesome, particularly in this roller coaster of a city.”

  New frame, new subject.

  “He kissed me in the lobby.” I skimmed my fingers over the spot just above my left eyebrow, remembering.

  “And?” Beck’s grin was as bright as the neon orange bowling ball she balanced in her palm.

  “I have very little memory of the afternoon after that. Except,” I specified, finger in the air, “that I finally set a lunch date with Brett.”

  Beck wrinkled her nose, unimpressed with my second bit of news, and rerouted the conversation back to Sean. ”How’d he track you down at Micro?”

  “I guess he did some sleuthing.”

  “The man definitely gets style points!”

  “He’s a master of seduction,” I concurred, sipping the diet drink we were now sharing. Feeling the kick of caffeine, I realized I wouldn’t be going to sleep anytime soon. But there was a very good chance I would have had trouble sleeping without the extra pick-me-up. Such was my life this week.

  “How exactly did he work in a serenade?”

  “He made a request—specified only instrumentals. And then he just started singing. I bought his CD after brunch on Sunday and listened all day. But this was different.” I paused to breathe and, positively smitten with the thrill of girl talk, leaned in and gripped Beck’s wrist, willing a vicarious reaction. “He made it clear that he was singing to me—the words were for me—he was asking for a kiss and for a chance.”

  “And what did you offer?” Her smile was coy and curious.

  “Cliff-hanger,” I teased, before running off to bowl. After downing five pins, I fell into the chair beside her with the much-anticipated answer. “Believe it or not, I offered both.”

  Beck’s eyes widened in surprise but then narrowed in concentration. “First things first: the kiss? How was it?”

  “Very, very sexy, and I should tell you, at this point in the evening, it’s all still close-mouthed.”

  “Really?” Beck smirked, probably amused by my G-rated romance.

  Which reminded me ...

  “How are things going with you and Gabe?”

  She blinked rapidly, switching gears. “Good. Very good.” Her smile slid into place.

  “Good how?”

  “We went out Sunday night.” I couldn’t tell if she was blushing or if light was bouncing off her hair onto her cheeks. “And really, it’s amazing how much we have in common, but you’re getting off topic.”

  My girl-talk buzz faded a little, imagining the comparable simplicity of a compatible relationship versus my thorny association with Sean. Being with him hypnotized me into believing that anything was possible, but when we were apart, my optimism quickly faded, and practicality swooped in like a slap in the face.

  Beck jerked her thumb toward the pins. “I’m up.”

  With a couple seconds to regroup, I was ready to steer the conversation the minute she returned. “Okay, I definitely want to hear about you and Gabe, but I’d like to get a little advice first.” I looked her in the eyes. “One logical mind to another.”

  Beck smoothed her expression into seriousness and sat beside me, bowling forgotten. “First magical, now logical. I’m a busy girl tonight.”

  I ignored that. “You know how I said I offered both the kiss and the chance? Well, basically I just agreed to another date, which, to most people, is no big deal,” I admitted, fisting my hands in the fabric of my skirt, creating wrinkles and smoothing them out again. “But Sean’s different, as I think you’ve probably gathered. A little part of me is in love with the idea of him. But the rest of me—the sensible, rational majority—totally gets that it can’t work in the long term. So you could say I’m sort of at a personal impasse.” And just like that, my sparkly, shimmery evening lost some of its luster.

  “Why does one more date signify an impasse?”

  With a deep, nervy sigh, I prepped myself to say it out loud. “Because I’m pretty sure that one more date will tip me over the edge. Even being in love with the idea of him will wreak all sorts of havoc on my uncomplicated life.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  But I didn’t get the impression that she really got it. I was evidently going to have to paint my impasse as more clearly impassable.

  “And I haven’t even mentioned the Brett development.”

  “Do tell,” Beck encouraged snarkily.

  “He seems interested. We’re going to lunch tomorrow.”

