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- Herausgeber: WS
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: Queen Bee and the Turk
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
Beatrice Fredricks, a spirited former Texas teacher, swaps textbooks for scripts in a complete career overhaul.
Seeking an escape from the shadows of unrequited love and a dangerous work environment, Beatrice dives in headfirst where laughter, friendship and a mischievous Great Dane named Zeki await in glitzy L.A. When she’s asked to be the maid of honor at her best friend’s wedding back home, her boss, Ihsan, accepts the challenge to help her transform into the confident, leading lady of her own love story. But working closely with the handsome actor stirs feelings she’s not ready for. Desperate to avoid repeating past mistakes, Beatrice convinces herself it’s just another case of falling for the wrong person.
Ihsan Zorlu, already an international Turkish film star, sets his sights on Hollywood to secure his family’s future and heal from a tumultuous divorce. In an unconventional move, Ihsan hires Beatrice as his personal assistant to aid him in his American debut. The line between personal and professional might as well be written in invisible ink as they learn to work and live in the same house. Beatrice believes love is for the flawless, which Ihsan knows from painful experience isn’t true. Does he have what it takes to make it big in Hollywood? And can he convince his assistant that she’s perfect and beautiful the way she is? Will Zeki ever understand personal space?
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Copyright © 2024 by Daphne MacLeod
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Contents
Dedications
To my mother who instilled, in all six of her children, the love of reading. We love and miss you.
To my dad that always supported my crazy ideas even the goose in the science fair.
To all the teachers out there just trying to get through the day, it is never too late to chase a dream even one you didn't know you had.
To my friends, both old and new, who listened to my crazy ideas and encouraged me to write them down, I can't tell you how much it means to me that you believed in me and tolerated all my silliness.
To my immediate and extended family…surprise! I wrote a book.
Finally, to my husband. Thank you for sticking by me for the last 25 years. Alaskan girls aren't easy. (Another book idea!)
Oh and…got you back!
Seni seviyorum.
I love you.
A portion of the proceeds of the sale of this book will be donated to the charities below. If you would like to donate directly to these charities please scan the QR codes provided.
Teşekkürler
Thank you.
Introduction
Hello! I just wanted to take a quick moment to explain about the birth of the book you are about to enjoy. I started writing in May of 2022 in reaction to listening to a terrible audiobook in which I naively thought that I could write better. A few other things occurred at the same time but the one that inspired this book, and subsequent books thereafter, was my new addiction to Turkish dramas. Along this journey I realized that writing makes me happy. Really happy. Not only the writing but whole writing community has been so incredibly supportive from online writing support groups to the romance book club at my local independent book store.
Ten years ago, my husband surprised me with the funds to be able to go back to school to earn another teaching credential so I could once again teach. I haven't been able to figure out a way to pay him back then I had the brilliant idea of surprising my husband with the possibility of earning some extra money with my writing to help pay our for our daughter's college. Until the day this book launches, my husband thinks I've been looking for bracelet ideas and reading advance reader copies. In my defense, those tabs were also open on my laptop.
Many people in my life inspired my ideas for the book series as I've been told many time to write what you know. I also wrote who you know. Please understand it is with love and admiration that your essence has found its way into these pages. (please don't be pissed)
I hope you enjoy Beatrice and Ihsan's story. If you would like to support my efforts to continue their story, please consider leaving a review on any platform you'd like. I hope you had just as much fun reading this book as I had writing it.
All this to say, when you feel inspired and the universe gives you opportunities, SAY EVET! (that's "yes" in Turkish)
If you'd like receive my newsletter and keep up to date on future releases, visit www.daphnemacleodauthor.com.
Content Warning – This book refers to issues of school violence, PTSD, and child abuse.
BEATRICE FREDRICKS
“Three strikes, Matthew, I’m done. I’ve struck out on life.”
The path in the space between my couch and the coffee table has become the stage for my command performance.
“Hold on. What are you talking about? You started in the middle of the second scene, sweetie,” Matthew replies from the square on the laptop screen. Living in Hollywood has him using movie set vocabulary. “Start from the top.”
“Strike one: my mom doesn’t know me. When I visit, she panics as if I’m an intruder in her room. She’s barely recognizable. It’s more painful to be with her than without her.” I turn sharply at the end of my path to emphasize the points on my list. “Strike two: there is no one special holding me here. We both know I’m not dating. Who wants to deal with all of this? I couldn’t ask them to. Oh, but wait. Just when I think that’s enough the universe says, ‘hold my beer, let me show you what I've got.' Which brings me to strike three: I can’t teach here anymore. I can’t walk into the school and pray that I walk out at the end of the day. Did you know the district is calling the hostage standoff ‘the intruder incident’? I can’t look my students in the face and know their lives could depend on me,” I say, finally voicing all my woes for the first time out loud to anyone. This past week resembles a dumpster fire on top of a train wreck covered in hot mess sauce.
“I know something is wrong if you’re making sports references and not movie ones. Have you checked for a fever or rash?” His face gets closer to the screen as if searching for the red skin specks himself.
“Matthew, this is serious,” I say, trying to convince him that this is a life-changing moment.
“Rashes are serious.”
I continue ignoring his attempts to derail me. “My parents traveled the world twice over by the time they were my age and I have been stuck in the fire swamp barely escaping getting burned.”
“There you are, Bee. You were almost unrecognizable. All the panicking and baseball talk. Wait, was it Bull Durham, Moneyball, or Field of Dreams?”
“A League of Their Own,” I answer sheepishly. “But that’s beside the point.”
“Shouldn’t you be talking to Brandon, I’m usually the Schroeder brother you call for gay comic relief.”
