Austensibly Ordinary

by Alyssa Goodnight

  I didn’t really have a good feel for when I’d next be going rogue, and I didn’t know what to make of the cryptic message I’d found in the journal this morning:

  an unexpected development can change everything

  This one was every bit as vague as the last one. They were like fortune cookie fortunes, open for interpretation no matter who cracked them.

  As far as I was concerned, I’d had one “unexpected development” after another: the alter ego, the journal, Ethan’s mysterious week-long disappearance, Jake Tielman. . . . I wondered if and when I’d hear from him. Crap! I’d forgotten to retrieve the burner phone from the Dum-Dum bowl! He’d just have to leave a message. Which meant he’d have to listen to the attempt I’d made at being mysterious and alluring in the space of a five-second greeting. I’d recorded it so many times I had it memorized:

  [Slightly breathy] “Hi, this is Cat. I’m having entirely too much fun to answer my phone. Leave me a message and maybe I’ll invite you along.”

  I said it out loud into my empty classroom and suddenly wondered if it was too much. I cringed slightly, almost wishing I had it to do over. But then I rallied. No, this was good . . . this was exactly the sort of image I wanted to portray. A feisty femme . . . we could forget the fatale. Courtney was right—I didn’t have it in me. I’d be the Sandra Bullock of spies.

  With any luck he wouldn’t go looking for me at my made-up museum job, because that had the potential to get a little awkward. I’d just have to wait, seeing as I had deliberately left without getting his number. Or I could Google him.

  Goose bumps crowded up my arms as I checked the clock: ten minutes till next period. I opened up an Internet window and typed “Jake Tielman Austin.” The top five results referenced entrepreneur, philanthropist, sports enthusiast Jake Tielman. There was even an image, culled from the Statesman online, of the man I’d flirted with last night. I minimized the window, thoughts and questions flitting through my already slightly frazzled brain. Did I want to look? Could I resist the opportunity? I felt like I was running an unauthorized background check, but wasn’t this what people did these days? Technology had corrupted us—we had too much information available to us, and it was impossible to know what to do with it. Was he Googling me?

  With a flash of sudden insight, it occurred to me that I was impervious to the Google search. Cat Kennedy was a front woman for my little fantasy turned cover op. Nothing he found would lead him back to me.

  It wasn’t possible that he was the op, was it? Had I unintentionally gotten close to the target? My heart was pounding out an erratic beat. I’d really liked him too . . . but I wasn’t about to sleep with him solely to get information. Hell. This stream-of-consciousness thing I had going was making things sound more and more ridiculous by the minute. And it was beyond obvious that I’d been watching way too many spy programs.

  I focused on my salad, quickly scarfing it down before twenty kids trooped in, hoping to convince me that they’d read the assigned pages. And then I remembered . . .

  I’d planned to do a quick search for the quote on the frontispiece of the journal, just in case something interesting came up. Key words, key words . . . I gently tapped the keys, searching my memory. “Miscellaneous morsels” stood out in my mind, seeing as it had made me think of Toll House chocolate chip cookies. I typed the words into the search box.

  Jane Austen’s name came up in the first four results. Weird. The next two offered up morsel-infused recipes. I clicked on the second of the four, scanned the contents, and blinked several times in mind-boggling disbelief. Taking a deep breath and hoping I still had a few moments to myself, I reread the words carefully.

  To Miss Jane Anna Elizabeth Austen

  My Dear Neice

  Though you are at this period not many degrees

  removed from Infancy, Yet trusting that you will in time

  be older, and that through the care of your excellent

  Parents, You will one day or another be able to read

  written hand, I dedicate to You the following

  Miscellanious Morsels, convinced that if you seriously

  attend to them, You will derive from them very

  important Instructions, with regard to your Conduct in

  Life.—If such my hopes should hereafter be realized,

  never shall I regret the Days and Nights that have been

  spent in composing these Treatises for your Benefit. I

  am, my dear Neice

  Your very Affectionate Aunt

  June 2d. 1793

  The dedication in the journal was only an excerpt of this longer passage. Rather apropos. Even so, it made no sense to me. Did this mean that whoever was sending me these vague little instructions was an avid Jane Austen fan? Was the quote merely a diversionary tactic, to throw suspicion off the book’s real purpose? Was I, in high school speak, just trippin’? It was impossible to tell. The undeniable facts were: I’d found a journal (outside a taco truck), which was inscribed with a quote from über-author Jane Austen; and somehow, some way, the journal was communicating with me. Making suggestions, giving advice. Seemingly irrelevant advice.

