Georgia on Her Mind (13 page)

“How do you like that?” I muse.

“Don’t be bitter, Macy,” Adriane says.

“What? Bitter? I’m not bitter.”

“Well, life has thrown you a few curves—”

“But I’m still in the game, Adriane.”

“That’s my girl. Keep that positive attitude,” she says, like
pip, pip, cheerio.

Who does she think she’s talking to? Keep a positive attitude, huh! I’m about to say something when her cell phone jingles. By the way she answers and the flush on her cheeks, I know it’s Eric. She grabs her stuff, waves goodbye and I’m left to walk out alone.

M
emorial Day weekend I have a brain freeze. I don’t know what happens, but I let the Single Saved Sisters talk me into attending the church singles function.

“Will there be more than ten people there?” I ask during a late-afternoon visit with Lucy. Bored, I drop by the paper to see what morbid news story she’s working on.

“Of course. Stop this ridiculous phobia. You’re in crowds of more than ten people all the time.”

“Ridiculous phobia? Please, it’s self-defense.”

“You ride on airplanes with hundreds of people and it never bothers you.”

“I read where Robert Mitchum had a crowd phobia.”

“And he’s your role model? A fifties actor?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Say you’ll be there.”

“Okay,” I say, but call her bluff. “I’ll go if you fry a hamburger in a skillet on the stove.”

She fades to green. “Gross.”

“As I thought.” Feeling puffed up, I sit back.
We
all have our phobias.

Lucy leans my way. “Macy, you have no boyfriend, no job and all you do is sit home in those ratty shorts, conduct phone interviews and surf cable channels.”

I make a face. Cheater. “Okay, I’ll go.”

So here it is, Memorial Day, and I’m going to a singles shindig.

I get ready for the Bash on the Beach, packing my tote with a towel and my cooler with shrimp salad.

The silver lining to this cloud is that Lucy is off the market and perhaps, oh, if I can dream, the one or two cool guys will gravitate my way. Just for the day, that’s all I ask.

Lucy and Jack pick me up around ten. She’s bubbly and beautiful in a pale green sundress. He, I’ve learned, is not at all like Barney Fife. Strong and wiry, soft-spoken and kind, Jack reminds me of a nineteenth-century, Old West cowboy. Salt-of-the-earth type. Fear the Almighty, work hard and love your woman.

In no time, we’re beachside and pulling into Nance Park, where I see a sizable crowd has already gathered.

I stick on a smile and greet everyone. Tamara and Adriane arrive with their men. I’m like the seventh wheel. Third wheel is doable, the fifth is a little embarrassing, but the seventh? Downright humiliating.

Adriane introduces us to Eric Gurden, a floppy-haired
blonde who reminds me of Tom Berenger. Tamara cleaves to Sam as if she wants to be his permanent appendage and smiles so much
my
face hurts. They’ve been thick as thieves since running into each other that night at the coffeehouse.

At the last Single Saved Sisters meeting, I alone showed up, sipped half a white mocha and left.

The seven of us set up camp under one of the pavilions. Out on the beach, the volleyball is out and being tossed around. Now hear this—I stink at volleyball. Right down to my size-ten feet.

I watch the preliminary action, hoping no one remembers I’m five-ten. Every volleyball game is the same. Stick the tall girl in the front line and tell her to spike.

Tina Farrow harangued me during this inane game in eighth-grade gym class. Awkward and geeky with my new long limbs, I fumbled over my own feet during one game and landed in the net, arms and legs everywhere. Even our P.E. teacher faced the wall to hide her laugh.

After that, I refused to play such a cruel sport. In high school I was always sick that semester.

“Anyone for volleyball?” one of the guys hollers toward the pavilion.

“Macy’s here. She can play,” Lucy shouts down to them, pointing at me.

I gape at her. “Have you gone mad?”

“Look, a whole bunch of guys are here—Greg, Kip, Tomás what’s-his-name.”

I peer over the rail. No Velcro sneakers or bad combovers. Greg, Kip and Tomás are very cool—in fact, the largest gathering of cool I’ve ever seen at one of these things.

“Go on.” She pushes me.

“No way.” I grit my teeth. “You know I hate volleyball.”

“Just stick your hands in the air and spike it.”

“Come on, girl. I’ll go with you.” Tamara jerks me by the arm.

I don’t know why, but I go. I’m an idiot.

“All right, Macy, Tamara,” Tomás says, big white grin splitting his brown face. “I got dibs on Macy.”

“I’m really awful,” I confess, loudly, as a way of warning, watching Tamara cross under the net to the other side.

