Georgia on Her Mind

by Rachel Hauck

  This is not good….

  We volley for serve, and fortunately the ball soars away from me every time. I stand there with my hands in the air looking ridiculous.

  However, I am pleased to see that one or two on the opposing team are worse than I am.

  Once the game starts and the first few passes fly right over my head, I relax a little. We’re up three-zip.

  Tamara claps her hands, admonishing her team. “Let’s go! We can do this.”

  They serve. I tip my head back to see the ball coming right at me.

  “It’s yours, Macy,” Tomás coaches. “Spike it!”

  In that split second I get a grrr in my gut and decide, Now is my time. Eighth grade and Tina Farrow are twenty years behind me. Spike this one for yourself, Macy.

  Eye on the ball, I draw back my arm. I leap. I’m spi-i-i-king.

  The ball bounces off the net and into my face.

  “Oomph!” The blow knocks me on my back, arms and legs flailing, the humiliation of junior high revived. I can’t open my eyes. I can’t look.

  “Macy, are you all right?” Tomás is barely able to talk because he’s stifling a big hee-haw laugh.

  “I’m fine.” I grab his offered hand.

  Tamara hollers, “Way to sacrifice the body, Macy.”

  Tomás holds my chin and examines my face. “Let me see.” He’s highly amused by this damsel in distress.

  “I’m fine,” I repeat.

  “I just want to be sure. No black eyes or anything.”

  “I warned you—I stink.” There’s an edge to my voice. Just because a girl is tall doesn’t mean she’s an athlete.

  He grabs me by the shoulders and looks into my eyes. “Concentrate. You can do this.” He gives me a light shake and goes back.

  Concentrate. I make a face. What a novel notion. Einstein attributed his genius to concentration. Okay, this is not physics and I’m not Einstein, but I can do this. Concentrate.

  In the next few passes, I set to Kip once, followed by a tip over the net. We score both times. Feeling proud and full of myself, I ready for the next volley.

  I point at Tamara. “I’m gunning for you, Clayton.”

  “Bring it on, Moore.”

  I’m having fun now, sort of. The next volley sends the ball soaring my way. It’s a little high and a little past me, but I can get it. I run back, concentrating, concentrating.

  Maybe in the distance I hear, “I got it,” but I’m concentrating. Eye on the ball. I’m going for it, erasing all my fears.

  I draw my arm back, hand poised, aiming to pound that ball to south Florida, when all of a sudden my elbow slams into a brick wall.

  In reality, it’s Tomás’s face. We tumble to the ground, me landing on top of him, blood gushing from his nose.

  “Somebody get a towel,” someone screams.

  I scramble to my feet, humiliated. “Oh, Tomás, I’m so sorry,” I sob.

  “It was an accident. Don’t worry.” He presses the towel to his nose. “Didn’t you hear me yell I got it?”

  “No. Well, maybe.”

  “I think it’s broken,” someone declares after peeking underneath the towel.

  “Broken!” I broke a man’s nose? I fall to my knees, face in my hands. This is what I get for concentrating.

  Tamara kneels next to me in the sand. “You okay?” she whispers.

  “No. I broke a man’s nose.”

  “Better go to the E.R. just in case,” Kip suggests.

  “I’ll take him.” I jump up and face the pavilion. “Jack, I need your keys.”

  Lucy is watching with her fingers over her eyes while Adriane cuddles with Eric in the corner, oblivious.

  “It’s all right, Macy,” Tomás assures me. “I came with a date. She can drive me.”

  “Are you sure?” I help him to his feet.

  “Yes, I’ll need my car anyway.”

  Seeing the bloodstained towel, I start to cry. I can’t help it. “Please forgive me. I’m so, so, so sorry.”

  He touches my arm. “Forget it. I told you to concentrate.”

  I grin through my embarrassment. “So, I guess this is your fault?”

  On that lighthearted note, we help him to his car.

  I return to the pavilion and sulk in the corner, aware that I single-handedly put a damper on the whole beach bash. And I didn’t want to be here in the first place.

  Lucy, Adriane and Tamara slide up next to me on the bench. “It was an accident.”