  At that moment, my students traipsed into the classroom, thumping down their backpacks, sliding into their seats, delving into their backpacks for composition books and pens. I couldn’t think about this right now. I needed to mentally switch gears and decode a different, relatively clear-cut morsel of Ms. Austen’s writing for a bunch of jaded seniors.

  Trying to teach with a conundrum swirling around in my head was exhausting, and by the time the bell rang, I’d had enough. Rather than sit for one more helpless minute in my classroom, I packed my leather satchel full of papers and trudged home, determined to get some answers from the journal, the universe, or the covert ops team running point from a utility van parked down the street from my house, lurking amid the leftover Halloween decorations.

  I hadn’t made it to the grocery store for more than a week, so I popped in at Mom’s house first. She wasn’t home, but she’d left the house looking oddly rumpled. Pillows were askew in the living room, as if she’d spun them away from her like Frisbees. The kitchen sink held two forks, the tines of both coated with chocolate frosting. The cake itself, displayed on Mom’s favorite fancy glass cake stand, had a Jekyll and Hyde thing going on. One side was beautifully frosted in a smooth buttercream, and the other looked like a raccoon had mauled it and then left without using Saran Wrap. What the hell?

  Clearly Mom was dealing with some sort of crisis of her own. She must have come home for lunch and had a little meltdown. I seriously hoped she hadn’t been eating with two forks at once . . . although the evidence was pretty damning. I’d come down later and try to feel her out. Right now I was headed to the Bat Cave, and I needed sustenance. Pulling open the fridge, I grabbed a package of bagels and some feta cheese. Then a tomato off the counter and a twist of homegrown basil from the pot on the windowsill, and I was all set. Wine I had. Taking one more look around the place, I shook my head in bewilderment and pulled the door shut behind me.

  Dinner could wait. I needed to get the crowd of thoughts out and on paper so I could have a moment of peace. This time feeling a little unsure of myself, as if someone was watching and waiting, I hurried through the writing.

  Typically I’m every bit as patient as a situation demands (okay, not always), but nothing about this situation is typical. And honestly, I need some answers. I’m trying to be accommodating and ready for anything, but as a form of communication, this is far from perfect. Rather than provide any useful information, you seem intent on playing some sort of game. If you’re keeping score, I have no doubt I’m losing abominably, but you’re not playing fair. We’d be far more evenly matched if you’d consent to tell me something—anything—useful. I don’t think I’m making unreasonable demands. When a girl discovers an inanimate object talking back to her, she’s well within her rights to toss the offending object at the first opportunity. But I am strivi
ng to have an open mind. Try not to take advantage, or you might find your communiqué in the compost bin.

  That entry had felt particularly empowering. I decided to reward my indomitable spirit with a little TV before succumbing to the never-ending paper trail of high school English. I cued up Glee on my DVR, quick-prepped my dinner, and made an effort to relax.

  Forty-five minutes later, buzzing through both the commercials and my glass of wine, I felt lighter, happier, and slightly bummed that real life never presented spontaneous song-and-dance numbers. Honestly, if people could pull together on occasion for an impromptu flash mob, the world’s problems probably wouldn’t seem so insurmountable. Maybe in a few years I could run for mayor of Austin on that platform.

