Grey

by Aundrea Ascencio

  "Mom, you were an art major and you turned out just fine."

  "I'm a teacher," her mother informed her. "Well, on some days, at least. Any other day of the week, I'm just a state certified babysitter. Not to say that I regret choosing teaching over being a starving artist. There are positives. My bullshit detector is stronger now more than ever."

  Chantel was desperate to change the topic. "You got your layers redone. I just noticed."

  "Ya, how about that? I don't know how I feel about it yet. You tell them to trim an inch, and they cut off three. I should've just waited for Janet to come back from Barbados, but you know how I get with my hair. If I go too long between hair appointments, I start to feel icky."

  “It looks great. You look like Ariel."

  "Who?"

  "The Little Mermaid, mom."

  "Oh, right. Duh. I must be tired," Olivia replied. "How could I not remember that? That was your favorite Disney movie as a little girl. You used to call me Princess Ariel all the time when we came to visit you at St. Joan's."

  "Because you were," Chantel insisted. "You were the most beautiful princess I ever saw. I wanted your hair. Remember when I stole a red sharpie from Ms. Vera's desk, and ran a hot comb through my hair to straighten out my curls? And of course, it went poof! I looked like a black Ronald McDonald. Oh my god, it was so bad."

  "Aww, Chant, I remember that," Olivia chuckled, holding her hand to her chest. "You were in tears the whole day because you were absolutely distraught at the idea that we wouldn't want you anymore with poofy hair. They had to call me at work to come see about you because you were totally hysterical."

  They had spent all day in the bathroom trying to wash the ink out of the poor girl's hair, and Chantel just sobbed and sobbed into the bathroom sink, completely devastated that she couldn't get her hair the way she wanted it. It took an hour just to get all the red ink out, and once that was done, Olivia sat down with her and braided her hair back into two little pigtails.

  "Princesses come in many different packages," Olivia had told her. "Some have skin like vanilla and some have skin like chocolate. Some have red hair like mine, and some have curly hair like yours. But they're all princesses. All the time."

  Then they sat down and read Corduroy together. The one about the little girl who gave her last quarter for a teddy bear she loved so much, despite him having a missing button.

  "You loved that book," Olivia recalled fondly to her daughter. "It made you smile every time. By the end of the day, I finally got that cute little smile back."

  "Well ya, you bought me that bow, remember? With The Little Mermaid on it. I treated that thing like gold. I wore it in my hair every day until you and dad came for me," Chantel said. "I still carry it in my makeup bag."

  "I miss those days," Olivia said in quiet nostalgia. "You were the most adorable, loving, brightest little girl. We were so lucky. It's hard watching you grow up into a young lady, but I guess that's destiny."

  "Oh God, mom, there's no crying at this table."

  "I know, I know. I'm emotional. Don't mind me," Olivia said, taking a Kleenex from her purse to dab her crystal blue eyes. "Anyway, on a happier note, how are things going with you lately? Good?"

  "Ok, you've asked me that question four times since we've been here and I'm running out of things to tell you," Chantel said. "What are you really getting at?"

  "You know what I'm getting at," Olivia replied, folding her Kleenex and placing it back into her purse as she chose her next words carefully. "From what I understand, we reserved a table for three."

  "I said we might have three, but it's not a for sure thing yet."

  "Why wouldn't it be?" Olivia asked. "He picked the restaurant. Are you saying he booked a table and set a time for us to be here, all so he wouldn't show up?"

  "It's only fifteen pass six," Chantel said, glancing at her phone. "I mean, I really kind of threw this idea at him at the last minute. He already had plans tonight, so he was under a lot of pressure to move things around. I'm pretty sure he'll be here any minute, if he is coming."

  "Well, we have plenty to catch up on to pass the time," Olivia said, cheering up at the promise of gossip. "Tell me more about this young man."

  "What's there to say?" Chantel remarked. "I already told you everything."

  "Well, I'm sure there's still a little more wiggle room for you to elaborate," her mother said. "Is he cute? He better be cute."

