She's the One

Chapter 7 “Big Mentor”

Viola made me a ham and cheese sandwich for dinner, which I easily devoured. After that brief event, we both got into my car and headed to the Stratford Junior League Center. Daphne and most of the women she'd been having afternoon tea with were not far behind us.

It was clear as we walked into the Center's main hall that the night was going to hold a lot of work ahead of us. About 150 various preteen girls were running amok – destroying streamer decorations, pushing each other over, and screaming at the tops of their lungs. Viola stood there next to me, a giant grin on her face as she watched their escapades.

“You know, if they keep up this case of the crazies, we can probably just go home and let their very-appalled mothers deal with them.” She speculated wishfully.

“I think that might be our culprit over there.” I pointed to the far corner by the window, where crystal bowls that usually served “refined” beverage refreshments were stocked with orange soda. There was a horde of girls crowding the table and doing their best impression of a drinking contest.

“Ah, good. If we can just manage to keep the steady flow of tangy goodness at a maximum, these hellspawn will torment and destroy everything in their paths.”

I watched with my jaw hanging open as one of the girls tried to do a cartwheel and went directly into a potted plant, knocking it sideways, spilling soil everywhere. The end result did nothing except cause most of the bouncing brats to go around the mess. I was transfixed on their careless energy when one blonde in glasses and a pullover sweater came running up to us.

“Teacher! Teacher!” She shouted to neither me nor Viola in particular. “That girl over there pinched me, really hard!”

“Are you bleeding?” Viola quipped.

“No but... it really hurt! She needs to go to time out!”

We “teachers” looked at each other knowingly, sharing a look of skepticism.

“Well, I have a good idea. Why don't we go in the bathroom and put cold water on your pinch... wound.” I suggested sarcastically, but too subtle for the younger girl to recognize.

“Yeah,” Viola agreed, “that way, when all the mommies show up, we will be busy helping. In the bathroom. Let's go quickly!”

Her plan had been foolproof. Not five minutes later, we heard the telltale sounds of hushed whispering and high heels walking down the corridors outside the bathroom, followed by gasps of surprise. 10 seconds later, the killer-mom instincts seem to win out, and there were many threats regarding the safety and livelihood of such cherished items as a High School Musical backpack, and a Hannah Montana poster. These terrible promises instantly quieted the room of girls, and we listened to hear Janice Dobson (a particularly anal mother) using her 'inside voice' to provide very demeaning instructions for cleaning up the messes in the hall.

“You better go join the others, Cindy.” I said to our pinched partner-in-crime, who hung her head and reluctantly hopped off the counter. We'd been running ice cold water over a non-existent spot on her left arm for long enough already.

As she got to the door, she turned and chimed out happily over her shoulder, “I hope you are my teachers when mental time comes!”

“Hmm. Sweet girl.” Viola made a sarcastic face that looked like she was gagging.

“Not that it made much sense anyway, but I think she meant to say 'when mentor time comes'.”

“Oh yeah, I get that now.”

We waited for a few more minutes just for good measure, to avoid the rage of the mothers as much as possible. When we did emerge (cleverly looking as though we had just arrived) we were quickly sent outside to a grass area to “set up the soccery things”.

Viola was quick to point out the obvious – the tiny lawn wouldn't be enough space at all to do much more than bounce balls on our knees.

“Unless we kick toward the parking lot.” I remarked, purposefully flashing my naughtiest smile.

She appeared to contemplate this for a brief moment, and then handed me a couple of orange cones with a grin to match mine. “Sixth graders don't know how to kick very high, right? Worst case scenario, we hit a couple of tires.”

As if on cue, three dozen screaming girls came rushing out of the Center's double doors. They immediately found a place on the lawn and began splitting into small groups with the sole purpose of talking louder than surrounding groups.

“So uh... what are we doing, anyway?” I asked an overwhelmed-looking Viola, nudging her arm.

“Maybe we should make them run around the center until they are too tired to speak.”

