by Nikki Harmon
“Me?”
“Yes, you. I really like you,” she said, shrugged and blushed. Unbelievable. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have got to go to the bathroom and we’d better finish this project before my mother gets home. We’ll need that table for dinner.” So we got up and got back to work with this new thing between us.
I went home that day on the fabled Cloud Nine. I don’t recall much of the journey, only that I couldn’t stop smiling and going through the whole day over and over in my mind. I would get to that kissing part and just cheese all over the place. I’m sure the other people on the bus thought I was crazy. I floated off the bus, up the street, down my block, into my house, and up to my room where I immediately called Candace and we spent the rest of the night on the phone. It was great.
Reality set in on Monday morning. I’d felt like a freak for days wondering if people could tell I was having “unnatural” thoughts about girls. Well, now I had actually committed “unnatural acts” with a girl, and you couldn’t tell me it wasn’t written all over my face. I’d kissed a girl. I liked a girl. I thought she was all that and a bag of chips. I could not tell a soul.
Gratefully, I didn’t see Candace until our English class. We got to class, we acted normal, we didn’t touch, and we didn’t make a lot of eye contact. We passed a note or two, but we were cool, cool, cool. I would look at her and think about what we did and I would blush to myself.
We handed in our project with a hint of regret. Our collage project got an A and a week later our class moved onto another book. But I carried The Color Purple in my book bag for weeks afterward. I liked having those characters near me for comfort as we tried to figure out what we were doing.
In my school at that time, no one was gay. There were rumors about this or that teacher and there was teasing about certain girls who were deep into sports. But no one, NO ONE, was openly gay. It was not accepted, it was not OK, and it could get you hurt.
We knew that and I know we would never have claimed to be gay anyway. We liked each other and that’s as much as we would admit. One time, someone had anonymously put a few fliers up in the hallways for a gay teen support group. There was an immediate and vicious negative reaction to it. Girls threatened to beat up whoever did it; they ripped the flyers down and tore them into shreds. That happened when I was a freshman, but I never forgot it. And while I never connected myself with the flyers, I always felt sorry for that poor soul who was brave enough to try and offer help to someone else. She overestimated her classmates’ compassion; she underestimated their fear and intolerance.
At school, outwardly we maintained our friendship, we chatted in English class, and sometimes we met to say “hi” or pass notes between classes. But Candace had her group of friends and they had their routines. She came to school with her best friend Shari in the morning and took the bus home with her after school. There wasn’t a lot of room for me to fit in there, and the few times she tried to include me, even in a conversation, her friends just looked at me dismissively. She was their friend and they were not too accepting of new girls. I was busy with all my after school clubs and responsibilities, and I had a few friends too who expected my sarcastic comments at lunch.
Thus, we began our covert romance. I will admit that the secrecy of it, the sneaking around, the danger of discovery was thrilling to me. We devised a code so we could pass love notes undetected. We stealthily shared mix tapes, poems, and pictures expressing our feelings for each other. Some days we arranged to wear purple on the same day. It was our secret declaration of love.
Not often, but maybe once a week, we would sneak into an empty classroom and kiss. Sometimes, we kissed in the bathrooms, once in the gym. It was illicit, it was dangerous, and it was exciting. We conducted much of our affair on the phone, at night. We revealed our deepest thoughts and fears, we did our homework together, we watched television together, we listened to music together, and sometimes we just breathed together and occasionally fell asleep together. Our nights were intimate, our days were spent in cloak and dagger machinations. But I’d never felt so alive.
And me and Candace, in the bubble of our little relationship, were blissful. The more I looked at her, the more beautiful she became in my eyes. I counted and cherished her freckles, her one crooked tooth, her long neck, her deep brown eyes, and her surprisingly strong hands.
The more we talked, the more I fell for her. She was compassionate and caring, she was smarter than I’d realized, and she was a lot quirkier than she let on. She had an image of this regular, ‘round the way girl that she maintained with a vigilance. But in private she could be unconventional. I found out that she secretly loved rock music and ska, Fishbone, Living Color, and Bad Brains. She also loved horror movies, post-modern art like Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat (I had never heard of them) and she had a weird interest in the occult.
She was a “good” girl for her mother, and made sure that she fit in with all her sisters and cousins. She didn’t disappoint, she did her chores, kept up her grades and didn’t cause anybody any trouble. She had easily steered clear of boys because her mother was a church-going woman and she wasn’t allowed to date or have a boyfriend. Candace was experienced when it came to having a secret life.
On the weekends, we were able to be together, a little. We spent a lot of time wandering Fairmount Park, looking for privacy, making out when it was safe. Sometimes we went to the movies, sometimes we wandered around downtown, walking slowly past gay bookstores, not having the nerve to enter but giggling at the titles nevertheless. We ate at Chick-fil-a and spent a lot of time at the Gallery, going from store to store.
In public, Candace became my best friend; in private she was my girlfriend. My heart would swell at the mere thought of her; everything I saw, heard or experienced related in some way to her, reminded me of her. My desire to be with her was insatiable. It was sweet, it was all encompassing, and it was almost painful in it’s keenness. I had never been so happy, so loved, so understood, and so complete. I was resplendently in love.
CHAPTER SIX
A week later, I feel a little sluggish from the red wine I had last night. But I eat a good breakfast, drink some fresh OJ, and do a 10-minute cardio with five minutes of meditation and I’m good to go. I get to the office and see Soledad helping a couple into their car with their newborn. An “It’s a Boy” flag hangs from the window upstairs. I give a wave to the new parents and watch them drive away at five miles per hour. I turn to Soledad. She looks tired.
“Long night?” I ask.
“It was. She labored 12 hours at home and another eight here, but she hung in like a trooper. I’m tired but not as tired as her.” Soledad jerks her thumb towards the car finally rounding the corner.
“I’ll make some fresh coffee for you,” I say sympathetically.
“Nah, thanks, hija, but I’m going to take a nap. I don’t have a patient until noon,” Soledad says quietly. I look at her from the corner of my eye. She seems older in this pale morning sun. Her skin looks looser, her voice trembles a tiny bit, and she walks with some effort. I open the door for her and we go in.
My first patients arrive 20 minutes later. On time and bubbly as usual, Laurie and Leslie bounce through my office door grinning and laughing. I don’t know why their apparent happiness gets on my nerves, but it does. I make an effort to be super-pleasant.
“Good morning! Four months already! Let’s see how we’re doing.”
I examine Laurie and all is going well with the pregnancy. I ask them if they have any questions.
“Well,” chuckles Leslie with that deep infectious laugh, “we do have an off-topic question for you.”
“Oh?” I say. “What’s up?”
“Yeah, we have a friend…. Well, sorry, I hope this isn’t too nosey, but are you single by any chance?” asks Laurie.
I hesitate. “Well, actually I do happen to be single right now, but I’m not really looking for anything….”
“Oh great!” gushes Laurie.
“One of our best friends is single, and we mentioned you and she seemed really interested. Of course, we don’t know you, know you, but she’s a really great person, an artist, very cool, and we thought that, you know….”
“But only if you’re interested,” interjects Leslie.
“Yeah, I don’t know,” I demure. “I just got out of something and I don’t think I’m looking to meet anybody right now.”
“Oh, OK.” Laurie sounds dejected. “Sorry to get so personal but we love fixing up our friends. I think we just want everybody to be as happy as we are. We feel so blessed right now.”
Laurie stares into Leslie’s eyes and kisses her. Leslie rubs her belly and, still smiling, kisses her back. I fight the urge to vomit while keeping my smile in place. Like a goddamn Hallmark card these two! They hug and kiss me good-bye. I am uncomfortably aware of Leslie’s shoulder muscles as I wrap my arms around her. She must work out a lot! Whew! They leave and I turn on some Badu to write up my notes.
