Hearthstone Entertainment
Part V: A Winner
56 The Letter
NIKKI FLEW BACK to Rhode Island on Tuesday. Adam, Maggie, and Jess flew to New Orleans on Wednesday to be with Jessica. They were taping during Mardi Gras. The Lady Hoosiers lost at Michigan Friday night but turned around to beat Michigan State Sunday. And then we were in the last week before midterms. I was thankful that my Critical Approaches to History class and my Radical Thinking class were both non-exam classes, but I still had to put the final touches on the Radical Thinking paper that was due. Then there was all the studying and review for my three chemistry classes and calculus.
Brenda insisted that we studied better when we were fucking, and we spent a marathon session Thursday the fifth. Of course, Debbie and Dolly wanted to know if we could study for our Chemistry of Food exam that way, but I politely declined. Danielle had stiffened and rolled her eyes at the suggestion.
Friday, Whitney’s team suffered their worst loss of the season against Purdue, 55-85. We spent a long loving night after the game. Whitney was sure now that she wouldn’t get an invitation to try out for the National Team. We didn’t make love, but I rubbed and soothed every muscle in her body in the master bedroom that night.
Sunday, she came roaring back and dumped in twenty-four points—including six three-pointers—to lead the team to a 70-68 victory over Illinois. But with only two games left in the season, it was clear that there would be no post-season tournament games for the Lady Hoosiers.
I hung around a while after I finished my calculus test to wait for Samantha. Her business administration exam was at the same time, but it apparently took her longer to get out. After the calc exam, I was thinking I could use a good stiff drink. Of course, the old calc joke was ‘never drink and derive.’ When Sam finally came out to Dunn’s Woods, I was almost asleep on the bench looking at The Space Between. She got my attention with a kiss.
“Mmm,” I said. “I hope that was my cónyuge because I want another.”
“You’re lucky it is. There are a lot of horny girls after exams,” she laughed. “Maybe you could take me home and find out how wet and slippery my little bare Jill is.”
“Maybe I could at that.” We drove home with Sam in the middle seat and her hand on my cock. This was a lot better than a stiff drink. We kissed again as soon as we were in the house and I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door. We kicked off our shoes and headed for the big chair.
Hannah was in it and she was not in good shape.
She was staring at the cold fireplace, paper crumpled in her hand and today’s mail scattered on the floor in front of her. Her breathing was erratic. Sam and I both knelt in front of her.
“What is it, honey?” I asked softly. I tried to pull the paper from her hand, but she gripped it harder.
“We need the others. From the studio,” she gasped. I nodded to Samantha and she took off at a run.
“Let me help, sweetheart. What do you have?”
“They’ll hate me! I didn’t tell them. They’ll think I was sneaking around. They’ll never trust me again. I can’t direct a show if they don’t trust me. Brian, they’ll hate me!” Tears leaked from her eyes and her breathing was now in gasps as she looked frantically around her as if all our family was ready to throw stones at her. She was in all-out panic and I couldn’t figure out what set her off.
“Hannah!” I said sharply. “Look around you. Name five things you can see.”
“What?”
“Now. Look and name five things you can see.”
“I see you! I see the fireplace. I see the blanket. I see the sofa. I see the window.” She continued to look frantically around as if she’d missed something.
“Now feel,” I said. “Name four things you can feel with your hands. Real, physical things you can feel. What are they?” She grabbed hold of my arm and squeezed painfully.
“I feel you! I feel the blanket.” She jumped up and grabbed the poker from the fireplace tool set. “I feel this… this poker thing.” I was afraid for a moment she was going to start swinging it. It fell to the floor. “I feel this paper in my hand. It’s real!”
“Hear, Hannah. What are three things you can hear?”
“I hear your voice. I hear a crow outside. I… I hear the clock ticking.”
“What can you smell, Hannah? Quickly. Name two things you can smell?”
“I can smell my armpits. I stink. I… I can still smell the bread you baked this morning.”
“Now name one thing you can taste, honey.” I wasn’t prepared for her to hurl herself into my arms and smash her lips against mine. She reamed my mouth with her tongue.
“I taste you,” she finally said, relaxing into my arms. “You taste like you had a cup of coffee after your test. You taste like Brian, my lover. Hold me, Brian.” I held her and we settled into the big chair with her in my lap. Samantha, Elaine, April, and Jason came in from the studio. Now that they were here, I was afraid Hannah was simply going to go to sleep from the exhaustion of her panic attack.
“What is it, honey?” April asked, petting Hannah’s hair. “Did we do something wrong?”
“No,” Hannah moaned. “Not you. I should have told you all. You should have helped.”
“Helped what, Hannah?” Elaine asked. “We depend on you so much, we never even think of helping you.”
“When… When we started running the show last fall and the stations started putting you on four times a week instead of twice, Lonnie told me I needed to pick my three favorite episodes and give them to him to submit for a critique. I didn’t know what he was asking for. I swear, I didn’t mean to leave you out. I just picked the ones I liked,” Hannah said.
“And we got critiqued for them?” Jason said. “That doesn’t sound so bad. I’d like to know what someone else thinks of our work. I mean someone we don’t know or go to school with.”
“They like it,” Hannah sniffled. “We’re finalists.”
“Finalists in what, honey?” I asked.
“The Educational Television Awards,” she whispered. “We’ve been nominated for an ETA.”
We were all stunned. None of us could say anything. I couldn’t even imagine what we were talking about. Awards were a big deal. An ETA Award?
“I’m so sorry,” Hannah moaned.
“You’re sorry you submitted Chick Chat and we’re finalists for an ETA?” Elaine said. “Are you nuts?”
“Yes,” she said in a very small voice. “I didn’t let you help choose them. I never even considered that we might become finalists. Lonnie said it was something the producer had to do and he had to sign off on the fact that we were students and it was part of a class project.”
“Wait! But I’m not a student!” Elaine said. “Will they disqualify us?”
“No. Only the director, producer, and writer credits must be students enrolled in a college. And that’s the other thing. I’m so selfish. Only the producer gets the award. I’m so sorry.”
Elaine started laughing. It only took a second until the rest of us were laughing so hard we had tears in our eyes.
“What?” Hannah bawled. “What?”
“You were in a panic because you submitted something that we all worked on and that is now a finalist for an ETA,” Elaine said. “You aren’t even twenty years old, Hannah! It’s spectacular!”
“Do you think that just because you are the only one who gets a statue that our resumes won’t include the words ‘Winner of an Educational Television Award’?” April asked. “I wouldn’t care if Lonnie got the award because he’s our teacher. This is fantastic.”
“Can I go along?” Jason asked. “I mean, there must be some kind of awards night for this, isn’t there? I’ll even rent a tux.”
“You really are all okay with it?” Hannah asked. “I thought you’d be furious with me. I felt like I betrayed you.”
“Betray me again, honey,” April said. “And again and again. As long as you are directing, I’m your cameraman.”
Hannah finally released the crumpled letter in her left hand and we smoothed it out so we could all read it. The entries were reviewed in the same way as the Primetime Emmy Awards and the Daytime Emmy Awards. Professional actors, directors, and producers chose the winners.
We needed to arrange transportation and housing for our production team to go to Los Angeles for the awards on April twenty-third.
And we needed to call Nikki!
Comments
Please feel free to send comments to the author at devon@devonlayne.com.