“Just stand in front and spike it.” He takes my hand, walks me to the front center and gives me a thumbs-up.

This is not good….

We volley for serve, and fortunately the ball soars away from me every time. I stand there with my hands in the air looking ridiculous.

However, I am pleased to see that one or two on the opposing team are worse than I am.

Once the game starts and the first few passes fly right over my head, I relax a little. We’re up three-zip.

Tamara claps her hands, admonishing her team. “Let’s go! We can do this.”

They serve. I tip my head back to see the ball coming right at me.

“It’s yours, Macy,” Tomás coaches. “Spike it!”

In that split second I get a
grrr
in my gut and decide,
Now is my time.
Eighth grade and Tina Farrow are twenty years behind me. Spike this one for yourself, Macy.

Eye on the ball, I draw back my arm. I leap. I’m spi-i-i-king.

The ball bounces off the net and into my face.

“Oomph!” The blow knocks me on my back, arms and legs flailing, the humiliation of junior high revived. I can’t open my eyes. I can’t look.

“Macy, are you all right?” Tomás is barely able to talk because he’s stifling a big hee-haw laugh.

“I’m fine.” I grab his offered hand.

Tamara hollers, “Way to sacrifice the body, Macy.”

Tomás holds my chin and examines my face. “Let me see.” He’s highly amused by this damsel in distress.

“I’m fine,” I repeat.

“I just want to be sure. No black eyes or anything.”

“I warned you—I stink.” There’s an edge to my voice. Just because a girl is tall doesn’t mean she’s an athlete.

He grabs me by the shoulders and looks into my eyes. “Concentrate. You can do this.” He gives me a light shake and goes back.

Concentrate. I make a face. What a novel notion. Einstein attributed his genius to concentration. Okay, this is not physics and I’m not Einstein, but I
can
do this. Concentrate.

In the next few passes, I set to Kip once, followed by a tip over the net. We score both times. Feeling proud and full of myself, I ready for the next volley.

I point at Tamara. “I’m gunning for you, Clayton.”

“Bring it on, Moore.”

I’m having fun now, sort of. The next volley sends the ball soaring my way. It’s a little high and a little past me, but I can get it. I run back, concentrating, concentrating.

Maybe in the distance I hear, “I got it,” but I’m concentrating. Eye on the ball. I’m going for it, erasing all my fears.

I draw my arm back, hand poised, aiming to pound that ball to south Florida, when all of a sudden my elbow slams into a brick wall.

In reality, it’s Tomás’s face. We tumble to the ground, me landing on top of him, blood gushing from his nose.

“Somebody get a towel,” someone screams.

I scramble to my feet, humiliated. “Oh, Tomás, I’m so sorry,” I sob.

“It was an accident. Don’t worry.” He presses the towel to his nose. “Didn’t you hear me yell I got it?”

“No. Well, maybe.”

“I think it’s broken,” someone declares after peeking underneath the towel.

“Broken!” I broke a man’s nose? I fall to my knees, face in my hands. This is what I get for concentrating.

Tamara kneels next to me in the sand. “You okay?” she whispers.

“No. I broke a man’s nose.”

“Better go to the E.R. just in case,” Kip suggests.

“I’ll take him.” I jump up and face the pavilion. “Jack, I need your keys.”

Lucy is watching with her fingers over her eyes while Adriane cuddles with Eric in the corner, oblivious.

“It’s all right, Macy,” Tomás assures me. “I came with a date. She can drive me.”

“Are you sure?” I help him to his feet.

“Yes, I’ll need my car anyway.”

Seeing the bloodstained towel, I start to cry. I can’t help it. “Please forgive me. I’m so, so, so sorry.”

He touches my arm. “Forget it. I told you to concentrate.”

I grin through my embarrassment. “So, I guess this is your fault?”

On that lighthearted note, we help him to his car.

I return to the pavilion and sulk in the corner, aware that I single-handedly put a damper on the whole beach bash. And I didn’t want to be here in the first place.

Lucy, Adriane and Tamara slide up next to me on the bench. “It was an accident.”

“It’s a barbaric sport.”

“Girl, don’t think about it.”

I nudge Lucy. “I hope you’re happy.”

“Me?”

“Yes. This is all your fault for making me come, and then shoving me out there to play volleyball.”

She brushes her hand over my hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t really think—” She stops talking to giggle. “When the ball bounced out of the net and into your face…”

Tamara looks the other way, biting her bottom lip, and Adriane wants to know what happened. She missed it all. Tamara recounts the whole thing.

I’m angry. Well, I want to be angry. However, the picture Tamara paints makes me laugh.

