American Babe (8 page)

I
was really bored the next day. Like really, really, really, really bored. And really, really, REALLY annoyed. Maybe I was ovulating? I get
extra
-annoyed when I'm ovulating. That's a fun thing about me. Knox and Cara were at school, Veronica was at work, and I was certainly not about to just chill at the house with Donna. I had to get out of there to distract myself from the familial drama that was occupying my brain.

The more I thought about the whole Knox Maternity Mystery the more I wanted to scream. My mom is literally the worst. Even if it turned out that my grandfather was
wrong and that my mom wasn't Knox's biological mother, I still resented her for being the type of person that she is.

Not to get toooooooooooooooo real or whatever, but since meeting her, I've been of the mind that my mother did me a huge favor by not introducing herself to me until I was twenty-five. She would have been constantly disappointing me. But maybe that would have been better in some ways. Being around someone who was perpetually letting me down may have taught me a lesson. It would have been a lot easier to get over the fact that my mother was shitty, just by seeing her for who she truly was. I could have made my own judgment about her instead of building up this story in my little child head about what a great person she might be if she just came back into my life. As a child I was sad about all the things she missed out on. My dad and Mabinty (my childhood nanny/BFF/COO of Babe Walker Industries) were trying to protect me by pretending she didn't exist or something. I see what they were trying to accomplish, but maybe it was a bad call?

And now Knox is potentially involved in her whole mess. I didn't know if I'd ever be able to bring myself to tell him if I found out that he hadn't actually come out of Vee's . . . V. He has a great mom. She cared for him and put his needs first. Breaking that bond would be horrible. But, like . . . shouldn't he know the truth at some
point? Fuck, I wish I'd never come to Maryland. No good deed . . .

I checked Instagram, tweeted something (is Twitter still a thing?), and then looked to see if there was a SoulCycle anywhere near Veronica's house. Surprise, surprise . . . there was most definitely not a SoulCycle near her house, but I did find a cute place online called the “Y.” I'd never heard of it before but it sounded very chic. They had a gym, swimming pool, and yoga studio there. How bad could it be?

Smash cut to me at the Y, which it turns out was short for the YMCA, which was short for the Young Men's Christian Association, which was long for unchic. Brown carpet + fluorescent lighting + low ceilings + a sad-looking staff = me questioning what the fuck I was doing in Maryland. This was definitely not SoulCycle. Even more annoying than all the beigeness was the fact that the next yoga class wasn't scheduled until that evening. I had to settle for a water aerobics class that was about to start.

Side note: I DO NOT fuck with public pools/hot tubs. NO exceptions. No way, no how, no God, no thank you. Plus, my body situation was unclear due to the fact that I'd been eating lots of things that were not smoothies over the past few days. And I was quickly learning that Maryland was not known for its salads. Is it that hard to make organic produce available to the masses?

I paid the ten-dollar entry fee and headed into the indoor pool area. As I entered I was assaulted by the smell of chlorine and the sight of bodies.

So.

Many.

Bodies.

No judgments! But let's just say that there were a lot of different body stories happening in that pool area. A LOT. And they were all literally disgusting, but I'm not judging anyone. But seriously, they were sick. Like, insane. I scanned the huge glassed-in pool looking for the instructor of this class and something caught my eye. It was a guy. It was a guy in a bathing suit. It was a guy, in a bathing suit, who was actually . . . hot. Not like
hot
hot. But, like . . . Okay, fine, he was hot. My eye just finds beauty wherever I am. What can I say? Half blessed, half cursed.

I headed in his direction to get a closer look, while pretending that I didn't notice him. I was secretly hoping he was the instructor. He was invitingly cute in a really regular way. He was, like, six foot something tall, dark hair, and a crazy body. In the face, he looked like a cross between Scott Foley and Scott Speedman, the two love interests in the vintage TV classic
Felicity
, which coincidentally I'd been watching on Netflix. (Watch it. It's vvvv chic times ten minus three when the hair thing happens.)

