Get out of here! Is that you, Mari?” A loud voice startles me and causes precious ounces of my Americano to spill over the top of my Alexandria Roasters paper cup. I’m still licking my thumb when a woman approaches me and gives me a side hug.
“What?” I look up and into the eyes of my former high school locker partner. “Rachel Reynolds?”
“Yes!”
I stare at her funky, close-cropped haircut, black silk jacket, and ruby camisole and recall her days as a tomboy basketball player. “When did you give up rugby shirts and gray sweatpants?”
“After a year of playing ball for the community college I decided to go to art school. Can you believe I’m a sculptor and a jewelry designer?” She spins as though she is on the runway.
“You always were creative,” I say honestly.
“And you were always nice.” She resumes walking, so I join her. “I heard you were somewhere crazy like Mexico.”
“Tucson.” Pause. “Arizona. You weren’t too good at geography, as I recall.”
“Oh, no. You want to ruin the nice reputation so soon?” She playfully punches my shoulder. “So why are you here?”
“My folks needed an extra set of hands at the center for a while.”
“See? Nice. I was just about to pick up some lunch and take it back to my studio at the Torpedo Factory. Want to join me?”
I check my watch, but I’m not wearing one.
“It’s almost noon. Or were you trying to fake busyness?”
“I am busy. I’ll have you know that today I was going to map out a field trip so I can bring the kids here next weekend and then to Williamsburg the following week. But even a working girl needs lunch.”
“We can do one better than lunch. Remember Cheyenne?”
“Porter? Are you two still feuding over what’s his name?”
“Vinton.”
“Yeah, Derek Vinton.” I think of the baby face of the most popular boy in school.
“As in Cheyenne Vinton. She won that dispute.” She throws her head back and fake laughs so hard she has to hold onto me for balance.
I feel as though I am sixteen again.
Once she regains her composer, Rachel steps in front of me and walks backward to keep the conversation going. Passersby look at her with fascination and step out of her way, just as she expects. “Cheyenne and I are friends, I’ll have you know. She is the only person from high school I stay in touch with, other than Derek, of course.”
“How is she?”
“Great. And my point in mentioning her is that she is assistant director of the Williamsburg tourism department. I’ll have her meet us at my place, and then we can officially arrange that tour for your kids.”
“Hate to remind you, but Williamsburg is not exactly a hop, skip, and a jump away from here.”
“She lives here, in town, and today is one of her days off. The woman works nearly every Saturday and Sunday for events, so she has the luxury of midweek weekends.”
“Lead on, then.”
The employee door at the renovated Torpedo Factory is propped open with a brick. We climb two flights of stairs with our bag of Caesar salads and maneuver a catwalk-like corridor until we come upon a bright blue door adorned with a star and Rachel’s signature across it. She removes a pink rabbit’s foot key chain from her jean pocket and unlocks the door to her small studio.
A jewelry case runs alongside one wall and a worktable matches its length along the opposite wall. A small window up near the ceiling and amber-colored bulbs hanging from black cords provide gentle lighting. My eyes fall upon a necklace pinned to her work platform. Sapphires and topaz stones are placed on strands of silver; it is as intricate as a spider’s web. On the opposite wall, above the worktable, are four long shelves with various sized ceramic sculptures and vases. The delicate hand-painted forms are whimsical and dainty.
“I’m impressed.” Actually I am shocked at the adult life of my friend who refused to wear nylons and a dress for the ninth grade choir performance. She showed up in slacks, a white blouse, and a tie to protest.
Rachel waves away my admiration. “I can barely afford the rent anymore. I like creating art, but I’m not so good at the selling.”
“The Torpedo Factory is a pretty visible place. I’m sure things will happen.”
“I can hope.”
“Hey, how’d you recognize me so easily? I haven’t seen you in years.”
She opens her hands in a helpless gesture.
A knock at the door precedes the entrance of Cheyenne Vinton, who looks like a more mature version of her very pretty teen self. Dark ringlets frame her bronze, distinct face and wide grin. “It sure is you, Mari.”
“Cheyenne. Good to see you.”
“You haven’t changed a bit.” She eyes me and good-naturedly adds, “I swear that is exactly what I remember you wearing.”
“Yep, pretty much,” I agree.
As she comes over to hug me, I realize that in addition to similar clothes, I also have many of the same insecurities I had when sixteen. Cheyenne always was too pretty. I look down at my T-shirt, jeans, and Tevas. Angelica, Caitlin, and Sadie would all be appalled by my fashion regression.
My reestablished friends and I spend the next hour plotting my future field trips and randomly bringing up our shared histories. The two seem excited by my return to DC, and in some way, this is the reception I had hoped for at home.
Cheyenne licks salad dressing off her fingers like a trucker might rid his of onion ring grease. I like her more than ever until she brings up the topic I had hoped to avoid.
“So Marcus is in town and Mari is in town. That sounds like some potential drama.” Her deep brown eyes expand to take in my reaction of stern disapproval.
“Next subject.”
Rachel repositions herself on a work stool so she can lean in for the gossip. “Now we are getting to the story. And you said you were here to help your parents.”
Cheyenne smiles. “Exactly what Marcus is doing.”
I feel the need to correct her. “He is here finishing his counseling program at Georgetown.”
“Ah, yes. But he is living at the Urban Center to help your parents. Which would mean that you two are sharing the same dwelling.”
I look at her through a veil of hair recently blown into my face by the overactive air conditioner. “Seems like you know an awful lot about Marcus.”
Suddenly her enthusiasm dwindles, as if she has said more than she would like. “I’ve just seen him around town.”
Rachel tosses a plastic fork toward Cheyenne’s feet. “And?”
“My husband and I have gone out with him a few times.” She pauses and tosses her hair back before adding, “Him and his girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” Rachel shouts while my stomach does a flip with a half twist.
“Girlfriend?” I say as casually as I can—which means my voice is shaking and a bit shrill. This shouldn’t be such a surprise. Why wouldn’t Marcus have a girlfriend? He’s a fantastic guy who logically would be dating while living here. In truth, I cannot believe some fortunate, undeserving girl has not yet married him.
Cheyenne backpedals a bit. “But I don’t think it’s serious. She would love it, but he seems to keep a bit of emotional distance. I always figured that distance was approximately the length of you.”
“That is crazy. I’m dating a fabulous guy in Tucson—and Marcus and I had a talk last year when I came for Thanksgiving. He knows there is no…”
Rachel wags her finger at me and interrupts. “If you say chemistry, then you will have to take the lie detector test.”
“I was going to say chance—no chance of us being an us.”
Cheyenne looks at Rachel and Rachel looks at me.
I stand up for my integrity. “That is the truth.”
Cheyenne repeats, “Is there a chance?” over and over and over. A Chinese word torture method, apparently.
And after saying “This is so immature” I finally say something I hope my mother never gets word of—“Maybe.”
But, I swear, it was only to get her to shut up.