Bad Weather

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  “I dunno.”

  “Well, I’m just saying, it might not be as, uh, evil as you think it is.”

  “Now, hold on, I don’t think it’s evil.”

  “Yes you do,” Rhonda said. “I can see it all over your face. You think she’s pulling one over on you. You think she’s a drug dealer or something. That she’s putting cocaine into a blister on the bottom of a boat and that you’re going to have to go all Sonny Crockett on her ass.”

  “No, girl, that’s crazy.”

  “Okay, fine, whatever,” Rhonda said, holding her hands out in front of her. “You can lie to yourself. I know you think that something’s going on.”

  Dez was quiet for a moment. “Fine,” she said slowly and carefully, “tell me how it’s not a bad thing.”

  “Okay,” Rhonda said. “Let me tell you a story. I had this friend in elementary school. Knew her since kindergarten. And she totally loved Kermit the Frog.”

  “Sure.” Dez cracked her knuckles. “Lots of kids love Kermit.”

  “Yeah,” Rhonda said, “but she took it pretty far. She made a necklace out of green felt triangles, just like Kermit has, and she wore it every day. And one day, I think it was in second grade, this new kid just started calling her ‘Kermit,’ thinking he was making fun of her. I was right next to her at the time, eating my lunch, and her eyes got super-big and just lit up. I asked her what she was thinking, and she just had this faraway look in her eyes. I said her name.” She paused. “Damn, I can’t even think what her real name is now. Maybe it was Amy. And she said, ‘I’m not Amy, I’m Kermit.” And she wouldn’t let anyone call her Amy after that. She just refused to answer. The teacher wigged out for a little while, but then she just went with it too.”

  “So what cartoon character is named Frankie?”

  “Well, shit, I don’t know, Dez. Maybe she likes Frankie Avalon or Frankie Goes to Hollywood or Frank N. Furter from Rocky Horror.”

  Dez shifted her weight. “Yeah, I actually wouldn’t be surprised if she liked Rocky Horror.” She tapped her chin. “Though she’s way more of a Janet.”

  “What did she say about her name?”

  Dez was quiet again.

  “Of course you didn’t ask her about it,” Rhonda said. “You’d rather think the worst about someone then give them a chance to explain.”

  Dez started to object.

  “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Rhonda said. “That came out wrong. I just meant that, well, you’re not the most, uh, trusting person in the world. You’re kind of, I don’t know, a pessimist.”

  Dez smiled. “Well, sure, I’m a pessimist. But her name’s got nothing to do with Frankie Goes to Hollywood or Rocky Horror.”

  Rhonda shrugged. “What, then?”

  “She said she wrote novels under a pen name. Frank Bethany.”

  Rhonda’s mouth was agape. “Frank Bethany?”

  “You know him?”

  “Ugh. My brother will not shut up about him. He was bugging me to read that one. You know, the famous one. Genesis something.”

  “Exodus Nights.”

  Rhonda snapped her fingers. “Right. So you do know who that is.”

  “Well, not really. I just picked up Exodus Nights last night before our date. I hadn’t heard of him before.”

  Rhonda stood up. “Do you think it’s true? Do you think this Jennifer chick actually wrote Exodus Nights? Do you think you could get a book signed? My brother would totally lose his mind.”

  Dez shook her head. “I think it’s a lie. I, uh, I did a little research this morning.”

  “When did you have time to do research?”

  Dez shifted her weight uncomfortably. “I went to the library before class. Frank Bethany is actually an English professor at Dartmouth.”

  “You are such a stalker! I can’t believe it. Dartmouth? Like, the Ivy League school?”

  “Yeah,” Dez said. “And Jennifer Morgenstern was on the newspaper staff there.”

  “Well,” Rhonda said. “That’s weird.”

  Dez nodded. “Yes, it’s weird. That’s exactly what I was thinking. I think something happened at Dartmouth.”

  “What’s she doing in L.A. if she went to Dartmouth?”

  “I don’t know. That was six years ago.”

  “Oh,” Rhonda winked. “An older woman.”

  “She’s not that much older.”

