Free Story Girl by Katherine Carlson Page B

decorated denim and realized that his family seemed rather accustomed to the hush – one likely born not of too little to say, but rather too much, of the repressed variety.
    “You really need a cleaning lady, James,” his father finally said.
    “Oh, Peter – not now.”
    “When, Paulette? We’re only here for a day.”
    “Just not now. Why don’t we focus on the menu?”
    “Our salads are on the way. Anyway, there’s certainly money in the budget for a cleaning lady, son.”
    I was afraid to look at James, but did anyway. He looked like he was in the initial stages of some really bad stomach flu.
    “Your mother and I will find you one before we leave. And you should try to keep that Prius detailed – twice a month. Otherwise, it just completely depreciates.”
    James tossed his menu at the table, “Is a full detail twice a month really necessary?”
    “Keeping your car clean and respectable will improve your spirits.”
    “My spirits are great,” he pouted.
    “Driving around in a portable dump will get you noticed for all the wrong reasons.”
    I choked on a lemon seed, and Paulette slapped me on the back. I felt it was only a matter of time before they asked to inspect my apartment. And then I would most surely have to give the money back.
    “I’m not that hopeless, Dad. Tracy will get the wrong impression.”
    “Tracy’s first impression was slamming into your car because it was stopped dead on the freeway. It was totally broken down, James. And that makes me wonder if you were maintaining it at all. I shudder to think when the last oil change was. And the money we gave Tracy could have been spent on a decent import in the first place.”
    Oh shit.
    “The past is done,” Paulette said. “But there is certainly money in the account for a house-keeper, detailing, and oil changes. Not to worry. And driving around on these freeways is scary at the best of times. So make extra sure that your little Toyota is well-conditioned.”
    I thought of the Prius at the beauty salon.
    “It’s called upkeep, and it’s something responsible adults are expected to do,” Peter said.
    My face felt as red as the wine in my glass.
    Peter turned to me, “James tells us you work in film?”
    “Tracy’s a writer,” James said, irritated to the hilt.
    “Oh,” Peter said. “Anything I would know?”
    “Well, I’m not exactly at that stage yet,” I said.
    “Not to worry – neither is James.”
    I tried to stop my eyes from widening, but fell short.
    The table soon felt like a funeral again.
    “I’d love to see the short film you put together,” I offered.
    Peter and Paulette shared a
look
– something akin to a silent groan.
    “We usually don’t bring that up at meal-time,” Peter said.
    “Oh – I’m sorry.”
    Peter chuckled and assured me he was just kidding, but I felt the first trickle of sweat glide down my side.
    “That was a fine exercise in bad planning,” Peter started. “We barely got into the short festival circuit let alone any sort of realistic distribution.”
    I wanted to yell “CUT!” at the top of my lungs, scoop James into my arms, and lick away all of the wounds that were surely getting worse by the millisecond, but instead I simply smiled like someone who’d just been slapped silly.
    “But I guess that’s what happens when the idea isn’t really there.”
    “It was there, Dad.”
    “It wasn’t there, James.”
    “That’s because you came in and screwed with it until it was unrecognizable. The opposite of what I’d intended.”
    “We were just trying to help, son. Get this dream of yours off the damn ground.”
    “I didn’t need help.”
    “Well, we thought you did. Stories about John Lennon hippies weren’t exactly hot-ticket items at that time.”
    James sighed at his father like he was the hangman, and I realized I was casing the joint for the nearest emergency exit.
    “I suppose it was an experience in terms of a learning curve, but certainly not a lesson in