Can't Go Home (Oasis Waterfall)

by Angelisa Denise Stone

  When I was little, my mom was terrified that I’d follow in her foodsteps, not footsteps, actual FOODsteps, and get fat just like she did. My mom, mother extraordinaire, bamboozled me as a toddler and young girl. Every time I wanted a cookie or ice cream or cake or a brownie or anything delicious that a young child throws head-banging tantrums for, my mom gave it to me. Anything.

  However, before she gave the coveted scrumptious delectable to me, without my knowledge, she dribbled Tabasco sauce or anise flavoring (that stuff that makes things taste like black licorice) on it, destroying its taste, forcing me to gag and vow profusely to never try it again. I couldn’t believe how many kids loved those God-awful foods and begged for them constantly.

  I spent my elementary and high school years oblivious to her shenanigans and only ate fruits, vegetables, whole grains and lean meats. You know, basically healthy, bland foods, foods that you’re supposed to eat. I was trim, fit, and had a smoking little body, a body that I’d kill for now.

  I went to college and one drunken night, my roommates and I got pizza and wings, foods I’d tried and loathed in the past. That night after some serious hard drinking, I fell in love with bar food. But I didn’t know what true love was until I met that creamy, icy dessert. Ice cream and I have been inseparable ever since. It’s amazing that I only gained 30 pounds, considering I was making up for 18 years of lost edible euphoria. What mother does that to her daughter? Mine, that’s whose!

  In all honesty, I wish I’d never fallen to the other side. I’d still have my tight little body, and my Weight Watchers app wouldn’t be getting more use than my Facebook and Twitter apps put together. But I digress, my mom tried. She put forth an effort. In hindsight, she probably should’ve modeled better behaviors, taught modification, and maybe even emphasized physical activity on occasion. Instead, I’m sitting at a table in a café, alone, licking the salad dressing from my fork, computing calories, wishing I could order the key lime pie.

  Finally, Sydney walks in. Heads turn; she smiles only at me. Syd notices the eye-popping stares and spinning heads, but she never lets on. That’s part of the game. Play it aloof, and they’ll come crawling. Tossing her hair to one side, she leans down and kisses each of my cheeks, European aristocrat-style. “Darling, you look gorg,” she says, fluffing my hair.

  I, by the way, do not look “gorg.” I may have forfeited my typical getting ready time this morning, while I was on the phone with my mom, recapping my dinner with Dre. Therefore, my hair is frizzy, and my makeup is less than minimal, more like nonexistent. “Gorg” would definitely not describe Kathryn Howell today.

  “Now Katie, have you finally accepted that tall, blonde, and beautiful wants you?” Sydney asks, beckoning our server.

  Oddly, we now have a male server, who is taking over for the frumpy, middle-aged server who brought me my iced tea and salad. Strangely, two days in a row, my servers have swapped out. Yesterday, because I was a snide, jealous bitch, and today, because this dude thinks he might get somewhere with my best friend. Bless his little heart. I wish I would’ve gotten “Allie with an i’s” phone number for him.

  Sydney pauses to order wine, a cheeseburger and loaded cheese fries—quite the combo meal. (I’ve never once seen her eat a fruit or a vegetable, unless catsup counts as a vegetable.)

  “Or are you still droning on to whomever will listen about how there’s no way he could be interested in someone like you?” Sydney asks rudely.

  Did I mention that Syd is a total bitch? I mean, a card-carrying, certifiable bitch. I know so many people who have those sweet, doting, thoughtful best friends, who are there for them in a second’s notice. Sydney is not one of those friends. Actually, I am that friend to her—not vice versa. If you asked Sydney what the definition of a friend was, then she’d probably say someone who’d lend you her best pair of jeans and stilettos.

  “Stop calling me ‘Katie,’ unless you want me to start referring to you as ‘Ivy’,” I threaten.

  “Okay, fine. I just think you’re acting like seventh grade ‘Katie’ did when Todd Lenz held hands with Kim Ritzman at the basketball game,” Sydney recalls.