He’s right, Brandon would have understood a lot better but these days Brandon is occupied. Very happily occupied. How do I tell Matthew that strike two was actually Brandon without telling him it was Brandon? I could handle my mom and stupid Brandon’s feelings but strike three, that was it.
But when push came to shove, Matthew was always good for help in desperate situations. And this situation felt like the most desperate of all. I haven’t seen him in person since he moved to Los Angeles a year ago to work for a publicist. From the excitement I hear in his voice during our weekly online movie nights, LA has been good for him, and he’s been good for LA. He fits in with the LA scene with his six-foot-two, lean, slightly muscular stature, and his short dark brown hair with the perfect amount of wave that is on its best behavior most days.
“Because you’re on the outside. You already escaped.”
A week ago I spent three hours hunkered down in my classroom calming my frantic students, waiting for the “all clear” without any clue about the emergency. After several texts between my teacher tribe, I was informed a man entered the office with a gun demanding his child be released to him. Immediately, the school nurse ducked into the health office and called 911. The “Mr. Roadrunner is in the building,” announcement initiated the lockdown. It escalated into a hostage situation where the enraged man blocked off exits and corralled the front office staff. With the blares of sirens and emergency vehicles racing down the street echoing in my ears, I finally decided it’s time to throw in the towel. No amount of training prepares you for the real thing. Three hours is a lot of time to think about all the decisions you’ve made in your life. It’s like riding a hobby horse for years and then they throw you on the back of a thoroughbred and smack it on the ass. So here I am, asking my dearest friend to help me plan my escape.
“Matthew, I need to leave. I can’t think about my life a lesson at a time anymore. Hell, I need to have a life. I need to change…everything.” I couldn’t stop the desperation in my voice. At least I stopped short of whining.
“Woah, Bee. Inhale, sweetie. We got this. I tell people all day long what they should do, and I can do this for you, too,” he takes a minute to think. The outline of his lean, muscled arms break into frame as he runs his fingers through the blonde spot above his ear. A not-so-subtle reminder of the beauty in imperfection.
“What is anchoring you there? Is there anything in San Antonio that you can’t find somewhere else.”
His plain brown eyes gleam of ‘up to no good,’ which usually sends warning bells but today I trust he has tempered his natural tendency for mischievous antics. The family genes are strong in his straight, severe jawline. With thousands of dollars of orthodontia, perfectly straight teeth create a stunning smile which supports my gut instinct to always be a little suspicious. Teeth that straight aren’t right. I don’t believe I have ever seen a single chin hair, nor five o’clock shadow, much less fur of any kind on him other than his perfect mane.
I look around my home for any clues to answer his question. The macrame plant hangers that I made with my class and my childhood pictures hanging there since I was little are not keeping me from leaving. This was my childhood home, but this was my mom’s house. This was her life, not mine.
“My mom’s house.”
“You can always live somewhere else. Would you be willing to sell it?” Matthew replies.
Mom won’t ever be returning and I don’t have the time or know how or really the desire to make major changes in the house. It’s filled with her memories and I’m just the caretaker of them. The easiest and most dramatic change would be to scrap it and start from scratch.
“I would.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Changing everything includes teaching. That is not my path anymore. I have options, right?” I plead.
“Of course. I just need to know your parameters,” he says.
Matthew has always loved using me as a project. He does everything in his power to get me out of the house, out of my head and out of my comfort zone. Sometimes, he was actually successful; dragging me to college parties where I became the drink cup monitor or the potted plant human support person.
“What is your money situation? Do you have savings?”
“I’m a SINK, single income, no kids. So, I’m better off than most.”
“We can work with that,” he says with hope and confidence in his voice. “If you are serious, you need to take the first step. You need to resign.”
A giant gulp involuntarily drains down my throat. That is the r-word.
“I could take a sabbatical,” I say, losing confidence in my earlier convictions.
“Stop! You are not giving yourself an out. You just made a big deal about retiring. You even made sports references for God’s sake. You can’t give yourself a safety net. You are at the contemplation stage of change. It’s time for action. Look at that pit and have no idea if there is a net at the bottom. Be divergent or whatever.”
He is speaking my love language with the movie reference. Calling Matthew was the right move. Something must have stuck during the three semesters he spent as a psychology major.
“Resigning not retiring. I’ve only been in the system six years. But you’re right. Suck it up because there is no crying in baseball!” I shout, channeling my inner Jimmy Dugan.
After saying our goodbyes, I push Matthew’s fading face down to the keyboard, walk into my bedroom, stand with my back toward my bed and fall into the covers à la nineties teen movie style, blindly onto the mattress. My mind wanders to Brandon as it usually does.
Brandon is the founding member of the “‘Bee Team,” as the group lovingly calls it. The Schroeder brothers were both the love and curse of my collegiate life. I met Schroeder brother number one, Brandon, when he knocked on the piano practice room door one evening. I was trying to work out some accompaniments for my side gig, piano accompanist for my former high school choir director, Mr. Davis. It was the first time in my life I really understood what speechless meant. I opened my mouth and my vocal cords were paralyzed.
How was I supposed to communicate with this incredibly good-looking man when we clearly did not live on the same planet?
He towered over me with the same two inches over six feet as Matthew, his younger brother. With floppy, dark, curly hair, a smooth strong jaw, piercing blue eyes and an almost overly buff body of a rugby player, his casual friendliness and grit he showed to learn the piano endeared him to me. He did not just want to pass the elective class he needed for his degree, he really wanted to play. In most cases, I would have dismissed him but his magic charm seeped into my blood and I was defenseless. It also rubbed my funny bone to watch his giant body sitting over the piano keys and watching them best him. Besides the brown hair, he looked remarkably like the piano player from the "Peanuts" cartoon. The Schroeder name was just a perfect coincidence until Matthew called me Lucy and then it hit too close to home.