“I'll let you deliver that fun news to them, coach.”

She repeated herself as loudly as she could over the crowd of girls (minus the not-speaking part). It got their attention, but mostly stopped them from squealing and made them stare at her as though she were crazy. More quietly, she continued; “Soccer is all about running. That is how you control the game, by being faster on the field than your opponent. So hurry up and do... five laps.”

There was a unanimous groan. A few girls started calling out excuses for their inability to run, the most common citation being inappropriate footwear.

“If you have asthma or don't want to run, you can stay here and we will teach you how to hit the ball with your head and face. Also how to slide in the grass.” I managed to come up with that on the spot, and the girls fell for it. Deciding that running was slightly more-ladylike than hitting balls in the face and getting grass stains, they trudged across the parking lot toward the side of the center.

Viola watched them running away with a look of pure amusement. “That was pretty easy. Good call, by the way, except that practicing slides is baseball, not soccer.”

“Hey, if I don't know, they don't know.”

She laughed at this, and grabbed two balls out of her bag, tossing one to me. I was afraid she was going to require me to do something sporty with it, thus embarrassing myself, but felt relieved when she used hers to sit on. That was something that I, too, was able to do.

We sat side-by-side and looked across the grass, toward a J. Crew department store and a Starbucks. It seemed fitting that the Center was positioned so closely to the places where Junior League mothers would want to spend their time. Or was that just clever business planning?

“So, prom is tomorrow?” Viola said casually.

I looked over at her to try and read her face, but she was staring down at something in the grass very intently. “Yeah,” I tentatively started, “it's at 9, but I'll probably do my best to show up late. That's the cool way to do things, I hear.”

“Are you on the court or anything?”

My surprise at such a notion was probably obvious. “No!” I said a little more indignantly than probably necessary. “That's a pretty crazy idea.”

“Is it? I don't think so. You were the hottest girl in school when I was there.”

Despite myself I became slightly embarrassed at this. Judging by her face, she was feeling similarly.

“Well,” Viola stammered, “that is what the boys always told me. The real boys. Especially Duke, he was always telling me how you were the hottest girl in school. When I was a boy, too.”

I stopped her before she could babble any more; although I enjoyed it, I knew that it made her uncomfortable. “Well, thank you. I'm really flattered that you thought that.” I waited one second to see if she would correct me, but she didn't. “I am not very popular at Illyria since you left, especially this last year. Not that I really dreamed of being prom queen or anything, but having friends is sometimes nice, or so I hear.”

Viola didn't respond immediately as we both looked toward the Center to see the girls making their first lap. They appeared to still be talking and jumping excessively as they ran, but at least were showing signs of barely decreased energy levels.

“I didn't do very well at Cornwall my senior year, either.” She said wistfully, rolling on her ball-seat to turn back toward me. “I guess that was to be expected. I showed up, all 'hey dudes, I'm ready to be a girl and start chilling with you all again', and the girls were wigged out by me, and the boys thought I had gone butch. I still had my little posses, but otherwise it was pretty much social death. After about four weeks of that, I was going crazy trying to get people to start treating me like a human being and not a freak in a skirt, so Paul and I made out in front of the school during assembly.”

“What? Did I hear you correctly?” The image came into my head and I burst out laughing. “You, and Paul? Was that just the most awkward thing ever?”

A shy smile crossed her face. “We'd done it before. In ninth grade, Paul started realizing how he felt about guys and he got really scared. So he asked me to go out with him. It only lasted for like a month, and I knew exactly what his reasons were, but I tried really hard to help him anyway. We made out aaaaaaaaaall the time. Finally he was just like 'you're hot, Viola, but I've been imagining a dude this whole time'.”

I laughed again at that. “What 'dude' was it?”

“I was afraid to ask, but I'm guessing Patrick Swayze. I went over to his house one time and walked in his room without knocking. He had his hand down his pants and looked like he was about to get down to 'Ghost'.”

