Girl in the Song

by Chrissy Cymbala Toledo

  My eyes traveled from my ankles, to my calves, past my knees, then stopped. I wasn’t a woman yet; and yet that’s who Prince said ruled his world. My heart started beating faster as I thought about giving myself to a man. Suddenly I was afraid. I wanted so badly to be someone’s fantasy, but I didn’t want to actually do what it would take to be that fantasy.

  I styled my bangs straight, then flipped them over to the side of my face. I had five minutes to be out the door. The voices and images crowding my head began to get louder. Was my body desirable enough to fulfill someone’s fantasy? I didn’t know the answer.

  Picking up my backpack, I ran upstairs. I grabbed my jacket and scarf from the front closet and dashed out the door to school.

  I NOTICED THE TWO OF THEM IN THE SPRING. They were hard not to notice—tall, fit, good looking, and definitely causing a buzz among the girls. The two guys showed up together at church one Sunday. They appeared to be Latino, one about six foot three, athletic, with broad shoulders, and the other six foot one, with darker skin and fine features.

  I was sixteen and wasn’t fazed much by new guys who came to the church, since I was surrounded by the best-looking ones around. But these two strangers definitely caught my attention. As cute as they were, something else about them intrigued me. It was as though they came from “the world,” an environment I was not really acquainted with, and stepped into our church, where they didn’t quite know how to fit in.

  For the next five or six weeks they came, never changing their routine. They’d arrive at church, seem to listen intently, but then would quickly leave without socializing. My girlfriends and I concluded that they must be extremely shy. Still, I was distracted by them, and I was annoyed. These guys hadn’t introduced themselves to me or even seemed to notice me like other guys did.

  Why haven’t I caught their attention yet? The question rattled me even though I was getting plenty of male attention. I tried to console myself with the fact that the two mystery men didn’t really talk to anyone, but it still bothered me.

  Finally, at a Tuesday night prayer meeting, I spotted one of them making his way to a seat above me in the balcony. My eyes followed him, watching where he ended up. Rumor had it that he was a baseball player. Someone told me that he was drafted to play professional baseball right out of high school. How exciting was that! He was wearing his team shirt and jacket, so he was pretty visible. Must have come from a game.

  Tonight I’ve gotta meet at least one of these guys, I thought. The meeting was halfway over when I decided I would do it. I’ll conveniently run into him outside the church when the service is over.

  As soon as Dad said the final amen, I quickly dashed down from the balcony, hoping I could catch the baseball player before he left. I didn’t see him anywhere in the lobby. My mad dash turned into a slow saunter when I stepped outside. He was leaning against a parking meter in front of the church, obviously waiting for someone. I froze for a second. What was I going to say? I was walking into uncharted territory since I never had to do the approaching. Feeling kind of stupid, I went for it anyway.

  I took a deep breath and boldly walked straight toward him. “Hi, I’m Chrissy,” I said cheerfully. I scrambled for something else to say. “Do you play baseball?” As soon as I said it, I wanted to take it back. Ahhh, dumb question. This is not going well.

  “Hi, I’m Al,” he said, smiling. He did seem shy but friendly. We talked for a few moments and then I courageously invited him to hang out with my group of friends.

  “Hey, a bunch of us go to Junior’s Restaurant every Sunday after church. You’re welcome to come along.”

  He smiled again. “Thanks, that would be great,” he said. We started to exchange numbers when his friend suddenly appeared.

  “This is my friend Jaye.”

  “Hi,” he said, shaking my hand.

  “Hi, I’m Chrissy.” I turned and continued to talk to Al, but I could feel Jaye looking at me. He had a distant, enigmatic way about him that made me slightly nervous.

  “So hold on to my number and call me if you guys want to hang out.”

