by Randi Rigby
He was squinting into the bright lights as he strummed through the last notes and then he grinned. “Hey everybody, my mom just walked in. I wasn’t sure if she’d be able to make it tonight because she’s working a double shift at the hospital. Would you help me make her feel welcome? Put your hands together for hard working moms and nurses everywhere!” The crowd cheered and whistled their enthusiastic support. “In her honor I’m going to switch things up a little if that’s okay. She likes to dance. Mostly in our kitchen when she thinks no one else is watching. And she really likes to dance to this. So, Mom, this is for you.”
Drew plucked through a beautifully intricate intro and then sang in perfect Spanish, Luis Fonsi’s “Despacito.”
“Did you know he could do that?” Sam asked, hitting me on the shoulder. I was still trying to find his mom in the crowd but there were too many people in the way. “Dude totally needs to come with us on our next surfing trip to Mexico.”
“Thank you. Te amo, Mama.” Drew adjusted his mic and pulled a stool over, a huge smile on his face. It was obvious he was having a blast up there and that this was what he was born to do. “I’d like to close my set out tonight with a little something of my own.” He started to slow things down with the beginnings of a sweet and tripping melody. “It’s about…a girl.” His eyes found mine. “Hope you like it.”
I’m all tangled in her smile,
Moon River in her eyes.
She floored me when she walked right in
She just don’t realize
My head is filled with her perfume.
All I can see is her.
She moves, she breathes; I feel that heat.
It all changed for me
In the space of a heartbeat
So now it’s you and me girl,
Taking on the world.
And we stand tall when we’re side by side,
And I think we’re going to make it.
You reach for me and I take your hand;
And we play our song on repeat.
Baby, I was already yours
In the space of a heartbeat.
Girl, you had me at hello.
Yeah. In the space of a heartbeat.
Drew held the last few notes and then quietly strummed them away, his dark head bent over his guitar as the crowd erupted in applause. Landry let rip his piercing whistle.
He wrote a song for me.
“The really sad thing is, he’s gonna come back to our table and all these women are gonna follow him over.” Sam rolled his eyes as he leaned back in his chair. “I’m getting a high school kid’s leftovers.”
“What makes you think they’re going to want you?” Cade smirked as he emptied his glass and stretched an arm around Sarah.
He wrote a song. For me.
Jake tugged at my elbow. “Kel.”
Drew was threading his way through the crowd, making his way toward us, his arm around a woman I was guessing was his mother. I quickly got to my feet.
“Mom, this is Kel. Kel, my mom, Gabriela Davis.” She was almost painfully thin, but her edges were unexpectedly softened by her radiant beauty. She had Drew’s olive skin and the same thick, dark hair, which she’d wound up in a tidy bun. She’d obviously come straight from the hospital—she was still wearing her uniform.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Davis.” I gave her the compulsory McCoy hug. She wasn’t short but I had at least six inches on her.
“For me too. I’ve wanted to put a face to the name so frequently on my son’s lips,” Mrs. Davis said in her soft, lilting Spanish accent. Behind her, Sam was grinning like an idiot.
From what Drew had told me—and he was surprisingly cagey about his father—his parents met when his dad was assigned to Morón Air Base straight out of the academy and his mom was working as a nurse. They soon married and he brought his new bride, who spoke little English at the time, and young son back with him from Spain when he was ordered to Randolph Air Force Base in San Antonio. Their marriage fell apart shortly after that. Armed with her newly minted citizenship and a license to practice nursing in Texas, Gabriela packed up her broken heart, her belongings and Drew, and moved them all to Austin where she’d found a job. They’d been here ever since. His father, not so much.
“We’re about to grab something to eat. Can you stay?” Drew asked her.
Gabriela shook her head. “It took me forever to find parking—that’s why I was so late. I’m sorry mi hijo, but my break is over and it was busy tonight. I need to get back to the hospital.”