Despite the support of the single and saved, and all the great fun I’m having (not), I ask Jack and Lucy to run me home. Even cute Kip’s big comforting hand on my shoulder doesn’t comfort me. Breaking a man’s nose is exhausting.

This, I promise Lucy, is my last singles event,
ever.

“Definitely,” she agrees. “Definitely.”

Sitting at my computer desk, I check e-mail while picking at a two-day-old salad. Outside my window the sun paints the fading Memorial Day sky with a rich reddish hue. Nothing like spam e-mail and soggy lettuce to cheer a girl.

But I spot an e-mail from my old debate buddy, Kathy Bailey. Well, this is pleasant. I click to open her e-letter.

Dear Macy,

How are you? I saw your name on the class reunion flyer. I wasn’t going to go this time, but when I saw you were emcee, I changed my mind. I can’t wait to see you. I still think of how much we laughed in Mr. Ellison’s class.

Married life is good. We love California, yet it doesn’t feel like home. I’m pregnant with number four, but Mark and I agree this is the last. At my age, I have no patience for starting over with the diapers and midnight feedings.

Oh, gag. At her age. That’s my age, and I haven’t even started with a round of diapers and midnight feedings.

There’s an attachment at the bottom of her e-mail. I click on it. A radiant Kathy smiles at me with Mark and the three kids gathered around. She looks fulfilled and happy.

First Joley, then Lucy, now Kathy. I exit e-mail, pick up my uneaten salad and head for the kitchen. Did I make a wrong turn somewhere in my twenties and end up in Old Maid-dom thinking it was Career Haven?

I know it’s wrong to compare myself to others, but give me a minute. Kathy is content and happy as a wife and mom, raising kids that just may be president or the next Bill Gates.

I’m an unattached, unemployed nose breaker. That’s it. I’m resigning as the emcee.

I dump the spotted lettuce and soft tomatoes into the garbage and jerk open the freezer door. What I need is a bowl of ice cream to soothe the black eye of my day. But the freezer is bare.

I’m pondering making a food run when my front door opens. Lucy and Jack, Adriane and Eric, Tamara and Sam tumble in, supermarket bags dangling from their hands.

“We decided you shouldn’t be sitting home alone,” Lucy informs me, dropping her plastic bag on my kitchen table. “We brought subs.”

“What about the cookout?” I ask, my heart smiling, feeling the love. I am so blessed.

“You’re more important.”

I peek into one of the bags. Ice cream, Diet Coke and brownie mix. “Ah, you guys, my favorites.”

Tamara holds up several DVDs. “Movie of your choice.”

Adriane drops into the lounger, crossing her long legs. “I couldn’t have fun thinking of you sitting here alone.” Eric sits on the arm of the chair, his hand on her shoulder. He’s quiet and observant, and I like him.

Jack explains, “The guys are going to the Sylvester Stallone festival at the Oaks and you girls will have ladies’ night.” Without much thought, he kisses me on the cheek.

“Thank you,” I whisper. I like the glint in Jack’s eye. Lucy’s smart to fall in love with him.

Sam digs in one of the bags. “First let’s eat. I’m starved.”

“Yeah, let’s get to it.”

We sit at the dining-room table, eat and laugh, and tell
stories on ourselves. Since I gave everyone a visual today, I’m absolved from recounting.

Tomás calls to let me know he’s all right. I apologize again for the umpteenth time and he assures me he’s over it.

“Part of the game, Macy.”

Still. I broke a man’s nose.

We polish off the subs and the guys pile into Sam’s SUV, leaving early so they have time to buy popcorn and candy.

Tamara holds up the DVDs while Lucy and I clean up. “We got
While You Were Sleeping, Sense and Sensibility
and
Mr. Deeds.
”

I make a funny face.
“Mr. Deeds?”

“I like it,” Lucy says.

“I wanted
Fiddler on the Roof,
” Adriane interjects, falling into the lounger, throwing a leg over the chair’s arm.

“Sense and Sensibility,”
I vote, not sure I’ve seen it all the way through.

“Good choice.
Sense and Sensibility
it is.” Tamara waves the DVD in the air.

While Lucy mixes up the brownies, I go upstairs and throw down a bunch of extra pillows for movie cuddling.

“I think I’m in love,” Adriane declares from her chair, arms in the air, head back.

Tamara, Lucy and I look at each other. “Really?”

With an uncharacteristic smile, she gushes, “Really.”

We cheer and dive on her. In a heap, we tumble to the floor wrapped in laughter.

“Off me.” Adriane shoves at us, laughing, but she’s finished fooling around. Getting up, she jerks her top in place and flops back into the lounger.