The University of San Antonio music building never saw someone so enthralled as Brandon was the day I brought him into the recital hall. His eyes grew to the size of teacup saucers and he shushed me as if he was an old grandma in church. I understood his reverence as the wood acoustic paneling framed the grand floor to ceiling Casavent Fréres organ. It was my church.
Matthew was the free gift with purchase. A gift, as they say, that keeps on giving even into post graduate adulthood. Schroeder brother number two invaded my social circle when I spotted him wearing Elton John glasses at Brandon’s class recital, not for attention, but to distract Brandon from a rare case of stage fright. Little did I know that after that recital, Brandon wasn’t finished with me. To my surprise, we cultivated a friendship during those lessons. We enjoyed each other’s sense of humor, taste in classic movies and retro music. If I had all the typical physical attributes that attracted the opposite sex, I like to think that it could have been more. But my thickness in all the wrong places didn’t allow me such privileges. Instead, I fell in love with Brandon and reveled in what attention I was allowed, friendship.
I couldn’t have asked for better friends my first semester of college. They made this “townie” participate in everything the university had to offer, from the campus freshman scavenger hunt to building floats for the Dîa en la Sombrilla festival during Fiesta San Antonio. Although he said it was to help all the student organizations on campus, I suspect Matthew was adamant we participate because he wanted to ride the float. I swear, any excuse to wear a boa. I didn’t realize how impressionable eighteen was. All over campus, bronze hearts are scattered so passersby can rub them and be granted a miracle. I mapped the path to my classes based on how many hearts I could touch, to increase my chances that Brandon would suddenly realize he’s in love with me and come sprinting across campus and lay a giant breath stealing kiss on me. Alas, I remained still breathing with untouched lips. According to my math, the universe owes me. It can start right now, while I'm stuck at home waiting for the next shoe to fall.
After the decision not to return to school for the six weeks left of the academic year, parents were given a few days where students could return books or gather anything from classrooms they needed. It would take a lot more time than six weeks to rebuild the sense of safety in that building. Familes were offered to enroll their children in other schools or attend online classes. Either way, it felt weird. The librarian finally gave up empty book boxes she hoarded like a psycho hobbit so I could bring home the things that I truly valued: letters from students, picture frames with images of fun spirit days with my teacher besties and a triangular prism desk decoration of the motto “You Got This” in a skinny font that I got from a Secret Santa. I stared at it a moment and placed it in the box in between a couple of half dead plants that hadn’t been watered since the lockdown.
Because of the small amount of stuff I was packing into my car, none of my comrades knew I was leaving for more than just the summer. I left all the classroom supplies I had ever purchased or recycled in my room and decorations I used to inspire slash/annoy my students on the walls. As I turned to say my farewells to my classroom, the sadness I thought I would feel turned to excitement with a giant dollop of apprehension.
Most teachers are still in shock and walk around with tunnel vision just to cope. There is an unspoken understanding that we just aren’t ready. For anything. The feeling of dread is almost physically measurable throughout the buildings. Friends that would normally greet each other with smiles and a witty comment, cast their eyes down and avoid conversation.
The principal sent out another email about support for not only students and families but also teachers as well. A Band-Aid for a serrated artery. So many of my teacher friends can’t get out. They are too dependent and invested in their careers. For the first time, I am grateful I am not one of them and with Matthew’s assistance I can make a clean break.
Since the initial call to assemble, Matthew created an online checklist where he laid out my Texas escape plan, updated daily. Sometimes hourly when he’s feeling particularly spunky. He even made boxes next to the items so I could check them off. It started off as a simple list but quickly turned into a full-fledged manifesto. This is what I need though. I need to feel in control, but I also need someone to hold me accountable.
Step 1-Pack up classroom. Check.
Step 2-Send resignation letter to my principal and human resources with my intent not to return for the next school year. Half check.
Step 3-Debrief the “Bee Team.”
Step three would be the hardest. This is going to come out of the blue.
The most recent member of the “Bee Team” was Sarah. The most beautiful school psychologist that has ever graced a middle school campus. You never saw so many middle school boys more than happy to go to the office. Sarah and I are the yin and yang of our little microcosm. Where she is tall, I am short. Where her eyes shine pure aquamarine, mine are a mash up of green, brown and gold. Where she is up on all the teacher-gram fashions, I am lucky to leave the house with matching shoes. Where she is fit, I am well…not. Where she resembles a graceful gazelle on the plains of the Serengeti, I bear a striking resemblance to a baby rhinoceros; cute, a bit round and quick on her feet. Where her naturally highlighted brunette hair is shoulder length and always styled without a strand out of place, mine can’t decide between brown and blonde and is rarely released from it’s tethers lest it gets caught in a drawer, door, or giant laminator.
When I “shipped”, as my students say, Brandon and Sarah I wasn’t surprised when it turned from fantasy to reality and they became “shipped” for real. When I first heard the term, I thought my students were talking about ,but then one kind girl took pity on me and explained it was a play on the word “relationship.” No wonder I didn’t get it.
Weirdly enough, Brandon’s choice of women often saw me as a threat. When he started dating anyone, I backed off our daily calls or texts. It hurt too much to hear about his new girl and most of the time, I found fault with them. It was too hard not to share my opinions. But I knew Sarah before Brandon did and she checked all of his boxes. Inviting Sarah to our little gatherings and inserting facts about her into our conversations means I can safely take credit for covertly setting them up. He is a different kind of happy with her. A happy I’ve never made him or ever will.
