Read Online That Magic Mischief by Susan Conley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Susan Conley
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of it all, anyway, love and friendship especially. Half the time you got dumped by your lover, mocked by your friends, and rejected by stupid agents who didn’t realize that she, herself, Annabelle Walsh, had written the latest hot historical fictional novel that was even better than the ones about those stupid paintings.
Annabelle flopped over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Her hands fisted in the sheets, and she experimented with kicking her heels, tantrum-like. It felt good, so she did it again. And then again, harder, so her hips sprung up off the bed. This had definite possibilities, and she began kicking, steadily, harder,
bam bam bam
until the bed was a blur of bouncing sheets and blankets and limbs accompanied by a dangerous squeak of springs that threatened collapse until Annabelle, having broken a sweat, ended it all with a hearty, “Bleeearrghughaaaaaahhh!”
She rolled over yet again and curled up into a ball. Should have tried that in Lorna’s lame excuse for an office on her two-square feet of designer remnant carpet.
Some friend
, Annabelle thought sullenly. “Some stupid friend,” she said aloud, keeping herself company. And Maria Grazia. “Ha,” she said.
Talking to me like I was crazy or something
. Her
heart
was broken. “My heart is
broken
,” she reminded her pillow, “and they look at me like, oh, what’s your problem, get over it already, we all hated him anyway, so what are
you
so upset about, ‘Anna’ — or ‘Belle’ — or whatever you call me!
“My name is Annabelle. I hate those nicknames. I
hate
them. I
hated
that Wilson called me ‘Annie’. Like I was a stupid orphan in a stupid play!”
She sat up, propping her six pillows against the wall, and crossed her arms over her chest. She kicked her sheets and blankets onto the floor, and pulled her ratty, over-sized nightshirt over her knees. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her clock tick over from 11:15 to11:16. She shifted the blinds a bit for the weather report. Sunny, sunny, sunny by the looks of it, not too windy, and the handful of pedestrians strolling up Union Street weren’t grimacing with cold — all the earmarks of a beautiful day.
Whoopie
.
Annabelle slumped back against the pillows and took stock. At least she seemed to have dried up. There had been no floods of tears for almost two whole days. The grumpiness and tantrum thing seemed like the heralds of a new phase. Maybe it was like those five stages of grief, surely Maria Grazia would know —
not
that she was ever going to call her again or anything. She certainly wasn’t going to continue to foster a friendship with someone who thought she was a raving lunatic. And that went double for Lorna, that stuck-up bitch, what did she know about heartbreak? — “Not like she
has
a heart.”
I need to stop talking to myself
, Annabelle thought,
at least out loud
. She pulled the already stretched-out collar of her nightshirt over her mouth.
Obviously, the statute of limitations as regarded the public mourning of ex-relationships had expired. Obviously, she was meant to adhere to some sort of schedule of recovery not of her making.
Obviously
, she was just a big fat baby and nobody cared about her, or about her
feelings
.
“Okay, Walsh, cut it out!” She leaped out of bed, then briskly made it up, straightened her shoes to run in neat pairs at the foot of her bed, threw yesterday’s clothes into her laundry bag — and then caught sight of herself in the mirror above her dresser. Still a little on the wan side, hair a bit lifeless, but it all showed in her eyes, eyes that despite the flashes of anger and the blur of activity, still looked like two little blue pools of hurt and sadness and despair. She touched her reflection, barely recognizing herself —
Who am I, who am I, who am I?
She got back into bed and pulled the covers over her head.
If only she could sell her book. If only she had an agent. If only her blog would hit the big time. If
Annabelle flopped over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Her hands fisted in the sheets, and she experimented with kicking her heels, tantrum-like. It felt good, so she did it again. And then again, harder, so her hips sprung up off the bed. This had definite possibilities, and she began kicking, steadily, harder,
bam bam bam
until the bed was a blur of bouncing sheets and blankets and limbs accompanied by a dangerous squeak of springs that threatened collapse until Annabelle, having broken a sweat, ended it all with a hearty, “Bleeearrghughaaaaaahhh!”
She rolled over yet again and curled up into a ball. Should have tried that in Lorna’s lame excuse for an office on her two-square feet of designer remnant carpet.
Some friend
, Annabelle thought sullenly. “Some stupid friend,” she said aloud, keeping herself company. And Maria Grazia. “Ha,” she said.
Talking to me like I was crazy or something
. Her
heart
was broken. “My heart is
broken
,” she reminded her pillow, “and they look at me like, oh, what’s your problem, get over it already, we all hated him anyway, so what are
you
so upset about, ‘Anna’ — or ‘Belle’ — or whatever you call me!
“My name is Annabelle. I hate those nicknames. I
hate
them. I
hated
that Wilson called me ‘Annie’. Like I was a stupid orphan in a stupid play!”
She sat up, propping her six pillows against the wall, and crossed her arms over her chest. She kicked her sheets and blankets onto the floor, and pulled her ratty, over-sized nightshirt over her knees. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her clock tick over from 11:15 to11:16. She shifted the blinds a bit for the weather report. Sunny, sunny, sunny by the looks of it, not too windy, and the handful of pedestrians strolling up Union Street weren’t grimacing with cold — all the earmarks of a beautiful day.
Whoopie
.
Annabelle slumped back against the pillows and took stock. At least she seemed to have dried up. There had been no floods of tears for almost two whole days. The grumpiness and tantrum thing seemed like the heralds of a new phase. Maybe it was like those five stages of grief, surely Maria Grazia would know —
not
that she was ever going to call her again or anything. She certainly wasn’t going to continue to foster a friendship with someone who thought she was a raving lunatic. And that went double for Lorna, that stuck-up bitch, what did she know about heartbreak? — “Not like she
has
a heart.”
I need to stop talking to myself
, Annabelle thought,
at least out loud
. She pulled the already stretched-out collar of her nightshirt over her mouth.
Obviously, the statute of limitations as regarded the public mourning of ex-relationships had expired. Obviously, she was meant to adhere to some sort of schedule of recovery not of her making.
Obviously
, she was just a big fat baby and nobody cared about her, or about her
feelings
.
“Okay, Walsh, cut it out!” She leaped out of bed, then briskly made it up, straightened her shoes to run in neat pairs at the foot of her bed, threw yesterday’s clothes into her laundry bag — and then caught sight of herself in the mirror above her dresser. Still a little on the wan side, hair a bit lifeless, but it all showed in her eyes, eyes that despite the flashes of anger and the blur of activity, still looked like two little blue pools of hurt and sadness and despair. She touched her reflection, barely recognizing herself —
Who am I, who am I, who am I?
She got back into bed and pulled the covers over her head.
If only she could sell her book. If only she had an agent. If only her blog would hit the big time. If
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