Keep Austin Weird, page 1
Keep Austin Weird
A Lesbian Superhero Love Story for Grown-Ups
by
Mary Jane
Kindle EDITION
PUBLISHED BY:
Kyle G. Roesler on Kindle Direct Publishing
Keep Austin Weird:
A Lesbian Superhero Love Story for Grown-Ups
Copyright © 2015 by Kyle G. Roesler
(Mary Jane is a pseudonym for Kyle G. Roesler)
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dedication
Part I
Chapter_1
Chapter_2
Chapter_3
Chapter_4
Chapter_5
Chapter_6
Chapter_7
Chapter_8
Chapter_9
Chapter_10
Part_II
Chapter_11
Chapter_12
Chapter_13
Chapter_14
Chapter_15
Chapter_16
Chapter_17
Chapter_18
Chapter_19
Chapter_20
Chapter_21
Chapter_22
Chapter_23
Chapter_24
Chapter_25
Chapter_26
Chapter_27
Part_III
Chapter_28
Chapter_29
Chapter_30
Chapter_31
Chapter_32
Chapter_33
Chapter_34
Chapter_35
Chapter_36
Chapter_37
Chapter_38
Chapter_39
Chapter_40
Chapter_41
Chapter_42
Epilogue
Book_Club_Discussion_Questions
About_the_Author
Dedication
Confession: I lack dedication.
It’s amazing these books ever get done…
Part I
Who is that Masked Woman?
Chapter 1
- 31 December 2000 11:45 A.M.
* US Route 183 South of Austin, TX
“So tell me, have you called in your ransom demands yet?”
“What?”
“You really shouldn’t wait, sometimes it can take the family days to organize their finances.” Eleanor smiles just enough that Kim, using her peripheral vision from the driver’s seat, can tell she’s joking.
“OK, I told you it’s a long drive to this restaurant, but it’s worth it.”
Eleanor sighs and stares out the window of Kim’s deeply weathered Mazda Miata. Even with the top up, like now, the wind leaks in through the thin fabric and tattered plastic rear window. The once flame-red paint on the hood and trunk is sun-faded to a peeling pink. Because of the car’s short wheelbase and low ground clearance, Eleanor experiences the road beneath the car in excruciating detail as the tans and beiges of winter in Texas Hill Country stream endlessly past. Eleanor turns back to Kim. “There appears to be some difference between your definition of, ‘a long drive’ and mine. We passed, ‘a long drive’ at least twenty minutes ago, and now we’ve reached, 'the middle of nowhere.' Maybe this is a body dump, not a kidnapping.”
“No, it is not a body dump or a kidnapping; it’s a road trip and we’re almost there. Trust me, this place is the real deal, authentic Texas Bar-B-Que, with two capital B’s and a capital Q.”
It is New Year’s Eve Day, the last day of the year 2000. Kim had suggested this outing right before Christmas and Eleanor had agreed without considering what “a long drive for lunch” might entail. “I want to show you something authentically Texan,” Kim had said, and Eleanor, without plans for the day, had nodded and smiled.
Kim stares straight ahead as she drives, giving Eleanor the chance to study her. Kim Park is Asian American with short black hair she tucks behind her ears. Her skin glows where it shows: her pretty round face, of course, but also her bare arms under a sleeveless T and sturdy legs under her knee-length denim skirt. Though there is nothing risqué about Kim’s outfit, Eleanor knows she would never display that much of herself in public; she would be self-conscious to the point of distraction. Kim is 23 and Eleanor is 24, but Eleanor feels much more mature than Kim, with all the positive and negative traits associated with the word. Eleanor tries to relax, but it is a lost cause; this trip is so far outside of Austin and her comfort zone she just can’t help being on edge. This leads her to point out, “Ruby’s BBQ has darned good brisket, and it’s only a couple of miles from our school.”
“That trash? That’s not real Bar-B-Que. They have plates and everything.”
Eleanor sighs again. Apparently, today is a multiple sigh day. “OK, you’re the native, so I will trust in your local knowledge.”
“Thank you.”
“Though I’m used to having a plate.”
“You’re probably used to silverware, table service and vegetables, too, but that ain’t Texan.” Kim smiles, thinking back to the day three months ago she first met Eleanor.
Chapter 2
- 30 August 2000 8:45 A.M.
* Lady Bird Johnson Elementary School, Austin, TX
But Kim doesn’t remember, really. She remembers her first day at work, sure, her first day as a teacher during a summer in-service day. She remembers being introduced to every faculty member, so she assumes Eleanor Cooprider was one of them, but all those faces sort of blurred together at the time. She does remember more than one fellow teacher talking about Eleanor on that first day, always in hushed, semi-reverent tones like Cardinals speaking of one of their own who’s likely to be wearing white after the next convention. To this Kim thought, "Next year that’s how they’ll be talking about me!"