  “Six years? That’s what? Twenty-eight?”

  “Maybe. She might have been a freshman six years ago.”

  “Or maybe she was a grad student. Who held the walker while you were doing it?”

  “Shut up, Rhonda. You saw the way she looked in that red-and-white cherry dress.”

  Rhonda nodded. “I sure did. You’re lucky she was so into you. I kinda wanted her to myself.”

  Dez sighed. “Lucky? Rhonda, she’s lying about who she is. I’d’ve been lucky if you had gone out with her instead of me. You probably would have called her on her Frank Bethany bullshit.”

  “Maybe she’s playing with you. Maybe she’s trying to see how well-read you are.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe she’s a psychopath.”

  Rhonda paused. “Hah. Maybe she’s a psychopath.” She sat back down and clicked. It was a bomb. “Dammit.” She started the game over. “You gonna see her again?”

  “I don’t know. It wasn’t great. She talked about herself a lot. A whole lot. And the sex was kind of mediocre.”

  “Think she can improve?”

  “Maybe. Since it was only her first time with a girl.”

  “She a good kisser?”

  Dez thought about it. “Yes.”

  “Well, then, there’s probably hope for her.” Rhonda looked toward Dez again. “She been with a man, or is she a total virgin?” Then she stopped herself. “Never mind. There’s no way she can look like that in that cherry dress and be a virgin. She just needs a good teacher.”

  “I think she needs more than that. I think she needs lithium.”

  Rhonda chortled.

  “I’m actually going to the bookstore to do some, uh, reconnaissance work. You want to come?”

  “I don’t know,” Rhonda said. “I’ve got an essay I should probably start.”

  “When’s it due?”

  “Next week.”

  Dez smiled. “That’s all kinds of time, Rhonda. Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  “I don’t know,” Rhonda said again.

  “You know you’re just going to sit here and play Minesweeper all night if you don’t.”

  “It’s raining.”

  “It’ll be an adventure.”

  Rhonda thought for a minute. “Burritos?”

  “Fine,” Dez said. “Burritos. Bookstore first, though.”

  6

  Dez and Rhonda got to BookEarth forty-five minutes later. The traffic had been bad; there were two separate accidents on the freeway, both of which looked like issues from the rain. They walked in; Dez noticed the same stunning Asian woman—Audrey, that was her name—behind the information desk as the night before.

  “I can’t believe you convinced me to go out in the rain when I was safe and dry at home, and spend an hour on the freeway just to come to a stupid bookstore,” Rhonda said, a little too loud. From behind the information desk, Audrey looked up and gave Rhonda a nasty look.

  “This store has the biggest selection in L.A.,” Dez said. “And it’s a better use of your time than sitting on your ass playing computer games. Now shut up and come help me find it.”

  “Find what?”

  “Anything by Jennifer Morgenstern.”

  “Did she write under her real name?”

  “I don’t know, Rhonda. That’s what I came here to find out.”

  They went to the fiction section. The same books by Frank Bethany were on the shelf in the B’s—nothing new had come in. They walked to the other side of the row to the M’s.

  “I don’t see anything by Morgenstern,” said Rhonda.

  “Me neither,” Dez said.
“Maybe it’s in non-fiction. Memoir or something. Or in one of the genre sections—western or horror or something like that.”

  “Want to split up?” suggested Rhonda. “Why don’t you take history and self-help? I’ll take western and horror.”

  “Maybe the bargain fiction,” Dez mused, walking back through the shelves to the front of the store.

  “Oh, you’re okay dragging me all the way out here on a Thursday night, but you’re afraid of digging through the history section of the bookstore?”

  “Too many white people in the history section,” said Dez. “They look at me with either hate or pity.”

  “Well, I’m not going over there,” Rhonda said.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said Dez, starting to walk toward the cute girl at the information desk. Rhonda started to follow. “No, no,” Dez said, “I’m going to be needing her help. She already doesn’t like you because of that bookstore crack you made.”

  “Everybody likes me,” Rhonda said with a smirk.

  “Just go browse the westerns or horror.”