Why do they bother me so? I should totally love them and be happy for them and I am. But I think I resent them, too. How can they possibly be so happy? Maybe it’s a front for the public or maybe they’re secretly miserable. But somehow, I don’t think so. I think they are genuinely in love. Their life is happening, they are living the dream, married to their partner, having a baby, creating a family.
And I am a part of their plan. I will provide them with the knowledge and confidence they need to have the birth experience they want and will remember the rest of their lives. I am instrumental to helping them achieve their family, their way. It is a big responsibility and I am more than up to the task. I am smart, powerful, and resourceful and I know what my patients need. They need me, and I want to do this for them.
Then why do they get on my nerves so much???
I see the way Laurie looks at Leslie, the trust and love in her gaze and it suddenly reminds me of the way Candace used to look at me. She had that same smile, that relaxed confidence, her face glowing with that same quiet joy … That’s it! I know what I need to do. I need to find Candace.
It’s so stupid, I know. It’s so cliché, I know. But suddenly, I can’t get it out of my head. I need to know what happened to her. Where is she? What is she doing? Is she with somebody? Does she regret what happened? Does she ever think of me? Did she really stop loving me?
~~~
As soon as I get home that night, I call my sister and ask her to meet me for a drink. She immediately agrees and we decide to meet at Crimson Moon on Sansom Street. Crimson Moon is one of my favorite coffeehouses. Brightly painted and covered with artwork, it’s heavily populated with hip-hop artists, students, actors from the theater across the street, and dancers from the studio next door. They’re always playing some kind of acid house and serve the best lattes and root beer floats.
Janine arrives soon after I get a table looking out onto the busy street below. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that this tall fashionista is my little pipsqueak sister. When did she grow up to be a woman? We hug hello and order from our cute, but way too young for me, waitress. With our chai teas and apple turnovers, we chitchat and catch up with each other. I finally tell her my plan to find Candace. She blows up.
“WHAT!!! Are you out of your mind? After all that drama back in high school? Why in the world would you want to see her?” cries Janine.
“I want to know what happened to her. I used to be so in love with her and now, I have no idea where she is or what’s she’s doing. It’s been almost 15 years and I … I just want to talk to her,” I reply.
“Dee, seriously, I think it’s a bad idea. You have so much going for you now, your career, your apartment, you have Pepper….”
“I don’t have Pepper. We broke up,” I say.
“Well, you’ll have somebody else soon enough. You always do,” she shrugs.
“Hey, what does that mean?” I ask, indignant.
“It means, big sis, that you never have a shortage of girlfriends coming and going. Which is what I’m saying, why bother going back there? You’ve been with a ton of women since then, and I’m sure there are plenty more to come,” she says.
“Yeah, maybe that’s a problem…. She was my first love, Janine.”
“Yes, I remember vividly, but come on … everyone is nostalgic about their first love. I would still drop my panties for Mike in a heartbeat. It doesn’t mean we should try to relive those times. You’ve changed a lot since then, and she probably has too.”
“Maybe, I just can’t stop thinking about it though,” I say. “I just need to know whatever happened to her…. You said her sister works at the Coleman Library, right?” Janine nods and sighs, exasperated.
~~~
It takes me more than a week to get over to the Library. I got busy at work and then I had to perform the ceremonial “return of the stuff’ ritual with Pepper. It was a little harder than I had anticipated. She was emotional and I started to doubt myself again, but it was done and we were over.
I also had to work up the nerve to see Denise again. The last time she and I spoke, she hated me. But I assumed that after all these years we’d be able to have a civil conversation. I was wrong about that. Dead wrong.
I’m quite familiar with the Coleman Library. It’s on the busy corner of Greene Street and Chelten Avenue. I used to change buses there everyday to get to and from school. I also kissed Candace in the bathroom and in the stacks there. I have a brief flashback of that as I walk through the doors. It’s been renovated since I’ve last visited. It looks bright and clean and new.
