Grey

by Aundrea Ascencio

  "Right, which I do mention to her, but then I feel like I'm lecturing."

  "Ya, but sometimes testing anxiety isn't even the whole story," Wes said. "Most of the time, the battle is reminding her that it's ok to make a mistake, that she doesn't have to be perfect, and that we will be proud of her regardless. So maybe, it's not really that she has testophobia, but atychiphobia. A fear of failure. For a perfectionist, that's the worst thing that could possibly happen. She has a hard time dealing with it."

  "Where do you think she gets that from? We've never taught her that she needs to be that way," Olivia said. "We've always loved and accepted her for who she is."

  "I know, but everyone's got fears," Wes replied. "Maybe this is just her struggle."

  "You see what I mean? You understand this kind of stuff so much better than I do," Olivia said, discouraged, as she poked her salad with her fork. "Why didn't you go into psychology?"

  "Because my dad would have beat me all the way back to Italy," Wes replied. "He was a tough man. He did everything with his hands, and didn't trust anything with a college degree attached to it. He barely let me go to MIT. I had to pay my own way there, of course, especially after I told him I was studying computers. This was way back in the dinosaur age before computers were what they are today. It was like majoring in pseudoscience."

  "Well look who's laughing now, babe. You did good," Olivia said, leaning over the table to kiss him. "I still think you would've made an excellent shrink. When I try to be that way with our daughter, I make things worse. I just don't have your talent with words, I guess."

  "Well, you got to let me have something for myself," he said, smiling. "When it comes to everything else, she goes straight to her mother."

  The lightness of the mood faded after that, when Olivia's smile gradually dropped, remembering the gravity of the thing that was still on her heart.

  "She does, doesn't she?" she said, absently. "And I think I just failed her."

  "What do you mean, hun?"

  "Chantel skyped me yesterday while I was hanging out after school grading papers. Ya, isn't that odd? She never calls me during midterms because, as we all know, I don't have that natural nurturing power," Olivia said.

  "Don't be so hard on yourself. You just have a different style of handling things."

  "And she knows that. So why would she call me. Not you. But me."

  "Because you're still her mother."

  "Ya, but thinking back on the conversation, there was something off about it. I don't know how to explain it. She didn't seem like herself," Olivia told him. "But I didn't realize that until later that night when I was brushing my teeth for bed. Like something heavy and foreboding hit me suddenly out of the blue. I wish I could tell you exactly what it felt like, but I felt scared for Chantel. Like really, very terrified that something was going to happen to her."

  "You're usually never wrong about feelings like that," Wes answered, more concerned.

  "I know, and that's why I ran to my phone to call her back, but she didn't answer. Of course, she didn't answer. It was almost eleven at night. She was probably sleeping," Olivia said. "I almost got in my car and drove all the way down to L.A. to find her, but I had to stop myself. It was just a feeling, you know. There was no reason at all for me to believe that something was wrong with her. I figured maybe it was just Chantel acting the way she usually does around midterm season, and I'm probably worrying about nothing. I mean, this test anxiety thing has been going on since she was in high school. But for whatever reason, this gnawing, restless kind of feeling keeps creeping back on me."

  "Well she is a maniac during midterms. You're right about that."

  "Right, manic behavior. That's the normal Chantel we know around midterms, but what struck me this time was that she didn't even seem to care that midterms were coming up next week," Olivia told him. "In fact when I asked her about her studying, she kind of did this thing with her shoulders. Like this. Like a shrug." Olivia demonstrated the gesture. "And then all she said about it was that she'd been studying on and off. Does that sound like Chantel?"

  "Not our perfectionist, but who knows? Maybe she's finally learning to relax about things," Wes said. "She's a smart girl. I'm sure she's got it under control."

  "So how should I have responded when she asked about coming home this weekend?" Olivia asked. "Was I wrong when I told her I didn't think it was a good idea, especially during such a stressful week as midterms?"

  "She asked to come home?"

