Monday morning before school, I go to Miss Mound’s classroom to pay all the money that’s due.
She’s watching Good Morning America and drinking coffee from a mug tattooed with bright red lipstick.
“Hi, Chelsea. Good morning.” She only looks up for a second, then her eyes return to the live story on dog parks in America, the dos and don’ts.
“Good morning, Miss Mound. I have my money for you.” I hand her a cashier’s check that I’d bought at the convenience store. She looks at it, and her eyebrows show me she’s puzzled it’s not a personal check. She flips it over and looks at the back, then looks at the front again.
I stand and wait.
She looks at me, then back at the check.
“Okay, hon. Thanks.” She’s back in dog park land, and I slip out.
Slipping out in my new designer boots is so much better than slipping out in worn flats. AND my cheer fees are caught up. Is this what it’s like to be normal?
I do everything in my power to avoid Cassidy until practice. Since I haven’t returned any of her calls, I need to figure out my answers to what will be her hundred questions.
Leah, this popular girl in my third hour, comments on my boots.
“Cute boots!” she says. “I haven’t seen those before.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I just got them this weekend.”
“They’re really cute. They must’ve cost a fortune.”
I cross my legs and position my feet for her to get an even better look.
She looks again.
I smile again.
And this is the new me.
Confident. Worry-free. All bills paid.
I make it through the day with no Cassidy encounter, and I’m convinced I’m perfectly fine without her. But my luck runs out when I walk into the locker room after school, and she’s the only other one in there. At first we just do our own thing. I’m putting away my books, pulling out my change of clothes, and she’s doing the same. There’s uncomfortable silence and lots of it.
My boots are the icebreaker. She says, “When did you get new boots?”
I look at them as if I’ve forgotten.
“Oh, these? Over the weekend. They were on sale.”
“Oh.” She goes back to changing, and I never stop changing.
I’m out on the gym floor first, and we don’t say anything else to each other at all, and I’m okay with this. While stretching, I fade into deep thought. I can’t help to think that it bothers Cassidy that I have cute boots. What if I had a wardrobe like hers? If I had money and she didn’t, would things be different? Would we be friends?
After practice I go to get gas, and I can’t ever remember pumping more than ten bucks at one time. I stand by my tank not sure what to do with all this time it takes to fill a tank. I push my cuticles down on every finger. I throw away some granola bar wrappers and a Diet Coke can from my console. But, wait! How will I know when the tank is full? Does it spill out the sides? I jump toward the gas tank and squeeze to release the nozzle. Think this through. Around me, there’s no one but a stressed out mom pumping gas while her crying toddler tries to escape from his car seat. She’s multitasking in heels, hose, and a khaki suit—on her cell—trying to entertain her baby with peek-a-boo through the window. Her hands are not on the gas nozzle, so I watch to see what happens.
The kid screams louder, chucks his binky though the half-opened car window, and Mom trots a few steps from the car and places her free hand over her open ear in attempt to finish the phone call. Kid still screaming.
I wait and watch.
Her gas nozzle pops down on its own. Mom walks back over to return the nozzle. So that’s how.
I’m good to go. I squeeze and click. I’m fueling this baby up to the max. Full. Tank. Yes, I’m purchasing a full tank of gas on this glorious late afternoon. I could drive to Dallas on a full tank. I could drive to the lake. Or Branson, Missouri, probably. A full tank could take me a lot of places, yes. Liberating, this full tank of gas thing. I push away the thought of driving the country to find my mother. Those thoughts that consumed me as a child are now just sporadic and senseless.
Paying with a $100 bill and getting back some change only sweetens the deal, and when I get back in the car and turn on the ignition, the gas needle pops over to the F. Wow. It’s full, alright. My tank is in post-pump shock.
I roll down the windows as I pull away from the gas station, then pull out Nate’s business card for the thousandth time today. NATE BRADLEY, in bold font. CASINO FLOOR OPERATION EXECUTIVE, in even bolder font. You can look at this business card and tell he’s hot for God’s sake. I smell the card—that men’s cologne hotness smell—and stick it back in the safest part of my purse, the zipper side pocket. I pull it back out three minutes later.
I drive with one hand, hit mute, and dial with the other.
I just want to hear what his message sounds like. He’ll never know it’s me. He’s probably sleeping before his night shift. There’s no way on earth that he’ll ever figure out it’s me. There’s no way.
Driving faster, heart racing, I listen.
I double check the mute button. It’s muted.
Rinnnng. Rinnnng. Rinnnng.
I’m right. Thank God.
“You’ve reached the voice mailbox of 405-6 . . .” It’s the automated one. I hang up quickly. Gosh, that was stupid. A weird number that will be on his phone now, and I didn’t even get to hear his voice.
Ten minutes later, I’m driving around with no particular destination, wind in my hair, when my phone rings. I go to answer, knowing it’s Dad, then find out it’s not when I see the number. I look at the road, my phone, the road, and my phone again before it registers that Nate is calling my phone back. What the HELL have I done now?
I don’t answer, of course. I stick it under my purse so it rings less loudly.
I drive mindlessly. I look up to see a CVS not remembering when I turned this direction.
It stops ringing. I pull out my phone.
A MESSAGE.
Play messages. Play messages faster.
HOLY mother of ALL MESSAGES! A message from Nate Bradley on my phone! How could this be?!
“Hey, Chandra, this is Nate. I saw that you called, but didn’t leave a message . . . just making sure you’re okay. Give me a holler.”
HE KNOWS IT WAS ME OH MY GOD I’M SO EMBARRASSED HOW DID HE KNOW IT WAS ME and GIVE HIM A HOLLER?!!! I toss the phone into the passenger seat and roll up my windows.
My hands get a little shaky as I drive around and fantasize about what it would be like to go out on a date with Nate. I bet he’s romantic. No, I know he’s romantic. Like a scene in a movie, I picture us at a table for two in a fancy restaurant. Candlelight and good music. Both dressed for the occasion. My hair is pulled up, in a stylish-messy kind of way; he’s extra cute with starch and those dimples of his. I get lost in this daydream, and it consumes my thoughts for a good while . . . I’m sure he’s the type to bring his date fresh flowers. I bet he opens doors like a gentleman and even pulls out chairs, too. Where does he live? A house? A condo downtown? Apartment? And what does he drive? A sports car? Truck? I wonder about his family, his past relationships, and where he comes from. I think about what it would be like to date Nate Bradley.