  “Hello? This is nothing like that,” I argue. “First of all, Todd was obviously not into me; he was making out with Kim by the third quarter. And Dre, well, I don’t know what heck is up with him … at all.”

  “You let Todd get away … and right into that skank’s arms. No way he could’ve wanted that bucked teethed loser. If you wanted him so much, you should’ve gone after him,” she explains.

  “You can’t call a seventh grade girl a skank … anyway … I don’t even understand how that is even relevant right now,” I claim.

  “Duh … sometimes, I think I should be the one with a Master’s in English,” she jabs, rolling her eyes.

  Sydney pulled a full four semesters in college with a 1.9 GPA when she decided that college was only for “ugly people who couldn’t get by on their looks.” Hey, I warned you; she’s a bitch.

  Continuing, Syd says, “Seventh grade Katie didn’t think she was good enough for Todd. And now … now … 24-year-old Kathryn doesn’t think she’s good enough for Dre.”

  The server brings Syd’s wine, and pours her a glass while simultaneously staring straight down her blouse. I’m actually impressed that he didn’t spill the Merlot in her lap. “I’m just saying, Hon, if we’re going to have a party, can it not be one of your ‘woe-is-me-pity-parties?’ They’re so lame and such a buzz kill.”

  “Buzz kill? That’s your first sip,” I counter.

  “Oh that’s right. I’m sorry I’m late. I had a lunch date with my director. A liquid lunch … in his office … on his desk.” Sydney laughs, throwing her head back as the men in the restaurant gawk and probably adjust themselves.

  “You’re telling me that I sat here by myself for lunch while you were getting drunk and screwing your director … again?” I ask incredulously. When would I ever learn?

  “Don’t get all pissy. You need to lighten up and start getting in the game,” she says. “Katie … I mean ‘Kathryn,’ I’m sure there are men out there, maybe this Dre guy, who want to do you too. You just have to grab the ball and slam dunk it.” Did she really just say “maybe” guys want to have sex with me? She’s unbelievable.

  Sydney turns sideways in her chair, hiking her skirt up around her thighs, crossing one long leg over the other, revealing more leg than both of mine put together. “Watch this,” she commands. Sydney leans over and feigns buckling her already-buckled high-heeled, strappy sandal. As she sits back up, she lightly trails her hand back up her leg and then finally flips her hair over her shoulder. Within five seconds, the busboy and server are at our table refilling our waters and clearing my plates. “You have to sell the merchandise. You want this Dre guy, then make him want you.”

  “I never said I wanted him,” I add quietly, looking at my empty iced tea glass.

  “You never said you didn’t either,” Sydney says.

  Sydney and I have been friends since fifth grade. I had just moved to town, and the teacher paired us up as “bonding buddies.” Sydney’s job was to show me around and introduce me to other students. My job was to bail her out of trouble when she got caught on the playground explaining to four other students what the word “foreplay” meant. (Her definition back then: doing four dirty things before you had sex.)

  At recess on my first day at Reynolds Elementary, Sydney told me to stay in the big climbing tires while she stood outside with her friends. I was under no circumstances allowed to exit the tire without her approval. I went into the tire, and did as I was told. Sydney was the “Queen Bee,” and she was holding court outside of the tires. When she and her friends were talking, one girl said she heard the word “foreplay” on the bus and wanted to know what it was. Sydney explained what it was and that was that.

  After recess, all the girls blabbed, and Sydney was called in to the office. I knew then what I had to do. I knew the importance of getting in with the “co
ol kids” at school. Or at least I thought it was important at the time. Truthfully, the “cool kids” are just like everyone else: afraid, shy, awkward, and dying to fit in and be accepted.

  Anyway, I raised my hand and took the fall for Sydney, my soon-to-be best friend for life. My new teacher sent me to the office, where Sydney was already waiting to see the principal. I confessed that it was me who defined the dirty word. Sydney said that it was she. We fought about it in front of the balding, paunchy principal. I told him that I just wanted to fit in, so I told the dirtiest, coolest thing I knew. Syd said that I just wanted to be her and steal her growing popularity. He didn’t know what to do, so he let us both off the hook and sent us back to class with a very stern, very fake warning. Our friendship was sealed.