  "His face is decently constructed, I guess."

  "Ok, still vague, but we're making progress," her mother nodded. "What does his decently constructed face look like, specifically?"

  "Mom. We've already had this conversation."

  "I forgot," she said, winking. "Tell me again."

  "He's tall. Green eyes. Blondish brownish-ish hair. Biggish ears and longish nose."

  "Sounds dreamy. So is he more of a Sam or a Dean?"

  "Mom, not every guy looks like Jensen Ackles and Jared Padleke. You have got to get over that show."

  "Well, those are the only celebrities I can think of with green eyes off the top of my head," Olivia said. "Just row with it."

  "A Dean, I guess."

  "Ah, so he is more of the athletic type."

  "No, not really. Kind of artsy, kind of nerdy, something along those lines. I told you that."

  "Oh, that's not like a Dean at all. He sounds more like your father."

  "I wouldn't say he's exactly like dad either," Chantel replied. "I don't know what he is. I can't really place him in one defining category. He's just Eric. We'll leave it at that."

  "Ah, but listen to the way you just said that," her mother pointed out. "That tone of voice alone makes him a candidate for a number of categories."

  Chantel glanced in the direction of the door again as it opened to the gusty winds that had settled on the city over night. She must have looked to that door a hundred times before, but this time, she was not left waiting.

  Dream Boy

  Eric finally graced the building with his presence, in hurried step, pausing only to hold the door open for an elderly couple as they left the restaurant.

  Chantel shuddered in irritable anxiety at his arriving so inexcusably late, but that was soon forgotten when he made his way around the hostess booth, and stepped into clear view so he could scan the restaurant for her.

  It took a moment for him to find her, and that gave Chantel time to appreciate how nicely the guy had cleaned up. If she didn't know anything about him, he might have actually passed as distinguished. Instead of the usual old black T-shirt, he had put on a fresh cerulean blue collared dress shirt with light a charcoal gray undershirt. He had traded in his worn black jeans for a pair of high-end, straight fit light blue jeans. Much to her relief, he left the combat boots at home and lightened his gait with a pair of ash gray vans instead. His hair had been trimmed back to a length that actually flattered his ears and neck quite well.

  Chantel felt a sweet rush as the memory of being pinned underneath him in his dorm invaded her thoughts, and she wondered how long they would have to play nice before she could say goodnight to her mother and have that slice of pie all to herself. Finally, his eyes met hers across the restaurant, and judging by the long pause he took to look her over, she was sure the feeling was mutual.

  The vibe at the table shifted dramatically, and Olivia felt the solemnity of it almost immediately.

  She glanced up from her menu, and followed her daughter's gaze to the tall and awkward young man standing nearby. Of all the experiences she encountered in a lifetime, this would prove to be the moment that haunted her most. If she had known that then, she would have paid more attention to it. If she had been aware that for years to come, she would countlessly comb through her mind for every fading, ambiguous detail about that boy standing in the corner, she would have taken rigorous notes on exactly what was going on, what was said, and how she felt about it.

  It wasn't that the young man looked at all menacing. In fact, she might have called him
a good looking and nicely mannered boy with a bright future. Yet, she could not help but feel sick, the same kind of ill brooding sensation that she had felt the night that Chantel first skyped her.

  When her daughter stood up to walk over and greet the young man, Olivia felt a compelling urge to grab Chantel's hand and throw her back into the seat. She wanted to protect her, but she couldn't understand why she felt threatened. There was no apparent reason for it.

  Restraining the urge to snatch Chantel and drag her out of that restaurant, Olivia let her go and sat back in puzzlement to make sense of her unexplainable anxiety.

  "Wow, you took the prep idea way too seriously," Chantel teased Eric as she approached him.

  "Don't rub it in," Eric said. "I already feel like an asshole."

  "What are you talking about? You're everything I want but can't have right now," she said, slipping her hand into his and squeezing her fingers around his. Then whispered, "I'm struggling so hard to keep my good-girl face on in front of my mother right now. You are not playing fair."