  Before settling in with my red pen, I decided to check the journal for a response.

  a perfect match demands an open mind

  Dislike. I was unimpressed with everything about this response, with the possible exception of its promptness. I flipped back to the previous little pearls of wisdom and read them in sequential order, looking for a clue, a pattern, a reason not to pursue a little Chinese water torture in the toilet tank in an attempt to short out all further communications.

  at times the answers is hidden in plain sight

  an unexpected development can change everything

  a perfect match demands an open mind

  Okay, brainstorming . . . they all seemed to be hinting at something, leading me to draw a conclusion that so far had eluded me. The answer, a development, a perfect match. Perfect match didn’t sound very national security . . . unless it was referring to counterfeit currency, a priceless artifact, or a faked retinal scan. Perfect match sounded more online dating or custom paint colors.

  I heard a car door slam in the driveway and remembered the mess I’d encountered in the house. With my mind wandering the way it was, it occurred to me once again that Mom could use a date. There’d been no one since the divorce, and judging by Mom’s awkward flirting with the Geek Freak, her embarrassing tendency to hint at the possibility of romance between Ethan and me, not to mention today’s cake binge with double forks, it was definitely time for Mom to get back out there. I’d work on that.

  As a matter of fact, there was a world history teacher at school—a handsome retired air force captain, Mr. Carr—who would probably welcome the opportunity to spend time with a pretty whirlwind like my mom. I could invite him for dinner, making sure to specify that I’d like him to meet my mom. No sense giving the man the wrong impression.

  I glanced again at the little excerpts. Somewhat coincidentally, they all seemed to make sense within the general theme of a romance. . . an unanticipated romance begun in an unpredictable fashion in an unexpected place. Or perhaps not so coincidentally. I’d imagined secret missions, code names, and privileged information, but was I instead facing a grown-up game of M.A.S.H.? Was I meant to be the facilitator? Miss Match herself? And if so, when was I going to get the details, the dossiers? Who the hell was I supposed to be matching up?

  I supposed I could use my mom as a guinea pig. Naturally without telling her. And maybe Ethan. That could get interesting. He’d be a tough sell. I could do this—I’d probably be really good at it given my Jane Austen obsession. I’d be clever, cagey, keeping my interference subtle, letting the couple imagine they’d found each other all on their own. Like Jane herself, crafting swoony romances for her heroes and heroines. I could imagine that there would be a certain satisfaction in that. And there was no reason that I couldn’t keep my Cat Kennedy persona, wielding my charms on a romance of my own . . . assuming Mr. Tielman ever decided to call me back. And if he didn’t, well then, I’d go on the prowl again and relish every minute.

  Unwrapping a tangerine Dum-Dum, I slid the journal under the couch, grabbed the remaining bagels and feta, and skipped down the steps to quiz my mom.

  She was standing at the kitchen sink, eating a bowl of cake crumbs and slivers when I walked in. The cake had been carved back into shape, and the couch cushions were once again in position.

  “Hey, Mom. I borrowed a couple of things.” I held them up, eyeing her, wondering if an explanation for the strange happenings afoot would be forthcoming. From this angle she seemed to have smudges under her eyes. Please, God, don’t let her be crying.

  “Hey, sweetie.” She sounded tired. “Piece of cake? It had a little accident, but I’ve mostly cleaned it up.” She turned briefly toward me, and in the light of the kitchen, her cheeks looked flushed. Or else she was blushing. Weird. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what had gone on here today. Maybe a particularly wild hot flash?

  I stashed the food in the refrigerator, considered getting myself a piece of cake, remembered the state it had been in earlier, and decided against it. “Um, no thanks. How were things at the shop today?”

  “A little slow . . . Mondays always are.”

  “So you came home for lunch?”

  Looking startled, she turned toward me.

  “Dmitri was working today,” she said, sounding defensive. “And I had a . . . chocolate craving. Hence the state of the cake.”

  Uh-huh. Maybe if she was a chocolate vampire.

  “How’s your computer working these days?” I asked, wondering if the Geek Freak had managed to work out the kinks, as it were.

  She choked a little, put her hand up to her lips, and murmured, “Fine. Good.”

  Clearly something was up, and she wasn’t interested in letting me in on her little secret. Just as well; she wasn’t getting in on mine either. I’d just hint around about Mr. Carr. . . .