  “It was nice to meet you,” Al said, and the two of them started to walk away. Wait! I wanted to talk some more! I was startled. I stood there feeling so not in charge of the moment, which was unusual for me. People typically followed my lead and did what I wanted to do, not calling the shots on their own. I didn’t like this sense of powerlessness. I now had a mission: I was determined not only to get to know these guys but to convince them to be part of my entourage. I headed back into church, turning one more time to see if I could catch a glimpse of the tall, handsome strangers.

  I couldn’t get Al and Jaye off my mind all day in school, spending most of my time rehearsing what to say, what questions to ask, and working up enough nerve to actually call. I waited a day, then decided to call Al. I had never called a guy whom I didn’t know or someone who wasn’t clearly a “church guy.” Would he be taken aback that the pastor’s daughter was calling him? It wasn’t my style to be so forward, but I had a compulsion to call.

  I went to my bedroom, closed the door, and dialed the number. When Al answered the phone and we began talking, it was as if we had been friends for years and were catching up. He was so easy to talk to, and we instantly connected. He told me about his success on the baseball field. Ironically, Al had grown up just blocks from the Brooklyn Tabernacle and had passed it often, but he never set foot in the church until he was eighteen. He had experienced an incredible encounter with God on a baseball field that radically changed his life. If it weren’t for an injury, he would have been on the fast track to becoming a pro. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was still heartbroken over it, but at the same time he was excited to learn more about God.

  Over the next couple of weeks, Al and I talked regularly, often for hours at a time. I really looked forward to his phone calls. We would hang out together often—taking walks in the city, going to restaurants—and I always had a great time. The first time we went out, he took me for Häagen-Dazs ice cream and a movie, but it was nothing like a date. There wasn’t any romantic tension at all. It was more relaxed, like two friends getting to know each other. Walking out of the ice cream shop, I spilled most of my coffee ice cream on my white pants. We laughed it off, Al making me feel like my clumsiness was actually cute. Each time we were together, I found myself feeling less and less self-conscious.

  Although we were forming a real friendship, I could tell that Al was going to get really involved in the church. That didn’t interest me. I needed to explore something that was out in “the world.” I wanted to find out more about Al’s friend Jaye and began to slowly pump Al for information. When Al and I would make plans to go out, I began to gently encourage him to bring his friend along.

  Up until now, the only thing I knew was that Al and Jaye came from the same neighborhood and were childhood friends who had drifted apart. They reconnected when Al came back home after his freshman year of college. He reached out to Jaye and told him about his new relationship with God. Jaye was up for trying out the church, since most of the guys in their rough neighborhood had become potheads.

  The day finally came when Jaye joined a group of us after church. I was nervous, but I also felt comfortable because it was in my territory, with my friends. Jaye was very funny and had a confident air about him. Everyone instantly liked being around him, yet he managed not to divulge much about himself.

  He had a way of looking at me that made me anxious and excited at the same time. It’s like he held the look just long enough for me to notice, but no one else. He made me feel attractive without ever giving me a compliment. When he talked about music and fashion, it was with a real ease and authority that made me feel like his opinion was totally right.

  I found out that he was artistic and was a photographer. I put the two together and decided that he had to be a very sensitive person. There was something very cool and sophisticated about him that allured me. I wasn’t sur
e, but after just the first time I was with him, I couldn’t help but feel like there was something between us. It seemed to take forever for us to exchange numbers, but when we finally did, I felt like he was totally in charge of how our relationship was going to develop—a first for me.

  I nervously looked myself over in the mirror before I walked out the door. It was going to be my first time out alone with Jaye. It actually felt like I was going on my first date, except no one knew about it. I didn’t have my parents’ permission, and I didn’t even tell any of my closest friends. Something told me that it was not a good idea to tell my parents about this guy—that they wouldn’t approve and I wouldn’t get my way.

  When I was younger, I had always envisioned that my first date would be celebrated by people around me. I thought that a guy would come pick me up at the house and probably speak to my parents for a while before we left. I imagined looking back and seeing Mom and Dad standing at the door as their “little girl” went off on her first date; this wasn’t anything like that.