  Rhonda walked off toward the horror section mumbling to herself about getting an idea from Dean Koontz about killing Dez as painfully as possible.

  Dez walked up to the information desk. Audrey, behind it, cute as she was, was looking warily at her. Dez double-checked her nametag just to make sure this wasn’t Audrey’s grumpy evil twin.

  “Hi,” Dez said. “I was in here yesterday, buying Exodus Nights.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Audrey said, brightening. “I remember you. I suppose I didn’t recognize you with your, um, friend.”

  “Yes,” Dez said, “I can dress her up, but I can’t take her out.”

  The woman looked at Rhonda, walking from the memoir section to the horror shelves, in her shiny blue Adidas sweatpants and a white muscle shirt, the tattoo of Marilyn Monroe’s face clearly visible on her left bicep. The woman smirked. “Doesn’t look like you can dress her up, either.”

  “Hey, come on,” Dez said, “that’s not nice.”

  The woman smiled and looked in Dez’s eyes. Dez smiled back.

  “I’m Audrey,” the woman said.

  “Hi, Audrey; I’m Desirée.” Dez had a moment of shock at the words that just came out of her mouth: she hadn’t introduced herself as Desirée since junior high.

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “Thanks.” Dez could feel the color rise to her cheeks. “Hey, I’m hoping you can help me. There’s an author I’m looking for. Can you search the computer for me?”

  “Sure,” Audrey said, nodding. “Just need the author or title.”

  “It’s Jennifer Morgenstern.”

  “Morgenstern. M-O-R-G-A-N—”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s E-N,” Dez said, closing her eyes and picturing the New Hampshire driver’s license in her head.

  “And then S-T-E-R-N?”

  “That’s what I think,” Dez said. “First name Jennifer. Or maybe Jen.”

  She fell silent as Audrey typed on the keyboard and looked at the small monochrome monitor in front of her.

  Dez leaned over a little bit, not so much as to be obnoxious—at least she hoped it wasn’t too obnoxious—and looked at Audrey’s hands while she typed. Her hands had long, delicate fingers that flew on the keys, the speed almost superhuman. Her fingernails were short and immaculately clean.

  Audrey screwed up her mouth on one side. “I only see one title,” she said. “It’s called Murder on a Lifeboat, and it came out about eight years ago.” A light bulb went off in Audrey’s head. “Hey, you bought Exodus Nights yesterday?”

  “Yes, I sure did.”

  “Have you started it yet? Because that starts with a murder on a lifeboat.”

  “Yeah, I know. I started reading it last night.”

  “Did it make you think of this book?”

  “Sort of,” Dez said. “I didn’t get it at the time, but I kind of had a brainstorm.”

  “Well,” Audrey said, “it wouldn’t have been trying to rip off Exodus Nights. It was published before the Bethany book.”

  “Oh, before?” Dez was interested now. “How much longer before?”

  “Well,” Audrey started, and then fell silent, squinting at the screen. “It looks like it was about six months. But it was a small press, and it looks like it was a short run. Just a couple of thousand copies.”

  “You got any copies here?”

  Audrey shook her head. “I’m not even sure I could special order it. I could call the publisher, but they’re in Boston, and it’s well after five o’clock there.”

  Dez stood back, wondering what she was going to do. “Think I could ask you to call them tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” Audrey said. “Now, I must warn you, even if they do have a copy or two in their warehouse, you’ll probably have to pay full price for the book, plus shipping, and it won’t get here for a week or two.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “I’ll need your phone number, Desirée.”

  “Sure,” Dez said.

  Audrey opened her desk drawer and got a thick paper bookmark with a large green BookEarth logo on it. “Write it there,” she said, and put a pen in front of Dez and held the bookmark down with two hands, her long, delicate, immaculate fingers pinning the edges to the solid surface. Dez would have to put a hand on top of one of Audrey’s. Pretty bold move, Dez thought. She looked up at Audrey and Audrey was smiling back at her.

  Dez put her left hand on top of Audrey’s fingers and felt a spark. She looked up in Audrey’s eyes, wide open, creased at the corners in a smile. She wrote her name—Desirée—between Audrey’s hands on the bookmark. And then wrote her phone number.

