Girlfriends (Patrick Sanchez) (26 page)

“Okay, let’s do it,” Gina called to Dennis and Rosa as she and Linda emerged from the bathroom. They continued down the hall and approached the reception table where two perky young ladies were sitting.

“Gina Perry and Linda Collins!” the young lady to the left announced with a toothy smile. “How are you?” she added as she fumbled through the name tags strewn all over the table. “One for you, Gina, and here’s yours, Linda.”

“Oh, no! They have our senior pictures on them,” Gina groaned, somewhat concerned about pinning the name tag to her nine-hundred-dollar dress. “Nice to see you again,” Gina said to the women behind the table, although she had no idea who either of them were. Linda nodded in agreement with Gina, and they proceeded into the ballroom with Dennis and Rosa following.

“Oh, God . . . there’s Kathy Wolwine,” Gina whispered to Linda.

“Gina!” Kathy screamed, and trotted toward her. She gave Gina a big hug and then smiled at Linda and hugged her too. “Girlfriend, you got it goin’ on! Look at you . . . like a supermodel,” she crooned to Gina, and then with somewhat less enthusiasm turned back to Linda. “And, Linda, you haven’t aged a bit. You look great.”

“You’re not doing so bad yourself. How are you?”

“Oh, you know. I’m performing anywhere I can.”

There was one in every class—the girl who thought she could sing and dance and act and look pretty—the girl who was going to become a star—the girl who usually ended up in a mouse suit at Busch Gardens. In Gina’s class, that girl was Kathy Wolwine. She was in every school play and demanded that she have solo performances when the school choir sang at various events. Unfortunately for her (and for those who had to listen to her), she had a high-pitched, nasal voice and an uncanny ability to make the latest pop tunes sound like opera—bad opera.

“Really. We’re all still waiting to see your name in lights,” Gina said with a smile.

“You never know. I’m doing community theater and just signed with a modeling agency.”

“That’s great.”

“It’s called Spectra Models. They’re in Baltimore,” Kathy replied with a proud smile. “Oh, look. I need to go say hi to Laura. Let’s chat some more later.”

After Kathy was out of earshot, Linda quietly said to Gina, “A model—with those hips? What does she model? Muumuus?”

“Oh, please, I’ve heard of Spectra Models. They’re one of those agencies that send fat ladies to the mall to scout so-called
potential
models. They give you their business card and tell you that you have a great look and could have a bright future as a model. Then, when you go to meet with the agency, you learn that you have to pay
them
for some ridiculous training that supposedly prepares you for a modeling career. I think it’s around a thousand bucks to learn how to walk down a runway. Shame she got suckered into it.”

“How do you know so much about it?”

“I don’t know. I saw a report on the news or something,” Gina said, starting to blush.

As the evening progressed, Gina and Linda perused the room and caught up with old classmates while Dennis and Rosa sat at a table and discussed all the things a gay man and a lesbian have in common. Twenty seconds later they began to get antsy and wished their respective dates would return.

Eventually, the girls returned to the table. Gina sat next to Dennis and Linda next to Rosa. Gina was soon busy pointing out various class members she suspected were gay to see what Dennis thought of them. She was always amazed at his ability to sniff out other homosexuals before he even spoke to them. They might see a guy who looked perfectly heterosexual to Gina, and Dennis would confidently assess that he was gay—and he was always right. Gina tried to get Dennis to let her in on the clues, but he claimed there were no definite clues. It was just a feeling . . . a radar. Gina wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth or not. For all she knew, there could’ve been some universal identifying gay symbol or gesture homosexuals were forbidden to share with straight folks.

As they conversed about various classmates, Jenny Parks showed up at their table.

“Dennis! What are you doing here?”

“Hi, Jenny. I’m here with a friend,” Dennis replied, gesturing toward Gina.

“Gina Perry! How are you? How do you know Dennis?”

“We’ve been friends for a while.”

“Really, well, I’ve been one of Dennis’s clients for years. He’s the best colorist in town.”

Oh, shit, Gina thought. If Jenny’s mouth was anywhere near as big as it was in high school, it would be mere minutes before the entire room knew Gina was at her high school reunion with her gay hairdresser.

