DYLAN
I spend the first few innings observing Gray’s parents with fascination. I want to give them a trophy for conceiving Gray because he’s perfect, but I think they’re a little conservative for that kind of acknowledgement. I notice he inherited the best features of his parents; he has his mom’s eyes—large and clear blue with long, dark lashes. He also has her wide mouth and smile. He has his dad’s dark hair, athletic build and laugh and my favorite part of all, his sarcastic sense of humor. His mom is quiet, more observant and relaxed while his dad is outspoken and opinionated. His dad critiques and judges every play of the game and his mom is more patient and lighthearted. I think Gray is a blend of all these things, but in the best ways.
I turn to Clair and decide to get right to point. We’ve known each other almost an hour. It’s time to open up about my future plans with her son.
“Clair, there’s something you should know.” She turns to me and raises her eyebrows. “I’m going to marry your son someday,” I tell her. She stares back at me and she doesn’t look surprised. More amused. She looks out on the pitcher’s mound, where Gray’s checking a first base player over his shoulder before he winds up for a throw.
“Have you discussed this plan with Gray?” she asks. I shake my head and tell her the timing isn’t right.
“I just want you to know my intentions,” I say.
We’re quiet for a few seconds and I try to guess her thoughts: Why do you want to marry my son? Do you want a big wedding? Who are you, exactly? I notice her staring at my jean jacket with concern.
“Well, if you’re going to be my daughter-in-law, maybe you and I should go shopping tomorrow.”
I take a bite of my hotdog and the ketchup spills over the bun. “Shopping?” I ask, like we’re not speaking the same language.
She nods. “Do you know how to get to the mall?”
“Oh, is there a mall here?” I ask with my mouth half-full.
She laughs. “You don’t know?” she asks with unbelieving surprise.
We both turn to cheer when Gray strikes out two batters in a row to close out the sixth inning. I decide watching Gray play baseball is becoming my favorite pastime. Life doesn’t get much better than hotdogs and sunshine and gazing out at a green field full of tan, athletic guys in tight pants.
“So, what do you think?” she asks.
I cough because, really, I’m thinking about her son’s ass.
“About what?” I ask.
“Tomorrow?” she says. “Shopping.”
I look in her eyes and they’re hopeful and beaming and they’re eyes that I love more than the world. I tell her I’ll compromise and go shopping but only if we can stick to local spots, no malls. I explain to Clair that I try to be open-minded in life, but I have an aversion to the mall. She asks why and I explain that maybe in a past life, I was robbed or kidnapped in one because they freak me out.
“The people inside all look pale and unhealthy and shuffle around like zombies,” I tell her. “They stare straight ahead, unblinking, like they’re waiting for the world to end.” I start to ramble because she’s smiling and just like Gray’s smile, it fires me up.
“The kiosk workers are terrifying,” I say. “They stand in front of their booths like Nazis and insist your life won’t be complete unless you own nail buffers, cuticle cutters, peppermint foot cream, clip-on hairpieces, or those neck rests filled with rice. Although I have to admit,” I say, “I do enjoy the glazed nuts that come in those cone-shaped cups. That booth isn’t so bad.”
Clair shakes her head. “Amanda would have loved you,” she tells me.
***
The next morning, Clair picks me up and takes me to an outdoor shopping area in
Uptown. While we drive, she informs me that the boys are golfing. She says today is all about me. I wait for the words.
“I’m going to give you a makeover,” she says with a wide smile. I manage a weak grin in return. My greatest fear for the day is confirmed. She’s on a mission to turn me into her fashion project, a goal many people have made and failed miserably. I’m about to refuse, but her perfect smile, Gray’s smile, makes me change my mind. I realize that this day really isn’t about me. It’s about her.
She pulls me into the first clothing store we pass and practically forces me into a yellow sundress. Clair insists if she had my body when she was my age, she would flaunt it, not hide it.
“But I’m not trying to hide it,” I explain outside the dressing room. “I just want to be comfortable.”