Closing the door of the back seat of my Honda with the two boxes of things I couldn’t leave behind, I take a moment to think of the most inconspicuous path to Sarah’s office. I decide on the one that takes me by the vice principal’s office but avoids all the front office staff, principal’s secretary, and principal’s office. I make my way grinch-like, on my tip toes, through the side office door and knock quietly on the small square window insert. The lighting in her office is dim and the air smells of lilacs. She turns to the tiny window and ushers me in. I could see by the unfamiliar dark bags under her eyes and her low energy level that her sympathy tank is running low after the past week and I didn’t need to pile it on.
“Hey, it’s my favorite math teacher,” she looks at me with her perfect smile.
“Hey, it’s my favorite head shrinker,” I reply. She always laughs at my various mislabelings of her profession.
“Do you have like ten minutes to talk?” I ask. I never say a moment because I’m a talker and it’s not right to suck up people’s time if they aren’t prepared. And likewise, if you ask me a question you better be prepared for the answer.
“Of course.”
She turns off her monitor as she always does to avoid distraction.
“I’ve made a big decision, and I wanted you to know before I tell Brandon, I’m not sure how he’ll react,” I take a long deep breath. “I’ve been unhappy for a while.”
“I’ve had my suspicions, but figured I would let you be until you were ready to talk. It's the one time I would approve of enabling.”
“I appreciate that. I can’t stand people looking at me with pity,” I reply.
“Sooooo?! Are you getting a pet or new furniture?” She smiles again trying to help ease me into the conversation.
“I’m changing. Everything.”
“What does that mean, specifically?”
“I just sent in my resignation letter. I’m selling my house and I’m moving out of Texas.”
Now that I have voiced my plans, they feel more real and my gut wrenches slightly at hearing the words out loud. Until now, Matthew’s checklist had just been black and white words on a screen with a few red check marks. The voice of Little Red Riding Hood from Into the Woods rings in my head. She really does sing it best as she explains her traumatic experience being eaten by a wolf, “made me feel excited, well, excited and scared.” The excitement of a possible pivotal change on the horizon encourages me to continue explaining my thought process.
“Teaching doesn’t fill my soul the way it used to. I can’t even think about going back into the classroom now. Texas just holds too many bad memories. I’m not too old to make a different path for myself. I’ve made a few plans, but I’ve dreaded telling my friends,” motioning to the office outside.
“So, where are you looking? What are you going to do? Tell me everything,” she says excitedly, her eyes growing larger.
Sarah’s reaction settles a few of my nerves. Two out of the three of the most important people are with me. So far, so good.
“I don’t know. I’ve joined a few online groups for teachers transitioning, but I’m waiting for an idea to jump off the screen. Because that’s the way it works, you know,” I laugh at my faux naivety.
“Aren’t you scared?”
“Not as scared as I was,” I say, bringing the mood of the room down. “I’m ready for change. The truth is I’m lonely and there isn’t any man here that will solve that problem. I put a smile on my face to make you all think I’m happy so you wouldn’t feel sorry for me. I never date.” I finish with the most humiliating statement of all. Almost as humiliating as Carl.
Carl was Brandon and Matthew’s first and only attempt to set me up. We dated for a month back in college but when our relationship became more physical, it stopped being something I looked forward to. After a grand total of four sexual “experiences,” I found out he had cheated on me, with a guy. A guy I knew. A guy I saw on a regular basis which apparently, Carl was doing as well. To say that put me off men would be an understatement, it put me off humanity. I couldn’t put my finger on why Carl’s cheating had a special sting to it. Regardless of who he cheated on me with, it was still cheating. I already had a difficult time believing that Carl would stay with me but to not know my competition doubled, was worse.
Sarah looks at me with slightly squinted eyes and a half smile. That is exactly what I wanted to avoid. This stung deep. I don’t need to be pitied; I need to be supported. It’s unlikely that she ever felt looked over, put aside, or less than in society’s eyes.
Sensing my hurt by my confession, Sarah grabs my hands from across her desk and squeezes.
“What do you need from me? What can I do to help? I’m looking for a distraction anyway.”
“First, don’t tell Brandon. Not yet. I’ll tell him later. He’s going to want details that I just don’t have yet and he’ll be mad at Matthew for not telling him earlier. We’ll do a video call. Are you two available tonight?” I ask. Brandon in the flesh is much harder to deal with than Brandon on a screen. I knew it wasn’t fair, to ask her to keep this to herself for more than a day.
“I’ll make sure we’re available,” Sarah says, still squeezing my hands.
“Thank you. Matthew probably wants to show his brother what he actually does for a living. Brandon is always busting his balls calling him Prada like he’s the assistant in that movie,” I say with a smirk across my face.
They were always busting each other's balls. I’m surprised either have any left.
Feeling the conversation coming to a close and the urgency to get out of the building, I decide the conversation is over for the time being.
“Ok, I’m out. I can hear someone calling the cops on me for leaving my plants in a parked car in the sun without cracking a window.”
I slip out the office side door, walk quickly to my car and turn on the ignition. I’m pretty sure it's distracted driving to operate a vehicle like you are seeing underwater. I give myself a moment to look back and let it sink in that I won’t be pulling into this parking lot again. I put the car in reverse, but it doesn’t move. I still can’t take the leap. I already sent my letter of resignation and it’s not like I can recall that. The keys jangle from the ignition.
Oh sh…it.
I didn’t get to have my “badge and keys” moment, the moment that all teachers dream about. The point where they deposit their keys and ID badge on the school administrative assistant’s desk and walk out without any regrets.
I guess I need to adult now.
