Free Jaine Austen 2 - Last Writes by Laura Levine

coming,” I called out.
    I opened the door, a brittle smile plastered on my face.
    “Hi,” I managed to squeak. “Come on in.”
    “So?” Lance asked. “Did you read it?”
    That’s it! I’d tell him I hadn’t read it!
    “Looks like you did read it,” he said, pointing to the pages scattered on my coffee table.
    Damn. Why did I leave them out like that?
    “Uh…yes,” I admitted. “I read it.”
    “And? What did you think?”
    This wasn’t going to be easy, but I had to tell him the truth. I’d just tell him, in a gentle yet honest way, that it stunk worse than a month-old pair of Odor-Eaters, and that it had about as much chance of selling as one of Prozac’s poops.
    “Well, Lance, actually, I…”
    “Yes?” he said, eager as a puppy waiting to be adopted at the pound.
    “I loved it.”
    Oh, God. Did those words actually come out of my mouth?
    “I knew you would!” he grinned. “So, what should I do with it now?”
    Put it in a shredder, then burn the remains and bury them. At least six feet under.
    “Can you show it to the head writers on your show?” he asked. “Maybe they can do something with it.”
    Are you crazy? I want to work for these people. I can’t hand them this piece of caca.
    “Sure. I’ll be happy to.”
    Obviously a demented doppelgänger had gotten hold of my powers of speech.
    “Thanks, Jaine. You’re an angel.”
    He gripped me in a viselike hug, then floated back to his apartment on a cloud of unrealistic expectations.
    “What the hell is wrong with me?” I asked Prozac when he was gone.
    She shot me a look that said, Don’t get me started .
    And then I realized: There was an easy way out. I’d simply hold on to the treatment for a few weeks and pretend that Audrey had read it and turned it down. This way I’d let Audrey be the bad guy. A role I suspected she was eminently suited for.
    I tossed the skeletal remains of our chicken dinner into the trash, then headed for the bathtub, where I soaked for a good forty-five minutes. There’s nothing quite so relaxing as a hot soak, especially if it’s accompanied by a cool chardonnay.
    And I needed all the relaxation I could get. Tomorrow was Friday, tape day, the day my script would be recorded for posterity. Who knew? Maybe Muffy ’n Me would run long enough to go into syndication. Maybe decades (even centuries!) from now, generations of slack-jawed insomniacs would be watching my show in re-runs on Nick at Nite. This could be my ticket to immortality.
    I only hoped we could make it through the taping without a fistfight.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

    TO: Shoptillyoudrop
    FROM: Jausten
    SUBJECT: Do NOT give my number to Ernie Lindstrom!

    Do NOT give my number to Ernie Lindstrom!
    Do NOT give my number to Ernie Lindstrom!
    Do NOT give my number to Ernie Lindstrom!

    TO: Jausten
    FROM: Shoptillyoudrop
    SUBJECT: Flipped Out

    All right, dear. You’ve made your point. I won’t give your number to Ernie Lindstrom, even though Edna has been positively begging me to.

    Like I said in my last e-mail, your father has completely flipped out. This morning he was standing at the bathroom mirror counting the hairs in his ears. What sort of man goes around counting his ear hairs? “Oh, God,” he kept saying, “I’ve got more hair in my ears than on my head.”

    And yesterday I caught him snooping in my car. He pretended he was looking for a Kleenex! We have boxes and boxes of Price Club Kleenex in the linen closet, and he expects me to believe he’s looking for a Kleenex in my Camry. There’s no doubt about it. Your daddy needs psychiatric help. I’m seriously thinking about slipping some antidepressants into his Wheatena, but how would I get my hands on antidepressants? I don’t suppose you could run down to Mexico and pick up some for me, could you, darling? If not, I’ll order some St. John’s Wort from Home Shopping, only $39.95, plus shipping and handling.

    That’s all for now. Got to run to the dentist.

    Mom

    TO: