Hitts & Mrs.

by Lori Bryant-Woolridge

  Sharon burst into laughter and Gwen continued to entertain them with silly copy ideas for future greeting cards until the cab dropped them at Bloomingdale’s. After thoroughly inspecting the shoe department, they wandered aimlessly through the famous department store, taking time to explore each level, try on and purchase various sundries. Two hours later, standing on tired feet and laden with shopping bags, Gwen and Sharon sauntered over to the juniors department in search of a birthday gift for Gwen’s fourteen-year-old niece.

  “I don’t understand why the sleeves of a sweater cost more than the whole thing,” Sharon remarked, holding up a beaded knit shrug.

  “Apparently, when it comes to fashion, less really is more.”

  “How about this?” Sharon asked, holding a pink, button-down shirt proportioned for a toddler, despite the size-nine hangtag. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

  “I have no idea what a fourteen-year-old likes.”

  “Then let’s ask an expert,” Sharon suggested after spotting a head of dark hair bobbing behind a hanging row of denim jeans. They walked over to the clothing rack in search of enlightenment.

  “I was hoping you could help me,” Gwen said, before noticing that the girl was busy stuffing a pair of jeans into a black Prada backpack.

  The startled young woman abruptly turned around, her blue-gray eyes and plum-lipped mouth opened wide in surprise. Paralyzed by fear, she stood motionless like a guilty inmate caught in the prison yard floodlights. Immediately the girl dropped her bag and tried to dash, but Gwen quickly grabbed the unhooked strap of her Phat Farm overalls.

  “Hey, let go of me,” the teenager demanded, keeping her voice low as she tried to pull away.

  “What are you doing?” Sharon asked, picking up the backpack.

  “Minding my own business.”

  “Are you trying to steal those jeans?” Gwen queried.

  “If you ask a little louder, maybe security will hear you. Now get off me, goddamn it, and give me my bag,” the teen demanded, glaring at both of them.

  “Young lady, don’t you curse at me,” Gwen snapped. An experienced mother, Gwen was not put off by the girl’s defiant scowl and rude mouth and, instead of releasing her grip, hung on tighter.

  Sharon stood by, studying the teenager with bewildered curiosity. While she was not a conventional beauty, her appeal was in her uniqueness. There was a dark and mysterious allure about her. Her hair was pulled back off her oval-shaped face, parted and plaited to her scalp, leaving the remainder of her auburn mane to fall straight to her narrow shoulders. She was wearing a small diamond stud in her left nostril and two gold hoops in each earlobe. A gold necklace encircled her neck, spelling out the name “Amanda.” Despite her urban edginess, the girl exhibited the telltale signs of a teenager well acquainted with the mighty D.O.D.s of privileged youth—dermatology, orthodontia, and designer clothes. Her soft ivory complexion was smooth and clear; her teeth, white and perfectly aligned; her posture, aristocratic in stature. Even the well-crafted dishevelment of her casual clothes and accessories screamed of expensive nonchalance. It was obvious that the girl didn’t need to steal, making Sharon all the more interested in knowing why she would want to.

  “Is your mother with you, Amanda?” Sharon asked in a calming tone.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “It’s on your necklace. Is your mother here in the store?” Sharon repeated.

  “I’m fifteen years old. I don’t need my mother tagging along if I want to go shopping.”

  “Judging by your unlawful ‘shopping’ habits, it appears you do,” Gwen remarked impatiently. “Why aren’t you in school? And don’t tell me it’s a holiday.”

  “I don’t have to explain anything to you,” the girl said, insurgence underscoring every word.

  “Well, then perhaps you’d like to explain things to her,” Gwen said, waving to get the sales associate’s attention. “And then she can return the favor by explaining it to the police.”

  “So call her,” Amanda said, her defiance strong. “It’s after four o’clock. School’s been out for hours.”

  A twentysomething salesgirl dressed in all black sauntered over to them, donning the standard-issue may-I-help-you grin on the way. Sharon quickly pulled the jeans out of the Amanda’s nylon backpack and tossed them over her arm.