Drew and I walked her back to her car. “You must come very soon to our home for dinner. Drew, you will arrange for this?” Gabriela said, kissing both of my cheeks.
“On it, Mom.”
She whispered something in Spanish to him and then slid behind the wheel of her Ford Focus and drove away. “She likes you.” Drew grinned by way of an explanation, catching my hand in his as we started to make our way back to the Dotted T.
“Well, I really like her son.” I turned into the crook of his arm, stopping us on the street, and I might’ve placed my forefinger in the pronounced dip just above his flawless upper lip—because I could—right before bestowing a kiss there and thinking to myself, In this moment, I am perfectly happy.
Important to recognize those moments when they happened, because they never seemed to last.
I’d had first days at new schools before, transitioning from grade school to middle and then finally to high school. But those were mostly building changes with the same classmates I’d grown up with year after year, and an occasional new face thrown in here and there. At Barton I was the new face.
And I woke up knowing that my mom—who’d always made the first day of school epic—we’d go shopping together for the perfect, elevate-the-school-uniform outfit accessories. We’d hunt down the most ridiculous, funkiest school supplies to throw in with what was blandly unavoidable. We’d choose a theme song for the new year, which she’d then blast at high volume when I came down for breakfast that morning and whenever she felt I needed a pick-me-up throughout the rest of the school year.
But not this year. Because this year, my mom was gone. The void seemed overwhelmingly huge and unbreachable.
So I already felt a bit wobbly and unsure when I tried to slide into English Lit relatively unnoticed, not easy when you were a 6'2" girl, and discovered with dismay an alphabetical order seating chart projected onto the white board. Grace Kelly McCoy had been assigned the second seat of the third row.
Dad and I met with the Head of School briefly at registration and Dad made it perfectly clear that while Grace Kelly was indeed my given name, we would be enrolling me under Kel. Apparently someone didn’t get the message. Strike one.
Putting someone of my height in front of three other students who were inevitably shorter and therefore unable to see without hanging over the side of their desks was mortifying and precisely why I always tried to get to class early so I could get the back row. Strike two.
With a start I realized everyone was whispering and staring at me so I quickly took my assigned seat—head held high, back straight, a growing knot in my stomach, and a tight lump in my throat as the whispering grew. She’s Grace Kelly?
I’d never exactly been part of the popular crowd but they were always easy to spot. I glanced at the seating chart as I opened my copy of Forster’s Howard’s End and pretended to start reading it while waiting for class to start. Whitney Halloway, a short, perky blonde to my left—and given the way she constantly tossed her hair, I’d bet money she was a cheerleader—was definitely in that upper echelon. She appeared to be holding court at her desk, several girls pressed her breathlessly for details about her recent trip to Europe, but she already sounded slightly bored and her smile appeared to be pasted on.
“The French,” she said airily. “They’re impossible.” I waited, curious for her to expound on what it was, exactly, that made an entire nationality impossible, but she did not. Instead she gushed,
“Blake!” And although I hadn’t known Whitney long enough to know if she was being sincere, she did seem genuinely excited. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be back in time for first day.”
Blake Michaels—he slid into the open desk behind me—was obviously also part of the in crowd. Everyone seemed to be calling for his attention. His long legs stretched out on either side of my seat. His white pants were rolled up a couple of times at the bottom to reveal tanned legs and no socks with his deck shoes as he fist-bumped a few guys, told someone their new boat was sweet, and then settled in. “Grace Kelly? Well, well,” he said, and I realized he must be leaning forward in his desk because his voice was suddenly very close to my left ear. “Hey, new girl.”
I turned around in my seat. “It’s Kel, actually.”
Blake’s smile broadened, flashing a row of even, white teeth that seemed even whiter against his summer tan. He had light gray eyes and dirty blonde hair, artfully styled to look casually messy, and was saved from being almost too pretty by a bit of scruff. “Nice to meet you, Grace Kelly.” He winked.
