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CHRISSIE
The next morning, I wake up early and get dressed, taking special care with my hair – forcing it to be exactly right. I wear something fashionable yet slimming.
I say goodbye to my mom and dad, and I feel guilty when I tell them I will be going to the mall to watch a movie.
They smile and tell me to enjoy myself.
It feels awkward not discussing my feelings with my mom as I always do. She even knows how I felt about Johnathan and how hurtful that experience turned out to be.
I walk down my street to the bus stop on the corner. I wait for the bus that would take me to the mall, and I do not have to wait long because the bus passes through our suburb quite frequently.
At the mall, the bus empties out and I am the last one to descend the stairs.
I notice Vincent immediately where is standing at the bus stop, waiting for me. I walk to him and when I reach him, I ask, “How did you know I would be coming with the bus?”
“I assumed you would because you always get the bus going home, when your dad doesn’t collect you after band practice.”
“Obviously,” I reply, feeling silly for asking such an inane question.
He just smiles, and then turns to the entrance to the mall. I follow him, and when we walk through the big sliding doors into the mall, he turns to me, “Did you have breakfast, yet?”
“No, but I’m not hungry.”
“Let’s go and sit down somewhere anyway.”
We walk into the first fast-food restaurant and he steers me to a table in the back. I feel eyes boring into me, the condescending eyes of everybody in the restaurant staring at us inconspicuously. I feel mortified, yet defiant. I sit down across from him and then smile at him, when he asks, “Would you like something to drink?”
“I’ll have a soda, thanks,” I reply.
He walks to the counter and then returns with two sodas. He sits down and then puts his straw into the plastic covering. He takes a deep sip and then exhales loudly.
He starts talking, hesitantly, “So, yesterday.”
I look at him, waiting in anticipation for him to tell me. I have a painful feeling in the pit of my stomach.
He continues, warily, “I don’t know how to say this, but I am unbelievably attracted to you. It scares me to feel this way. I have never felt this way about anybody, and then the fact you are white, makes it worse.”
He stops abruptly, and then apologetically, he says, “I did not mean it to sound racist.”
Unable to stop myself, I smile, “I understand exactly what you mean, you don’t have to apologize. Besides, I thought it was only me. I thought there must be something wrong with me.”
He smiles, relieved, and reaches for my hand across the table, but then he stops and looking at the other patrons sitting at their respective tables around us, he leaves his hand lying in the middle of the table.
I reach with my leg under the table, and then lean my knee against his. He smiles brightly, and my heart stops beating for a few seconds.
He asks, “Would you like to watch a movie with me?”
“That sounds nice. What kind of movies do you like to watch?”
“Obviously, being a guy, my first reaction would be I absolutely hate romantic comedies, but sometimes, they are enjoyable. However, if you tell anybody I said that, I will deny it vigorously.”
I laugh aloud, and he smiles with me.
We finish our sodas and then we walk across the mall and go up the escalator to the cinema complex. We end up buying tickets for an action movie, after we eliminate movies we have already seen. We walk into the dark room and then when we find our seats, we sit down. Immediately he reaches for me, and I let my hand rest in his big, warm hand.
For some bizarre reason, I feel tears behind my eyelids. I am here with him, but I wish this were another time, another life. Although I know this could never work, I do not want to let go.
After the movie, he offers to take me home and I follow him to his car. I have to do a double take when he stops next to a Mercedes two-door sedan, and he opens the door for me. I slide into the seat and the leather surrounds me, softly, caressingly.
He gets into the car, and I smile, saying, “Very nice car.”
“Thanks, my dad gave it to me.”
Obviously, how would a school kid be able to afford a car like this, and secondly, ashamedly, I wonder how a black person could afford a car like this. I wonder if his dad is a drug-dealer or a gangster.
While he starts the car, he asks, “Where do you live?”
“I’ll direct you as we go.”
We drive to my home, and when we get there, and because it is still early, I invite him in.
He declines but smiles pleasantly when I get out of the car, and he says, “I’ll phone you. We should meet up again tomorrow.”
“That would be nice.”
I feel awkward now that we are in front of my house, and our earlier comfort with each other is gone. It makes me feel sad.
I get out of the car and walk to my house, without looking at him again. I only turn to wave to him, just before I close the door behind me. I stand against the door for a moment and then I go to the kitchen to get myself something to drink. I need something with which I can swallow the lump in my throat down.
There is a knock at the door, and I walk to it, frowning. I open the door, and there is Vincent, standing on my doorstep. I step aside frowning somewhat, letting him in, while he says, “Sorry, I am really trying hard not to be here, but I can’t.”
I close the door behind him while he looks at me.
There is a strange look in his eyes. “In my mind, I can hear all the reasons why we should not be together, but it should be me making you happy. I should be the one holding your hand in public and I should be the one kissing your lips, holding you close when we dance.”
Without being able to stop, I move into him and I wrap my arms around his neck. I lift myself higher and I kiss him. I kiss him with everything in me, proving to myself that this is all right.
Is love not supposed to be the most important thing in anyone’s life? Would people really deny us this? In my heart, I know they, unfortunately, would.