  As I had grown older, my conscience had hardened and wasn’t as sensitive as it had been. I convinced myself that I wasn’t being dishonest. It was just that I was a private person, becoming more independent, and had no reason to constantly share my business with anyone. My curiosity for what I was missing led me to become more and more secretive.

  Still, I was torn because I knew that my parents didn’t deserve to be treated that way. They had never been overbearing or overly protective. They really trusted me. But my private world was exactly that: private. I needed to find out on my own if I was good enough to be the one person someone would choose to be his alone.

  The setting was right to find the answer. Jaye was a twenty-one-year-old man who had clearly seen and experienced much more of the world than I had. Even though I was a girl who was, in truth, naive and inexperienced, he had decided to spend time with me.

  We arranged to meet in Manhattan in front of Macy’s. As I came down the block, I spotted him immediately just by the way he was dressed. He had on a light blue linen button-down shirt with the sleeves slightly rolled up and light khaki pants; his camel-brown shoes and belt matched perfectly.

  When Jaye got into the car, he suggested we head to Greenwich Village. After a difficult time of finding parking, we went to a very trendy Chinese restaurant that I had never heard of. The atmosphere was modern and sophisticated, and everyone there seemed to be stylish. Jaye fit right in, and I was excited to be welcomed into his world.

  “What kind of music do you like, Chrissy?” he asked.

  I responded confidently. “My favorites are R & B artists like Whitney Houston and Michael Jackson. How about you?”

  “I like them . . . everybody does, but I’m more into Sting’s music. Have you ever heard of him? He was with The Police and then went solo. You probably know the song he recorded with them—‘Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic.’”

  “No, I don’t think I know it.”

  “That’s just one of my favorites. I like his songs because they’re deep and about real life. I think most music today is pretty predictable.” Jaye began reciting the lyrics to Sting’s song “King of Pain.”

  There’s a little black spot on the sun today

  That’s my soul up there . . .

  As Jaye went line by line through the song, delivering it with a poetic flair, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. When he was finished, I was both mesmerized and intimidated. I loved music too, but I realized that Jaye wasn’t just listening to the words; he was truly into music, examining a song on a deeper creative level than I was used to. I felt giddy but wanted to change the subject because I wanted to brush up on the music he liked before I embarrassed myself.

  I quickly asked him, “Where do you work?”

  “Well, I work in photo labs, but I do photography on the side.”

  “Really? What kind of photography do you do?”

  “I’ve done different things. I really like fashion.”

  “You mean you’ve photographed models?”

  “Yes, actually I’ve photographed some really beautiful women. That’s just one type of project I’ve done in the past.”

  Suddenly, a wave of insecurity swept over me and I felt very small. “Um, I need to run to the restroom a minute.”

  He gave me a perplexed look because of the abrupt interruption. I got up, and although I wanted to run, I tried to walk to the ladies’ room as if it weren’t an emergency.

  Walking down the dimly lit hallway, I pushed the dark oak door marked Women. Bright studio lights framing a wall of mirrors nearly blinded me as I walked into the room. Setting my purse on the dark granite counter, I looked in the mirror and tried to breathe.

  I was overwhelmed by what Jaye had just said. “I’ve photographed some really beautiful women.” Suddenly, his dark eyes transformed into a camera lens, a lens accustomed to perfection. He was an experienced photographer who was used to looking closely at models. What did he see when he looked at me? Was I even close to his standard of beauty?

  I leaned closer to the mirror to examine my eyes, shifting my head to the left and right to get a better view of my face. All I could see was imperfection. I took out my “tools” and got to work, smoothing on more foundation and touching up the shadow over my eyes. I leaned closer to the mirror again, then slowly drew back.

  How am I going to compete with all the beautiful women Jaye’s captured on film and in his mind? When he’s sitting across from me, so inexperienced and young, is he focusing on my imperfection and comparing me to their perfect beauty?

