Here is a quick intro about the story I am writing so that the chapter makes sense: Kylie is a young mother of 15 month old Nicholas (the love and light of her life). Her husband died in an accident a year ago and her family is desperatly trying to set her up and help her move on- both of which she is admanatly opposed to. Her son has recently shown peculiar behavior by speaking in complet sentences, but Kylie thinks that it is impossible for her young son to talk, and that she is simply having a mental breakdown. Her life is a royal mess. Enjoy!Chapter Nine: Hair Spray and Lighter Fluid
Friday afternoon, Cat calls me and asks if I would come set up for the barbeque. I leave work an hour early and walk in to find her hard at work slicing and dicing an assortment of vegetables for a massive salad.
“Can I help?” I ask and toss a green pepper into the air.
“Sure,” she says and hands me a knife. She takes one look at me and stops. I see a familiar look of disproval on her face. “No, no, no,” she scowls, taking the pepper from me. “You are not helping until we get you more presentable.”
I try to snatch the pepper back, but she blocks me with her elbow and keeps it far from my reach. “Come on, Cat!” I say, feeling eight years old again. “It’s just a stinking barbeque!”
“You’re right,” she says continuing to evade my attempts to reclaim the pepper. “I have four kids, and I still manage to look nice.”
I can’t argue there. Her hair has been pulled into a pretty up-do, framing her perfectly made up face, and for once, her blouse is stain-free. “That’s because you are super woman,” I whine.
“That’s because I care,” she says and spins me around. “Now come on, upstairs with you.”
“What about the salad?” I ask as a last resort.
“Dan will take care of it,” She cuts me short. Dan, her husband, is out on the porch trying to turn down the flames on the grill.
“Are you sure he can handle it?” I ask, skeptically.
“Oh, he can manage for a few moments,” she says. Just then, a sudden burst of fire shoots up into the air. Dan grabs a glass of water and douses it onto the grill. “That is if he doesn’t burn the house down. Dan,” she yells out the screen door, “I’m taking Kye upstairs, keep an eye on the kids.”
“Will do,” Dan says and pulls out the extinguisher for extra safety. Dan is a fireman in Colorado Springs and loves it. We head to the master bathroom before he has another chance to show his skills.
The bathroom looks like the Unabomber has come through with an arsenal of sprays, perfumes, and tubes of beauty in a bottle. I stand in the doorway dead stiff. Cat puts her hands on my back and pushes me into the cosmetic war zone.
She directs me to the far end where a flat iron and several curlers are heating. “Stay here,” she orders like a drill sergeant. “I’m getting you something to wear.”
While she is rummaging through her oversized closet, I stand there like a prisoner of war and try to avoid looking at my reflection in the mirror. Cat returns with a pair of black slacks, a blue fitted blouse, and pair of high heels. The uniform is worse than I expected.
“It’s a barbeque, Cat,” I complain.
Cat shoves the garb into my arms and gives me her peppy cheerleader smile. “You’re going to look great!” Then she turns military again and marches me into the closet to change.
I wish the torture would end there, but like a Vietnam vet, I’m not so lucky. She plops me down on the vanity stool and proceeds to do what can only be described as a most cruel and unusual punishment to my face and hair. Minutes drag on like hours until finally; she spins me around and tells me to take a look.
I am sure the mirror is a mirage. The woman before me is too pretty, too chic to be me. I feel like I’m looking back in time, to a memory of a former self.
“Not bad, huh?” Cat says, standing behind me and putting her hands on my shoulders.
“You are a miracle worker,” I exclaim.
Cat smiles, clearly pleased that she won the battle. “Come,” she says, “let’s get you downstairs.”
The family is arriving as I carefully make way down the steps. High heels and stairways and I am destined for disaster. I reach the bottom step and someone lets out a whistle. I turn and see it’s my younger brother, Joey, who is on break from his freshmen year of college.
“Look who’s looking good!” He exclaims and we embrace in a warm hug.
“I feel totally awkward,” I say. “But you look good yourself!”
“Is that Kylie?” I hear my mother’s loud voice call over the crowd. “It’s about time you start minding your appearance.”
I try to smile. “Nice to see you, Mom.”
Soon David, my oldest brother and his wife and five kids arrive and the whole gang is in the backyard. A game of Frisbee has started up, I’m mixing lemonade by the backdoor and I hear the doorbell ring. Who could that be? I wonder.
“Kye, can you grab that?” Cat asks while juggling a squirmy baby on her hip and passing out kabobs hot off the grill.