  "Are you seriously going to whisper dirty things in my ear when your mom is sitting 10 feet away from us?" Eric asked, grinning. "If I'm getting this much out of you by just changing a shirt, maybe I should dress up like an asshole all the time."

  "And you brought me flowers?" Chantel said, glancing at the bouquet in his other hand. "You're stacking the points up high tonight, Mr. Chandler. Give me a chance to keep up."

  "These aren't for you," he said, flicking the bouquet out of her reach. "You got something better coming your way later."

  He winked at her, kissed her forehead long enough to make her blush, and then advanced toward Mrs. Pari, who was trying hard to act like she hadn't noticed him as he approached the table. He stood right next to her, but she could not find the mind to acknowledge him.

  "Mrs. Pari," he greeted finally. "It's nice to finally meet you."

  Olivia averted his eyes, and instead looked at her daughter, who clung onto his hand and smiled hopefully at her mother. Olivia took note of how brightly Chantel's face shone now that Eric was in the room, and she found the idea of Chantel's happiness as baffling as the warning that had shaken her motherly instincts.

  They waited for her reply, and Olivia, who could not bear being the object of her daughter's disappointment, put her unwarranted dread aside and stood to accept the young man's bouquet. "And I guess you must be Eric. I'm glad I can finally attach a face to the young man my daughter's been swooning over the past few weeks. It's a pleasure to meet you."

  "Swooning, huh?" Eric teased Chantel.

  "I think she means that we had merely mentioned you briefly during an earlier occasion," Chantel informed him. "I do not swoon by any means."

  Eric wasn't convinced by that claim, but he went on grinning as he pulled a chair out for her, and pushed it back in once she was seated. Then he took a spot next to her mother.

  The rest of the evening sailed by smoothly.

  Eric and Chantel hardly spoke to each other. Part of it was out of respect for Mrs. Pari, so she wouldn't feel like an outsider. And another part was because both of them feared saying something that would betray their private smutty thoughts about each other, which were only revealed through secret quick glances when Mrs. Pari wasn't looking.

  However, the majority of the time, Eric focused his attention on Olivia and constantly kept her engaged in conversation. When he said he was there to "date the mother", he meant it. He became a different person, throwing off his usual reservation with strangers, and proving himself to be quick witted and approachable in any topic Oliva found interesting.

  He often took the lead in the conversation, asking Olivia about herself, until he had acquired a wealth of information, and she had scarcely learned anything more about him. He even got her to laugh, which was news to Chantel to discover that he even had a decent sense of humor.

  Chantel did not mind at all that she took up space in the background, sipping quietly on her water, especially since her mother had become gradually more comfortable as the night went on.

  Besides, she had found more intriguing ways to amuse herself by slipping a foot out of her high heel and teasing Eric's leg under the table. It was worth every minute to watch him try to act like she wasn't doing it while Olivia was talking, especially as Chantel's toes crept steadily higher to his inner thigh.

  When her foot charged suddenly for the danger zone, he paused in mid-sentence, but quickly played it off by taking a long sip from his water glass.

  His cheeks began reddening, and Chantel pursed her lips to keep from laughing.

  Eric coughed, or rather did something that sounded like a cross between coughing and clearing his throat, and excused himself for it.

  Picking up the conversation where he left off, he casually slipped his hand under the table and pushed Chantel's foot away from his crotch.

  Chantel stubbornly ran it up his leg once more, and he pushed it away again.

  When she did it a third time, he clasped his legs shut like a virgin and turned his knees away from hers.

  Before Chantel's mother could realize what was going on, the waiter arrived with their plates and began setting the table. Olivia, being the germ freak that she was, dabbed some hand sanitizer on a Kleenex and began wiping down the salt and pepper shakers.

  While she wasn't looking, Eric mouthed the words You're a jerk in Chantel's direction, and Chantel's head fell back in silent rolling laughter.

  However, she unfortunately mistook her balance, and her chair tumbled backward toward the ground. Eric's hand shot across the table and grabbed her wrist before she was out of reach, pulling her back toward the table and steadying the chair back on its four legs. When Olivia began to turn back to them, Eric stomped his foot next to Chantel's, warning her to cool it.