“How was St. Thomas?” Whitney asked Blake, trying to coax him into an intimate circle of shared favorite exotic spots they’d both actually been to. I returned to my book.
“Warm.” But Blake wasn’t about to be sidetracked. His voice was back in my ear. “Let me know if you need someone to show you around. Because I’m very available.”
Mr. Oliveria walked in just as the second bell rang and stood for a moment at the front straightening his collar and surveying his class. “Welcome back everyone, I’m sure you’re just as eager to get started today as I am but it looks like we’re going to have to do a little reshuffling first so people can see. May we please have Mr. Michaels and Ms. McCoy move to the back of their row and everyone else move up?”
We stood. Hair product not included, Blake was still slightly taller than me. That surprised me. “After you, Grace Kelly,” he said with a grand sweep of his hand.
“It’s Kel,” I muttered under my breath and took the second to last seat in.
“Get a good look at your neighbors,” Mr. Oliveria said, reaching for his copy of Howard’s End. “You’re going to be seeing them there the entire semester.”
Strike three. And the day just officially got started.
“It was HORRIBLE,” I told Jake. He was leaving for Cambridge in two days and very sweetly wanted to go rock climbing with me one more time before heading back to school. “I have three classes with Blake and two with Whitney and between them they seem determined to make my life a living hell.”
Jake waited for me to move up to the next foothold before adjusting his position.
“I couldn’t get my name sorted out until lunch and by that time it was too late. I’m Grace Kelly. Both barrels, not just Grace. Only my teachers call me Kel and even they sometimes forget.”
He nodded sympathetically, his hands reaching upward.
“And I already have so much homework. It’s crazy. It’s like the teachers are all trying to make up for a summer of having nothing to grade,” I sighed. “But actually, I got a good start on it over lunch—it’s amazing what you can accomplish when you eat alone.”
“Nice try, Squirt. Something good must’ve happened today. Dig deep.”
I stretched out and pushed off with my right leg. “Both the girls’ volleyball AND basketball coaches tracked me down.”
“Kel McCoy and team sports?” Jake grinned.
“Yeah. I’m a real disappointment.”
“You and me both. And you didn’t have to follow Cade and Landry. I’m the McCoy who can’t.”
I’d reached the top. “Psh. I’ll remind you of that when you’re accepting your Nobel Prize for curing cancer or building better hair plugs. What about Rachel?” I said, a bit breathless. “You two still a thing?”
He shrugged as we started to make our way back down. “We’re trying out the merits of the long-distance relationship. I’ve been told there are a few. We’ll see. She might meet someone better dropping me off at the airport.”
“Now who’s the Debby Downer?”
“Yeah, I know. Got time to drown our sorrows in a banana split? I’ll treat.”
“Ooh! May I have three scoops and extra sprinkles?”
Jake rolled his eyes. “If you ever get out of that harness. You’ve got homework and I’ve got a hot woman waiting on me. I hope you can shovel all that down fast. And we’re doing drive through.”
“Geez Jake, love sure has made you pushy.”
The next day in chemistry I was assigned a lab partner. No one else volunteered so Mr. Frantz put me with the only other friendless person in the class, Becca Bryson. Becca had charcoal-rimmed eyes, a nose ring, and aggressively purple hair that was even more shocking against her abnormally pale skin. Her nails were painted black and she had a recent tattoo of a spike driven into her left wrist with blood spurting out of it—her skin was still red and irritated around the ink.
“Back to school gift to myself,” Becca said, shrugging when she noticed me noticing it.
I pulled out my troll pencil topper. Not at all practical with a mechanical pencil but I just needed something to remind me of my mom. Becca stared at me for a moment and then reluctantly grinned. “You’re weird, McCoy.”
“Thank you.”
“So, you just move here?”
“I did. From Chicago.”
“Why Austin?”
“My mom passed away in January. I think my dad just wanted to be close to his family. Austin is home for him.” It came out smoothly with no audible catch in my voice, just as rehearsed.