“Sure,” I say and walk through the quiet house alone.
As I enter the hallway, I can make out the dark silhouette of someone tall standing on the front porch through the glass on the door. The doorbell rings again. Would you be patient, I think.
I pull the latch on the door. The person is even taller than I had thought— and good looking— and male. He has the same surprised expression on his face that I must have on mine.
“Is this the Adlong residence?” he asks. His voice is pleasant and ultra masculine.
“Um, yes,” I mutter. I feel myself uncontrollably blushing, though I doubt he can tell under the mask of makeup I am wearing. My armpits start sweating and I don’t know why. A long moment passes, and I realize it’s getting awkward. “Come in,” I say, remembering social etiquette. “Everyone is in the back.”
I open the door and stand aside. He looks relieved as he walks past me and into the house. I follow him silently. I catch myself looking him over. He is well-dressed, in his late 20’s, maybe early 30’s and must be six foot four at least. In the breeze through the screen door I catch a faint whiff of colon. It makes my head dizzy. I am very uncomfortably suddenly about the whole thing, and angry too. Why I should I be feeling this way? All lightheaded and sweaty? Cat set me up to this. She knew this guy would be here and she got me all dolled up to impress him. Like I could ever impress him any way, I think. He exudes confidence, and success. His gate is a long even stride. I notice that he has no wedding ring. His dark curly hair is perfectly gelled. Everything about him says corporate America and achievement. I doubt he makes less than $200,000 a year and obviously doesn’t mind showing it.
I feel like going upstairs and scraping the layers of makeup off my face and going home. Instead, I find myself trotting behind this mysterious man like a loopy eared puppy.
Cat gives a mischievous smile. “Andrew,” she gushes, “So glad you could make it!” She winks at me and I give her the most disgusted look I can manage. She ignores me. “I see you’ve met my sister, Kylie.” She turns him around so that he is facing me again. He barely makes eye contact before turning away. “Uhhh-yeah,” he says.
Nice cover, I think. Andrew, is it? I doubt he’ll remember my name two minutes from now. I should do my best to forget his, so it’s even. Why is he even here? Has my family stooped so low to think that family barbeques are now the newest way to hook me up? I don’t think so. Cat is trying to tell me that Andrew is a business owner from New York who is working with Dan on a real estate deal in Denver and yada, yada, yada, but I am meandering away to the far corner of the lawn to entice my non-conversive father in a discussion on the latest Av's game. I don’t really even like Hockey, but it’s got to be a lot better than this crap.
Joey sucks me into a game of 500 with David and the boys so I’m spared from both. When its time to eat, I purposefully avoid sitting near this Andrew fellow so that I don’t have to engage in any conversation, and he appears to be doing the same. Cat, however, is bent on getting us within kissing range and moves my poor father to the kiddy table so that Andrew is sitting directly across from me.
I poke at my plate and pretend to be interested in chasing a pea around with my fork. Dan is jabbering on about this great deal he and Andrew have going on and I’m wondering at what point it will be socially ok to leave. I feel tiny fingers on my leg. I look down to see Nicholas looking up at me under a cascade of curls. What a relief. I pick him up under the arms and set him on my lap. Children can be such welcome distractions from adult situations. I immerse myself in a game of peek-a-boo and become oblivious to the intended suitor sitting across from me.
Nicholas’s giggles become increasingly louder as I get more involved in the game. Cat’s raises her voice over the laughter. “This is Nicholas, Kylie’s son,” she explains to the only person there who wouldn’t already know that. Then she turns to me. “Andrew has a kid too,” she raises her eyebrows as if to say, “See you do have something in common.” “A daughter, right?” Cat encourages him.
“That’s right,” he confirms, and for the first time looks directly at me. His gaze catches my breath. I feel my cheeks flush again, and this time, I’m grateful that the makeup is hiding it. There’s nothing worse than looking like a tomato in front of a complete stranger.
I realize it’s my turn to say something. I think quickly of something boring and normal to say. “How old is she?” I ask. Good, that was good. Perfectly safe. Not that I care what he thinks, I remind myself.
“Her name is Natalie, and she is four years old,” he replies. Dang it, he anticipated my next question. He is looking at me to see if I will judge him. Well, you’re not the only one with a kid and no spouse, I think.
“That’s nice,” I say. That’s nice? What a stupid thing to say. The conversation runs dry. Nicholas wants down now. No, I think. You’re my only distraction, you can’t abandon me now! But he wiggles off my lap and goes screaming happily across the lawn to throw sand at his cousins in the sand box.