  Our friendship has faced some rugged terrain from time-to-time. In tenth grade, I shrunk her lime green cashmere sweater after I put it in the dryer on high heat for two hours. Also in tenth grade, Syd kissed the guy I was crushing on in the hallway right in front of me. (Coincidentally, the sweater incident happened a few hours after the kissing betrayal. I’ll never admit that it was intentional.)

  In eleventh grade, Syd told everyone at a party that I’d never seen a penis. (I hadn’t.) With in three seconds flat, five penises were whipped out and flapping in the wind. I was mortified—and quickly educated.

  In twelfth grade, Sydney walked in on me making out with her older brother one weekend when he was home from college. All of Syd’s friends had to swear to never touch Kyle. I made the vow, but he was way too hot to care about that silly promise. (He’s married and has triplets now, completely off the market.)

  Then, in college, I got the grades Sydney wanted, and she got the bar maid job I applied for. (Sydney didn’t even apply for it. She got the job, simply because she walked in with me when I turned in my application.) I stayed in college, graduating with Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees. She did not. It’s been a battle of the best friends for nearly fifteen years.

  But all-in-all, we’ve remained friends, best friends through it all. I was there, holding her when her father was diagnosed with Prostate Cancer, crying with her, tear for tear. I was even there when he went into remission. We celebrated with Tequila and nachos, shot for shot, chip for chip.

  Sydney was there for me when I discovered that my father had been cheating on my mother. Syd was actually the mastermind in getting them back together and into counseling. Syd saved my parents. I owe her. Our friendship has withstood the test of time, and we’re still here, bickering like enemies and loving each other like sisters. But man, sometimes she is such a witch. Like today.

  “What can I do to make you see how hot you are?” Sydney asks, leaning in closer to me. Okay, maybe she isn’t so bad.

  “It’s not that I don’t think … I mean, I know I’m not butt ugly. But Syd, this guy … he’s … I don’t know how to explain it,” I respond.

  “Who does he look like?” she asks. Sydney likes when people are compared to famous people. If you can piecemeal a visual description from multiple celebrities, then she’s satiated. For instance, saying something like “The girl had Sandra Bullock’s hair, Megan Fox’s eyes, Julia Roberts’ mouth, Leighton Meester’s wardrobe …” would make Syd’s day and paint the perfect picture for her. She’s very visual.

  “I don’t know who he looks like … like … I don’t know. Like every hot fantasy, I’ve ever had.” I admit truthfully.

  I’m stalling, because I know she’s going to freak when I tell her. Sydney won’t be able to handle what I’ve already come up with. I spent a good portion of last night thinking about it—figuring out his perfect physical “movie star” description.

  “Alright, I already thought about it, because I knew you were going to ask me again. But, you can’t think I’m delusional, okay? Promise?”

  “Scout’s honor,” she says, using the wrong gesture, unless of course, the Scouts are really mad at the world these days.

  “Dre looks like a triple combination, a twisted delightful perfected version of …” I stall, knowing she’s going to laugh at me and not believe me.

  Syd glares at me, motioning for me to continue. “Okay … okay … Paul Walker.” Sydney’s eyes widen. “Taylor Kitsch,” I add, while Sydney, licks her lips vulgarly and suggestively, “and Wilson Bethel.”

  “Fuck me now! Are you serious? Why didn’t you do him on the hood of your car as soon as you saw him?” she squeals, a little louder than necessary. Heads whip around over to us, gawking at her profanity. We slink down and lean in a little closer.

  “I know! That’s what I’m saying. This is … this is … unchartered territory for me,” I admit, taking out my credit card to finally pay the server who’s been circling us and eyeing my check booklet.

  “Syd, I’ve never scored this high before. But believe me, I want to get in this game.” Her face lights up. She’s always urging me to meet guys and hook up.

  Analyzing it more, I say, “I want to win the whole dang tournament, take home the championship trophy … four years in a row. Retire the jersey and call the game.”

