Kissing Brendan Callahan by Susan Amesse Page A

I’d probably have to go to Hollywood with her. We could rent a bungalow in Malibu. We’d entertain Bronson McGee. This could be the beginning of my screenwriting career. Provided, of course, that my mother would let me go.
    Antonia drops her head. “I don’t feel well. This has been a most unpleasant evening.”
    â€œYou can say that again,” says Brendan.
    â€œShhh,” I say. “Would you like to lie down?”
    She nods.
    â€œTake my arm.” I walk with her to the bedroom down the hall.
    â€œI can’t believe they found me here in Staten Island, of all places,” she says. “I suppose I should leave, but where would I go?”
    â€œYou can’t leave,” I say. “You have to judge the contest. And you will finish that screenplay because I will help you. I’m a very good writer. I have dozens of notebooks filled with ideas. I’ll show you all of them. We’ll work day and night and we’ll finish it by next week.”
    â€œThat will be marvelous.” She pats my arm. We get to the bed and she lies down. Her cousin is sitting in a chair, looking out the window.
    â€œI’ll be right back,” I say. I run into the other room and take my play out of my backpack and run back into the bedroom. “I have a final play to give you. Can I put it with the rest?”
    â€œWhatever.” She waves her hand. I look around, trying to find the plays, but I don’t see them.
    â€œRemember that folder I gave you earlier, Antonia? Where is it?”
    â€œWhich folder?”
    â€œThe folder with the plays. The plays you are supposed to read for the contest.”
    â€œOh,” she says, fluffing a pillow. “I’m not sure where that is.”
    â€œI put it in the backseat of your car.”
    She yawns.
    â€œDo you think they are still in the car?” I ask.
    â€œIt’s very possible.” She curls up on the bed and rests her head on the pillow. Ophelia meows and walks across Antonia’s body, trying to find a comfortable spot. She rubs the side of her face against Antonia and already I can hear snoring.
    â€œI have to find those plays,” I tell Brendan.
    â€œWhere’s your car?” he asks, shaking Antonia’s shoulder.
    â€œOh, that thing. I returned it earlier this evening.” She turns over, almost knocking Ophelia over.
    â€œBrendan, they have to be around here. Help me find them.” I turn to Charlene. “Do you know where the plays are?”
    She shakes her head. “No idea.”
    We search everywhere, even the bathroom. No folder. No plays.
    â€œWhat am I going to do?” I am almost at the point of hysteria. I’m responsible for them. My mother will kill me. She’ll kill Antonia. The only good part of this is that Anne Marie’s play is among the missing.
    â€œWhich rental company did you use?” Brendan asks Antonia. All we hear is snoring.
    We ask Charlene. “No idea,” she says, rising. “I’m leaving.”
    â€œBut you have to help us find the plays. You’re her agent.”
    She laughs. “Whoop-dee-doo. She hasn’t written anything publishable in years. Who do you think wrote Enraptured Thorns in My Heart? ”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I ask.
    â€œI wrote the book as a favor to Aunt Edna. It’s not hard to copy Antonia’s style, except I improved upon it. Don’t you agree?”
    â€œI loved it. It’s Antonia’s best.… I mean, uh…” She smiles. I sit on the bed because my mind feels fuzzy. The fact that Antonia didn’t write my favorite book does not want to settle in my brain.
    â€œI owe Aunt Edna a lot. She raised me when my mother and father died. Poor Auntie, she’s under the delusion that her daughter is going through a temporary writer’s block. Only I don’t think it’s temporary. It’s high time I moved on to write under my own