“Gross! Are you sure he wasn't watching it for Whoopi Goldberg? She is hot in a mantastic kind of way.”

Viola giggled, adorably. “No, he always finds her in magazines and draws eyebrows on her. Besides, he constantly says the lines from 'Dirty Dancing' and I know he's watched it more times than I've probably peed in my life.”

We both laughed together this time, and then I caught her eyes for a brief second and smiled. She smiled back at me, and didn't look away or make a goofy face: actions I had come to expect from her in quieter moments.

Though I was enjoying our beautiful time of relaxing and stress-free conversation, I inwardly resolved that this was the perfect time to say to her what I'd been needing to, even though it likely meant the rest of our Big Mentor function would be confusing or weird. Half of me was screaming out 'no, it's a terrible idea' but the other half insisted that if I didn't do it now, my chance would be gone and I'd be left with regrets.

“It didn't work, anyway.” She said, dragging me out of my thoughts.

“What?”

“Making out with Paul, it didn't make anyone see me as straight. A few people thought it was a funny joke so they started talking to me, but no one really wanted to hang out or anything.”

I rolled my eyes. “People are so intolerant, you know? Who cares if you dressed up like a boy, or a giraffe, or a... rabbi! What does it matter to them?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “I'm glad you're not like that. I know it's probably weirdest for you out of everyone because you and I had kind of a... thing. I really should have thought shit through better before I did what I did, though. I didn't know it was going to be like when grandma sat on the fan, you know?”

As much as I wanted to elaborate about that proverbial “thing”, the more immediate question was: What the hell happened to her grandma? “Uhm, what happened to your grandma?”

“Oh you didn't hear?” A very mischievous grin spread across her face. “Dis-assed-her.”

She wiggled her eyebrows at me, and I laughed so hard that I snorted. Twice. I even nearly rolled off my soccer ball and into the grass. Viola giggled with a proud look of amusement.

I was still chuckling when we caught sight of the sixth graders, making their second lap. One of them yelled across the parking lot: “How much longer do we have to run?!”

Viola checked her watch, as if that were a factor, and then shouted back: “One more time!”

They groaned in misery and exaggeratedly dragged their feet across the pavement. We watched until they had disappeared around to the side of the building.

“Vi, I want to talk to you about tomorrow, if that's ok.” I had just blurted it out, surprising myself. There would be no turning back now.

“Yeah, do you still want to meet up to do your hair or something? I checked with my mom to see what's going on tomorrow and she's got me running around doing this boring stuff with her in the morning, but we should be done by like, noon, and then after that I'm not busy at all. You know, just, chillaxin'. Like a villaxin'. Made of waxin'.”

I wondered why she suddenly looked so nervous and aloof. Maybe she knew what I was going to ask and was afraid of how she would have to shoot me down? Or maybe she was simply reading my nervousness and it was making her react badly. I was increasingly shaky.

“Or,” she continued, likely unnerved by my inability to speak quickly, “if you don't want me to help you, that makes a lot of sense. I mean, if you've got it all arranged, then I would just be in the way. I didn't ever go to my senior prom at Cornwall, so I'm not exactly a promular professional or anything. In fact, I'm extremely lacking in promulation experience. Kia and Yvonne and I just stayed at home that night and ate chocolate-covered donut holes and watched 'The OC'.”

“No, I'm sorry, it's not that at all. I do want you to help me get ready. I really do. I'm sorry if I was making it sound like I might not want you to be there. I think we would have a...” I struggled with the words, since 'romantic' was the only one that came to mind, “perfect time just hanging out and doing the get-ready thing. Together.”

“Oh, ok. Well cool, then.”

I nodded.

Viola nodded.

We looked at each other, then looked away.

I was more than aware of the ridiculousness of the situation, comparable to awkward moments of dating life that I had not experienced since middle school, yet I still couldn't manage to simply be straight-forward and make the whole thing less-complicated.

“So... what was it that you wanted to talk to me about, then?”

