“Shut the door, shut the door! The wasps will come in!” Sharon’s waving starts up again.
I hustle to get the zip down. “Yes, and…” I turn to Sharon, struck with a wonderful, awful idea. “… They’re zombie wasps! And, uh, they already bit David!”
“Bug spray! It’s the only way to stop him,” Sharon shouts, looking in all the corners as David unenthusiastically rattles the zipper.
“Grab the fire extinguisher!” I holler back.
Dick Head shoots me a dirty look. I immediately feel 3 percent happier. There’s something to this lying business, after all.
“Oh, shit,” Sharon says.
“I know! His Rolex pulled his hand right off! Most disgusting zombie I’ve ever seen.”
“Worse than that one?” Dick Head points inside the tent. Sharon’s on the ground, her left eye the size and color of a twelve-ounce steak.
“Zombie wasp!” I gasp, falling to my knees beside her. “McHuge!I need help!” He sprints over.
“Effeefen! EFFEEFEN!” Sharon insists through puffy lips, both eyes swelling shut.
I unclip the bag at her waist, zipping open all three compartments and shaking until the bright yellow box tumbles out. McHuge squats on her other side, calling 911 with Jason’s phone.
“Ready, Sharon?” I haven’t done this before, but I review the instructions every six months, the same way I read the emergency card in the seat pocket every time I get on a plane. I jam the device hard against her pants and smash the trigger.
David joins the group of concerned faces above us. “Classic bee-sting allergy. I’ve dealt with it before. But you all were doing a not-bad job, so I let you take the lead.”
McHuge lets out an uncharacteristic grunt of frustration, then has to reassure the 911 dispatcher everything’s okay and he hasn’t started CPR.
I take Sharon’s hand. “How you doing, friend?” Her face is a horror show, but she gives me a shaky thumbs-up.
Both Sharon and McHuge are treating me like I’m supposed to be in charge. They aren’t talking over me or policing my facial expressions. Is it because I was a different character a minute ago? One who led our scene and brought ideas?
This is what I need: characters who aren’t me, who convince people I belong and I can lead. Survivors of the zombie waspocalypse might not be the most useful types in the corporate world, but hope still glimmers like a diamond on a Rolex. My scream feels one layer smaller, after collaborating with Sharon and pushing back against David.
Maybe I have other characters, too. If I can find them, I might have a chance at the pitch competition. I might have a chance for a differentlife.
Painful as it is to admit, I can’t do it by myself.
When Sharon’s tucked into the ambulance and McHuge has canceled the rest of the class, I pull out my phone. I only hesitate a little before pressingSendon my text to Tobin.
When should we get together to do the book?
Dots pop up so fast it’s uncomfortable.
Tomorrow morning? Scenario 1?
I pause a moment. Every second means something in the virtual world; I know, after committing all possible blunders. Replying too fast makes you look desperate. Waiting makes conversation agonizing, but I don’t make the rules. Or break them.
I need to read the scenarios first. But yes, tomorrow. You free at 10?
Immediate dots. Tobin has no regard for online rules. But there are always exceptions for people like Tobin.
Send me pics of the instructions. 10 AM. See you then.
Chapter Eight
SCENARIO 1: THE MEET-CUTE
Just about everyone fears being judged. Sometimes it feels safer to hold back your thoughts, rejecting your own ideas rather than risking the pain of rejections from others. In improv, this is calledself-editing.