Real compassion stirred amongst all that eyeliner. “That sucks. Sorry.”
“Thanks. How about you? Have you always lived here?”
“Born and raised. Probably will die here,” Becca said, flipping her chem textbook open. “And if so, please God let it happen before lunch.”
“What happens at lunch?”
She looked at me like I was an idiot. “High school.”
At noon I found her eating alone at one of the little tables that dotted the campus grounds just outside of the cafeteria, earbuds in, her purple hair gently blowing about in the breeze. “May I join you?” I asked. I had to repeat it a moment later when she pulled her buds out.
“Why?”
“I’m hungry?”
She grudgingly pulled her lunch sack over. I placed mine on the table. “You call that lunch?” She grimaced as I started to take out my little containers filled with mostly vegetables—brightly colored and carefully combined for maximum taste—but vegetables none the less. I dumped in the grilled chicken I’d managed to keep cold and pulled out a fork.
“I sure do.”
“Gross.”
“What are you eating?” She wasn’t. She hadn’t even opened hers up, though her sack was clearly full.
“NOT animal flesh.”
“Vegetarian?”
“Vegan.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” I was suddenly hesitating. I’d run ten miles this morning—I was starving. I needed some protein, but I also didn’t want to offend Becca’s sensibilities.
“Whatever. Just eat it, McCoy.”
I did. And every time I put a forkful of chicken in my mouth, Becca balefully watched me chew like I’d just swung the ax, ripped out the feathers, threw the carcass on a hot flame and was now devouring its flesh—all in front of its children. I suddenly lost my appetite. “So, have you always been a vegan?”
“Since I was five. My family visited a farm and the kids there were raising 4H projects. It was the first time I made the connection between what I was petting and what I was eating. It made me sick. I threw up all the way home.”
I was contemplating my inevitable conversion to veganism, at least during school hours, in order to survive lunchtime with Becca when Blake Michaels slid in close next to me on our bench, smelling expensive and knowing he looked good. He was flanked by two similarly-styled, lanky and languid frien
ds who apparently preferred to stand. Which was just fine, the bench was already a little crowded.
“Grace Kelly.” Oozing charm, he threw his arm loosely around my shoulder and leaned in. “I was wondering where you got off to. I thought you might be lost.”
“Looks like you found me.”
“Come eat lunch with us. Our table’s just over there.” He pointed to a mostly coupled off group of Barton’s elite who were laughing and chatting with each other, some of whom were watching us curiously from behind their Ray-Bans. Whitney, strangely, wasn’t among them.
“Thanks, maybe another time? I’m already eating lunch today. With Becca.” It was hard to tell who was more incredulous, Becca or Blake. I almost expected her to publicly denounce me for the disgusting meat eater that I was and state, for the record, that I forced my company on her. But she didn’t. Instead she stared at her tattoo like her life depended on it.
“Well, all right then.” Blake shook his head as he got to his feet. “You have fun, Grace Kelly.”
“Is that really your name?” Becca finally said as she watched me playing idly with my carrot sticks.
“It is.” I sighed and pushed whatever was left of my lunch back into its bag. “My mom had a thing for classic movies and my dad never could say ‘no’ to her. My friends and family all call me ‘Kel’—it’s a little easier to live with.” Between us, on the table, my cell was buzzing. Kirstie Adderson, Adderson Modeling Management lit up the screen. I quickly flipped the display over and out of view as I picked my phone up. “Would you excuse me, Becca? I need to take this.”
“Your casting for Tropically Kissed went well. They’ve expressed interest in using you as one of their swimsuit models,” Kirstie said, jumping right in as she always did—why waste valuable time with hello? Tropically Kissed sold tanning products. They were gearing up to roll out a massive marketing campaign for their new, improved, sunless lotion. “This is huge, Kel. It’ll mean a lot of exposure for you.”
Where swimsuits were concerned, it usually did. “Wow. Okay, when and where?”