I took a deep breath and told myself that it was a good friendship while it lasted, but if I couldn't let this go, it just might be about to come to a brutal end. I had to take the chance anyway. I could hear the chattering voices of the sixth graders nearing closer to the parking lot, and knew it was now or never. Viola stared at me kindly and patiently, anticipation in her eyes.

“I was wondering if you wanted to do more than just help me get ready for prom.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “What do you mean?”

“I was wondering if...” oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, “if you wanted to go to prom, with me.”

Viola squinted her eyes slightly in confusion. “Like, with a group of your friends or something?”

“No. As...” oh fuck, fuck, fuck, “my date.”

I could practically hear my heart pounding like a freakish trance party in my chest. She formed an “oh” shape with her mouth and fixated her gaze on something nowhere near my eyes, saying nothing. It felt like we were sitting there for half an hour, just both waiting, as if her answer to my proposal was going to drop out of the sky and surprise us both. Her face was completely unreadable, which was completely new to me; I'd never seen her look so absolutely expressionless before. Usually I had some clue or indication what she might be feeling, but this was almost as if Viola had turned her emotions off for the duration of the time that we sat there in silence.
It was highly uncomfortable. I felt the sweat from my hands making damp spots on the outside of the shorts I was wearing and I hoped they would somehow dry off and not leave a weird smell.

Finally, she moved her head a little. She looked ready to speak, then drew in a breath and went back to her distant gazing. The suspense was killing me. Why couldn't she just give me the answer quickly and easily? Like ripping off a band-aid, or puking. I nearly said to her: 'don't worry, it's cool. You don't have to go with me.' But then I realized that as much as that might ease the tension, I needed to hear her answer come from her own lips, and in her own words.

Again, she looked ready to speak. This time, she did. “Well, Olivia, I'm glad that you asked me.”

This definitely sounded like a rejection. It had rejection written all over it in huge red letters. This was the kind of rejection that starts out “thank you for submitting your application to Harvard Law”, or “we are writing to you to inform you that we have received your resume for our open position as an espionage operative”. It never ended well, because those were just shots in the dark. Dreams that were completely unattainable. It was like walking into NASA and asking them to hand you a rocket so you could get to work at building your summer cabin on the moon. Sure, they would all say it nicely and make you feel as though you weren't quite insane for asking, but the answer was always the same: “You are batshit crazy, thanks for playing, please never contact us again.”

“The truth is...” Viola began again, looking as though every word were more painful than childbirth. She appeared ready to drop the bomb.

“My mom is going to be so pissed. I got sweat on my school uniform.”

“Seriously, I don't even want to play soccer now. I'm signing up for golf next year.”

“I thought this was supposed to be fun? And why aren't there any boys here?”

Viola and I both looked up to see that somehow the loudest-ever group of girls had managed to sneak up on us without trying, and now stood over us, voicing their weak complaints. We both stood to our feet, causing a few of them to step back a little and listen for instructions. Apparently the running had made them bitchier, but quieter.

I glanced at her and we made brief eye-contact. It was as though I was asking her, 'please, give me an answer, give me something'. I was well-aware that I probably looked as desperate as they come.

She looked back at the sixth graders, and sighed heavily. Then she picked up a ball and bounced it on her knee. “All right, I promise, I'll teach you the fun stuff now. Come on.”

As she jogged half-heartedly across the tiny lawn, girls in tow, she glanced over her shoulder to look back at me. I stood there in agony like an idiot, but I couldn't help it. She shot me a look of apology, but for what, I wasn't sure. All I knew was that whatever her answer was going to be, I wouldn't get it anytime soon, with 36 little gossiping mouths attached to 72 prying eyes and ears that were following us every step.

I overheard Viola asking one of the girls to run and grab a pen and paper from inside the Center so that she could write something down. The girl was just about to the parking lot when I shakily called out: “Wait, it's ok. I'll go get it.” I turned and made my way toward the double doors before anyone would be able to see the few tears that rolled down my cheeks, uninvited.