“You didn’t say anything about a reunion this morning when I was doing your hair,” Dennis said to Jenny.

“Yes, I did. I must have mentioned it a hundred times.”

God, I’ve got to actually start listening to these broads, Dennis thought.

“A hundred times, Dennis,” Gina said. “She must have mentioned it a
hundred
times, and you didn’t
tell
me. You little
devil
you,” Gina continued, starting to feel flushed. She could see Jenny plotting behind her phony smile—plotting to matter-of-factly tell Gina’s entire senior class that she couldn’t get a date to the party. She must have been aching to get away from the table and start spreading the news.

“Well, it’s so nice to see you guys. What a hoot to run into my hairdresser at my reunion. Listen, I’ve got to mosey, but let’s catch up later.”

“Sure,” Gina replied, and turned to Dennis. “Great, just great! Now she knows I’m here with a gay guy.”

“Watch it, Gina, or you’ll be here with
no
guy.”

“I’m sorry, Dennis. I know you’re doing me a favor, but I just had a plan for how this evening would go, and this wasn’t part of it.”

“Why do you even care what these people think? You never see any of them.”

“You know what, Dennis? I really don’t know,” Gina replied.

“Think about it, Gina. Everyone here is so caught up in themselves, they’re all worrying about how
they’re
being perceived. Believe me, no one in here is concerned in the slightest with you. And if they look outside their self-obsessed little worlds for a moment or two to pay you any attention, they’d see a stunning young woman with beautiful blond hair . . . thanks to me, of course, and killer legs that rival Tina Turner’s,” Dennis said before coyly adding, “and they most certainly would wish their date was half as handsome as yours.”

Gina let herself smile just slightly. “You’re sweet, Dennis.”

“Gina, you’re a beautiful girl with everything going for you. If only you weren’t so thickheaded and could see that.”

Gina thought about what Dennis said for a moment—about her being a beautiful girl and having killer legs. Part of her did believe she was beautiful, but part of her also believed she just plain wasn’t. Tonight, the “wasn’t” part of her was winning out.

I only wish you were right, Gina thought to herself, looking at Dennis. God, how I wish you were right.

Afflicted

“G
od, would you hurry up, I’m starving,” Cheryl said to Peter as he finished putting his shoes on. Cooper was out of town on business and Cheryl hadn’t seen Peter in a couple of weeks. She didn’t have anything else to do, so she called Peter to see if he wanted to grab dinner with her.

“You know, Gina would absolutely kill me if she knew I was going out tonight.”

“What’s the big deal?”

“I was supposed to go with her to her reunion tonight, but I just felt sick this morning. I was really feeling bad when I called her to cancel.”

“So now you’re feeling better, and you’re going to grab a bite to eat. Besides, who’s going to tell her?” Cheryl said as they walked out of the apartment.

Cheryl needed to swing by her office in Falls Church, so they headed out to Virginia and planned on grabbing a quick dinner there. After Cheryl retrieved the file she needed, they drove around Falls Church, trying to find somewhere to eat.

“There’s a Ruby Tuesday’s. They have a good salad bar,” Cheryl said.

“Salad bar? Cheryl, you know I don’t like salad bars. All those people and their germs, cavorting over communal food dishes. I don’t think so. I’m still having flashbacks to that awful buffet we went to with Shirley last month.”

“How about that place?” Cheryl said, pointing toward a small, nondescript restaurant in a little strip mall along the highway. “Look, the sign says they’ve been in business for thirty years. It must be good.”

“All right, we can give it a shot.”

They pulled into the parking lot, hopped out of the car, and headed toward the restaurant. When they were through the doorway, a heavyset woman gave them a curious look.

“May I help you?” she asked the couple as if they were lost or in the wrong place.

“Hi. Two for nonsmoking please.”

The woman raised her eyebrows, grabbed a couple of menus, and gestured for Peter and Cheryl to follow her.

As they strode past the tables, Cheryl couldn’t help but feel that people, all of whom were white, were staring at her. Her radar was beeping, signaling that she was in unfriendly territory. As a black woman, she developed a sort of sixth sense about when she was in racist company. Sometimes it was off, but usually it was pretty accurate.