  “Not that you put any thought into it,” Syd laughs, switching my card out for hers. “It’s only fair; I made you eat alone.” Okay, maybe she isn’t the biggest bitch ever.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Yeah, I sure haven’t thought about it at all.

  As I get out of the shower, Rory tosses me a towel. I wrap it around me quickly, knowing what’s coming.

  “I don’t fucking get it. I work out all the damn time and can’t bulk up. You carry some old bitch’s groceries, and you look bigger the next day,” Rory whines.

  I don’t know what his deal is. Rory’s ripped; he’s just not huge. Neither am I. And girls always flock to him, especially older women. Rory loves cougars; that’s his thing. “Hurry up too, we gotta get going.”

  “You need more protein, and more reps,” I offer.

  For the past year, Rory and I’ve been working out at his hotel’s gym right before lunch hour. Vacationers tend to exercise in the early morning hours before they hit the beach or the Market. Some people work out late in the evening, right before dinner. Other than that, the fitness room is a ghost town. Typically, we have the room to ourselves, avoiding the questions and complaints of all the hotel guests.

  “I can’t do any more reps without my arms falling off. I couldn’t even raise my hands to jack off yesterday,” he jokes.

  “Dude, too much information,” I say, pulling a shirt over my head. “Your masturbatory practices are not of any interest to me. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

  Changing the subject, “Alright, so what’re you gonna do? Ya gonna see her again?” he questions.

  “I have to. Can’t get her off my mind,” I confess. “I’m sure that once I fuck her, she’ll be out of my system.”

  “Whatever you say, Bro, whatever you say,” Rory says, waving me off.

  “What?” I ask, raking my hands through my hair.

  “Dre, you haven’t as much as looked at a girl since you got to Charleston last year, and now … now, you think fucking some chick is going to ‘cure your month-long, obsessive crush?” Rory asks.

  “This is more than “baby Dre” wanting to come out and play. This chick got under your skin. This is more than just your pants talking.” Rory argues.

  “Ro, it’s not. I’m not getting serious. This is just going to be a one-time hook up and out … pun intended … And who’re you calling ‘baby Dre,’ Tiny?” I jab, knowing that I just fueled a fire I’d never put out.

  “Tiny? Awwww fuck no. You know what they say about black men … that ain’t no myth. Do I have to show you again?” he asks, unbuttoning his pants. “Don’t make me show this Kathryn chick why white men just don’t add up. She’ll lose interest in you the second this thing’s free.”

  “Okay, okay, okay … just leave that anaconda under wraps. Ain’t no one safe with that thing out in the open,” I joke, backing away from him.

&nb
sp; Rory Carlson (Reginald Briar Carlson Jr.) and I have been friends since college. He was one of the only black guys in our fraternity. Thinking back on it now, they were probably trying to hit some minority-required quota. I didn’t exactly pledge the frat with the highest levels of tolerance.

  Man, college seemed like ages ago—not just five short years ago. Rory was the only friend I made worth keeping. As soon as he graduated with his Business and Hospitality degree, he moved back to Charleston to take over one of his dad’s hotels. So my party-animal, crowd-surfing, best friend was now the general manager of one of the five-star, old-fashioned hotels in downtown Charleston.

  Rory can handle the job. He exudes charm and has a mind for business and marketing. He however has the title of general manager, but he’s really a glorified bellman. Rory’s dad, Reginald Briar Carlson Sr., doesn’t trust him to handle anything, other than luggage and dinner reservations for tourists. It’s sad really, because the hotel has that air of history that tourists love, but does need the updates and innovation that Rory would bring to the table. His dad won’t hear of any of it. Yes, Rory is getting a big fat paycheck, but his ego is taking a demotion.

  “Wanna sandwich?” Rory asks, as we enter the hotel’s large, dilapidated kitchen. The place is definitely in need of some updates and a few stainless steel appliances. Despite its age, the hotel offers the finest cuisine and guest services, complete with all the upscale amenities. I sound like a goddamn advertisement for the joint.

  “Seriously, do ya have to ask?” I say, grabbing the bread from the shelf.

  “I don’t understand,” Rory admits. “Why don’t you just bring her here, wine her, dine her, and—”