  “It’s a barbaric sport.”

  “Girl, don’t think about it.”

  I nudge Lucy. “I hope you’re happy.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. This is all your fault for making me come, and then shoving me out there to play volleyball.”

  She brushes her hand over my hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t really think—” She stops talking to giggle. “When the ball bounced out of the net and into your face…”

  Tamara looks the other way, biting her bottom lip, and Adriane wants to know what happened. She missed it all. Tamara recounts the whole thing.

  I’m angry. Well, I want to be angry. However, the picture Tamara paints makes me laugh.

  Despite the support of the single and saved, and all the great fun I’m having (not), I ask Jack and Lucy to run me home. Even cute Kip’s big comforting hand on my shoulder doesn’t comfort me. Breaking a man’s nose is exhausting.

  This, I promise Lucy, is my last singles event, ever.

  “Definitely,” she agrees. “Definitely.”

  Sitting at my computer desk, I check e-mail while picking at a two-day-old salad. Outside my window the sun paints the fading Memorial Day sky with a rich reddish hue. Nothing like spam e-mail and soggy lettuce to cheer a girl.

  But I spot an e-mail from my old debate buddy, Kathy Bailey. Well, this is pleasant. I click to open her e-letter.

  Dear Macy,

  How are you? I saw your name on the class reunion flyer. I wasn’t going to go this time, but when I saw you were emcee, I changed my mind. I can’t wait to see you. I still think of how much we laughed in Mr. Ellison’s class.

  Married life is good. We love California, yet it doesn’t feel like home. I’m pregnant with number four, but Mark and I agree this is the last. At my age, I have no patience for starting over with the diapers and midnight feedings.

  Oh, gag. At her age. That’s my age, and I haven’t even started with a round of diapers and midnight feedings.

  There’s an attachment at the bottom of her e-mail. I click on it. A radiant Kathy smiles at me with Mark and the three kids gathered around. She looks fulfilled and happy.

  First Joley, then Lucy, now Kathy. I exit e-mail, pick up my uneaten salad and head for the kitchen. Did I make a wrong turn somewhere in my twenties and end up in Old Maid-dom thinking it was Career Haven?

  I know it’s wrong to compare myself to others, but give me a minute. Kathy is content and happy as a wife and mom, raising kids that just may be president or the next Bill Gates.

  I’m an unattached, unemployed nose breaker. That’s it. I’m resigning as the emcee.

  I dump the spotted lettuce and soft tomatoes into the garbage and jerk open the freezer door. What I need is a bowl of ice cream to soothe the black eye of my day. But the freezer is bare.

  I’m pondering making a food run when my front door opens. Lucy and Jack, Adriane and Eric, Tamara and Sam tumble in, supermarket bags dangling from their hands.

  “We decided you shouldn’t be sitting home alone,” Lucy informs me, dropping her plastic bag on my kitchen table. “We brought subs.”

  “What about the cookout?” I ask, my heart smiling, feeling the love. I am so blessed.

  “You’re more important.”

  I peek into one of the bags. Ice cream, Diet Coke and brownie mix. “Ah, you guys, my favorites.”

  Tamara holds up several DVDs. “Movie of your choice.”

  Adriane drops into the lounger, crossing her long legs. “I couldn’t h
ave fun thinking of you sitting here alone.” Eric sits on the arm of the chair, his hand on her shoulder. He’s quiet and observant, and I like him.

  Jack explains, “The guys are going to the Sylvester Stallone festival at the Oaks and you girls will have ladies’ night.” Without much thought, he kisses me on the cheek.

  “Thank you,” I whisper. I like the glint in Jack’s eye. Lucy’s smart to fall in love with him.

  Sam digs in one of the bags. “First let’s eat. I’m starved.”

  “Yeah, let’s get to it.”

  We sit at the dining-room table, eat and laugh, and tell stories on ourselves. Since I gave everyone a visual today, I’m absolved from recounting.

  Tomás calls to let me know he’s all right. I apologize again for the umpteenth time and he assures me he’s over it.

  “Part of the game, Macy.”

  Still. I broke a man’s nose.