  "She told me that she was homesick and that she missed us. She wanted to spend the weekend, but I told her I didn't know about that. She's so close to graduating. I just didn't want her to get distracted in such a critical time in the semester."

  "We could've worked it out. If we have to limit our outings so she can have study time, I would have been more than willing. I really do miss her, and it's not every day that she asks us to come home. If she's asking to be home, there has to be a good reason for it. That just doesn't happen often," Wes said. "You think she could really be having trouble?"

  "Well that's the thing. Despite how strange she was acting, the conversation we had was pretty normal. Nothing ever came up to raise any alarms. So I figured maybe she was just tired that day, or getting burnt out with schoolwork. She's my daughter after all. She thinks she's superwoman."

  "Possibly," Wesley said thoughtfully. "But I don't think we should write it off yet until we're sure she's ok. I don't want her to feel like we're shutting her out."

  "You think I'm shutting her out?" Olivia said fearfully. "I was really hoping that she wouldn't get that impression when I voiced my opinion about her coming this weekend."

  "I'm sure she knows you didn't mean any harm by it," Wes told her. "It would probably be better to let her know that despite your concerns about her schoolwork, she can come home whenever she feels she needs to."

  "Well, I told her it might be better if I went to L.A. to see her instead," Olivia told him.

  "Are you sure?" Wes asked. "You also have midterms to grade this week."

  "I can handle it. It's just the weekend. I don't mind," Olivia said. "I need a little vacation anyway. Besides, seeing her might put my mind to ease. Then I can get some sleep at night."

  "Ya, if it helps, I think you should go," Wes agreed. "But we're probably just being the parents that we are and worrying more than we should. It is midterm week, after all."

  Olivia dropped her eyes to her half eaten salad, trying to find the right way to resume. "Actually, it's a little more than that," she said carefully. "There's a boy involved."

  "A boy?" Wes asked, surprised, pausing with fork in midair. "What boy?"

  "Well, not a boy. He's actually a young man, I would imagine, but a boy to you and me," she babbled on.

  "Does this boy have any special significance?" Wes asked, stiffening.

  "Well from the awkwardness of our conversation, and from what she did actually admit about him, he sounds pretty significant," Olivia replied.

  "She has a boyfriend?" Wes questioned, still in disbelief.

  "Why not? She's beautiful."

  "Ya, unfortunately," he remarked dryly. "But she hasn't had a boyfriend since high school, and that thing ended because she wanted to focus on her education instead of worrying about boys."

  "Wes, that was four years ago. She's practically over with college now."

  "Ya but she never mentioned having a boyfriend before. Where did this guy come from? Do we know anything about him?"

  "His name is Eric," Olivia informed him. "We can at least refer to the young man by name. You don't know what I had to go through to get that out of her."

  "Eric, huh?" Wes said, shaking his head and stabbing the steak with his fork and knife. "Sounds like an asshole."

  "Wes," Olivia warned him. "Be nice. We haven't even met him yet."

  "Well, do you think we should have by now?" Wes asked. "Where has the guy been this whole time?"

  "They've only been seeing each
other for 6 months."

  "Six months? And she's making this big of a fuss about him?"

  "Well, according to her, they've known of each other for a year before that, from that Physics class she was taking when you had to tutor her. They just hadn't really talked until 6 months ago. It's more of a casual dating thing."

  "Right, because that's so much better," Wes said sarcastically.

  "Hey, I did a lot of casual dating before we got together in college."

  "Ya, and where did it get you? Did you end up marrying any of them?" Wes asked. "Or were you just giving some asshole a pass to stick his tongue down your throat because he called you his 'sometimes' girlfriend."

  "Oh my god! You're mad if she's serious about him, and you're mad if she's not serious about him. You're not happy either way."

  "I'd be happy if she wasn't dating at all," Wes replied.

  "Ha!" Olivia choked on her water. "Have your cake and eat it too."

  "She's my baby," Wes defended. "And I can't be there to make sure this guy is treating her the right way." Then he sighed, his fork dropping into his plate as the inevitable realization dawned on him.

