Read Online Hello, Hollywood! by Janice Thompson - Free Book Online
Authors: Janice Thompson
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load up the cupcakes with rum and sell them to customers by the dozen. The ones she didn’t eat, anyway.
At 4:20 I got up to go to the bathroom, then returned to my room and paced. What was the point in calling myself a Christian if I didn’t trust God with the finer points of my life? What a hypocrite I’d become. Maybe I just needed to pray about all of this. Give it to him. Or try to.
Moments later, I crawled back into the bed, propped up my pillows, and lit into a prayer session, bending the Almighty’s ear in my direction. He already knew my fears, of course, but I reminded him anyway, just in case he’d forgotten. And surely he realized I needed an income, right? I couldn’t go on living with my parents forever. Well, I could, but my childhood bedroom had passed its expiration date years ago. A twenty-eight-year-old woman didn’t need to start each day by looking at Strawberry Shortcake bedsheets and wallpaper. And the little hand-painted dresser had been cute in the early nineties, but no one had furniture like that anymore. Well, no one in their late twenties.
My thoughts shifted to my fellow writers, and I prayed for them. Well, two of them, anyway. I couldn’t bring myself to pray for Stephen just yet.
Hmm. I suddenly faced a crazy temptation. Maybe I should pray that his writing skills would turn out to be lousy so that Rex would send him packing.
Nah. That would just be wrong.
Right?
By five in the morning, I’d finally fallen asleep. I dreamed that I was at the World Cup, playing soccer with the ball I’d kept hidden in my shirt. I’d just prepped myself to kick the black-and-white ball into the goal when a member of the opposing team—one who looked suspiciously like Adonis—tackled me and knocked me to the ground, then kicked the ball in a different direction. Just as quickly, the ball morphed into a baby, which he scooped up and passed off to me. I, in turn, handed it to Kat, who looked dumbfounded as the cooing infant began to cry. Still, she held on tight, eventually singing the little one a lullaby. Very, very odd.
I awoke at eight, feeling like I’d been run over by a Mack truck in the night. One glance in the mirror made me wish I had. Were those really my eyes? Who had bags like that at my age? And what was up with the drool marks on the right side of my lips? They’d crusted over in a faint little dribble. Gross. The wrinkle marks on my cheek weren’t so bad, but the red streaks in my eyes made me look like I’d spent the night mourning the loss of a loved one.
No, even grief couldn’t make me look this bad.
Mama stuck her head in my door to tell me she was leaving for the shop. After taking one look at me, she promptly declared that I must be ill.
“Go back to bed, Athena. You need the rest. Poor girl.” She began to speak in Greek. Something about how no man would find me attractive in my current condition. Lovely.
I offered up my best argument. “No, I want to help. You need me.”
She pointed to my eyes, a look of horror on her face. “Not that bad.”
“I’ll look better after I take a shower and put on some makeup. Don’t worry.”
She clucked her tongue and disappeared into the hallway, muttering something in Greek about how life shouldn’t be this hard for a twenty-eight-year-old who still lived at home with her mother. About how she’d hoped for a better life for me. I chose to ignore her comments. I turned on the shower, letting it run until the bathroom filled with steam.
I’d hoped the hot shower would awaken me, but it nearly proved to be my undoing instead. Apparently the heat of the water and my lack of sleep were a poor combination. I found myself feeling worse than ever. Woozy, even. What a mess.
I staggered out of the shower, forgetting to rinse the conditioner out of my hair, which meant I had to get back in. Good grief.
Snap out of it, Athena. Just be normal.
I managed to dress, though I ended up with two shoes that didn’t match. After
At 4:20 I got up to go to the bathroom, then returned to my room and paced. What was the point in calling myself a Christian if I didn’t trust God with the finer points of my life? What a hypocrite I’d become. Maybe I just needed to pray about all of this. Give it to him. Or try to.
Moments later, I crawled back into the bed, propped up my pillows, and lit into a prayer session, bending the Almighty’s ear in my direction. He already knew my fears, of course, but I reminded him anyway, just in case he’d forgotten. And surely he realized I needed an income, right? I couldn’t go on living with my parents forever. Well, I could, but my childhood bedroom had passed its expiration date years ago. A twenty-eight-year-old woman didn’t need to start each day by looking at Strawberry Shortcake bedsheets and wallpaper. And the little hand-painted dresser had been cute in the early nineties, but no one had furniture like that anymore. Well, no one in their late twenties.
My thoughts shifted to my fellow writers, and I prayed for them. Well, two of them, anyway. I couldn’t bring myself to pray for Stephen just yet.
Hmm. I suddenly faced a crazy temptation. Maybe I should pray that his writing skills would turn out to be lousy so that Rex would send him packing.
Nah. That would just be wrong.
Right?
By five in the morning, I’d finally fallen asleep. I dreamed that I was at the World Cup, playing soccer with the ball I’d kept hidden in my shirt. I’d just prepped myself to kick the black-and-white ball into the goal when a member of the opposing team—one who looked suspiciously like Adonis—tackled me and knocked me to the ground, then kicked the ball in a different direction. Just as quickly, the ball morphed into a baby, which he scooped up and passed off to me. I, in turn, handed it to Kat, who looked dumbfounded as the cooing infant began to cry. Still, she held on tight, eventually singing the little one a lullaby. Very, very odd.
I awoke at eight, feeling like I’d been run over by a Mack truck in the night. One glance in the mirror made me wish I had. Were those really my eyes? Who had bags like that at my age? And what was up with the drool marks on the right side of my lips? They’d crusted over in a faint little dribble. Gross. The wrinkle marks on my cheek weren’t so bad, but the red streaks in my eyes made me look like I’d spent the night mourning the loss of a loved one.
No, even grief couldn’t make me look this bad.
Mama stuck her head in my door to tell me she was leaving for the shop. After taking one look at me, she promptly declared that I must be ill.
“Go back to bed, Athena. You need the rest. Poor girl.” She began to speak in Greek. Something about how no man would find me attractive in my current condition. Lovely.
I offered up my best argument. “No, I want to help. You need me.”
She pointed to my eyes, a look of horror on her face. “Not that bad.”
“I’ll look better after I take a shower and put on some makeup. Don’t worry.”
She clucked her tongue and disappeared into the hallway, muttering something in Greek about how life shouldn’t be this hard for a twenty-eight-year-old who still lived at home with her mother. About how she’d hoped for a better life for me. I chose to ignore her comments. I turned on the shower, letting it run until the bathroom filled with steam.
I’d hoped the hot shower would awaken me, but it nearly proved to be my undoing instead. Apparently the heat of the water and my lack of sleep were a poor combination. I found myself feeling worse than ever. Woozy, even. What a mess.
I staggered out of the shower, forgetting to rinse the conditioner out of my hair, which meant I had to get back in. Good grief.
Snap out of it, Athena. Just be normal.
I managed to dress, though I ended up with two shoes that didn’t match. After
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