  “Mom, how’d you like to meet one of the teachers I work with? I could bring him home for dinner, Wednesday maybe . . . You could make your famous lasagna and have him eating out of your hand. . . .”

  “Why in the hell would I want your date eating out of my hand? Lasagna is not finger food.”

  Obviously my wording had been faulty. “No, Mom, he’s not my date. I’d like to introduce the two of you because I think you’d hit it off.”

  Mom put down the bowl of cake carnage and turned to look at me, the flush gone.

  “Hit it off? In what sense?” she inquired sardonically. “Intellectually? Spiritually? Emotionally? Or sexually? I’d like to know going in.”

  I goggled at her. Sexually? Who was this woman? In our house, “sex” had always meant male or female and not anything going on betwixt the two.

  “Um . . . hard to say. Maybe you could play a little Yahtzee and see where it goes from there.”

  She speared me with a warning glare. “I don’t need to be set up, Cate. I’m doing just fine on my own.”

  “Got it,” I said, not willing, at this moment, to argue the point. If she’d been hoping to hide the evidence of her “just fine” existence, she needed to do a lot better. “I’ll set it up—we’ll have fun.” I started casually backing out the door. “Thanks for dinner, Mom. I’ve got to go grade some papers. Sweet dreams.”

  I pulled the door shut and leaned my head against it. Whether or not the journal was offering up matchmaking advice, I clearly needed to do something. Strolling along the little breezeway connecting Mom’s house and mine, I asked myself, What would Jane Austen do?

  Mom needed a stable, dependable fellow with enough imagination to surprise her every now and then . . . perhaps a Mr. Weston. Rodney Carr would be perfect. If I could convince him to come and get Mom to nix the sex talk. I suddenly wished Ethan hadn’t disappeared—he could have rounded out our little dinner party and helped smooth over all the awkward moments. He was particularly good at that. Hell, he was good at a lot of things.

  I trudged up the steps to face the “irritations” involved in maintaining my English teacher “cover,” feeling slightly better about them in that context.

  “She makes a mean lasagna,” I cajoled. I’d been very careful in phrasing my invitation to Mr. Carr, trying through subliminal mentions of my mom to ensure he knew what exactly was on the table, i.e., lasagna and Yahtz
ee. Mom’s no-sex criterion had not been precisely spelled out—I figured she could cover that end of things. “And who can say no to Yahtzee?”

  “Does your mother know you’re asking me to dinner?” he asked cautiously. It was ten minutes till the staff meeting, and he was making short work of a Granny Smith apple while drafting essay questions with a pencil and yellow legal pad. Old-school.

  “Of course,” I assured him, waving my hand dismissively. “She loves to meet new people. And you two have a lot in common. You teach European history, she wants to go to Europe; you were in the armed forces, she admires men in uniform.” I didn’t know too much more about the man, other than he was a great teacher and a good role model. “You probably love a challenge . . . and she can provide it.” The last words were spoken through my teeth, and I felt compelled to end on a more convincing argument. “Along with homemade lasagna, garlic bread, and dessert.” I flashed a smile.

  He smiled back, and new wrinkles creased his face. But they were just surface wrinkles; they didn’t go deep. I could sense he was hesitant, and failure looked imminent. But then he said the magic words, “How can I resist?” and I breathed a sigh of relief. Evidently the man did like a challenge.

  “Excellent. We’ll see you Wednesday at seven.”

  Now all I needed was for Mom to bring it.

  I’d definitely dressed like a ninja. In envisioning Operation Let’s Get This Over With, an evening of ghost hunting with Courtney, I’d gone dark. In black ballet slippers (they did have little rhinestones on the tips—maybe ghosts liked sparkles), black trousers, a sleeveless blouse patterned mostly in black, and a black cardigan (with a bit more sparkle), I looked more like an apathetic cat burglar than an indifferent ghost hunter. This was called taking one for the team. I felt painfully nondescript waltzing through the imposing front doors of the Driskill amid the golden glow of ambiance.