I return to the office as quietly as I possibly can. The attendance secretary is on the phone, the data processor is busy deciphering paperwork and the principal’s secretary isn’t at her desk. Screw adulting. I quickly drop my keys and ID badge on the middle of her desk and with all of my ninja skills, I sneak around the corner and quickly push on the long bar on the front office door. No one would know I was there. As I try to push the door open, I realize I had forgotten that I should have used the right-side door. The long bar sticks, hard. I slam my face into the school crest painted on the window, drawing all the attention to the front office entry. Wouldn’t it be fitting if I had the school’s crest embedded in my face? I should have called that. I quickly move to the right and wave goodbye to the office quickly to avoid any concerns for my face. At least I gave them one good laugh before I left.
As I drive home, I realize that I should have made my escape epic. I should have had a clever message painted on the windows of my car like “peace out, bitches” or “suck it, bitches.” It definitely had to end in “bitches.” “School’s Out for the Summer” should have been blasting as I drove through the neighborhood. Watching my former life shrink in the rear-view mirror gives me a peaceful, cathartic feeling as well as the growing excitement of beginning my new life, whatever form it takes.
IHSAN ZORLU
I’ve never had to pack for such a long trip. After I repack my third suitcase, I realize I’m about to move to the motion picture capital of the world with one of the highest costs of living. There are several places to buy what I want or things I’ve forgotten and I’ll have time before filming starts to get the lay of the land.
My email inbox is full of applicants to be my personal assistant and none of them meet the requirements I sent to Blaine. All of the potentials include headshots attached to their recommendations and credentials. Not just a picture from their phone but a touched up, air brushed, forward focused headshot I myself have had taken. Asli, my current assistant, is afraid of flying and won’t be joining me. I’m not disappointed. She tends to have difficulty going beyond the daily list. She consistently misses the little things that make me happy like checking the tissue box to see if it needs to be refilled or making sure I use the same dry cleaner every time my clothes need special care.
“Blaine, none of these people meet my minimum requirements. If I have to go with a temporary assistant until we find the right one, that is fine,” I say into my phone. I click send and the message is sent to my slightly odd American agent.
I only have a few days until I leave for America and I’m trying to stay calm. I’ve been blessed to have such an amazing career in Türkiye but co-starring in a big Hollywood movie is a dream realized. I need to pinch myself almost hourly to remind myself that I’m awake. Asli is busy looking for new employment, so she hasn’t been as accessible as she usually is.
“Abi,” my sister’s familiar voice floats up the stairs followed by two loud barks.
“Abla, thank goodness. I’m having a hard time figuring out what I need to pack.”
Zeki follows her inside my room and lays down in his favorite corner, where he can stretch his long legs against the wall.
“Where are all the boxes?”
“I’m not taking boxes.”
“No, you have tenants, remember? You need to pack up everything so they can move in.”
“Asli!” I almost scream in frustration.
“Take your favorite everything and I’ll help you find a moving company.”
“That’s what I was trying to do but I still ended up with more than three suitcases of stuff.”
“One suitcase for your workout stuff and then one for casual and one for fancy.”
“What am I going to do without you?” I say, bringing her into a hug.
I’ve always had a supportive family but Farah leads the charge whenever I needed a kick in the pants or shove in the right direction. She might have enjoyed it a little too much. The only sibling rivalry between us was who could get the adults to laugh the hardest. My younger brother, Nadir, joined in as soon as he was able to speak. Our family table was never short of laughter. Now I’m flying to the other side of the world and will have to break in a new set of people. It hasn’t been a difficult task in the past but I’m moving to a foreign country and the last thing I need is to say or do something I didn’t know wasn’t cool. That is why this personal assistant is so crucial. Sometimes I need to be kept in check.
I'm excited about moving up to the next level of my acting career. Not many foreign actors make it in Hollywood and none from Türkiye that I know of. They usually cast someone that Hollywood thinks looks and sounds like they come from my part of the world. Türkiye 's population varies almost as much as the United States. To be cast as one of the lead roles in a film that takes place in both countries is a once in a lifetime chance. So many variables had to be solved and when each one fell into place, I knew my new role was meant to be. I've always listened to my inner voice, or gut feeling as some people say. I think of it as Allah whispering to me. I'm ready for the challenge that all these life changes will throw at me. But first, I need to find someone more competent than Asli. I hope she finds other employment in my absence. I shouldn't have hired a friend of a relative.
BEATRICE
At seven thirty P.M. sharp I click on the icons for the other participants in the video meeting. Sarah and Brandon are right on time and, for pure dramatic effect, Matthew appears a minute late in a rainbow boa which would surprise some but not me. Sarah decided that it was probably better if she was with Brandon when I made my announcement so he has a chance to process this information with her to explain more if he needed it. This is the first time in his adult life that I won’t be at his beck and call. I won’t be available to him whenever he needs. Besides, he has Sarah now so I’m leaving him in capable hands. I’m not really leaving him. He isn’t mine. He never was mine. Not in anything other than friendship. I need new connections. I need a life free of old ties to keep me from trying new things.
Team Bee Assemble!
“Okay, troops, we are meeting today not to enjoy our typical retro movie marathon but to announce the …” How do I put this cleverly?
“To announce…well, I’m quitting my life,” I say abruptly.
Brandon’s face falls from a slight smile to a hard look of confusion and back to a slight smile again.
“What does that mean? Mid-life crisis style?” Brandon asks.
“At twenty-eight, Brandon? Rude, much? I’m leaving teaching, I’m leaving Texas. I’m leaving my sorry excuse for a life. I’m trading in my old one for a shiny new one with all the bells, whistles, glitter and rhinestones,” I smile excitedly…ok, fake excitedly, mostly nervous.
