Perfect Shot

by Debbie Rigaud

  Rick took my silence as his green light to snuggle up next to me, typical opportunist that he is. I scooted over a few inches for fear of being seen sitting too closely to him.

  “London,” he started in a voice flooded with sensitivity. Anyone who didn’t know better would shed a sentimental tear at the sound of it. “It’s good to see you.”

  I looked at him and blinked a few times. Am I imagining this? His face looked solemn and his eyes searched mine. He licked his lips before pouring out a few more syrupy words.

  “I know I don’t deserve to even be talking to you after the way I treated you,” he continued. This was the first time he was even mentioning, much less acknowledging, the Incident. Just talking about it transported me back to the day. The echoey sounds of the crowded gym and the feel of the metal bleachers were the same at that moment as they had been months ago in Teawood High’s gym. I bit my lower lip to keep from stirring up the emotions to go along with the memory.

  Rick saw what talking about this was doing to me and he gently placed his hand on top of mine.

  “London,” he whispered, this time softer. “I’m so sorry that I hurt you. It was wrong.”

  “Why are you doing this now? Here?” I slowly removed my hand from under his but graduated to gnawing on my lower lip. “Months have gone by without so much as an explanation to me. And now that you see me with another guy you wanna be sorry about something? Do you think I’m stupid?”

  My shortness of breath and quivering voice betrayed the bold look on my face.

  “Maybe it took me seeing you with that dude to make me realize the mistake I’d made,” he said like he just read the liner notes off some R & B crooner’s CD. All that was left for him to say was “Please, baby, pleeeaze!”

  Hmmph. Please.

  “Listen, I don’t know what to tell you.” I looked him squarely in the eyes. “I don’t trust anything you say, and it’s too late for that anyway.”

  After a line like that I knew my exit had to be smooth and deliberate. I grabbed my coat, which was lying between us, and stood up to leave. Just as I took the first step, Rick grabbed my hand.

  He held it strong enough to stop me in my tracks, but soft enough for it to seem affectionate. When I turned around he was still sitting down but facing me. I tugged my hand but he tightened his grip on it. Tugging any harder would draw unwanted attention to this scene. I can’t stand causing scenes. In fact, I hate getting into confrontations primarily for the scenes they cause.

  “I can’t blame you for how you feel.” Rick’s eyes were dark brown pools of remorse. “I don’t even expect you to forgive me or take me back.” My anxiety was a curse that turned me into a statue. “But I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing that I haven’t said sorry.” The only thing on the move seemed to be my racing heart.

  After those words—and as if in slow motion—Rick brought the back of my hand to his lips and softly kissed it. His eyes kept vigil on my face as he slightly bent his head down to meet my hand. Just then, Brent came to mind. The thought broke the statue curse—but only from the neck up—and I turned my head in search of him. Brent was under a statue curse of his own. He was limply holding his camera with both hands and staring at Rick and me.

  He saw the hand kiss.

  Ten

  I snatched my hand back from Rick with the quickness.

  Even though I felt like panicking, I stepped around Rick without so much as a word and made my way off the bleachers. I met up with Brent by the water fountain. In an effort to seem as unaffected as possible by my Rick run-in, I smiled extra wide when I saw Brent.

  “Hey,” I greeted him. “That was some game, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Brent stopped and faced me. There was a little tension between us now. “And I think I got in some great shots.”

  “I can’t wait to see ’em,” I continued enthusiastically.

  We stood there face-to-face for a few heartbeats before we started walking out of the gym together.

  As we headed to the Ave, I tried not to go over in my head what had happened. But it was just so random and unexpected that I couldn’t help thinking about it.

  After the kiss Rick had loosened his grip on my hand. I’d walked away without saying a word to him. In a millisecond I could’ve sworn I saw the look in his eyes go from sorrowful to smug.

  It didn’t matter if he was sincere or not. There was nothing he could say or do at this point. I wasn’t so sure Rick hadn’t already succeeded in doing what he’d wanted to do. By the time Brent and I walked through the front door of the school, it was apparent that that jerk had messed with the easygoing vibe between us.

  The crowds of kids hanging out in front of the school and the cars bumping bass kept us busy. Brent nodded greetings to a few guys as we walked by. The only person he stopped to talk to was another silent artsy type we ran into by the front gates.

  “What’s crackin’?” the guy asked Brent.

  “Nuttin’ much.” Brent and his friend exchanged the half-hug/half-shake greeting. When they stepped away from each other, Brent started the introductions. “London, this is my boy Seth. We go way back like bendy ballerinas.”

  “That was corny, man—I’m impressed.” Seth laughed. “London, don’t let this guy outshine you.”

  “Trust me, I’m the reigning cornball and I ain’t letting no one take my crown,” I chimed in with a faux attitude, relieved that someone was easing some of the pressure from our emotional tires.

  Brent let out an easy laugh.

  “Don’t make me pull out my list of favorite movies to put y’all to shame.” Brent took his backpack off his shoulder and unzipped the front pocket, pretending to search for the list.

  “No, we believe you, man.” Seth played along.

  “I thought so.” Brent puffed up his chest like a tough nerd. “Catch you later, man.”