The hostess sat them at a small table in the back, laid the menus in front of them, and left without saying a word.

“For heaven’s sake,” Peter said to Cheryl as they took their seats.

“What?” Cheryl asked.

Peter pointed his eyes toward the wall behind Cheryl. She turned around to see a gigantic confederate flag virtually covering the entire wall.

“Let’s go, Cheryl. I doubt we’re welcome here,” Peter said, getting up to leave.

“Sit your ass down. We’re not going anywhere. That’s exactly what they want us to do.”

“I didn’t know places like this still existed, at least not around here.”

“Naive little white boy,” Cheryl said, opening her menu.

“Everyone is looking at us, Cheryl. Are you sure you want to stay?”

“Just ignore them, Peter, ya big baby. It’s a free country. We can eat wherever we want,” Cheryl replied, trying to put up a brave front. She was actually quite nervous herself. She looked at the wall next to them and viewed the plethora of framed photographs. Apparently, they were taken at special events at the restaurant and were mostly of customers—not a single person of color in the bunch. A mature waitress came and took their drink order and was actually quite friendly. As the couple continued to review the menu, a large man with a heavy beard and tight flannel shirt strode past their table on the way to the rest room. As he walked by, he mumbled under his breath, “Someone’s here who’s not supposed to be.”

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” Cheryl said loudly, although she heard him clearly the first time.

“Cheryl, what are you doing?” Peter asked.

“The gentleman said something as he walked by. I just wanted to be sure I heard him correctly.”

“I said,” the bearded man continued, turning around, “that someone is here who’s not supposed to be.”

“And who might that be?” Cheryl asked while Peter gave her a look that pleaded for her to just let the whole thing go.

“Look, lady, it’s nothing personal, but is it really too much to ask to have one place—one damn place, where we can be with our own kind?”

“If you want to be with your own kind, wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a zoo?”

“Miss, I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave,” the hostess said sharply to Cheryl before the man could reply.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Now, get on out of here before it gets ugly. You have no business here in the first place.”

“Come on, Cheryl. Let’s go,” Peter said as the whole restaurant watched. Peter tugged on Cheryl’s arm, coercing her to follow him. Steaming, Cheryl started to walk out with Peter.

As they passed the last few tables, the man called to Peter. “Yeah, take your colored girlfriend out of here. Dating a colored girl—you must be
afflicted
or something.”

Peter probably would have ignored him and kept walking if it weren’t for the racist man’s fatal choice of words. Every other word the man had spoken became a blur, and the word “afflicted” stung Peter’s ears. All of a sudden he was thirteen again, and Gus was making bogus wheezing noises and laughing at him.

From what seemed like out of nowhere, Peter swung around and lunged straight for the bearded man. Something inside Peter had just snapped, and he rammed into the stout man, throwing him against the wall. Peter had caught him totally off guard, and the bigot was pinned against the wall as Peter repeatedly wailed on him. Peter hit him in the face, in the chest, the shoulder—anywhere his spiraling arms could make contact.

“Get him off of me,” the man shouted to the crowd. “Get him off of me!”

He tried to push Peter off and get in a few punches of his own, but it was pointless. Peter was in his own world and struck the man with such force and speed that his opponent didn’t stand a chance. When two of the customers were able to pull Peter off the bloody and swollen man, Peter finally regained his senses and realized what he had done. The two men pulled him by both arms through the restaurant and out the door with Cheryl following. They dropped him outside without a word.

“Come on,” Cheryl said. “Let’s go before they call the police.”

As they got into the vehicle, Cheryl asked with a comforting smile, “What the hell happened, Peter?”

“I don’t know. He just pissed me off, I guess,” Peter said, still a little dazed.

“When you started hitting him, my first instinct was to yell ‘Stop,’ ” Cheryl said. “But then I realized you were kicking his ass, so I just enjoyed it. It was such a spectacle, Peter. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it myself.”

“I did kick his ass, didn’t I?” Peter said, feeling his eyes start to water. He felt like a huge chip had been lifted off his shoulder. He felt lighter, freer—he felt proud of himself. Sitting in the car with Cheryl at the wheel, he smiled, and he laughed, but mostly he wept. He wept like a baby and didn’t even care that Cheryl saw him.