On her second day, when she was setting up her classroom, Kim didn’t meet Eleanor, either, but how they didn’t meet is an interesting story. Kim walked past Eleanor’s room on the way to the room that proudly announces Ms. Park at the threshold. They are two of the three Kindergarten teachers at Lady Bird Johnson Elementary School. Their classrooms are right next to each other, all three Kindergarten rooms being semicircular and occupying a hallway cul-de-sac in the far western end of the building. Looking through the doorway, Kim saw Eleanor contemplating. Eleanor sat lightly on the edge of her desk, staring first at one corner of her room then another, giving everything she saw fair attention. Eleanor wore a three-quarter sleeve knit top and a long flowing floral print skirt. After a few months Kim has figured out this is Eleanor’s uniform; she wears a shirt and skirt combination everywhere every day. Eleanor is a little taller than Kim but her legs are disproportionately short, making her look unfairly stocky. Partially because of this genetic misfortune, Eleanor will always have to count her calories to avoid really filling out – an issue that Kim has similar experience with, her face looking like a full moon and all her limbs covered in so much flab. So, their figures are much the same, but that is where their similarities end. Kim’s complexion is dark in winter and extra dark after her outdoorsy summer, and Eleanor is a white, white, white woman. Though constellations of black freckles on her face and hands indicate she has been acquainted with the sun at some point in her life, it seems likely the relationship ended badly and now she wouldn’t be able to pick our sun out of a stellar line up. Where Kim’s hair is a lustrous black with black highlights, lowlights, and everything in between, Eleanor’s hair is blond over light brown, like the color of ripe straw. Kim suspects she dyes it, but as Kim strongly believes in a woman’s right to choose, she sees nothing wrong with that. Kim keeps her hair short and (she thinks) sassy; Kim thinks Eleanor’s conservative, two-inches-down-her-back hairstyle is a Confidante Style. You know, like it was chosen by a film director for the actress playing the best buddy of the lead, a frumpy, low-maintenance style to make an attractive woman look plain, or even dumpy. Eleanor could never look dumpy, though, because her Tiffany-blue eyes are clear and dancing and they light up any room she is in. Eleanor has the gift of looking like someone you want to know. Though Kim stood there for a solid minute, Eleanor never noticed. Her eyes sparkled from her own private thoughts and ideas of what her room would soon look like. Kim, fearful of intruding, went on to her own room.
Kim tried to apply that same critical eye to her domain but couldn’t immediately force beauty, symmetry and vibrancy to pop into her head. The room looked so bare: a curved wall of high windows and three flat walls, one with a large chalkboard, one with a large corkboard and the last plain cinderblock. The only word she saw was the EXIT sign over the door, which her students probably won’t be able to read (at first; Kim planned on changing that soon enough). She doesn’t remember any of her school classrooms looking this drab; of course, she never saw one before a teacher had had a chance to decorate. Classroom Interior Design
Kim took a deep breath and tried to reframe the issue. Since she couldn’t see a way to eat the whole elephant, she decided to fillet that sucker. She turned to the corkboard wall: what should she do with this wall? Maybe she could personalize it, something for each student. She looked at her student list (33, the same number of students as drivers in the Indianapolis 500) and she visualized there being plenty of space to place each kid’s name on some sort of cute and colorful object in eleven rows of three, just like at Indy. Not on cars, though; too masculine. How about on animals? Now, Kim’s drawing skills are not quite ready for primetime, but she thought if she limited herself to the outline of bunnies and duckies she would do all right. She had multi-colored construction paper with her, but she was tragically short of scissors and a way to attach the objects to the wall. Fearing Eleanor was still lost in thought, she turned the other way in the hall.
The third kindergarten teacher is 59 year old Mrs. Carrie Johnson, whom Kim heard other teachers call Lady Bird after checking to be sure Carrie wasn’t in earshot. Growing up, when Kim had heard of Lady Bird Lake in Austin, she assumed it was named after Larry Bird’s mother; it took her kindergarten teacher, Ms. Kessinger, to clear up that misconception. So, she had always smiled when she heard the name Lady Bird, but that didn’t last long after she asked Mrs. Johnson if she could borrow her scissors.
“Why do you want to borrow my scissors?”
“Well, I’m going to cut out some animal shapes to decorate the walls of my classroom, and …”
“No, the question is what does that have to do with my scissors?”
“Oh. I guess my classroom isn’t properly furnished, because …”
“Classrooms do not come fortified with scissors or thumbtacks or pots of gold. Each teacher must provide what she needs.”
Kim took a deep breath. “I see. I wasn’t aware of that, I’m new here you see and …”
“Ignorance of the rules is not a valid excuse.”
“Of course, I’ll toddle off to Walmart tonight to buy some scissors and a stapler, but …”
“Stapler! Staples are a consumable, never reimbursed by the school district, and …”
At that point Kim tuned out Lady Bird in mid-pontification. When the older woman’s lips finally stopped moving, Kim smiled thinly, left Mrs. Johnson without a word, and returned to her own room to let her shock and lack of awe wear off. She sat at her desk and saw, sitting quietly before her, a pair of scissors and a red Swingline stapler. Baring extrasensory perception or surveillance microphones, the only person close enough to have overheard her conversation with Lady Bird was Eleanor.