  “And this affects your decision regarding the charming and unbelievably appealing stranger in what way?” Okay, now she was just being snippy. But before I could respond, she was plowing right over me. “Okay. Let’s back up.” She swirled her hands counterclockwise, possibly with the thought of hypnotizing me. “You stumble over a magical journal—a journal channeling Jane Austen, mind you—that offers you romantic advice that starts coming true, i.e., you meet a guy—potentially the guy—you fall for him, or at least the idea of him; he, in turn, is big-time crushing on you, and suddenly you’re at an impasse. Because of lunch with Brett.”

  “No, not just because of lunch with Brett. Right now Brett’s more like a warning beacon: a symbol of logical, sensible thinking that doesn’t involve impetuous decisions and magical advice.”

  “Okay, Nic.” She put her hands out, as if to say, “this is it.” “I understand the appeal of logical and sensible, I really do, but in this case, in your particularly fantastical situation, I don’t think it’s the way to go. No,” she said, forestalling the “but” on the tip of my tongue, “let me just call it as I see it.” Deep breath, exhale. “Like it or not, girl, you have a fairy godmother, and that just can’t be swept under the rug. There’s no avoiding the fact that this whole thing is a crazy-unbelievable fairy-tale miracle, so why not at least try for the happily-ever-after? Your odds are good—the two usually come as a matched set.”

  I pulled back a little and took in my surroundings. If I were any kind of mentor, we’d be discussing circuit fabrication at the library in lieu of happily-ever-afters at Glow Bowl. We’d be discussing her problems instead of mine. And I would appear to have it all together. I was Bizarro Mentor.

  “And what about Brett?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  “Listen, sweetie,” Beck said, giving my arm a squeeze, “I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that if Brett knew about the journal, the fairy godmother, the serenade, and the kissing, he’d tell you to go for it too. Given the whole Jane Austen element, and your little tango with ‘Mr. Darcy,’ I’m having trouble not thinking of Brett as the evil Wickham.”

  I blinked at her, not particularly caring to admit that that very thought had
crossed my mind.

  “That’s your advice, then? Just scrap my life plan, along with all rational thinking, and risk it?” I was pretty sure that was Fairy Jane’s advice as well. I leaned in and dropped my voice a bit. “I don’t even really believe in magical journals and fairy godmothers—I’ve been coasting for the past three days on sheer standoffishness.”

  “What’s not to believe?” This came out at a near-shrieking pitch. Beck’s pie-in-the-sky, flaky optimism had crumbled, and from the looks of it, she’d had it with me. “I’m taking your word for nearly every damn bit of this, and I believe!”

  “Shhh,” I hissed, suddenly self-conscious to be discussing all this out loud, despite the din.

  “Like it or not, it’s happening to you—despite your comprehensive life plan and very good intentions. Plans change, rules are meant to be broken, and sexy guys with accents are stellar motivation for both! For a girl lucky enough to stumble across a magical journal offering a chance at a happily-ever-after, this romance is rational. So why not give the man a damn bullet in the spreadsheet of your life?” She leaned back in her chair, and the drama faded a bit.

  The woman had a point. Quite unexpectedly, a casual night of bowling had turned into an intervention.

  My name is Nic James, and I have a magical journal and an interfering fairy godmother, a.k.a. Fairy Jane, and I damn well better get used to it. Or she’ll find ways of reminding me.

  “Fine. I’ll keep an open mind—for now. I’ll give things with Sean a fair, fighting chance. But I’m keeping my lunch with Brett, and we’ll just see how things go.”

  “Seems a fair compromise. Maybe get his take on all this,” she teased.

  We finished out the game, consciously not speaking about any of it. Personally, I couldn’t help but wonder what Fairy Jane would have to say about the evening’s developments.

  At home, tucked in bed with my covers pulled up to my waist, I wondered if I should dig out the Ouija board I’d had since junior high and hold a little séance. But it was late, and the very idea was fraught with disturbing possibilities, so instead I slid my journal, the little Pandora’s book, onto my lap, ready to get into it.