  “Don’t you dare go anywhere,” Gwen warned under her breath as she released her grip.

  “How can I help you?” the salesgirl inquired.

  “Yes, this young lady here was trying to—” Gwen began before being cut off by Sharon.

  “Trying to convince me that she couldn’t live without these,” Sharon said smoothly, holding up the patched and faded jeans.

  “Well, I don’t want to cause any family problems, but I have to agree with your daughter. These low-rise jeans are to die for. They’re from Maynard Scarborough’s debut denim line. The best thing, they’re under four hundred dollars.”

  “Four hundred dollars to look like a bum?” Gwen asked in disbelief. “Who’s stealing from whom?”

  “They are very fashion-forward,” the salesgirl tried to explain.

  “Even so, I don’t think she’ll be bringing them home today,” Sharon replied, handing her the jeans.

  “Maybe next time,” she said before strolling off to help another customer.

  “I’m assuming there won’t be a next time. Right, Amanda?” Sharon asked.

  “Whatever,” the young woman answered before taking the opportunity to make her getaway. Like the angry and misunderstood teenager she was, Amanda stormed away from her captors and immediately began running toward the escalator.

  “Why did you let her get away like that?” Gwen asked her friend.

  “I don’t know. Even though she came off so brash and cocky, she had this lost and vulnerable look in her eyes. I guess I felt sorry for her.”

  “That little brat needs some serious home training. A couple of hours with the NYPD might do her good.”

  “Come on, let’s get your niece’s gift and get out of here,” Sharon suggested, attempting to put the young girl out of her mind.

  Convinced she wasn’t being followed, Amanda paused on the down escalator long enough to catch her breath and sort out her emotions. She could feel the tears welling up behind her eyes, threatening to fall. They were tears of relief and regret that she hadn’t gotten into serious trouble. On one hand, she was grateful that the blond lady, and not her bitchy friend, had interceded on her behalf. Still, while the situation would have been much more difficult if store security had alerted her mother, Catherine, perhaps the disappointing news would have been enough to keep her from moving to Japan and abandoning her.

  Amanda discreetly wiped away her tears. Why was it that every mother in the world was ready and willing to come to her rescue? Every mother except her own.

  While her decorator and contractor remained in the apartment to work out the details, Sharon walked out into the cool November afternoon to hail a taxi. She left the place feeling satisfied that the design decisions made today were on point and that she and Jude could indeed work well together.

  As the yellow cab traveled across town toward Grand Central Station, the muffled notes of the minuet sent Sharon searching through her pocketbook for her cell phone.

  “Hi, it’s me. Did I catch you in the middle of anything?” John asked.

  “No. What’s doing?”

  “Do we have any plans for Saturday?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  “I need to do some research for the new art hotel and I thought we could spend the afternoon together at the Museum of Modern Art and then grab some lunch,” he suggested.

  “You know museums bore me to death. I get nothing out of that kind of ‘artistic expression.’ It all looks like scribbles on the wall to me. You don’t mind if I pass, do you?”

  “No, it’s okay,” John said, disappointed but certainly not surprised. “It was just a thought.” They chatted
until the cab turned the corner of Forty-second Street and stopped in front of Grand Central Station. “Thank you,” she told her driver, pushing the fare and a healthy tip through the divider. She strolled into the station, and checked the schedule board for her train to Stamford. Seeing she still had another twenty-five minutes before departure, Sharon began walking to the nearest store for a bottle of water.

  She noticed two black teenage boys approaching. They were dressed in Sean John T-shirts, low-riding baggy jeans, Timberline boots, and thick silver chains. Pressing her shoulder bag tight to her body, Sharon immediately crossed to the other side, taking her past a bank of public telephones. Several businessmen were engaged in conversation, but it was the teenager at the end or the row that caught her attention.

  The silent body language of the young girl spoke loudly of depression and unhappiness. She stood, slumped forward into the cocoon of the Verizon pay phone, her ear pressed to the receiver, sniffling and wiping away tears with the back of her shirtsleeves.