  "Unfortunately, I can't hold her hand all her life," he resumed quietly. "I have to let her take steps on her own some time, and trust that I did a good job in teaching her how to walk."

  "Aw, Wesley, it'll be alright," Olivia said, patting him on the shoulder.

  "Ya, ya," he shrugged. "So what's he like, this charming young man? Is he the athletic type? Prep school boy? What boy has the name Eric and doesn't belong to one of those occupations?"

  "Actually, he's neither. Chantel claims he's more of an artsy kind of guy," Olivia informed him. "He plays the guitar."

  "Ya, so?"

  "He's tall. Blondish brown hair. Green eyes. Bilingual."

  "In Spanish? Hmong? Punjabi?"

  "German."

  "Ah, nobody speaks German around here. Where's that going to get him?" Wes waved dismissively. " What about a job? Does he have a job?"

  "Well, he's just a student, like most kids his age."

  "Not all kids," Wes disagreed. "When I was going to school, I worked two jobs, on top of running my own business fixing computers. You're telling me he has no form of employment whatsoever?"

  "I don't know, Wes. I haven't met the guy yet," Olivia said.

  "Well that's going to change," Wes said determinedly. "This weekend, in fact. Call her back and tell her we're coming to check this guy out."

  "You can't go to L.A. They're not going to give you this weekend off after such short notice."

  "Sure they will. It's a family emergency."

  "Wes, no. Relax. I'll go and meet the guy," Olivia assured him. "We don't want to scare him."

  "Of course we do."

  "What I mean is, we don't know the true dynamic of the relationship yet. Chantel didn't say flat out that this guy is her boyfriend. I kind of added in my own assumptions there," Olivia said. "He could just be a friend that she finds really attractive, and how awkward would it be to walk in on them with guns blazing without really understanding the situation? Just let me go scope the scene out and get a feel for what's going on. Then we can draw our conclusions."

  "Alright," Wes said, giving in as he picked up his fork again. "But if he oversteps himself with my daughter, he's dead."

  Killing Me Softly with His Song

  Chantel glanced down from her window at the world going on outside the quiet bubble of her dorm.

  It was hard to focus on studying when the rest of the world was having a life without her. Grown adults in witch and superhero costumes ran around like fugitives from Halloween town, acting like they'd never seen candy or heard music before.

  Chantel was in her most convincing disguise, the studious schoolgirl with six midterm study guides to tackle before Monday. Even Mia had joined the world of the living, strutting around in a scanty Alice In Wonderland dress, and handing out candy from the LGBT fundraising booth.

  Chantel was doing ok shutting all the commotion out, but when she spotted a guy outside dressed as Thor challenging another guy dressed like Yoda to a "god fight", studying was then out of the question. She found less interest in the textbook and began taking mental stats on who could possibly win that fight.

  Suddenly, Mia stormed into the room, startling her from her thoughts.

  "Girl," she said, so gravely that she could've been informing Chantel someone had died. "Do you remember that Eminem video with D12? The one that goes These chicks don't even know the name of my band."

  "That song came out when we were in elementary school."

  "Right. Do you remember the end of the video, the salsa part with the Taco Bell dog?"

  "I remember how dumb it was."

  "Ok, well hold that thought and follow me. I was going to send you a pic, but it's just so much better in person," Mia said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her out the door.

  Once they were in the center plaza of campus, Mia rushed Chantel pass her LGBT booth and finally halted by the Latin Students Association booth next to it, where a mariachi was finishing up a performance of "De Colores" for a crowd that had gathered to watch. Mia tilted her head toward the band, as if the reason why Chantel was there should be obvious.

  "What?" Chantel asked, still clueless. "What's wrong?"

  "Just look at their faces. Tell me when you get it."

  Chantel scanned the seven mariachi players, one singer, one trumpet player, one drummer, one tuba, one violinist, and two guitars. Immediately her eyes fell on the guitar player on the right, who was noticeably paler and blonder than the other six. He kept his hat tilted over his guitar, but Chantel recognized those hands anywhere, even if they were adorned in full mariachi suit. When she heard his voice join in on the "De Colores" chorus, in painfully bad Spanish, she nearly died upon realizing their stand-in guitarist was in fact, Eric Chandler.