Brandon had never really been good at reading me, so I hope he buys it.
“I’ve been working with Matthew on my exit/escape strategy. We have a multi-tier plan outlined for a change in location and change in career. So, I’m calling this meeting as a brainstorming session. We need to answer a few questions. What do I want in a new living arrangement? What do I want in a new career? What do I want in a relationship? Matthew insisted we put that one in. So, if we skip it, I won’t be upset,” I say in my official teacher voice.
Brandon’s face looks a bit stunned and Sarah’s hand brushes his shoulder to comfort him.
“Wait, wait, wait. I need a moment to process,” Brandon blurts.
I’m sure you can count to ten, Brandon. Especially in years. That’s got to be a world record in pining.
Brandon never made me feel ‘less than.’ He smiled openly when he saw me and never skimped on platonic affection. Our inside jokes made me feel special. He made me feel special. He would text me when his rugby team was playing. I’d show up and sit with his cheering section and scream louder than anyone else whether I knew what was going on or not. I’d starve if I didn’t hear something from him every day. Several times I tried to pull away, not showing up at games or just casual hangouts with Matthew but he wouldn’t let that stand and found me hiding in my house or in the practice room building, sucking me right back in. Every now and again, I would show interest in someone else. Usually, it was a ruse to try to throw him off the scent of my utter obsession with him. I wasn’t brave enough to ever approach any of my potential partners, so I gradually mentioned them less and less and that seemed to do the trick. I was terrified that if he ever knew how I truly felt that it would sour our friendship and I’d lose what I had with him. I tried, I really did but being with Brandon was easy and agonizing at the same time and that is more than I had ever had with any other man. I had to take what I could get. Besides, I had my imagination and at night I’d lay my head down on my pillow and play out scenarios in my head where he didn’t care about my size because he valued who I was and not what I looked like. Fodder for a teen movie for sure. Sleep would overtake me with a smile on my heart, but the next interaction quickly wiped it away.
Unfortunately, Matthew had a front row seat. I appreciated his distance when it came to Brandon. He never tried to make anything happen between us nor did he discourage our friendship. He couldn’t disguise his pity though. His eyebrows are his tell. No matter what the rest of his face was doing, his eyebrows told his true feelings. If I needed to cry he held me and listened, but he never tried to fix it. My mom did the same thing. It seemed to be an unspoken rule among my small circle to avoid talking about my feelings about Brandon at all costs, which is why Carl was such a devastating personal disaster. I convinced myself to listen to Brandon and Matthew to try out someone else for the position of boyfriend and turns out he didn’t really want the job.
When I discovered Carl’s betrayal I became the piano practice building’s resident hermit. Brandon found me the evening after I broke up with Carl, crying so hard that my tears wet the keys. He just so happened to want to do the same thing over a break-up and came armed with a bottle of whiskey. I could never bring myself to tell him that Carl played for both teams and I didn’t make the cut. The humiliation was more than my already fragile ego could handle. With my mom suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s, it was perfectly logical for that to be the reason for my tear downpour. There was no way I was going to tell him that Carl preferred blondes. Male blondes. I used her as the source of my sorrow when in reality it was everything but that. He got me raging piss drunk and having zero fucks left in my wallet, I confessed my undying love to him as he rested his drunk skull on my shoulder. He responded with a long-drawn-out snore. I mustered up all of my bravery in that one moment and bore my soul to Sleeping Beauty. It was then that I pledged to never open my big mouth about romantic feelings again. I put it out of my mind until everyone moved on to someone or somewhere else and I was left holding the bag of crappy feelings. Time to change strategies and here we are.
“No more waiting. I’m tired of waiting to be happy. I’ve been waiting too long,” I say urgently back to the little camera above the screen.
“Bee, you can start over here.” Brandon tries again.
“You are missing the point. I am ‘Bee-flat’ here,” I say, hoping he gets my music reference. “I need to go. Do you know I heard someone in the grocery store actually say that we were lucky it was just a hostage situation and that it could have been worse? Is that our baseline now? Survival? I’m not going to be around for the next maniac.” My voice starts to shake at the end of the sentence, but everyone’s face is stoic in understanding.
“And you shouldn’t,” Sarah says. “That’s why we’re here, honey.”
“Okay,” Matthew says, attempting to break the tension. “Let’s start with the plan. I have the basic steps but we need to fill in some details so I can see some more of those cute little red checks on our spreadsheet that make me happy. What kind of weather, what kind of night life, what kind of culture are you looking for?”
“I want to be somewhere central. Where there’s a variety of things to do around me. I’m looking to get out of my comfort hole.”
“Zone…you mean,” Brandon interjected.
“No, you know I pick my words very carefully. I’m in a comfort hole,” I say, emphasizing the last word.
Brandon looks as if he’s going to interject again, clearly not liking where this conversation is going, so I quickly continue.
“I want sun and sea. I want to walk down to the Saturday farmer’s market and haggle with the avocado guy while a little girl sings with her dad and a karaoke machine for tips. Texas churns my stomach now,” I continue.
The edges of Matthew's smile spread out wider than normal making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, tell tale sign his mind is full of evil thoughts.
“I was hoping you would be this adventurous. Come to LA! I mean, you don’t have to be in LA proper, but we have everything. We’ve got fresh produce and stage dads. I can at least find you a place and a job for the time being until you find your way.”
“Don’t you have your mom’s RV?” Sarah asks.
“Oh no. She’s been watching too many van conversion YouTube videos,” replies Brandon mockingly.