  “I’ll call you as soon as I have something on the Jennifer Morgenstern book,” Audrey said. Dez took her hands away.

  “Thanks,” Dez said. “I appreciate it.” She took a couple steps back, smiled, and turned to go find Rhonda.

  She didn’t have very far to go. Rhonda was right behind the first bookshelf.

  “Well, look at you, Casanova,” Rhonda said in a low whisper. “The ink has barely dried on Frankie and you’re putting the moves on the hot Asian chick at the bookstore.”

  “I was just getting information on an author,” Dez said.

  “Oh, please,” Rhonda said. “You were getting a lot more than that.”

  They turned and started to walk out of the store.

  “Maybe I’m going to have to start hanging out with literary types,” Rhonda said. “I never get to meet any hot girls.”

  “What are you talking about?” Dez said. “You’ve had a parade of girls leaving your bed every weekend since freshman year. You’re as bad as a lot of the guys I know. Worse, even.”

  “Not every weekend, and it’s not a parade,” Rhonda said. “And a lot of them are like Frankie. They don’t know what they want. I think half of them sleep with me because I’m more manly than their last boyfriend was.”

  Dez cackled.

  “All right, are we done with all the book bullshit?” Rhonda said. “I’m dying for a burrito supreme.”

  7

  The drive home from the taquería was excruciating for Dez. She didn’t know what to do about Frankie. Part of her thought Frankie was crazy, the cherries on her dress turning into red flags. But part of her thought that Frankie was one of the sanest people she had ever met, turning the tables on her plagiarist and subsuming his identity, even if no one would know except her date.

  Of course, if Frankie could lie about her name and her occupation and her writing, she could lie about a lot more than that. Maybe she was lying about never being with a woman before. Maybe she’d lie about a lot of things if Dez started a relationship with her. Maybe she’d get angry and confrontational if Dez so much as called her Jennifer to her face.

  The windshield wipers clicked back and forth. Dez could hear the quiet but high-pitched clicking even over the drone of Rhonda’s voice. Rhonda was chatty tonight after their b
urritos, talking about a girl in her women’s studies class who was earnest and passionate and curious, who, Rhonda said, looked fantastic in a pair of tight white cutoffs and a plaid flannel shirt.

  “I never know anymore,” Rhonda complained. “It used to be, you saw a girl in a lumberjack shirt, you could be pretty sure you could ask her out and she’d be open for it. Now, you don’t know. She could be gay, sure, or she could just be into Pearl Jam.”

  “The world is changing all around us,” Dez said in half-agreement.

  Rhonda continued to talk about the girl in the lumberjack shirt and the mixed signals she was getting all night during their date, but Dez’s attention started to wane. She wondered if she should continue reading Exodus Nights. She thought it was certainly good enough to keep going with it, although she had to be honest with herself in that she was much more interested in it when she thought Frankie, and not a middle-aged white man, wrote it. Of course, she’d have to see if there was any resemblance between Exodus Nights and Murder on a Lifeboat. And Dez wasn’t sure how much resemblance there had to be. She was reasonably sure Frank Bethany wouldn’t execute a word-for-word theft and publish it under his own name. She thought instead there was likely to be thematic similarities, maybe even characters who sounded alike. At the very worst, Dez assumed, there would be a few whole paragraphs or characters or plot lines lifted nearly verbatim, possibly with only a few cosmetic changes—a name, identifying marks, locations, that kind of thing. She shook her head. They hadn’t gone through plagiarism or intellectual property theft in any of her classes yet. Dez wasn’t even wholly sure it would merit its own set of offenses, much less its own class in her program.

  Dez got off the freeway and turned off the frontage road onto Palo Verde. They were less than five minutes from their apartment now. The rain, a constant pounding on the roof of the car throughout the drive, started coming down harder. This was going to be a bad season for mudslides, thought Dez, and she sighed.

  “Okay,” Rhonda said. “I know you haven’t been paying attention to anything I’ve said for the last ten minutes. Are you seriously that hung up on this girl?”