I change into my olive green bathing suit and grab a white towel from the bathroom, wrapping it around me like a cloak. Nobody should be in the hot tub now, and since I can’t sleep, why not? I set my hand on the doorknob and look at Oscar.
He waves his fins, and sad bubbles leave his lips. I thought fish didn’t feel emotions.
“Oscar, could you stop that?” I ask.
He shakes his head as if he understands me.
I sigh and say, “You are bad,” approaching him. I pick up Oscar’s bowl and carry it into the silent hallway. I think about New York and writing while we head to the hot tub. I won’t fall subject to Riley’s Anxiety in Inside Out 2: “I’m not good enough.” I’m a good writer because I write what’s different. I don’t need to write clichés—that’s the amateur’s way out. There is more to life than Romance, and I will prove that. We will one day have the books we had in the 19th and 20th Centuries again.
“I’m not good enough.” No, no, no, Bailey.
“I’m not good enough.” Stop, Bailey, stop. You won’t force yourself to write Romance to get published quickly. That’s not who I am. Anxiety, leave me alone.
My heart pounds, and I clutch my chest. “Oscar, I’m sorry, but I need that hot tub right now.” I move quicker and don’t stop until I find the hot tub and scan myself in. As expected, no one is in it or the five-foot-deep, glittering pool. It’s snowing, but I’m safe inside the building.
I set Oscar’s bowl on the hot tub’s rim and slip inside, saying, “Ah,” as a wave of hot water overtakes my weary body. I rest my arms on the rim but ensure I don’t hit Oscar. He’s the only fish I refuse to eat. “Don’t worry—I’m not gonna barbecue you,” I encourage him.
“Praise the Lord,” reads his eyes, and I giggle. His bowl fogs up the longer I stay in the tub, and I wipe it.
“If you were ever a dad, Oscar, what would you do to ensure your kids have the best childhood?” I ask. “Murielle wants to turn the girls into Disney nerds, but I’d like to teach them the joys and sorrows of writing.” I consider child actors and add, “Although I don’t want to force my children into something they don’t want to be (like writing Romance).” After all, every child is different. Will it be abusive if I force the girls to become writers?
So much is occurring in my head that I dip underwater and let my face burn. It feels like when I first met Murielle—during a hot day at Disney World. She was shaky after Mission: Space, so I approached her and asked, “Are you okay?”
“I should not have done Mission: Space as my first ride today,” Murielle replied.
“Here, I’ll take you to get a Mickey Bar,” I suggested. That Mickey Bar had turned into a walk around Epcot’s World Showcase. Next thing I knew, Murielle and I were pen pals.
I toss my head out of the water and gasp, shaking water off my hair.
The poolroom’s door opens, and Esmerelda enters.
“Ms. Esmerelda!” I yell. I stand at once but accidentally bump Oscar. He curls up like a fetus, but I grab him before he falls. That was too close, but I now need to prepare for a Howler from Esmerelda. I doubt I’m supposed to be out here at 1:00 in the morning.
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