“No, I’m serious. It would keep your living costs low, leave your options open and you’d always be able to up and leave if you get a bee in your undies,” Sarah continues.
“I’m pretty sure that isn’t a real saying,” Brandon eyes Sarah suspiciously.
“A bee in your underwear is far worse than a bee in your hat,” she looks at Brandon and he concedes to her logic.
“That monstrosity from Christmas Vacation?” Matthew interrupts to break up the Sarah and Brandon show.
“It’s not that bad. It’s been in storage since before I moved mom to the home. That’s what my parents drove on their Forty-Eight States Tour.”
“Will it even start? Is it safe?” Matthew’s questions are valid. I also have serious doubts about the functionality of anything in that Frankenmobile.
“That might actually be a good idea. I won’t have to couch surf and I’ll still have my own space. I can use the money from the sale of the house to fund my adventure.”
My mind starts to churn. I think I can feel the neurons firing in my brain.
“Ok, LA RV trip it is!” I exclaim.
Matthew pumps both his fists in the air with an uncharacteristic, “Huzzah!”
“That doesn’t work with a rainbow boa, sweetie,” I respond.
“Everything works with a rainbow boa,” he says, sticking his chin in the air and spinning the feathery scarf around his neck to emphasize his point.
“What about all of your stuff you’ve accumulated your whole life in the house?” Brandon pleads. Apparently during the few minutes he’s had to process, he’s turned into the Grouch.
“If Debbie Downer and a wet blanket had a baby, you’re it. I think we all just heard the sad trombone riff in the background,” Matthew teases.
Matthew always has the best way of describing exactly what I am feeling. Where Brandon knows what I like, Matthew always puts into words how it makes me feel. The later years in college, when spring hit and everyone broke out their skimpier wear, Matthew and I would sit on a blanket on a large grass patch and be super judgy. I know I’m a hypocrite, but it was my coping mechanism to deal with my insecurities. This was another way for me to get some sun on my legs since of course that would make them look less dimply and Matthew could survey the male prospects without looking too suspicious.
We had a secret code for certain things so when we were out in the general population we could say what we were really thinking, but not use words that would offend if overheard. Our favorite was “Did you hear that?” It was code for the sound of panties hitting the floor because the person in view was so hot, so attractive, so unattainable that the moment needed acknowledgement but couldn’t be put into other words. It also caught people off guard and defused the situation. Most of the time when that phrase was uttered it was to keep you from opening your mouth and panting or saying something awkward. Our last semester of school, Matthew and I took a geology class together and the first day the teaching assistant walked in with his Nordic self, we both leaned to each other and proclaimed, “Did you hear that?” in which the white Viking replied, “Yeah, those lights make a very annoying hum.” We both blushed, nodded and opened our books to some random page to look busy because we certainly weren’t lusting after the same man.
“The next step of our plan is to determine my travel route. I need places to stop, places to eat, places to see because if I’m really going to do this I might as well live it up. But I guess I need to find a real estate agent first. I’ll call around to my mom’s family and see if anyone is interested in the house. I would rather have it go to someone in the family than to a stranger. It would also be nice to know that there’d be someone in town looking out for my mom. Does anyone know if I need to get some kind of special license or training to drive an RV? Do I tow a car? So many questions!” I say as I clutch my head.
“There’s a better chance a car tows your mom’s RV than the RV towing the car.” Matthew says.
His point is valid. The best chance of not breaking down is getting my own rig. Besides, I have some money and I can always sell it if needed.
Brandon raises his hands as if he’s going to try to calm me down, so I press on in an attempt to distract him from trying to talk me out of this.
“I should get a three-legged dog.”
Sarah’s face contorts in confusion.
“Why a three-legged dog?”
Brandon sits up and takes a deep breath before responding.
“Three legged dogs are the happiest creatures on the planet. You can’t be mad at a three-legged dog. They only have three legs. They are inspiring and they’ve overcome so much adversity,” he says as if reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.
Sarah laughs and shakes her head. Matthew, not one to be sidetracked while on a mission, takes advantage of the moment to get our planning back on track.
“Focus people,” he claps into the camera.
“Should we have some kind of definite moving date or should we just go with the flow?” I ask.
“Let's figure out what Bee is going to do when she gets there and that should help with the timeline,” Sarah adds.
“I’ve made quite a few contacts in this area,” Matthew says, his eyes growing large as if the ideas are filling his skull. “Let me do some research and recon. Let’s think about your skills.”
The excitement in his voice is contagious.
“Well, I’m good with paperwork. I'm good at multitasking. I can simultaneously sort papers, hold a conversation, and return an email. That’s got to be good for something.”
“Teachers got it down for sure. It’s just…do you really wanna step out?” Brandon asks.
“Yes, I do. The profession is leeching the soul out of me. There just isn’t enough balance between the happy times and …well, everything else.”
“Well, don’t put it out of your mind entirely. We all know about the teacher shortage,” Brandon reminds the team.
“And it’s not just the difficult kids, it’s the difficult parents. And then there is all the other crap."
I take a deep breath to soothe the anxiety as it threatens to hijack the conversation. This is a start of something new, this is exciting. I can do this. I can do exciting. I’ve been playing it safe for so long, telling myself that I’m here for the kids. That’s safe. Or at least it used to be. I need to do something for myself and take a risk even if that means risking it all.
“Well guys, I think we have something to work with. Let's delegate jobs,” Matthew says. “I call employment!”
“I’ll look into RVs,” Brandon volunteers, a little begrudgingly. I can’t tell if he is warming up to the idea or accepting that he hasn’t won this battle.
“Let’s see how much I can get for the house and how much I should save. So, I have finances.”