Clair ushers me inside the dressing room and I throw the sundress over my head. I walk out with a half-cocked grin on my face because I’m too tall to wear a sundress. I look like a dandelion.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
Clair adjusts the straps and tells me to relax my shoulders because I’m standing stiff and rigid and it doesn’t do much for the look. The retail worker, who is about Clair’s age, swears the dress is made for me. I raise my eyebrows.
“No dress was made for me,” I assure them as I check out my reflection in three full length mirrors. Dresses are made for women with curves.
Clair tells me it’s perfect. “Dylan, for such a gorgeous girl you need to show off your figure. Believe me, Gray will love it.”
I perk up at this. These are the words that win me over. Gray will love it.
Clair insists on buying the yellow sundress for me and I feel guilty that she’s paying $50 for something that feels like I’m wearing a drafty bed sheet. She tells me she’ll only buy it if I promise to wear it the rest of the day. I agree on buying a pair of heeled sandals to go with it.
I am such a girl.
Now that I’ve broken the gift-giving seal, it can’t be stopped. The next thing I know, I’m pulled into a makeup boutique and Clair and a makeup artist attack my face with sharp tweezers and pointy lip pencils and other scary instruments. I squeeze my hands around the seat of my chair until my knuckles are white and pray they won’t poke an eye out. Gray owes me, big time.
I relent and for the next hour, I get my first makeover. My mom tried to do this with me dozens of times, but gave up, resigned to the fact she had a mutant daughter that wasn’t into makeup and clothes shopping. Instead she settled on splurging with my little sister, who happily made up for both of us.
When they finish, they rotate my chair around until I’m facing a large mirror. I blink back at my reflection. My skin is all one even tone and it actually shimmers. My cheekbones look higher and have defined angles. My eyes look twice as big, my lashes twice as long and thick. I reach my hand up and brush my fingertip against my long lashes as if they aren’t mine. I don’t look like Dylan right now. I look like a Christie or a Connie. Maybe a Candy.
Clair claps her hands like this moment has made her entire year worthwhile. Then she glances at my hair.
“When’s the last time you got a haircut?” she asks. I pick up a chunk of my hair and remember my sister trimmed it before I left for Europe, because she claimed it looked like a rat’s nest.
“Maybe a year ago,” I say.
Both of the women wince and I know what stop is next on the agenda.
What begins as a cut ends up being four inches hacked off with all these choppy layers around my face that the hairdresser promises will “frame” my bone structure, whatever that means. She insists my dark hair washes out my complexion, so she dyes it a caramel brown and adds blond highlights. She pulls on my hair for twenty minutes and tells me she’s ironing it which scares me and I wonder why it isn’t melting. I stare at myself in the mirror. My face is painted with color, I’m wearing a yellow sundress and now I have blond highlights to match it. My hair’s brushed smooth and straight. No frizzies. No snarls.
“I look like—”
“A woman,” Clair says. “I can’t wait to see what Gray thinks.”
“He won’t recognize me,” I say. I don’t even recognize myself. Even though I appreciate all Clair’s done, it’s a little scary
. As if I just transformed.
GRAY
I see my parents at the game, but no Dylan. Maybe she and my mom didn’t hit it off. I’m a little surprised, but it might be for the best. My mom gets attached too easily and Dylan’s too temporary.
After the game my parents walk down to the field to meet some of my teammates, and I stop to sign autographs for a pack of kids swarming around the dugout. I head back to the field where a bunch of the players and family members are congregating. A few reporters are taking interviews. Coach Clark comes over to shake hands with my parents. He and my dad start discussing the game and my mom grabs my arm.
“Gray, aren’t you even going to acknowledge Dylan?” she asks.
“What?” I ask. I look around for Dylan’s jean jacket or her messy hair pulled back in a ponytail. Then, someone standing right next to me lightly hits me on the side of the head. I stare at this tall, gorgeous woman and finally recognize her. But it isn’t Dylan. It’s like her supermodel twin sister. I do remember seeing her now, in the stands during the game, but I figured she was somebody’s girlfriend. Turns out, she’s my girlfriend.