  Sharon went into the shop and made her purchase. On the way out she heard a loud angry voice that she vaguely recognized. She looked over in the direction of the sharp words and saw Amanda, the would-be shoplifter she’d met two weeks ago, red-faced and teary-eyed, screaming into the phone.

  “I told you already, I’m not coming, so don’t worry. You and that skank rah-rah have a good time,” Amanda yelled before hanging up.

  Sharon approached the girl just as she made an angry swipe with her arm, knocking her backpack off the shelf and sending it flying across the floor. “Amanda?”

  “Oh, no, not you again,” Amanda whined, recognizing Sharon. “Can my day get any worse? First Kevin, now you,” she said, and broke down in tears. “Why do you keep popping up to hassle me?”

  “Honey, are you okay?” Sharon asked, ignoring the girl’s rancor as she searched her mascara-streaked face.

  “What? Did my parents hire you to follow me?”

  “I don’t even know who your parents are. Why don’t you tell me, so I can call them for you?”

  Amanda’s face donned an ironic smirk as she listened to Sharon’s suggestion. “That’s a funny one. Look, Mrs…. what is your name?”

  “Sharon Carlson.”

  “Look, Mrs. Carlson, thanks but no thanks. I can get myself home all right.”

  “Shouldn’t you still be in school?”

  “Nah, we had early dismissal,” Amanda said, avoiding Sharon’s eyes.

  “Is that the truth?”

  Amanda took a deep breath and shook her head no. Her exhale brought with it a fresh onslaught of tears.

  “Why don’t we go sit down and talk?” Sharon suggested, eyeing a small gourmet shop across the terminal. Instinctively, she put her arm around the troubled girl and the two of them crossed the floor, stopping to pick up her backpack, and walked into the restaurant. Sharon went straight to the front counter, while Amanda headed toward the back in search of the bathroom.

  “Sorry, miss, bathrooms are for paying customers only,” the guy behind the counter called out to Amanda, clearly misunderstanding the makeup that had exploded on her face.

  “Excuse me, but we are paying customers,” Sharon intervened. “Go on, honey. I’ll get a table while you’re gone.”

  Amanda smiled slightly, once again surprised by the protective nature of Sharon Carlson. First in Bloomingdale’s, now here, the woman was always coming to her rescue.

  “We’ve never really been properly introduced,” Sharon stated when Amanda returned and settled into the chair across from her. “I’m Sharon Carlson,” extending her hand.

  “Amanda Weiss.”

  “Nice to meet you, Amanda. So would you like to tell me what’s wrong?”

  “My boyfriend…`my ex-boyfriend…” Amanda corrected herself as her voice wavered. “He dumped me,” the teenager revealed, bringing on a fresh onslaught of tears.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” Sharon said, pulling a Kleenex from her purse and handing it to Amanda. “Losing someone you care for is never easy. Do you want to talk about it?”

  Amanda stared blankly at Sharon as if she were speaking a foreign language. Few adults, particularly her parents, ever asked if she wanted to discuss anything, let alone something as painful and personal as breaking up with her boyfriend. Hell, Catherine and Nelson Sarbain didn’t even know that she had a boyfriend.

  “If you don’t want to, I understand,” Sharon said. Silence permeated the table. Sharon sipped her coffee while she waited for Amanda to make up her mind whether she wanted to talk or not. She watched as the girl, eyes cast downward, picked apart the tissue, leaving a snowy pile of paper on the table. Sharon sensed the internal struggle going on inside Amanda as she tried to determine whether she could or should be trusted.

  “He met someone else. Someone he likes better. A stupid cheerleader,” Amanda said softly, the hurt in her voice apparent. Someone who will keep having sex with him. A girl who won’t do it just once and quit, she thought but didn’t say.

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Kevin is seventeen, a senior, and captain of the soccer team. He plays goalie and even made All-American. He’s that awesome,” Amanda announced with pride. “He’s also smart, especially in math, and already has a scholarship to M.I.T. He loves music and basketball and is really fine—all the girls think so.”

  “Sounds like a catch.”

  “I thought we’d always be together. I mean…`I love him….”