  We polish off the subs and the guys pile into Sam’s SUV, leaving early so they have time to buy popcorn and candy.

  Tamara holds up the DVDs while Lucy and I clean up. “We got While You Were Sleeping, Sense and Sensibility and Mr. Deeds.”

  I make a funny face. “Mr. Deeds?”

  “I like it,” Lucy says.

  “I wanted Fiddler on the Roof,” Adriane interjects, falling into the lounger, throwing a leg over the chair’s arm.

  “Sense and Sensibility,” I vote, not sure I’ve seen it all the way through.

  “Good choice. Sense and Sensibility it is.” Tamara waves the DVD in the air.

  While Lucy mixes up the brownies, I go upstairs and throw down a bunch of extra pillows for movie cuddling.

  “I think I’m in love,” Adriane declares from her chair, arms in the air, head back.

  Tamara, Lucy and I look at each other. “Really?”

  With an uncharacteristic smile, she gushes, “Really.”

  We cheer and dive on her. In a heap, we tumble to the floor wrapped in laughter.

  “Off me.” Adriane shoves at us, laughing, but she’s finished fooling around. Getting up, she jerks her top in place and flops back into the lounger.

  “I’m very happy for you. Eric is great,” I say, arranging my pillows harem-style and covering them with a blanket.

  “I know,” she purrs.

  Tamara pops in the DVD and takes a seat on the couch. While the player cues up the show, Tamara fires off a challenge. “Best movie of all time?”

  “The Way We Were,” I say.

  Adriane objects. “Too sad. It’s A Wonderful Life.”

  Lucy votes. “Gone With The Wind.”

  We oooh. “Good one.”

  I hold up my hand. “I don’t care what anyone says. I love Remember the Titans.”

  “I’ve never seen that,” Tamara confesses.

  “What? You’ve got to see it,” I insist, curling up on my pillowy bed.

  “We’ll watch it next movie night,” Tamara suggests, and we all agree.

  I get a little dewy-eyed. “Thanks again, you guys, for being here.”

  Lucy smiles. “Where else would we be?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tuesday afternoon I cruise home along the Indian River after a much-needed shopping spree (need new outfit for reunion, don’t I?—plan ahead, plan ahead) with the Beemer’s top down.

  The reunion agenda calls for a fancy Saturday-night dinner, so I definitely need to look fresh, hip and in command. Can’t have the emcee looking like a used shoe.

  Overhead, the sun shines brightly in a very blue sky and the air is scented and salty. It’s the kind of day that stirs my faith. Forget about Casper, friends with boyfriends and the gorgeous life of former classmates. I’m ready to get on with my own life—wonderful.

  Still in the dark about Myers-Smith, I decide to call Peyton first thing in the morning if I don’t hear anything by the end of the day.

  Behind me, the plastic bag covering my new dress flaps in the wind. I use the rearview mirror to make sure it’s safe. I should have stored it in the trunk. I smile. If Dylan liked me in the blue poplin, maybe he’ll love me in this one.

  When I pull into the garage, I catch sight of Drag loping across his little lawn, surfboard clutched under his arm.

  “Hello,” I call to him, unhooking the dress from the backseat latch.

  “You busy?” He tips his head to the side, eyes squinting in the sunlight, his sunglasses riding on his head.

  I open the garage door. “I’m unemployed.”

  “Then can I talk to you?”

  “Sure.” This feels serious.

  He leaves his board leaning on the outer garage wall and kicks off his worn flip-flops.

  “Nice place,” he says, making his way through the kitchen to the living room.

  “Not much different than yours, I’d guess.” I run upstairs to hang up the dress.

  “Have you seen my place?” he calls after me.

  “Actually, no,” I holler down from my room.

  “I have two lawn chairs, a plastic picnic table and a hammock.”

  I jog down the stairs. “Furniture is so overrated. Would you like something to drink? Water or Diet Coke?”

  “No, thanks.” He sits on the couch, scooping his long blond locks away from his face.

  For the first time, I notice his aristocratic features. His nose, jaw and chin line up perfectly.

  He notices me noticing. “What?”

