Read Online Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts by Courtney Hamilton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Courtney Hamilton
Tags: Humor, Chick lit, Humorous fiction, Satire, hollywood, Romantic Comedy, Women's Fiction, Literary Fiction, contemporary women’s fiction, humor romance, Los Angeles, L.A. society, Eco-Chain of Dating
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Her hand was flabby, without texture or a discernible trace of a bone in it, greasy from fifteen years of moisturizing with Vaseline Intensive Care.
It felt like I was holding a banana slug.
“Tell me again why we’re doing this?” I asked.
I wanted her to let go so that I could take a sip of my Washington Green Apple Tea, which had oozed to the consistency of a 7–Eleven Slurpee.
“You should know by now,” said Roberta.
“Well,” I said. “I guess I’ve forgotten.”
“You know… well… explaining things… it’s not the way I work,” said Roberta for the millionth time.
I turned my head away so Roberta wouldn’t see me roll my eyes.
I sighed. “Well, maybe today you should because I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I said.
Roberta gave me a look. I was pretty sure that I had just broken some unwritten rule of therapy such as the Implied Therapist-Patient agreement.
Somewhere during my fifteen years with Roberta, therapy had become a bad habit like Gap Khakis, Starbucks Coffee, and friends who always made you feel depressed. At some point I actually forgot why I was doing therapy.
I think I first entered therapy because I wanted to speak with a sober adult, someone who wasn’t trying to rationalize a parenting style that equaled criminal negligence. What I got was Volvo-driving, pot-smoking, vegetarian women, the kind that lived in Santa Monica, Venice, Topanga, or Haight-Ashbury, went to Berkeley instead of Barnard and became Unitarian after being raised Jewish or Episcopalian. They could always be found supporting Save the Whales, Habitat for Humanity and Ralph Nader.
But more to the point, they were a stark contrast with my mother, Julia, something I craved.
In the fall my senior year of high school—actually September—I finished all of my applications for college. I sent out 17 applications, to every conservatory, school of fine arts, or university that I thought had promising violin teachers. I was hoping for at least one early admission.
In December, I got a call from one of the fine art schools. They had a shortage of violinists and “Did I want to come to college early?” They offered me a fairly substantial scholarship.
The school had been started with a radical faculty who thought that they would change the world with their artistic vision—30 years later all they wanted to do was make as much money as possible.
I started the arts school in the winter semester, three months before my seventeenth birthday. Due to all of the acceleration and extra credits from music summer schools, I was graduating early.
As I received my dorm room assignment, a hunk of metal which looked like a fatal car crash in red, yellow, and blue was wheeled to me on a dolly.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“This is your furniture,” said the dorm registrar.
The dorm registrar gave me a screwdriver, which was to be used to construct the hunk of metal into a bed, a desk, and a chair. I was also given two bright yellow trash baskets that looked like yellow traffic cones.
I wheeled the dolly with the red, yellow, and blue metal hunk and two yellow trash baskets down a long dark hallway and found my room. The metal was surprisingly heavy.
My room was made out of cinder blocks. It looked like an outdoor carport. The floor was covered with green indoor-outdoor carpeting that was mostly stained. There was one light switch for the panel of fluorescent lights that covered the ceiling. The lights hummed when turned on. The bathroom was shared and connected to another dorm room, the occupant of which was an albino lesbian dancer named Kimmy who was studying modern dance. My room overlooked the swimming pool.
No one—other than me—ever bothered to wear a bathing suit to that pool.
“The trash baskets are cute,” said Julia, as she gazed out at the numerous naked 18-year-old bodies lounging around the pool.
“I guess,” I said. “Do you think you could help me make some furniture out of
Her hand was flabby, without texture or a discernible trace of a bone in it, greasy from fifteen years of moisturizing with Vaseline Intensive Care.
It felt like I was holding a banana slug.
“Tell me again why we’re doing this?” I asked.
I wanted her to let go so that I could take a sip of my Washington Green Apple Tea, which had oozed to the consistency of a 7–Eleven Slurpee.
“You should know by now,” said Roberta.
“Well,” I said. “I guess I’ve forgotten.”
“You know… well… explaining things… it’s not the way I work,” said Roberta for the millionth time.
I turned my head away so Roberta wouldn’t see me roll my eyes.
I sighed. “Well, maybe today you should because I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I said.
Roberta gave me a look. I was pretty sure that I had just broken some unwritten rule of therapy such as the Implied Therapist-Patient agreement.
Somewhere during my fifteen years with Roberta, therapy had become a bad habit like Gap Khakis, Starbucks Coffee, and friends who always made you feel depressed. At some point I actually forgot why I was doing therapy.
I think I first entered therapy because I wanted to speak with a sober adult, someone who wasn’t trying to rationalize a parenting style that equaled criminal negligence. What I got was Volvo-driving, pot-smoking, vegetarian women, the kind that lived in Santa Monica, Venice, Topanga, or Haight-Ashbury, went to Berkeley instead of Barnard and became Unitarian after being raised Jewish or Episcopalian. They could always be found supporting Save the Whales, Habitat for Humanity and Ralph Nader.
But more to the point, they were a stark contrast with my mother, Julia, something I craved.
In the fall my senior year of high school—actually September—I finished all of my applications for college. I sent out 17 applications, to every conservatory, school of fine arts, or university that I thought had promising violin teachers. I was hoping for at least one early admission.
In December, I got a call from one of the fine art schools. They had a shortage of violinists and “Did I want to come to college early?” They offered me a fairly substantial scholarship.
The school had been started with a radical faculty who thought that they would change the world with their artistic vision—30 years later all they wanted to do was make as much money as possible.
I started the arts school in the winter semester, three months before my seventeenth birthday. Due to all of the acceleration and extra credits from music summer schools, I was graduating early.
As I received my dorm room assignment, a hunk of metal which looked like a fatal car crash in red, yellow, and blue was wheeled to me on a dolly.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“This is your furniture,” said the dorm registrar.
The dorm registrar gave me a screwdriver, which was to be used to construct the hunk of metal into a bed, a desk, and a chair. I was also given two bright yellow trash baskets that looked like yellow traffic cones.
I wheeled the dolly with the red, yellow, and blue metal hunk and two yellow trash baskets down a long dark hallway and found my room. The metal was surprisingly heavy.
My room was made out of cinder blocks. It looked like an outdoor carport. The floor was covered with green indoor-outdoor carpeting that was mostly stained. There was one light switch for the panel of fluorescent lights that covered the ceiling. The lights hummed when turned on. The bathroom was shared and connected to another dorm room, the occupant of which was an albino lesbian dancer named Kimmy who was studying modern dance. My room overlooked the swimming pool.
No one—other than me—ever bothered to wear a bathing suit to that pool.
“The trash baskets are cute,” said Julia, as she gazed out at the numerous naked 18-year-old bodies lounging around the pool.
“I guess,” I said. “Do you think you could help me make some furniture out of
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