Sarah exclaims, “I’ll find the real estate agent I used.”
With this group of incredibly capable and committed friends, I feel the love and the confidence they have in me revving up the engines inside. I wasn’t planning on sleeping tonight, anyway.
BEATRICE
The next week turns into a flurry of activity which is exactly what I need to keep my mind off my current state of being. Brandon, Sarah, Matthew and I spend an evening planning out what RV parks I will stop at, where the food stops will occur and how many miles I will be driving per day. When we go to pick up the carefully researched and vetted RV with tow package attached, the dealer sends us over to an empty parking lot where I get to practice. The RV drives, and looks, like a large minivan which is still bigger than anything I have driven before. I didn’t kill any orange cones so we are all satisfied that I will be safe or at least random orange cones will be. I decided that I might just want to take along most of my food because driving into strange cities with this rig may stress me out. We figure it should take no more than five days depending on how long I want to drive each day.
Dealing with my mom’s house couldn’t have been easier. I was more than thrilled at my aunt and uncle’s offer to buy it. They were so happy to help that it all seemed serendipitous. My cousin Travis, retired from the military, needed a place of his own. He was having some difficulty returning to civilian life and having a familiar place to heal and rejuvenate would help him enter back into the real world. They had all the paperwork drawn up and I was happy with the price. I suggested he take a shot at seeing if he could get my mom’s RV back in shape, to give him something to do in his off time. There were lots of my mom’s things to pack up but I only took a few pictures, including my favorite of my mom and dad at Machu Picchu. The framed cross stitch with the phrase “This too shall pass” also made it into the box. The furniture all stayed, and I told Travis that if he didn’t like anything he could sell it or give it away. The final walk through with my aunt, uncle and cousin would have been more painful had I not had so many things to look forward to.
One of the last things on my list is to visit with my mom in the memory care facility before I drive off into the proverbial sunset. My aunt and uncle offered to come with me so when I see her I have a buffer to help me keep it together. My aunt is several years younger than my mom and I often wonder if she sees her future when she looks at her.
As we enter her room we hear her humming “Strangers in the Night” in a volume that seemed a bit loud for someone alone.
“Hey, Mom? It’s me Beatrice,” I call out.
She’s having a good day. I can tell because the look of panic I saw from several of my other visits is absent from her face.
“It’s time for lunch,” she replies and grabs her walker, not acknowledging anyone else in the room.
“I have to go to lunch,” she says, pushing her way through the wider than normal walkway.
I cut her off at the doorway to her suite, put my hands over hers on the walker and meet her eyes.
“Mom, I’m going away for a while. But your favorite nephew, Travis, will come by to visit.”
She stares at me blankly and I can see as her eyebrows crinkle in the middle, the telltale sign that she is starting to feel unsafe.
“I want to kick people,” she says sternly. This is not the Ann Fredricks that I grew up with.
“I’ll give you a list.” I smile in return. A deep breath pushes into my lungs and I push it back out.
I stand straight, realizing my goodbye didn’t mean anything to this version of her and tell her, “Enjoy your lunch, they are having beans.”
“I hate beans! They better not give me any beans,” I knew her legume hatred was still a thing, so I had to get in a little loving tease before I left just to hear her old self. At this point, it was the only emotional reaction I was going to evoke from her that seemed at all familiar. If the staff finds out I got her riled up after she already expressed interest in hurting others, she may get put into geriatric detention. We walk with her down the hallway to her table and get her situated in her dining chair.
“Ok, you can leave now,” she says to me as if I'm the wait staff. I welcome that permission because this is all too much for me. My aunt puts a loving hand on my back and Travis sits down in the dining chair next to her. That was unexpected.
“Well, Cuz,” Travis says as he looks up at me with a smirk. “Things are looking up already. I got a job here where Auntie lives. I thought I would surprise you.”
My eyes well up and I can’t stop them from making a stream down my cheeks. My parents were adventurers before me. It’s the only way I can justify leaving my mom. She would never want me to put my life on hold to watch her turn into a shell of herself. She would have cheered me on and sent me with a tin of cookies for the trip. I still struggle with it, but knowing Travis will be here gives me the reassurance I need.
My mom slaps my arm slightly and says, “Oh, stop that.”
Showing emotion makes her anxious, so I wipe the tears off my cheeks and turn to walk away.
They probably should have ushered me out the back door. It is quite unsettling for visitors and residents in a care facility seeing an emotional equivalent to Chernobyl complete with vocal bawling and shaking. I had put on a brave face for a long time, so I was due for the dam to break. My aunt and uncle knew there was really no way to console me so we said our tearful goodbyes and I watched their car pull away. I sat in the parking lot for a long while until I deemed myself safe to drive.
Brandon and Sarah organized a going away party for me complete with colleagues, Mr. Davis and their friends who heard alcohol is free. I keep myself to a one drink maximum and mingle through the crowd of supportive friends and excited acquaintances. Matthew is the only one missing and he is the one I really needed.
“My Queen, you’ve made some pretty big changes,” Mr. Davis says, sitting down next to me. “It’s so exciting!”
His pitch raises on the last word and instantly my heart swells. He hands me a gift bag with a droopy bottom.
“Don’t open it now. Tequila and tasers don’t mix.”
“D, you didn’t!”
“I sure did, honey. There’s also pepper spray, brass knuckles, and one of those spikes for your keychain to break out of car windows. I would have included a cattle prod, but I know you and you would have ended up convulsing on the floor, somehow lose a pinky and then there goes your piano career.”
“Thank you, D,” I say, hugging the only man worthy enough to replace my dad.
“Alright, enough. I wanna show you how I’ve been workin’ on my twerkin’.”
