Second House from the Corner Read Free

that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
    The four-pack of merlot nips fit into my barrel-size purse beneath a pack of baby wipes and a forgotten tangerine. I’m bubbling with excitement until I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the silver-blue paint of my car. In my haste to get away, I’ve walked out of the house wearing ratty yoga pants and a two-pocket pullover, my hair snatched up in an untidy bun. My one pledge to myself was to never be one of those housewives who run around town looking like they are too busy to put on decent clothing. I’ve mumbled under my breath about these women, but tonight I am one of them. I laugh out loud at my own irony and fasten my seat belt.
    *   *   *
    I have no idea what’s showing when I enter the theater, but just the smell of being close to my acting cohorts unbuttons me out of my mommy suit and connects me to my higher self. The me who tripped, and then fell head over heels in love with acting while watching the very first episode of A Different World . That late ’80s sitcom was my rock, my sword, and my shield through my teenage years. If Hillman College had really existed, I would have gone there for my undergraduate degree. Every Thursday, I would tape the latest episode, then watch the show until I mastered every character’s part and memorized the entire show. I was obsessed with imitating Whitley Gilbert, the southern belle with all of her daddy’s money at her disposal. I drove Gran crazy because I made her sit and be my audience. This is what convinced her to come up with the money to send me to the acting camp at The New Freedom Theater on Broad Street the summer before my senior year.
    I remember how I ran around asking my acting teacher, Ms. Diane, how to get an agent. I was ready to throw my wings in the sky and fly toward Hollywood, but she just looked me over and said, “Learn your craft first. Study acting. Don’t just imitate what you see, feel it.”
    *   *   *
    It’s not until I’m in line that I decide on a film about a woman, played by Nicole Kidman, who has an affair. It starts in eight minutes. Perfect timing. I shove my ticket into one of my breast pockets and head for the almighty concession stand. Nachos smothered in cheese and jujubes will make everything all better. With my goodies in hand and my mind two-stepping over what’s stashed in my purse, I make a beeline to the theater. And then I hear my name called. It’s Monday night. No one I know should be cracking at the seams but me.
    I spin on my sneakers and see Monroe McKenzie, president of the Dames and Culture Club. Just my freaking luck. I plaster some remnants of something I hope says pleasant to see you and move in her direction. Monroe looks dazzling in a spring pink suit and over-the-top pumps. Her cherry-blond hair is pulled into a side bun, and her cheeks are round and plum. Under normal circumstances it would be great seeing Monroe. As an artist, Dames and Culture is the club that I’ve been wishing myself into with obsessive osmosis for the past two years, but they haven’t even given me so much as a finger wave. Membership is restricted to women who have distinguished themselves in art, music, literature, philanthropy, or just enough wealth that none of the above matters. It’s an invitation-only club and Monroe, with her perfectly painted red lips, can unlock the door with her key. I push my shoulders back and pretend that I am not standing in the middle of the movie theater dressed like the cleaning lady.
    â€œFelicia Lyons, is that you?” her tiny eyes disappear altogether when she smiles. I touch my frizzy hair with my free hand as if to confirm it is still in a frazzled snatched back. My lips smack against each other in search of moisture. I could have at least remembered to put on some damn lip gloss before I got out of the car.
    â€œAre you here alone?