Chapter 3
- 31 December 2000 11:48 A.M.
* US Route 183 South of Austin, TX
Kim and Eleanor are a few more miles down Route 183 South now, but there are scant signs of civilization. The Miata is currently the only car on the road in either direction. Eleanor is sitting quietly, but can’t stop herself from gripping the handle above her door with her right hand and the side of her bucket seat with her left. Kim, both amused and concerned by Eleanor’s discomfort, says, “I can’t quite tell which stage of death you think you’re in, but I’m going to guess denial-isolation.”
Eleanor shakes her head. “No, bargaining.”
“Oh, bargaining is fun! Who are you workin’ your deal with?”
“I’m still searching for the right deity.”
“Well good luck with that. I’m just glad it isn’t anger.”
“No, not anger. But certainly not acceptance, either.”
“Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”
“That’s the third time you’ve said that.”
“Have I?”
“It’s a phrase that loses some potency each time you use it.”
As gentle reassurances aren’t easing Eleanor’s mind at all, Kim decides to try distracting her instead. She turns on the radio to a mariachi station.
After a minute or two, Eleanor asks, “What’s this song about?”
“It’s about life and love and all that good stuff.”
“No, I mean what are they saying?”
“Oh, I don’t know. My Spanish is a little rusty.”
“Oh.”
“I just like the music.”
Eleanor listens for a little while. “It is nice music …”
“But, you’re a word person, right?”
“A word person?”
“Based on my limited knowledge of you, I’ll hop way out on that proverbial limb and guess you mostly listen to music for the words, right?”
Eleanor fears this conversation may meander more than the plains of Texas gliding past the windshield, but gamely replies, “I’m not really sure I understand the question. When I listen to a song that has words, I listen to the words and the music, at the same time.”
“Sure, but if you think about it, you probably are more drawn to one than the other. Here, it’s easy to figure out: quick, either quote some lyrics from ‘Stairway to Heaven’ or hum the guitar solo.”
With a brief pause, Eleanor stammers, “There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold …”
“Good. Now, how about anything from The Sound of Music?”
Eleanor tunelessly recites, “I am sixteen going on seventeen.”
“See? A tune person would hum,” and Kim belts out an enthusiastic humming rendition of “How Do You Solve a Problem like Maria?” between her pursed lips. “But, you didn’t hum or sing, you recited lyrics. Ergo, you’re a word person.”
“Good to know. And you are?”
“I’m in it for the music. If the music sounds good, I don’t mind if the words are in English, French or Swahili. If it has a good beat and the kids can dance to it, I give it a 95!”
“Huh?”
“That was an American Bandstand reference. Are you sure you were born in this country?”
“I’m quite sure, yes.”
“OK, just checking. We’re here.”
Eleanor looks out her side window and notices they are indeed entering a small town. It appears to be two blocks wide and maybe six blocks long with train tracks paralleling the main street. There’s nothing in sight that looks much like a restaurant, though; there are old brick buildings along a raised, cracked sidewalk, their faded marquees calling out to trains which now pass by infrequently and then their most animated passengers are mere steps from being hamburgers, pork chops or nuggets. It is a sleepy little town and these ladies have arrived precisely at nap time; it is the sort of town that needs to be filmed in black and white with tumbleweeds and dust devils to really capture its essence.
“This is Luling, Texas, the home of the most authentic lunch in the entire state,” Kim says while executing a left-hand turn onto Main Street.
“I don’t see a restaurant.”
“That’s because it is hiding in plain sight.” They pull into a parking space in front of one of the larger brick buildings with the requisite faded sign proclaiming City Market. “This is the place.”
Eleanor rolls her eyes but after that drive she doesn’t really see any way to avoid going into this grocery store and discovering what they do with barbeque. Her anticipation of disappointment is somewhat offset by Kim’s obvious, mildly infectious enthusiasm. Kim hops out of the car and stretches like a sprinter before the first 100m of the morning. “Boy, the Miata might need some new shocks or something, no?”
“I’m not really an expert in these matters,” Eleanor says tactfully.
“Yeah, I’ll take Michael Jordan into the shop and get her checked out. But, I should warn you, the trip home will be somewhat less comfortable. When you have a full stomach, you stop appreciating this car’s ability to provide a scientifically accurate rendering of the highway you’re traveling on.”
Though there is a lot to respond to there, all Eleanor says as she steps up onto the sidewalk is, “You call your car Michael Jordan?”
“Sure; it is Chicago Bulls red, after all, or at least it once was. Now that faded paint is a fitting tribute to the fading memory of His Airness. But enough philosophy; come on, let’s eat.” Kim practically dances her way to the front door with Eleanor lagging a few steps behind.
