The Story Until Now: A Great Big Book of Stories

The Outside Event

8 8 8 8 8 I’m supposed to come down and sit in your, like, confession box and spill my . . . what? Wait! I have to do makeup. So, is this judged more on looks, or is it a performance thing? All right, all right, this is not a contest, but. Really. Gazillion writing samples , audition demos, personal interviews and you only picked twenty of us, how is this not competitive? I am very close to someone who didn’t make it, and believe me, there are feelings . . . Davy, I love you, think of me as doing it for you! Hello out there, Audience? Judges? Whatever you are. This is Cynthia LaMott , speaking to you from The Confessional in the re-purposed Gothic chapel on my very first day at Strickfield. What a rush! First I want to thank Dame Hilda for founding the colony in memory of Ralph Strickler, her son, who died. Nobody will say how, but it was awful. Greetings from the great stone castle where many are called but few are, oh, you know. Mom, they chose me, bad Cynnie, and not Leon, family crown prince and bum playwright, for this expense-paid summer in the castle; if you have to ask you can’t afford it, and fuck you. Davy was very sweet about it when I got the callback because until last week, he thought we were equals. He’s a poet so it shouldn’t be a problem, but it is. A guy in a white suit hand-carried the invitation up four flights to our front door. By the time Davy and I opened it he was down in the street, getting into a cab. Davy made me jump for the envelope like this was a game, which it definitely is not. I think. Mom, it was for me! Time, place and dates engraved, with a note added in that farty, rich-girl handwriting you see in raised silver foil on every Aline Armantout best seller: Welcome, writer-in-waiting. At Strickfield, you’ll do great things, and this year we’re starting something new! Do come. Your future depends on it. xxxx A.A. That’s all. The Outside Event 390 k i t r e e d Aline herself followed up with a phone call, which is how Davy and I knew it wasn’t a joke. I wanted to ask about the something new but she said, “Congratulations , you are chosen.” Period. Davy gave me Swarovski crystals to prove he isn’t mad. Real writers don’t have day jobs so Davy maxed out his plastic to cover the rental car plus gas and snacks along the way to keep me sharp so I can sparkle at the Opening Night Banquet. Everybody, it’s black tie! We drove forever to get here. Strickfield is in the middle of, like, the Black Forest. Who knew it was also shopping hell? No malls anywhere, you can’t even order online. In woods like these, delivery kids get hunted down and eaten by bears, and all the pretty things in their packages ripped to shreds. Riding up here, I could swear I saw wolves running along behind the car. They didn’t peel off until the castle gates opened up and then clanged shut behind Davy’s Zip car like a giant bear trap. In spite of which this place is beautiful, although there are weird noises coming from the attic and rumors about the Thing in the Lake. Three months, all expenses paid, what could go wrong? Well, one thing. Nobody warned me every single dinner is black tie. If I do this right I’ll be famous, my whole life is at stake and I’m sitting here thinking, what to wear, what to wear? See, for dress up, I brought exactly one sexy dress and my Jimmy Choos that I got off a stall, I saw the guy glue in the label himself. Oh, and my present Davy bought to prove he’s ok with this—which was big of him, as, whatever the game is, we both know he just lost. Entre nous, it’s just as well Strickfield’s just for the chosen, so he’s not allowed to stay. When you’re in love with a guy, the last thing you want is you and him both fighting over the same prize. I hope Davy gets home all right. I hope he won’t dump me...