I named him “Scotts” in my mind, because that made the most sense. As I approached him, he was putting goggles on and stretching his arms. Scotts was actually really fucking hot and his skin was a nice tan color, which, for this time of year in Maryland, was somehow reassuring for me. He smiled at me as I walked by. Nice teeth. Great smile. He didn't need to smile but he did because he was a decent human being, obvi. I responded with my standard half smile/half smirk/half wink/half glare/it might look like nothing but I'm definitely moving my face muscles. I know that math doesn't add up, but just go with it. Guys love it, so just let me do my thing. It's not about logic.

We definitely had a moment. A very short, but distinct moment. Then he dove straight into the pool and actually splashed me a little bit. I wasn't mad. Which was very weird because I hate being surprised by liquids. But Scotts got a pass.

“Ma'am,” someone called out from across the pool.

I looked toward the source of a terrorizingly loud voice: a human being who can only be described as a Richard Simmons impersonator but obese. This person was calling out in my direction, but I was confused because I most certainly am not old enough to be perceived as a “ma'am.” I'd been referred to as “miss” or “young lady,” but MA'AM was a nunca. I prayed this person was not talking to me.

“Hon, are you here for my twelve thirty?” he asked, looking directly at me.

“I'm sorry? Are you talking to me?”

“Yes, girl! You. You in the head-to-toe Y-3 walking on my pool surface with sneakers.”

He knows fashion. I felt immediately more comfortable with this creature.

“Is it an aerobics class?”

“Yes, hon. Water aerobics.”

“Is it starting now?”

“You got it. I'm D'Angelo. Better go get into your suit, girl, or you're gonna miss it.”

First of all, a white person named D'Angelo is simply remarkable.

“Oh. I'm going to be skipping the aquatic portion of today's class,” I told him.

“The whole class is in the water.”

“Yeah, well, that's not really gonna work for me as I don't ever get in public pools.”

D'Angelo gave me a smile that said
fuck you
but also
it's okay.

“I think I'll stand just outside of the pool and do all the movements out here.”

“That's fine with me, but the point of water aerobics is for the pool water to create resistance against your muscl . . . I
can tell by the look on your face that you don't care what I'm talking about so I'm gonna go 'head and start class.”

“Thank you, D. I'm looking forward to this.”

There were four older women in the class with me. All of them chose to be in the actual water. They were all wearing one-piece suits and little head condoms, or whatever they were. Each one of them seemed genuinely happy to be there. They were all smiling. It was kind of strange because they would smile at me when they looked at me, but they were also just smiling at each other and at D'Angelo. Like they were just happy people. Their default mode was SMILE. It made me a little angry. As the music started (Madonna, “Ray of Light,” LOLZ) and I began mimicking the movements, I became starkly aware of how odd this whole situation was.

I, Babe Walker, was standing in front of a pool full of people from Maryland, basically dancing, by myself, to a Madonna song. But the weirdest part about it was that I wasn't stopping. I was somehow compelled to do this. D'Angelo was right about the resistance or whatever because it was barely a workout, but there was something meditative about it that kept me going. Ratchet tai chi. From the outside of the pool it must have looked like I was teaching the class or having a slow, balletic seizure.

But I didn't care what people were thinking. Was “not giving a fuck” about what others think of you contagious?
Almost everyone I knew in LA was constantly trying to prove how much they
didn't give a fuck
about what people thought/said about them, while simultaneously secretly giving the MOST fucks. People in LA are so full of shit, and I was part of that. I wouldn't have been caught dead doing something like this back home. I felt like I was in a dream. Nothing was bothering me about this whole scenario. Not even the fact that Scotts could probably see me doing my moves. If you're not self-conscious in the presence of a really hot guy, then there is something seriously wrong with you. Or at least I used to think so.

D'Angelo's soundtrack turned out to be MAJOR. ABBA, The Village People (ironic, but most likely completely planned by Miss D'Angelo himself), The Police, Donna Summer. I was living; the elderly women in the pool were LIVING. D was an emotional Sherpa, guiding us through our workout journey. “Now wave both arms up and down, up and down, great job, Phyllis! Glory, stick with me, honey.” The class was flying by until I heard someone scream.