  "Y por eso los grandes amores, de muchos colores, me gustan a mi!"

  When the song ended, the crowd cheered and bellowed out a gritó in approval, including Mia who shouted, "Woo! Queremos encore! Encore!"

  The band (members of whom Chantel quickly recognized were owners of Eric's favorite taco truck down the street) took a water break to collaborate on their next song. Eric took a seat on a stool the LSA club had provided him, put his acoustic guitar aside, and began tuning up an electric guitar with the other guitarist, who took up a bass for the next song.

  "This is wrong in so many ways," Chantel remarked to Mia. "What is he doing?"

  "The LSA club hired a mariachi to boost their fundraiser instead of renting speakers to play music. Overachievers." She rolled her eyes. "Anyway, how Eric got caught up in the whole shebang is a mystery to us all. He just showed up with them in their van an hour ago and started setting up. At first I was like, what's that white boy doing in there, but then I realized who it was,” Mia said. "Why Eric would join a mariachi band? I don't know, girl. I'm just as lost, terrified, and delighted as you are. He’s not that bad though. Might as well stick it out with the rest of the groupies."

  "How are you guys doing out there? You enjoying what we got going on here today?" the other guitarist finally addressed the crowd. "With this next song, we're going to do something a little different than what we normally do. We've been working on this one for a couple of weeks and we haven't performed this instrumental cover until now, so you guys are a special audience. I hope you guys like pop music. I dedicate this one to our LGBT neighbors over there. This is our shorter version of 'Te Amo' by Rhianna. I'm going to shut up now and let these guys take it away."

  The drummer started first, letting the bass guitarist pick up his beat before he joined in. Eric followed shortly after with the electric guitar, taking the melody. He stuck to the general melody for some time, but the temptation of eventually venturing off into variation was too great to resist, and soon the melody of the song was entangled with jazzy rock-ish embellishments more particular to his style. He lost himself in that
sound, oblivious to the crowd it pleased, and the impression it was making on Chantel in the midst of it. Like a mask unveiled, she gazed upon an artist for the first time. He was having his own little private concert, where he was both musician and audience, entwined in the heated passion of guitar and guitarist. Chantel followed him into that world, no longer aware of the crowd, nor could she see the ridiculous costume that he was hiding behind. All she could see was him, for who he was. She caught a glimpse underneath the tough, bad boy front, and stared into the vulnerability and beauty of Eric Chandler.

  When the song ended, Chantel hardly knew it. That feeling was still going for her, even after the band put their instruments away and thanked the LSA club for having them. From afar, Chantel watched Eric load up the last of the equipment into the van, and turn in his mariachi hat. They told him to keep the jacket as a gift of gratitude, and he seemed pretty thrilled about that.

  Mia, who had noticed how intently her friend watched him, leaned into Chantel's ear and whispered, "Is it just me or does Eric have a really sexy smile when he wants to?" She winked at Chantel, and tilted her head in his direction, as if to say what are you waiting for?

  Chantel was spared the trouble when Eric came toward them, carrying his guitar case in one hand and a huge plastic bag of tacos in the other.

  "Well, look at you, Once Upon A Time In Mexico," Mia greeted him. "Dude, what is up with that jacket? What do you think you're doing out here? In a mariachi band? Seriously?"

  "Why not? I'm rocking the crowd out here. How was my Spanish?" Eric asked, setting his guitar case down so he could greet her with a hug. He glanced at Chantel and nodded a greeting to her. "Hey," he said softly.

  "Hey back," Chantel replied.

  She made no movement or gave any further words of acknowledgement, perhaps waiting for him to embrace her as openly as he had done to Mia. He didn't. He kept his distance, as if there were some invisible wall between them. As if he hadn't proposed marriage to her only a few days earlier.