“Holy shit,” I yell. My dad and Coach Clark both stop talking and regard me carefully. Then, they regard Dylan. A few other people turn to stare. I notice Travis gawking at her, clearly as surprised as I am.
“Gray, watch your mouth,” my mom scolds me.
I just stare at her. My Dylan. She’s wearing a…and her hair’s even…what the?
“What happened to you?” I ask.
Dylan frowns. It’s the most gorgeous frown I’ve ever seen in my life. She looks down at the ground, through eye lashes I never knew were so long.
“I know,” she says and blushes, and I’m amazed she’s the only girl who gets embarrassed when she looks beautiful. “It’s lame.”
“I gave Dylan a makeover,” my mom says with a proud grin.
I don’t believe it. “Did you have to drug her first?”
“I was kidnapped and forced to spend a day on Planet Girl,” Dylan says.
She wraps her arms around her chest like she’s trying to cover herself up. My mom squeezes her shoulders. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?”
Dylan shakes her head. She meets my eyes and hers are magnified and sexy and it ties my stomach in a knot. “They curled my eye lashes with this scary torturing
device—”
“We got lunch afterwards,” my mom interrupts.
“They spent forty-five minutes ladling my hair—”
“Layering Dylan, it’s called layering,” my mom says.
I grin and I can’t take my eyes off of her. I do the only thing I can, the only response that feels natural, even with my parents and Coach Clark and half my teammates standing right there. How often does your wildest fantasy come true?
“Amazing,” I say and lean in and kiss Dylan full on the lips.
GRAY
She’s changing too fast and it’s starting to worry me. She’s always been a prism to me. She’s meant to break light apart so you can see all the colors it’s composed of. Now she’s starting to cloud up. Blur.
The most recent shock is that she bought a cell phone. The gallery owners insisted she get one, so she can stay in touch with clients. Then, Liz gave her a purse to keep her cell phone in. She named her cell phone Frank. She named her automated voicemail service Jackie. Frank and Jackie, she claims, are her business partners. She also tells me that Frank and Jackie are married and live in Australia on an emu farm. It’s twisted.
The phone scares her when it rings. She explains she hates any electrical device that beeps unexpectedly. I had to teach her how to answer it. She’s yet to actually call anyone on it. Too many buttons to press, she says. I’m realizing she’s pretty anti-technology. She won’t even update her ancient camera.
She meets me Monday afternoon after class. I’m walking with Todd and Liz and I see her down the sidewalk. It’s easy to recognize Dylan in the crowd because she’s a head taller than most of the girls and the streaks of blond in her hair have a fiery, golden sheen in the sun. Dylan styles her hair now. It’s never messy or tousled or pulled back in a ponytail. It’s always parted on the side and usually tucked behind one ear.
She half runs, half skips when she sees us. She trips on her last jump and stumbles into my arms.
“Graceful,” I say between laughs.
“Can you play?” she asks me.
I nod and tell her we don’t have practice tonight. We had meetings and an early practice this morning. Dylan’s mouth drops open.
“You have all day off?”
“Technically.”
We stop at the sidewalk while a cargo train slowly passes, blocking our way across the street.
“I can barely wrap my mind around this. I have all day with you. We need to celebrate. We need to do something monumental.”
“Calm down, Dylan,” Liz says. “You’re way too easily excited.” I narrow my eyes at Liz for saying this.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” I tell Dylan, because her face is the brightest I’ve seen it in weeks.
“It has to be something we’ve never done before. Something that we’ll remember forever.” She looks around at us for inspiration.
Liz thinks about this. “Todd and I are registering for wedding gifts today,” she offers. I look at Todd and he plasters a smile on his face like he shares her enthusiasm. I offer him a grin that’s more out of sympathy.