“HELP!!!!!!”

I looked over to the other side of the pool and saw a crowd of people starting to form around something on the ground.

“Someone call 911!!!” another voice yelled.

Honestly, I was kind of annoyed. I was really getting into
this fucking class and now some old person or child had to go and die on the side of the pool? There was no way this wasn't going to derail my enjoyment of this class, not to mention ruin my heart rate's cardio cal-burn.

“Can you turn off the music for me, hon?” D'Angelo asked.

“Sure,” I replied.

I turned off his Jambox/Sonos/Beats Pill little guy that he had going and started walking slowly over to the crowd of people that was forming around the corpse. It was, like, fifteen people at this point. My curiosity pushed me right to the front of the group so I could see what was happening.

“Holy fuck. Scotts is dead!” I yelled.

There he was. Hot Scotts was just lying on his back next to the pool. He looked dead as FUCK. He skin was gray and turning transparent in some spots and the amount of breathing he was doing was none. Very, very similar to a dead person.

“Do you know him well?” a tall man, wearing a Speedo, asked me.

“I mean, kind of,” I replied.

“Yeah. That guy's dead. I'm really sorry. He's not breathing at all. Jesus,” he continued.

“What happened? Did anyone see what happened to him? Did he just drown?” I asked.

“No. I saw him get out of the pool. He looked out of sorts and then he just fell over onto the tile. Lifeless,” a lifeguard responded. “I think he hit his head.”

“I was just hanging out with him before he started doing his laps. He seemed really happy. Like, the happiest I've ever seen him. It's just so sad. Death is all around us, you know?” I felt really good about my mini-eulogy.

Someone else was now giving Scotts mouth-to-mouth. I didn't know how to feel. Was I supposed to be sad that Scotts was dead now? I barely knew him. Was I being tested? Was there a lesson to be learned here? So many questions and so little time. Scotts was not responding to the CPR at all. What I did know was that there was literally nothing I could do to help him. In fact, I felt like I was actually kind of in the way by standing there, so I decided that I could best help Scotts in his time of need by leaving . . . immediately.

When I got back in my car I YouTube'd the opening credits to
Felicity
and thought about Scotts. He was so filled with joy in the short time I knew him. But he was probably in a better place now. As the ambulance arrived at the Y, I let one semiforced tear fall from my left eye directly onto my iPhone screen. It was really a nice moment for me.

On the drive home I found myself thinking about Knox and the fragility of life. Life was painful enough. Was there really anything good that could come from me telling Knox
that Donna was most likely his real mom? Would that make him a happier person? A more fulfilled human being? I couldn't do it. I couldn't hurt him like that. Then I stopped at a nail salon I'd seen on the way to the Y, and I got a very quality mani/pedi by a beautiful Korean princess named Subin. She told me I looked like a movie star, and then I fell asleep in the pedicure chair for three hours.

She just let me sleep. Thanks, Su-bin.

I
woke up the next day to a gorgeous presummer sunny-as-fuck morning. I was in a fabulous mood for no real reason. Love when that happens. As I came downstairs for a smoke, I noticed Donna's bags were lined up on the floor by the front door. She was standing on the back porch when I got out there. Black Saint Laurent suede jacket with fringe, white tee, black tights, black Nikes. Boring.

“Leaving so soon?” I asked her.

“I've got to get back for work.”

“That's chic, because I'm sure by work you mean a shoot with fucking Bruce Weber on a farm somewhere in Montana
with tons of gorgeous, rustic fauna and a painfully hot blond boy model.”

Donna took a drag from her cigarette and smiled.

“How close was I?”

“Frighteningly.”

“And you couldn't put your life on hold for one extra day to spend some time with your family?”

“I'm not fighting with you about this. It was really nice for us all to be together yesterday. I'm glad you were able to meet your family. Can't we just end this on a positive note?”