Laura Steven - A Girl Called Shameless

Still, I’m so nearly finished with the final screenplay edits, and I want to get the polished version to my agent before she inevitably realizes I am a fraud and drops me, so I decide to spend the next few hours putting in some more work.

My eyes sting with tiredness as I fire up my laptop. I consider making hot cocoa, but everything aches and the thought of doing anything physical, anything at all, is enough to make me give up and resign myself to a cocoa-free writing session.

Dumbledore curls up in my lap, sensing my exhausted, periody, done-with-the-world mood, and gently licks my knee as a means of easing the fury. This probably sounds gross, but in all honesty I will take any comfort I can get right now, even if it means having my stubbly legs moistened by a tiny canine tongue. I try not to think about the fact he’s probably just having a good suck because my skin tastes of diner grease and sweat. Yum.

At first, doing a round of dialogue polishing is like trying to get a post-rigor-mortis corpse to perform a limbo. [Good grief, my imagery is dark in this post. Send in the nuns, for I require a cleansing.] Usually I read dialogue aloud to myself to get a feel for what sounds natural and what sounds clunky and jarring, but since I don’t want to wake Betty, I have to settle for a low mumble, which does absolutely nothing to illuminate the subpar sentences. Le sigh.

After twenty minutes of quasi-productivity, I rub my sleep-deprived eyes and blink at the screen through the bursts of kaleidoscopic light caused by pressing my fingers into my eyelids with too much vigor. [Anyone else used to think they were the only ones who could do this? Or did I just suffer from snowflake syndrome as a child?]

My phone vibrates under the pillow, and I pull it out. A reply from Hazel Parker. The lump of defective muscle in my chest – commonly referred to as a heart in normal homo sapiens – twinges as I read.

Hey. Thanks so much for reaching out. It means a lot. Kinda feels like my life is over now, you know? I wanted to be a doctor. No med school will take me seriously after this. My parents won’t even look at me. I can’t stop crying. Can we meet? My friends have been awesome, but they don’t really get it :(

I do a funny little whimpering noise, and in the ultimate show of disrespect Dumbledore glares irritatedly up at me, furious that I dare interrupt his knee-sucking bliss, then leaps off the bed and makes a point of humping my stuffed teddy collection, looking me straight in the eye the whole way through. [Honestly, that dog has such an attitude problem at the moment. Total angsty Order of the Phoenix vibes.]

Swallowing the stubborn ice cube bobbing in my throat, I fire off a reply to Hazel, saying I’m more than happy to meet up outside of school and talk her through everything. Then I bury my face in my pillow and resist the urge to scream, digging my fingernails into my palm until hot crescents are burned into my skin.

The rage ebbing and flowing through me for the last few days won’t leave. I’m angry, angry for Hazel, angry at Danny, and angry at myself for not being to stop this happening again. And, to top it all off, my sausage dog is penetrating the ear of my favorite teddy bear.

After I regain a normal breathing rhythm, I turn my attention back to the screenplay, but the fury is like a dam for my creative energy. I can’t think past the scalding adrenaline, the uncomfortable edge it gives my heartbeat. The screen blurs. My pulse thuds. There’s an acrid, bitter taste in my mouth. Even as the least active person in the northern hemisphere, I have the sudden urge to throw something, to smash a plate, to punch a wall. Anything to let out some of this jagged energy.

10.46 a.m.

After a long-ass Saturday spent working in the diner – thankfully without any major run-ins with Angela, the woman single-handedly keeping the town’s tanning salon afloat – I spend the rest of my Saturday night finishing up the remainder of my screenplay edits and sending them back to my agent.

I will literally never get tired of saying “my agent”. In fact, I may just start directing any and all enquiries I do not want to address myself to my agent instead. Izzy, would you please clean the burger-sauce spillage on Table Twelve? See my agent. Izzy, what’s the square root of an octagon? See my agent. Izzy, woof-woof-woof? See my agent. [That last one is Dumbledore asking me to take him out for a walk, in case you are not fluent in dachshund.]

This morning I treated myself to a lie-in until roughly nine thirty, at which point my darling grandmother decides to blare her 90s rap classics CD at full volume. I shit you not, the woman still has a CD player. I think Thomas Jefferson was the leader of the free world when she first brought it home. In fact, allow me to recount a charming conversation that took place roughly two weeks after she purchased it from a pawn shop for $1.50.

Me: Did you like the Ice Cube album I got you?

Betty: Mmmm, yes, very good.

Me: You didn’t listen, did you?

Betty: Well, I didn’t like to say anything, but . . .

Me: ???

Betty: It didn’t fit.

Me: What didn’t fit?

Betty: The CD you got me. It didn’t fit in the CD player.

Me: What are you talking about? All CDs are the same size??

Betty: Not the one you got me. It’s fat and has square edges.

Me: . . .

Turns out the crazy old bat hadn’t even taken it out of its case. She thought the case was the CD. I despair.

Anyway, the long sleep must’ve paid dividends in terms of melting away my anger, because I’m actually feeling refreshed and full to the brim of ludicrous jokes this morning. The last week has sapped my comedic energy somewhat, like a laughter leech. But now I’m back to best and ready to perform patronizing wildebeest impressions at the drop of a hat. [If you’ve never seen my patronizing wildebeest impressions I feel bad for you, son. I got ninety-nine problems but a gnu ain’t one? No, I don’t know what I’m talking about either.]

1.24 p.m.

Carson and I take Dumbledore for another walk in the park, except now that there are more than a few inches of snow on the ground, Dumbledore cannot actually touch the ground through said snow. He just kind of sinks into the powder with a disgruntled yelp. So really, a more accurate sentence would be “Carson and I take Dumbledore for a carry in the park.” I tuck him under my arm, dressed in his wizard’s robes, and he admires the view from a great height.

We reach the park and I wipe the snow from a bench, taking a seat with Dumbledore in my lap. He lies on his back and demands, with his eyes, that I tickle his tummy at my earliest convenience.

Carson begins immediately making a snow statue, compacting snowballs together to make . . . something. Really, it just looks like a pile of snow in a weird shape. Not that I don’t have full trust in his artistic abilities or anything.

“So how’re things going at home?” I ask Carson, Dumbledore squirming in creepy ecstasy.

“Not bad, not bad. Oh man, did I tell you Colbie’s super into basketball now?” He pounds snow into another tight ball and places it carefully. “Always stealing my jersey. Caught him checking himself out in the mirror while wearin’ it, even though it was down to his ankles. Five years old, man, and already thinks he’s the next LeBron.”

“That’s adorable. Has he ever, you know, played basketball?”

“Details.” Carson smirks, green hoodie making his eyes look even darker, and I honestly want to smooch his face off. “I’m savin’ up for one of those mini hoops for his bedroom wall. With the inflatable balls and whatnot. He’ll lose his shit when he sees it. Man, I can’t wait.”