  I blush. “Nothing.” I sit on the couch, facing him, curling my legs under me. “What’s up?”

  He leans forward and knocks his knuckles on the edge of the coffee table as if he’s suddenly nervous. “I was wondering,” he says, avoiding my eyes, “if you could tell me about Jesus.”

  “Jesus?” I repeat, as if I’m hearing the name for the first time—one of my more poignant “duh” moments.

  “I’ve read the New Testament three times.”

  “Three times?” I’m impressed.

  “Yeah, and I was—”

  The phone’s ring interrupts Drag’s question.

  “Excuse me,” I say, reaching for the portable on the coffee table. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Moore?”

  “Yes.” The voice is not familiar.

  “Steve Albright from Myers-Smith in New York.”

  I leap off the couch. “How are you?”

  “My apologies for taking so long to get back to you.”

  “That’s all right.” I motion just a minute to Drag. I walk to the stairs and sit on the bottom step.

  “Our human resources manager is no longer with us.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I respond for lack of anything better.

  “So was he.”

  I bite back a laugh. Poor Bob.

  “Anyway,” Steve continues, “I hear you interviewed in jeans and impressed the New York office.”

  I stand. All the blood drains from my brain. “What?” The word is weak and wispy.

  “We’d like you to take a look at a job in our Chicago office. Director of customer service. It’s a smaller operation than New York, but the Midwest market is booming right now. The department would be yours to run.” He rattles off a potential salary, plus bonus, that knocks me back down on my derriere.

  “I’m interested.” My head is spinning.

  “You okay?” Drag asks, low and sincere.

  I nod and give him the just-a-minute sign again.

  “Can you interview in Chicago the week of the twelfth? Sorry to wait so long, but Human Resources is being reorganized.”

  “The twelfth is fine.” In fact, perfect. Right before the dreaded Beauty High reunion. That emcee job might not be so bad in this new light.

  Welcome our emcee, Macy Moore, corporate director for Myers-Smith Webware.

  Steve Albright and I talk dates and times. No need to jot it down or whip out my PDA—this information is forever engraved on my brain.

  Steve confirms that his office will e-mail me an e-ticket from Melbourne to Chicago
and the hotel information.

  “I look forward to meeting you,” he says.

  “Same here. Thank you.”

  I press End. The phone dangles from my limp hand. I’m shaking.

  “Good news or bad? I can’t tell. Your face is white, but you’re smiling.” Drag watches me with a half grin.

  I toss the phone onto the coffee table. “They want me to interview for the director position in the Chicago office. Chicago.” I mute my squeal, but my insides are all swirly.

  “Congratulations.” Drag raps his knuckles on the table again.

  I feel like calling someone. Lucy. Dad. Chris. Roni Karpinski. How do you like me now, Attila?

  But Drag is here. Talking about the Bible and Jesus. Right. I come to my senses and plop next to my neighbor on the couch. “Enough about me. Now, what do you want to know?”

  Drag’s knuckle-knocking slows. “Is He for real?” No fooling around with this guy.

  “Who? Jesus? Yes, He is.”

  “You’re confident.” Drag draws back, but his blue eyes are wide with wonder.

  “Drag, you know everyone bets their life on something.”

  “True.”

  “For you, it’s the next great wave. For my ex-boyfriend, it’s the bull market.” I catch my own wave and hang on for the ride to shore.

  “My father lived for the bull market.”

  “And what did it get him?”

  “A heart attack.” Drag collapses against my couch and chews on the tip of his thumb.

  “Jesus is the only way to true peace, the only sure thing,” I say.

  “To believe or not to believe. That is the question.” Drag recites his own Shakespearean prose.

  “Exactly.” I tap my hand on his leg.

  He gives me a small grin while still nibbling on his thumb. I have a profound thought and am about to share it when, of course, the phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Dinner?” Lucy asks with fabled familiarity.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Be there in a few hours.” I hear Lucy’s remote key beep and her car door pop open. “I’ll pick up something.”

  “Jack coming?” Why I bother asking I’ll never know. Jack and Lucy are synonyms.

  “If you don’t mind.”