Dylan turns to me for a better idea and I point to the train that’s passing.
“I dare you to jump into one of those empty train cars.”
Her eyes widen at the dare and she looks over at the tracks. “Really?”
“Sure,” I say. “Ride it for the day and tell me all about it when you get back.”
Dylan takes a flying leap off of the sidewalk and before I blink, her butt’s in the air and she’s pulling her legs up into the open door of an empty car. Todd, Liz and I stare at her as the train slowly inches away.
“Dylan, what are you doing?” Liz yells. “That’s insane.”
“Come on.” Dylan ushers us forward with her hands. I walk along the train to keep up with her.
I spread my arms out in defeat. “Dylan, I was joking,” I say.
She sits stubbornly in the open door and lifts her chin. The train whistles loudly and I keep up pace with Dylan’s compartment. She swings her feet back and forth like a little kid on a carnival ride. I make a mental note to never dare this girl to do anything again. It all backfires.
I pass people on the sidewalk and see a few people from class I recognize. I wince as I notice Amber McCafrey with her sidekick Mel, standing near the curb, watching me.
“Oh, I get it,” Dylan yells. “You’re scared.” I refuse to take the bait she’s throwing out.
“That’s right. Now get down from there.”
“No.”
“Dylan!”
She lies down on her side and tosses her hair back over her shoulder. “I wonder what it’d be like to have sex in one of these,” she says, lowering her voice.
That’s all the motivation I need. Before I can think another rational thought, I throw my backpack in the open door and heave myself up on the train, just as it picks up speed.
“You’re nuts,” I hear Todd yell in the distance and I lean down to wave at him and see Liz shaking her head with disapproval. A crowd of students have gathered along the sidewalk and a few people applaud. Dylan waves like she’s a beauty pageant winner sitting on a parade float.
I turn and examine our traveling accommodations. There’s a layer of straw on the floor. The walls are made up of flat, wood beams coarsely nailed together and painted a brownish-red. The train car is abandoned, except for a few stacks of hay in a shaded back corner. It smells like wood and dirt and the car shakes and squeaks over the tracks as we head away from campus. We watch the trail of people grow tinier in the distance.
“What do we do now?” I ask Dylan. She leans against one sid
e of the open car door and I lean against the other.
“The sex thing was a joke,” she says. “I don’t have condoms.”
The train’s rumbling and shaking and vibrating and it’s definitely turning me on. My eyes trail down her body. I meet her gaze under the rim of my baseball cap and smile.
“There are other ways to have sex, you know,” I point out.
Dylan smirks and takes a gulp from her water bottle.
“Can I go down on you?” I ask.
She chokes on the water and it drips down her chin. She wipes it up with her hand and stares at me to see if I’m joking.
“Right now?” she asks. “You’re a freak.”
I nod at the compliment, turn my baseball cap backwards and pull Dylan into the back of the car without any more persuasion.
DYLAN
I throw my leg lazily over the edge of the train car and lean against the side of the door. A long, contented sigh escapes from my chest. I’m so relaxed I could slide right off the train and melt all over the ground. The moving air awakens all my senses and the only sound I can hear is the grinding metal wheels of the train meeting the iron tracks. In the back of the car, Gray is still picking straw off his clothes.
“You’re missing the scenery,” I say as Gray scoots next to me.
“No I’m not,” he says and kisses my neck, sliding his arms around my waist. He dangles his legs next to mine and we both look out to investigate our new surroundings. Far outside of Albuquerque, we have a view of a wide desert, the ground muted in dull tans and browns. Cliffs rise in the distance, their deep crevices shaded from the sun and making them look rippled. We pass desolate farmyards and a herd of cattle grazing close to the tracks. Small trickles of flowers and plants dot the landscape. I ask Gray what they are and he points out the green sagebrush and the creosote bushes. He tells me the plants with long, scrawny stalks and spiny leaves are agaves. He points out another plant, called a yucca, that looks like a miniature palm tree.
Second Chance Page 15