  My thoughts tormented me as I stepped farther back to take in my entire outfit. Suddenly I was riddled with more fear and doubt. Is this the right outfit? My body isn’t perfect like theirs, but does this make me close to his vision of perfection?

  Just being with Jaye drew me deeper into this new world filled with sensuality. My naiveté frustrated me because I wanted to be alluring enough to capture and keep his attention. I knew I had been in the restroom too long. I had to return to the table, but now I was more weighed down and plagued by fears than when I had come in.

  One more look and I will head back. I stepped back again, turned sideways, then faced the mirror again. I made myself a promise: Whatever happens tonight, I am going to become whatever his lens considers to be perfect.

  Walking back to the table, the excitement I’d felt when we first arrived had disappeared. Now I felt like I was in an audition. As we talked, I began to cover my face with one hand so that he couldn’t get a complete look at me.

  Suddenly Jaye said, “Chrissy, that’s a great outfit. I really love your taste in clothing. Every time I see you, you’re wearing such stylish pieces, and you look really good in them.”

  A wave of relief swept over me. Even though he didn’t compare me to a beautiful fashion model, his acknowledgment of my looks propped me up. That one line was enough to happily carry me through the rest of the evening.

  Shortly after that, the shocker came! He casually mentioned that he had a two-year-old daughter. Not exactly what I wanted to hear on my first date—ever! My expression didn’t change but I was reeling inside. Immediately, I thought about what my parents would think and who this woman was.

  Does he still have feelings for her? Are they still connected? My thoughts began to race but Jaye’s matter-of-fact tone made it seem that it wasn’t a big deal at all to him. It was just another facet of who he was, but hearing those words made me feel like I was shrinking again. I decided to bury this information for now and deal with it later.

  THE RADIO HOST ON THE NEW WAVE STATION was giving the playlist for the next half hour. I was getting dressed the morning after my date with Jaye and was trying this station for the first time on his recommendation. My ears perked up when I heard the word magic.

  That’s it! That’s the song he mentioned! I thought, almost as excited as if Jaye were going to come over for a visit. I dropped what I was doing and sat on the floor i
n front of my stereo, getting comfortable and entering into a total daze.

  My thoughts drifted to the previous night . . . the great time I’d had with Jaye, and yet not so great either. It had been exciting but nerve-racking, adding even more pressure to what I had lived with for the last few years. Not only would I be potentially competing with a woman I’d never meet, who had his child, but even worse I would now have to compete with models he had worked with. Images from Vogue, Mademoiselle, Elle, Seventeen, and all my other fashion magazines assaulted my mind along with what Jaye had said at dinner.

  For years, I had idolized the models in my magazines. Breathtakingly beautiful women whose perfection always tormented me. High cheekbones, wide and deep-set eyes, arched brows, amazing hair, without a single mark or imperfection. In every photograph, they were perfect, regardless of how much makeup they had on or what they wore. I bought the magazines because I loved fashion, but flipping through them always made me feel less and less beautiful, each image more tormenting than the last.

  Needless to say, the bully was waiting to spew insults at me the moment I passed by the mirror. I didn’t have the energy to deal with it. I woke from my daze when I heard Sting’s voice. Closing my eyes as “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” played, I listened with every intention of embracing the song. Instantly I was transported into the music itself. The bass guitar combined with piano and strings had an unusual eclectic sound. As much as I knew about music, I couldn’t peg it. The mystery of what I was hearing complemented the mystery of who Jaye was to me. It was as though his spirit was in the music. I wanted to hear more because it was so irresistibly captivating, so unlike the music I usually listened to . . . with an edge that pulled me in.

  Every little thing she does is magic. . . . my love for her goes on.

  The lyrics took center stage, telling me what was of utmost importance. Once again, my inner voice interrupted, advising me to ask myself if I was good enough to be that “magic” that would turn him on. What does he think of when he listens to this song? What does he see? Could I be that magic to Jaye? There was nothing I wanted more at that moment than to be that image. It would give me the greatest sense of gratification, the greatest fulfillment.