Free The Basic Eight by Daniel Handler Page A

someone else. I was pretty sure it was Adam but I’d made that mistake too many times already.
    As you’ve been noticing, I hope, today’s journal entry keeps telling you that I think other people are Adam. I’ve put this in there not only to make you realize the full universality and fero- city of my love but to demonstrate the chaotic randomness of the entire crime, indeed the entire situation. In other words: Adam could have been

    anyone. Our bodies, our material “selves” are, ironically, imma- terial.
    But it was Adam. I was alone with Adam, in this stuffy little audition room. The situation felt clinical so I reacted accordingly. “Well, Dr. State,” I said, “I’ve been having this pain in my neck for going on four years now, and I think it may be high school. Will you check it out?” I sat in a folding chair.
    Adam looked up from his Musical Director Notes. “Are you trying to tell me you want to play doctor, Ms. Culp?”
    “Please,” I said, batting my eyelashes. “It’s Miss Culp.” We both laughed. I could scarcely believe how charming and flirta- tious I was managing to be. Maybe I was channeling Natasha through some incident of black magic or something.
    Yes, I really did say that. But I was kidding . I have never been in- volved in black magic in any way, shape or form . Please write your senator. More on this later.
    “I was happy to see your name next on the list,” Adam said. “If I heard one more tone-deaf alto I was going to lose my mind.” The spirit of Natasha was exorcised in one swift blow. “Um,”
    I said. “Um.” Not quite as witty and alluring. “Um, I’m a tone- deaf alto, myself.”
    Adam winced. “Oh,” he said. “Well, I didn’t mean–some of my best friends are tone-deaf altos. Alti , rather.” He grinned sheepishly at me.
    “Do I need to sing in front of you?” “Are you really a tone-deaf alto?”
    “I’m afraid so. Roewer doesn’t think that running the literary magazine or being in plays fulfills the creative arts requirement, so I have to do something.”
    “All right,” he agreed. “I’ll put you down as an alto. You don’t need to sing.”

    “Thanks.” I got up to go. If he called me back, I decided, then he liked me.
    “Don’t go yet,” he said, reviving my faith in a Divine Being. And no, Mrs. State, not Beelzebub. “Let’s pretend I’m auditioning you. I need some kind of break from the parade of alleged singers. Just talk to me for a minute.”
    “OK.” I sat back down in the folding chair. “What should we talk about?”
    “Let’s talk about that kooky dinner party. I had a great time.
    Do you guys do that often?”
    Kooky ? I could hear Kate screech in my head. “Well, that was the first one of the year, but yes, we do it a lot. Beats renting movies or something, don’t you think so?”
    “Definitely. I just hope I get invited back.” “Well, if you play your cards right…”
    “Um, listen, I feel like I haven’t been.” He cleared his throat. “Playing my cards right. I’m sorry I haven’t said anything about your letters.”
    I held my breath. Sometimes it’s best to keep quiet–not very often, I don’t think, but sometimes–and this was one of them. I cleared my throat and began. “Don’t worry about it. They were probably impossible to answer–particularly the last postcard. I was, I don’t know, caught up in Italy or something. There was no way you could have answered–particularly the last postcard. I’m sorry. Summer can be so strange. It removes all context or something. It’s like being in a vacuum. I just wrote you, that’s all, I’ve been trying to apologize for it for a while but I didn’t. But I will now. Apologize, that is–particularly for the last postcard. I know that you haven’t known what to make of the letters, and I’m grateful that you haven’t told my friends that it’s been me writing them, but you needn’t worry about them–particularly the last postcard. I’ll just