“Don’t throw sand!” Cat and I yell at the same time. She catches herself and looks at me sheepishly, biting her lower lip. She is always worried about crossing the mommy line when I’m around. I give her a look that says “it’s ok.”
The sun is sinking lower in the sky. The food isn’t even half eaten, but we are stuffed fatter than pigs for the slaughter. Suddenly, like a timer, everyone gets up to clear the plates. “Let me help,” I say, realizing Andrew and I are about to be left alone at the table. “No, no,” its fine Cat says, pushing me back down into the seat. Somehow the family manages to clear faster than if we were on a beach during a snowstorm. The stranger and I find ourselves one on one, with no cover.
An awkward minute passes. From his crossed arms and lack of eye contact, it is evident that he is not happy about the situation either. I decide to acknowledge the elephant in the room and move on. “I’m sorry about them,” I say motioning towards the gang as they scurry about like bugs clearing the food.
“No, its fine,” he says. Liar, I think.
“No really,” I continue, “this is so embarrassing.”
He nods. “I’m sure this isn’t the first time they’ve tried to set you up,” he says in a smooth voice.
“No,” I answer. “No, it is not.”
He traces a circle on the tablecloth with his finger and asks casually. “So, what happened to the others who’ve come before me?” He gives a small smile. “Did they crash and burn?”
I smile. “Something like that,” I say. He raises an eyebrow. The atmosphere is a little warmer now, like the pressure has someone been taken off us. He’s not interested in me. I’m not interested in him. No worries.
We watch the kids playing in the sandbox with their toy trucks. “Wow, they sure grow up fast,” he says.
“Yeah,” I agree. “So, where is your little girl?’ I ask offhandedly.
“In Detroit with her mother,” he answers.
I nod. Divorced. He doesn’t ask me about Nicholas’ father, so I assume he already knows the story. I don’t blame him for being standoffish. Widows are a completely different ball game from divorcees.
“I have a picture of her, if you would like to see,” he says leaning forward. Cat is glancing at us over her shoulder from across the yard with an eager look of anticipation on her face. Andrew notices her too. “We might as well let them think we’re playing along,” he whispers to me with a smile.
I laugh quietly. I like him now. Not like Cat wants me to like him, but he’s nice now that I don’t have to.
“I would love to see a picture of her,” I say.
He leans back and pulls a wallet from his pocket. He flips it open to a photo of a little girl with curly pigtails and big blue eyes.
“She is adorable,” I compliment.
“Takes after her mother, I’m afraid,” he says with a grin. “A complete drama queen.”
I smile. He grins back and then looks at me a minute. I have no clue what he is thinking. He leans forward again, his colon wafting towards me. I feel intoxicated. That stuff should be illegal, I think. “You know what?” he asks.
I wait a moment. “No— what?” I reply.
“I think we should do something,” he says with a playful, mischievous spark in his eye. I make a mental note that he just used the word “we.”
“Do what?” I ask, feeling obtuse.
“Well,” he moves closer in still, “since your family has gone to all this trouble to set us up, and we both know that neither of us want to, I think that’s what we should do.”
I frown, trying to see if I’m really catching his drift or not. “Should do what?”
“I think we should go out,” he says with debonair sophistication.
“You think we should go out?” I repeat stupidly.
“Yeah,” he says with a sly smirk. “You know, to throw them off.” He waves to my family who are all doing their best to inconspicuously eavesdrop on us. I see the good humor behind his eyes and I find myself laughing.
He looks into my eyes, mocking seriousness. “So, what do you say? Will you go out with me?”
A flutter of fear ripples threw me, but I can see he only means it for fun. It’s a game. Do I want to play? “Sure,” I hear myself saying. I’m smiling too. “But only if you promise to really play it up, so my family will have nothing else to talk about.”
“It’s a deal,” he says leaning back and lifting up his glass of ice water for a toast. “To our non-date, date then” he says and beams.
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Note: This work has been copywrited. If you try to plagiarize, copy, bootleg, lift, use illegally or any other synonym for steal it, you will be hunted down, strapped to a back wrenching chair from the relief society room, and be forced to listen to Barbra Streisand and eat nothing but red vines (I know they are good, but you will get tired of them) FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE! Oh, and did I mention that my cousin is a black belt and my brother has a fondness for collecting Samari swords?
You have been warned.