  We chuckled for a few paces, but then we grew silent again.

  On our walk to the juice bar, Rick’s hand kiss transformed itself into an elephant moseying down the street in between Brent and me. I tried to act as casual as possible, but something about Brent was different.

  “Seth seems like a cool guy,” I said. “In a corny way.”

  Brent smiled. “I like your friends, too,” he said. “Pam and Jake are cool people.”

  I smiled back. A few more awkward seconds passed and then he said, “I didn’t get to meet your other friend at the game.”

  No need to ask what friend he meant.

  “Uh, he’s not really a friend.” I was caught off guard and it showed.

  “Word?” Brent looked down at his white shell-toe Adidas. “Then he’s more than a friend?”

  I hadn’t meant for him to take it that way.

  “No,” I said quickly. “He’s less than a friend. He’s an ex-boyfriend.”

  In my attempt to distance myself from Rick by saying “an ex” instead of “my ex,” I ended up making it seem like I’d had a slew of exes. At least that’s how it sounded to me. Maybe I was overanalyzing things.

  “Oh.”

  We took a few more paces in silence.

  “So it looked like you guys are working on getting back together.”

  Oh no, time to run some damage control. I didn’t want Brent to think I was a playa.

  “That is not gonna happen,” I assured him. “He dumped me for a more popular girl a few months ago in the worst, most public way possible. And even though we’re in one class together, he’s never had much to say to me until today. And by coincidence, it’s the first time he’s seen me with another guy.”

  “Oh, it’s like that, huh?” Mist puffed out of Brent’s mouth into the cold air. “So he assumed you and I were a couple?” he asked, obviously amused by it all.

  “Yeah, even though Rick and I didn’t look nearly as cozy as you and Kelly did the other day.” Now I was enjoying myself too.

  “So a hand kiss isn’t something you’d classify as cozy?”

  He got me
with that one.

  Before I could think of a comeback, Brent reached out and laced his fingers through mine. He stopped walking and gently pulled me to face him. The glow from the streetlamp above our heads softened Brent’s expression.

  “Then how would you classify a kiss on the lips?”

  I was too lost in the moment to answer. As Brent took a slow step closer to me, he reached for my other hand and held it. The nearness of his face warmed mine right up. When his lips finally pressed against mine in a gentle kiss, my entire body felt like summertime.

  Eleven

  Things were looking up.

  A few months ago when I was feeling jilted, no one could’ve convinced me that I would be head over heels for a great guy, or that Rick would come crawling back. Plus I, of all people, am in a modeling contest!

  Life had become so unexpected and I was loving it.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to come home,” Mom greeted me just as I walked upstairs. “Congratulations on making it to the fourth week of the contest!”

  “Did Pam call to tell you that?” I asked, wondering how my mother was up on the info like CNN. When I found out about my advancement a few days ago, I didn’t tell anyone but Pam.

  “No.” She rolled her eyes. “I went online and checked the site. Darling, you make a stunning Ma-ri-aaa!” She sang out “Maria”—with the rolled r—Broadway-style.

  This is the same woman who never went on my school website to check out my game stats. The same woman who barely even glanced at my game schedule that was posted at eye level on the fridge door.

  “I love how the readers are being so supportive of you.” She pumped her fists as she said this. Mom’s enthusiasm had now reached hand-aerobics level. “It’s the sweetest thing!”

  … the same woman who had to be reminded over and over again when the volleyball season ended. My train of thought refused to get off this track. I got the sense that Mom was hoping the Teawood Warriors didn’t make state this year so it could all be over quicker. That would mean less time feigning interest and a break from picking me up from evening practices.

  Since the start of this modeling competition, I’d seen a spark reignite in my mother. All of a sudden she was personally interested in one of her kids’ extracurricular activities. Dare I say it? She was excited. The polite spectator who offered mild support and lukewarm cheeriness for my volleyball victories was full-on excited about this.

  I’d forgotten that look in her eye. That wild imagination that caused her pupils to double in size. She was envisioning the future and she liked the scenario that was playing out in her mind. Maybe she was imagining me on the cover of a fashion magazine. Or possibly starring in a commercial with a catchy retro jingle. All of this would be something forgivable. But if I knew my mother and recognized that look in her eyes correctly, she was visualizing one-upping Kelly’s mother. Or she was daydreaming about the praise and envious stares she’d receive from other moms from the child-star circuit.

  After years away from the scene, Mom had picked up exactly where she’d left off. She hadn’t missed a beat. Standing there with her in that state, I was even starting to experience that same choking sensation I used to feel before each “go-see.” My throat would feel like it was slowly closing. When I’d tell my mother about my struggle to breathe, she’d brush it off as a slight case of the nerves.

  Come to think of it, I was more nervous about letting her down than about facing the audition judges.

  “This is gonna be great!” She was following me as I walked down the hall to my room. “Where are they asking you to meet up next?”

  I was hesitant to tell her, so I went on the defensive.

  “Why are you making such a big deal about all this?” Stalling tactic aside, I really wanted to know.

  “Can’t a mother be excited that her daughter is getting a shot at something so amazing?” she asked, hand on her heart for sympathetic effect.