  “I’m sure you do, Amanda, but…”

  “But what? I’m only fifteen and too young to know what it’s like to really be in love?” the girl retorted angrily.

  “I wasn’t going to say that at all, honey. I think love is too powerful a feeling not to know when you’re head over heels—at any age.”

  “When he broke up with me, he said he still loved me but didn’t want to be tied down right now,” Amanda revealed, grateful for Sharon’s gentle understanding.

  “I’m sure he does in his own way, but boys are kind of fickle at this age. They seem much more interested in quantity than quality.”

  “Do you have teenage sons?”

  “No, I don’t have any children of my own, but I do have two godsons in college, so I know a little bit about young affairs of the heart. Enough to tell you that with a little time and TLC you’ll get over Kevin and happily move on to your next relationship.”

  “You seem like you have kids. You’re really, you know—motherly,” Amanda observed.

  “Unfortunately, my husband and I aren’t able to have children,” Sharon explained.

  “Figures. Those who should be parents can’t be, and those who can—like mine—don’t give a damn about the ones they have,” the teenager said bitterly.

  “I’m sure that’s not true, Amanda. I’m sure your parents must love you very much,” Sharon said reflexively, really not knowing if they did or not.

  “Maybe they do love me, but they certainly don’t like me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My newest stepfather, Nelson, is the head of one of the world’s most successful law firms in New York, and Catherine prides herself on being an international socialite and snob. I am the ungrateful daughter my mother and my AWOL father spawned, and Nelson puts up with. The one who let them down by not buying into their bullshit lifestyle.”

  “I have to be honest, Amanda, I’d feel let down too if I knew my daughter was stealing from stores and doing who knows what else,” Sharon said, noting Amanda’s first name reference to her parents.

  “I didn’t want those jeans. I know this sounds stupid, but I was trying to get them to stay in the States instead of spending the next year in Tokyo while Nelson works on some big lawsuit. I figured if I got into a little trouble, they’d have to pay attention to me. But of course you came along and wrecked my plan,” Amanda said, smiling for the first time since they sat down. “I guess I should thank you. They still would have gone anyway and I would have just gotten into
more trouble and been a bigger disappointment to them.”

  “Why do you keep saying you’re a disappointment to your parents?”

  “I just don’t seem to do anything right,” Amanda replied without telling the entire story. How could she explain that Catherine wanted the perfect debutante? The ideal daughter who adored all the really shallow things in life, just like her mommy? Amanda had tried to be that girl. She had played along up until last year, when they tried to keep her in that stuck-up Cameron School for Girls, one of the most prestigious private high schools in New York City.

  Her parents had claimed they wanted her to get a good education. A good education while mingling with the right kind of kids, was the way Amanda saw it. She hated it there—all the pretense and who’s-got-what crap. It was full of girls who dot their i’s with hearts, and whose biggest worry was if the cafeteria served sugar-free Jell-O. Nobody there was real or interested in anything that mattered. Amanda felt isolated and alone, so she stopped going. When she threatened to drop out of high school altogether if they didn’t send her to public school, the Sarbains let her transfer to Stuyvesant High School for her sophmore year. It was one of the top-rated high schools in the city. It just didn’t have the snob quotient her mother found so desirable. It didn’t seem to matter to Catherine that Amanda’s grades were excellent or that her daughter was happy and loved her new friends. From Amanda’s point of view, Catherine’s focus was on the fact that she was hanging out with the wrong kind of people. It was probably a good thing Kevin and she broke up. Her parents would have never approved.

  “Even though you can’t see it now, I’m sure your parents only want the best for you,” Sharon said, sadly repeating the words she’d heard all her childhood.

  “How do you tell what’s best for someone when you don’t even know who they are?” Amanda asked. “Maria, our housekeeper, knows me better than my own parents do.”

  Sharon looked into the girl’s sad blue-gray eyes and her heart melted. Sharon knew all too well the hurt this young woman was going through. Having been raised in the austere and cold household of her paternal grandparents, she knew from firsthand experience that no matter how grand the accommodations, a house without love that flowed freely and unconditionally was nothing more than a fancy prison.