  Chantel straightened up quickly and resumed her composure, ignoring the people at the table next to them who were still snickering about the near-falling on her ass.

  "You deserved it," Eric said out loud, laying a linen napkin into his lap as they prepared to eat.

  "Ow, look at you now. All prim and proper," Chantel remarked, rolling her eyes and unraveling her silverware.

  She appreciated his effort to make a good impression, but she had no idea he would be that uptight about it. He was definitely in a no-nonsense kind of mood, and for a brief moment, she wished he were in all black again, resuming his usual carefree behavior with a guitar under a tree somewhere. He was probably wishing for the exact same thing, and she wondered how much longer he could go without needing a cigarette.

  Yet they were in that situation because of her, so for that reason only, she felt bad for him, and decided to behave in order to get him through the night.

  She took some of the heat off of him by contributing her share of conversation, and asked her mother how her art classes were going, and if they had found a cat friend for Mimi yet. Olivia skimmed through her replies and gave what was minimally appropriate to answer the questions. For once in her life, it was not her art students or Mimi that interested her.

  She was absolutely engrossed in learning every detail about Eric, and whenever opportunity allowed it, she turned the conversation back to him, asking about Germany and why he had chosen to live in the United States when most of his family remained in Europe.

  Eric replied that it hadn't been his choice, considering that his mother was married to an American, and that even though he was born in Germany, he had spent the majority of his life in the U.S.

  Chantel got the sense that he was getting weary of her mother's continuous string of inquiries, and she tried her best to distract Olivia. In a final desperate attempt to pry her mother away from Eric, Chantel stood from her seat and said, "Mom, I'm going to the ladies' room. Want to come with me?"

  The glint of opportunity lit up in Mrs. Pari's eyes, as at that moment, she couldn't have asked for anything better than to send her daughter away for a few minutes so she could talk to Eric in private. "No
, I'm ok, dear. You go ahead."

  "Mom," Chantel said firmly, giving her a determined look that Mrs. Pari pretended not to notice.

  "I'm fine, Chantel," Mrs. Pari said, just as firmly, making it clear that she had no intention of leaving and forfeiting this opportunity.

  Chantel sighed and walked away.

  Mrs. Pari finally had Eric alone.

  Trigger

  Mrs. Pari was quick to pounce, not sure how long she had before her daughter came marching back.

  "May I ask you something, Eric?" she inquired.

  "Sure, why not?"

  "Do you smoke?"

  Eric paused, not because he didn't have an answer for her, but because he did not know how to answer a question delivered to him in that tone of voice. Whether it was genuine curiosity or disdain, he couldn't tell, but her eyes appeared cold, taking on another personality than the friendly sociable one she'd entertained when her daughter was at the table.

  "I..."

  "Never mind. You don't have to answer that. I already know," she dismissed him. "You got the look of a smoker."

  "I didn't know a smoker had a 'look'," Eric answered.

  "Oh you sure do. I smelt the cigarette smoke on your shirt the minute you walked in," she said, like a detective slamming down the evidence against a prime suspect. "I see all kinds of vice in your face."

  "That's pretty judgmental," Eric replied, patiently taking another sip of his water. "You don't know anything about me."

  "Ok then. Enlighten me. What else are you hiding, Eric?" she challenged him. "Do you drink too?"

  "Well I'm an adult."

  "How often do you get drunk on average a week? Once? Twice? Twenty times?” she asked.

  Eric chuckled. "It doesn't really matter how I answer that, does it?" he told her, delicately slicing the last bit of his steak. "Apparently, you've already decided on your opinion of me."

  "Do you do drugs?" she asked. "Come on. Be honest."

  Eric didn't answer her, silently chewing his food, feeling that he was above the conversation and her inappropriateness. Of course he was clean, but for her to assume that he was a junky just by looking at him infuriated him. Olivia, however, took his silence as an affirmation of the question, and her suspicion of him only intensified.