I walk in and look behind the main desk. I don’t see anybody resembling Denise. I walk over towards the offices looking casually…. No Denise. I decide to head downstairs; maybe she works in the Children’s section. I venture down the spiral staircase, but no Denise. I resist going into the stacks to browse and head back upstairs. I guess I’ll have to ask somebody. I head to the main desk, and a woman pushing a cart through the aisles almost bumps into me. I look up. She is wearing a bright red sweater and tweed pants with her hair pulled back into a bun, but I would know that face anywhere. It’s Denise.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hello,” she says brightly. Then I see recognition dawning on her. She makes a small hissing noise and steps back.
I continue on. “Denise! It’s so good to see you. I guess you remember me? Dee Armstrong,” I say. I pause.
She says, “Of course I remember you. Dee.”
Inwardly, I sigh. I guess bygones will not be bygones today. I reach into my purse for my business card. “I was hoping to get in touch with your sister, with Candace. I haven’t seen her in years and….”
“Let me stop you right there,” she says, her voice full of old anger. “No, I will not get you in touch with Candace, no, I do not want your business card, and no, I will not pass the information on to her. We do not want anything to do with you again. Ever!”
And with that she wheeled the cart past me and never looked back. A couple of patrons cast furtive glances my way. Embarrassed and chagrined, I skulk out of there without another word. Denise had always been the nicest of the sisters, the peacemaker. If she still hates me, then I’m guessing I will not have much luck with any of Candace’s family. I head home to come up with a new plan.
~~~
Thankfully at home, I have a voice message from one of my best friends, Bernadette “Downtown” Brown. She wants to meet for dinner and tell me something important. Great! I could use a distraction.
Bernadette and I have been friends since college. She was also a Biology major so we had a lot of the same classes. And when we graduated, she decided go to medical school at Temple University here in Philly. We were roommates for four years. I doubt there’s anybody who knows me better than her. But with her practice and my practice, we don’t get to see each other in person much anymore. This must be big news.
I hardly get through the door of The Continental when I’m nearly blinded. There was a huge glare o
ff the big rock on her finger. As I made my way to the table, I look, I point, I cover my mouth, and gasp dramatically. She squeals, hugs me, and tells me to stop being ridiculous and making a big deal about it. But I know her. She WANTS a big deal made of it.
“OOOhhh girl! That is the most beautiful ring I have ever seen,” I gush. I hold her hand up and inspect. It is a mighty big but mighty beautiful stone, maybe two carats. She blushes and preens.
“OK, tell me the whole proposal story, all of it!” I say.
Over Cosmopolitans, pad thai, shoestring fries, and dumplings she lays out the week-long proposal her boyfriend of seven years concocted. It’s a little over the top for me with the hot air balloon, praise dancers and flash mob and all. But Darryl knows her and she was successfully blown away. I’m genuinely happy for her and she is just glowing. I guess it could be the spa getaway but she looks fantastic. Dark brown skin gleaming, locks oiled and tight, jewelry sparkling, clothes fitting just right, and I think I detect a hint of perfume.
I am starting to feel kind of frumpy. My hair is looking more frizzy than curly, I have a period pimple on my chin, and I’m probably carrying the back to nature midwife thing a little too far with this poncho and frayed jeans. I wish I had at least cleaned my earrings; they are looking a little tarnished lately. She interrupts my self-conscious reverie by taking my hand.
“Dee Armstrong?” she says seriously.
“Yeeessss?” I say suspiciously.
“Would you do me the honor of being one of my bridesmaids?” She looks at me expectantly.
I smile. “Bernadette Bernie Downtown B-Money Brown, of course. I would be delighted to be your bridesmaid,” I say with a slight bow.
“Good! Now my sister is the maid of honor, but we both know how she is.” She reaches into her purse and pulls out a notebook with stuffed with papers. Here’s what I have so far, tell me what you think.”