My world is not Vincent’s world, and just so, Vincent’s world is not my world, but for this moment, I am his, only his.
That evening I open the door for Mr. Jackson, and I invite him in. He follows me to the lounge, and as we enter the room, my mom stands up straight away. I immediately register the shock of seeing a big black man walking behind me, evident on her face. I hope Mr. Jackson did not see it.
My dad stands up from his chair while my mom walks to the television and she switches it off.
I turn back to Mr. Jackson and then I say, “Dad, meet Mr. Jackson. He is the manager of the band I auditioned with.”
I turn back to my dad. “Mr. Jackson, this is my dad, Peter Taylor.”
As Mr. Jackson walks further into the lounge, my dad takes his hand and they shake.
My mom says, “Please. Sit down Mr. Jackson. Can I get you something to drink? Would you like coffee or tea?”
Mr. Jackson replies, “Coffee would be nice. Thank you.”
My mom looks at me. “Chrissie, would you join me?”
I follow my mom to the kitchen.
When the kitchen doors swing closed behind us, my mom turns to me. Softly she reprimands me, “You could have warned us, you know?”
“I was not sure what day he would be coming.”
I did know, but my morning with Vincent has had my mind bursting, and I seriously did not remember Mr. Jackson would be coming to see my parents tonight. How can I remember something so mundane when I have so many much bigger issues on my mind all the time?
My mom silently organizes a tray, and then I carry it back to the lounge.
I notice my dad sitting in his chair uncomfortably. He is not used to seeing black people within the sanctuary of his home.
I gather from their conversation; Mr. Jackson has already breached the subject of asking my dad’s permission for me to join the band on a permanent basis. As I put the tray on the coffee table, Mr. Jackson is saying, “I need your permission, because Chrissie is still under-aged and she would need you, as her guardian to sign consent on any financial documents.”
My dad replies, “No. I do not think it would be wise for Chrissie to join a band, especially as she would not be playing a pivotal role. It seems very insecure, and it would distract her from her studying.” My dad looks at me with sympathy. “I am sorry Chrissie, but I have to look out for you, and this does not seem a viable choice for your future.”
I feel tears burn behind my eyes, but I square my shoulders and ask him, “It would only be temporary. Maybe I am supposed to rather be artistic?”
“No, Chrissie.”
My mom joins us, and she agrees with my dad, “One day you will thank us for this. I know that now; at this particular time, you want to do this with all your heart, but your dad and I have been your age before. You might think we are being uninformed or that we are unconsidered to your needs and wants, but we know what we are talking about from experience. We have first-hand knowledge of fanciful dreams which get away from you. It is best, as your dad said for you concentrate on school and then go to college to study for a real job.”
Mr. Jackson starts to stand up from his chair, and I can see he is starting to lose his temper. Something I have first-hand experience in from the day at the recording studio and after Vincent performed The Great Divide for the first time.
He turns first to my mom and then my dad, smiling pleasantly. “I am going to have to enforce the application Chrissie signed when she auditioned for this position.”
My dad interrupts him, “You said you need my consent because Chrissie is still a minor?”
“Not for one song and this small tour, there is not really any monetary value to it, and percentages do not have to be negotiated on her behalf. Chrissie will receive a fixed amount, as agreed upon in the application form.”
Mr. Jackson reaches for his bag. He pulls a stapled wad of paper out and then he hands my dad a blank form, “I will make sure I forward the signed copy to you.”
My dad takes the form and then he briefly scans the small print on the back, above the space for a signature. Without looking up, he asks, “You said something about a tour?”
“Yes. We scheduled it to take place during the summer holidays. You need not be concerned. We have security and we have booked a separate room for Chrissie at each venue.”
“Where are these venues?” My mom asks nervously.
“They are all within this county. We are only attempting to maximize exposure close to home, for now.”
I see my mom and dad look at each other broodingly.
Mr. Jackson also notices the look, and he continues, “I am afraid, I am going to have to insist Chrissie goes on this tour.”
My dad looks at me reproachfully. “I suppose it would be like summer camp.”
Mr. Jackson smiles. “Yes. Exactly like summer camp.”
“Okay,” my dad agrees reluctantly. “I suppose there is nothing to be done. The decision has already been made.”
“I am glad we agree,” Mr. Jackson says as he rises fully from the chair.
Softly I let my breath out. I did not realize I am holding it. “I will have to go now. Thank you for the coffee Mrs. Taylor.”
My mom smiles kindly. “A pleasure, Mr. Jackson.”
My dad stands up from his chair, and then he and Mr. Jackson walk out to the front door together.
Not long after, my dad comes back into the lounge and I am amazed to see him smiling.
He ruffles my hair when he walks past me. “So, they were so impressed with you, they wanted to keep you permanently?”
I smile. “I suppose.”
“You are an incredibly talented girl, and you will still go far. I hope you are not upset with your Mom and me?”
“No. I suppose it is okay.”
My dad walks through to the kitchen and I hear him calling from the kitchen to my mom, “Where did you hide those chocolate biscuits?”
My mom sighs and she follows him into the kitchen.