  “I’m just asking because you’ve never taken such an active interest in my volleyball games.”

  “I’m proud of your volleyball playing— you know that. It’s just that I don’t know enough about sports to really jump into that scene with both feet.”

  “I’m sure Michael Phelps’s mother didn’t know much about swimming when he started, but you couldn’t tell that by looking at her.” That was the best example I could come up with on the spot.

  “London, you’re taking this way over the top.” Her hand was now on her hip—the posture she assumes when pulling rank. “I don’t know why you’re getting so touchy about this. I thought you were having fun with this contest.”

  “Whatever, Mom.” I turned away from her and stepped into my room. “You wouldn’t understand anyway.”

  “Understand what?” The frustration in her voice was up a notch. “Am I missing something or weren’t you the one who signed up for this contest on your own?”

  My response came in the form of an exasperated exhale.

  “Answer me that, London. Why did you audition for a modeling contest that you don’t even want to talk about?”

  Now she was hitting a nerve.

  “The pathetic truth is, I signed up just to meet the cute photo intern working the contest. I didn’t do it for me and some desire to be a model, that’s for sure.” I faced her with my arms crossed tightly across my midsection. “Just like you didn’t do it for me when you put me in all those castings, even though you knew how uncomfortable it made me.”

  The second it was all out, I regretted saying it. My mom’s face fell like the weight of my words was stacked on top of her head. Her eyes blinked away the last ounce of enthusiasm they’d held. Without saying a word, she left my room and gently closed the door behind her.

  Twelve

  “Welcome to week four of the competition,” said Monica, the judge who had detected the shadiness between Kelly and me.

  The six contestants left in this competition included Maya, the pixie gal I was fond of. She was impressing voters with her quiet storm of a presence. In person she was an understated beauty, but when the lens was pointed at her, she performed like Sasha Fierce. She and I exchanged smiles once in a while, and the few times I was dumb enough to greet the other contestants, she was the only one to offer me any eye contact. Even though we didn’t acknowledge it, there was an unspoken affiliation there. But far be it from me to have formed some type of alliance with her. If I learned anything from my mom’s horror stories about Mrs. Fletcher (Kelly’s mom), it was not to trust anyone in the entertainment business.

  The other girls still in the game were the Rachel Zoe set who half the time couldn’t bother to take off their sunglasses indoors. But in their effort to please the judges, they oozed false sincerity. One of them actually asked me the time—but just as Asha walked in the room and noticed her.

  “We’ve invited you back to Chic Boutique on a Friday night because in this week’s challenge, you will be judged for your style and presentation of the boutique’s collection.” Asha’s torso stretched higher from her seat than the other two judges’. They were seated behind the customer service counter, just as they had been during the very first week of the competition. When she said “presentation,” she paused to give me a head-to-toe glare. Because this was an after-store-hours meeting, I had just come from my volleyball game. I hadn’t had time to change into a stylista after my shower. The powers that be at school were cracking down on after-game loiterers, so they cleared the girls’ locker room pretty quickly.

  If Asha was disappointed with the school-girl argyle sweater and worn-in pair of cords that I’d thrown on, I wondered what she would have said had she seen my usual postgame attire. She should have counted herself lucky I left my smelly gym bag in my locker.

  I was starting to accept the fact that Asha was never going to dig me. We started off on the wrong foot and I’d been letting her down ever since. She never really verbally slammed me or anything. It was just the disapproving looks that she threw me. I
t was actually kind of funny in a modeling-contest-judge spoof kind of way. Pam had grown to love my Asha imitation. Every time she said something overly dramatic, I fluttered my eyelids, tensed up my jaw, and pointed my chin in her direction.

  “Everyone will be paired up into teams of two.” Didier took over with his commanding voice and level eye contact. “But each of you will work independently in styling a fabulous fall look for your partner, which she will in turn model. In the end, you’ll be judged on both your fashion sense and your modeling skills.”

  Didier beamed at the end of his instructions, obviously eager to see how the evening would play out.

  Monica picked up the writing pad in front of her. “As soon as I call out who you’ll be paired with, you’ll have fifteen minutes to select a look—accessories included— after which, you will meet your partner in designated fitting rooms to help put the look together. The first name I call in the pair is the person who will model their partner’s looks first.”

  I was trying to keep track of all the details and instructions they were throwing at us. I didn’t even catch the new gleam in Monica’s eyes every time she looked my way. It was possible that I was just being paranoid in thinking that she’d witnessed what appeared to be a crush triangle among Kelly, Brent, and me. I shook it off and listened closely for my name to be called. She didn’t—until the very end.

  “And the last duo will be Kelly and London,” Monica called out, her eyes dancing as she said my name.

  Didier walked over to the contestants and handed a pink index card to each of us. On the card he handed me were Kelly’s dress, top, bottom, jeans, and shoe sizes. I guess they seriously wanted me to shop for Kelly of all people.

  I’ve watched enough reality shows to know that producers will choreograph dramatic scenes by placing two known enemies in the ring together. This pairing was no mistake. Monica knew that Kelly and I had history and she wanted to toss things up and see what jumped off.