Free Bleak by Lynn Messina

system.
    David Fincher immediately signed on to direct. Eight months later, Ron Howard was at the helm. Since then, a series of rotating names has been suggested for the top position. Not a single part has been cast. I, meanwhile, have Moxie.
    If filmmaking is a race, then it’s a long hike to the finish line. The Hanging Judge just doesn’t seem to have the endurance. What a tremendous coup if Jarndyce and Jarndyce, the little book that could, got there first. It’s dizzying to consider.
    But of course I tell Carrie it’s something I never think about and ask her to please stop forwarding the articles.

Day 840
    After six weeks of listening to increasingly erratic explanations of why a woman named Esperanza Diaz is answering my phone, Mom calls human resources at Hertzberg, Wright, Silver and Penn and asks to speak to the person in charge. She gets Henry, who completely rats me out. Not only does he admit that I no longer work there, he also explains her that it was my own decision.
    Mom freaks. She packs a bag, bakes a ham-and-cheese casserole and shows up on my doorsteps with seven books on how to find a job, including Careers for Dummies. Agitated, confused and angry, she sits on my couch and announces she’s not leaving until I am gainfully employed.
    I try not to take offense.
    There are no two words in the English language more reviled by my parents than I quit. Carstones never quit. Not because we’re stubborn, persistent or focused but because we’re terrified of change. “Hang on and be miserable” is the family motto. Someone should translate it to Latin and stick it on a crest with lions.
    “It’s going to be fine,” I say, showing her the half-finished book of practice LSATs. After two and a half weeks of plowing through one test after another, however, I’m not so sure. It’s not that I can’t figure out the logic problems if I apply myself; it’s simply that they’re so incredibly boring I don’t want to. Standing next to a copier for three hours is more engaging. “I needed the time to study for the LSAT. The firm kept me too busy.”
    It’s truth retrofitted to meet the circumstance but truth all the same.
    Mom flips through the book of practice questions and notes my scores. She nods slowly. “Yes, you do need to study. You can’t get into Harvard with anything less than a 175.”
    I’m surprised by her ambition. When I was applying to undergrad, my parents were sensible and frugal. They said we had go to a state school unless we were willing to take out loans to cover half the tuition ourselves. But now that it’s graduate school, the expense of which will be shouldered one hundred percent by me, she’s all over the pricey private institutions.
    Just thinking about it gives me a stomachache. I’m not sure I can handle getting a hundred thousand dollars in debt for something I don’t love.
    “What you need is test prep,” Mom says. “Mrs. Heller’s son took a course at the Y and got into Princeton. He had an excellent tutor for the logic section. Let me call and find out his name.”
    As Mom whips out her phone, I move her suitcase into my bedroom and quickly straighten up. Except for the Dior dress, which is hanging on the closet door, I haven’t unpacked from L.A. I shove my luggage and dirty laundry into the closet and sketchily make my bed. The room is still a mess, but it’s the neatest it’s been in three months.
    I’d let her sleep on the couch, but that would constitute parental abuse. The foldout’s all springs and metal bars. It was a gift from my grandparents when I started college. Even new, it was a torture device.
    Mom is putting down the phone as I reenter the living room. “There, that’s all settled. Mrs. Heller’s son’s instructor is going to give you private lessons Mondays, Wednesday and Thursdays at four-thirty. Here’s his address.”
    The tutor in question lives in Sunnyside, Queens, an hour away from here. There are plenty of prep services in