Love's Learning Curve (2 page)

I lean up, looking down the list while he begins to explain.  “You’ll be getting offers from these schools, Ty.  That’s a good list, son.  You need to think long and hard about what’s right for you.  I know you don’t have a lot of support at home to help you think through your options, so I want you to know I’m here.”  I look up from the paper to meet his eyes and see that his gaze is serious.  He stands behind the desk, reaching over to the paper in my hand, and flicks it with his middle finger.  “This is great, but I knew this would come.  The reason I’m here is because of this.” His finger goes to my shoulder poking me.

It’s no secret I don’t do emotional stuff.  I don’t do feelings and heart-to-heart chats, and Coach doesn’t either—usually.  It’s why we get along so well.  This is out of the ordinary and makes me really fucking uncomfortable, but he already knows that.

“Boy, here’s what I’m saying.  You’re going to have some big opportunities.  You’re going to need some support.  You’re going to have to do interviews with the team staff at these schools.  They’re going to want home visits and detailed information on your history, things that most kids we know have parents to help with.  You don’t have that shit, and I want to fix it.  I want you to have the best chance possible.”

I shake my head, not believing what I’m hearing and not understanding if I actually know what he’s saying.  “Coach, what are you talking about?  Just tell me what I need to do to make this happen.  I want to go to college.  I want to play ball.  I’ll do what I have to in order to make that happen, even without a mom or dad.  I’ve done it this long.  I can do it a while longer,” I tell him with confidence.  I’m not afraid to make a decision. This has been my dream for a long time, and I know I’ll make a good one.

Not having a mom or dad who gave a shit about their four-year-old son was a curse that’s followed me through every day of my life, but I survived it just like I survived the four years of lack of care and concern before CPS stepped in.  I wouldn’t even consider asking my foster parents for direction or support in making this decision.  I’ll make it on my own just like most things.

“I got this, Coach.  I’m smart.  You’ve said it yourself.  I’ll come to you to talk this through if that makes you feel better.”  Attempting to convince him that I’m capable.

“Ty—son, I know you got this, and I know you’re smart for reasons you shouldn’t have to be.  I’d never doubt that.  I’m talking to you about the process that you’ll have to be ready for to make this”—he takes the paper out of my hand and waves it in front of me—“happen.  It’s not a done deal.  You’ll have to jump through hoops, and boy, you can do a lot, but you can’t do that alone.  So we’re here to make a plan.”

I nod realizing I don’t know anything about this process.  I only know the big picture that ends with me accepted into a school and welcomed on a team.  I do need him.  I sit back in the seat once again and give him my full attention as he continues to talk.

“You can stay in your foster home.  I don’t want to make any waves by legally changing your guardianship, but I’ve contacted your social worker since you’re a guardian of the state.  Ty, even though you’ve been taking care of yourself for a long time and doing a damn good job of it, they’ve agreed to allow me to be a sponsor and speak on your behalf as it pertains to college choices and scholarships for baseball.  The next steps are going to be a little crazy—making you feel like a clown jumping through flaming hoops— but it’ll be worth it in the end.  I just need you to stick with me through this.  You hear?”

With a smile, I nod.  I knew he was a good man, and even though he’s told me more times than I can count over the years to come to him if I’ve needed him, I’ve never abused that offer.  But I did allow him with his sneaky ways to weave me gently into his personal life outside of school while pretending not to notice.  I noticed right away, but I liked it.  “Yeah, Coach, I hear ya.  Tell me what you want from me, and I’ll do it.  You don’t need to ask twice.  Just give me my orders.”

He moves around the desk leaning back onto the edge of it in front of the chair I’m sitting.  His grin shows he’s relieved before his serious tone sets in.

“I know you aren’t going to throw this away, but your last year of high school matters.  I need your head in the game.  I don’t want you distracted by outside influences.  Focus, Ty.  You’ll need to keep up your game.  Don’t screw up by goofing off and getting injured.  No new friends who don’t have your best interests in mind, and I know I don’t need to remind you what a criminal history will do.  Don’t even FUCKING think about doing any stupid shit like that!  I know you don’t take many careless risks, but don’t decide to try now.  Any extracurricular choices you get a wild hair to make, ask yourself if the coaches of these teams would approve if they saw it on your resume.”  With all seriousness, I just nod.  He’s on a roll. 

“Ty, every girl in this town has eyes for you.  You know it and so do I.  I don’t know how you seem to swing having different dates every week without ever having a steady girl.  You’d think they’d get sick of being strung along, but I’m telling you right now, cut that shit out.  You don’t have time for it anymore, and more importantly, you can’t afford to get one of these girls pregnant and tie yourself here.  This is bigger than someone to keep you cozy for a little while.  That sort of thing will only cause you to lose focus.  Stay away.  Keep your head on the field.”

He waves the paper in front of me again.  Hell, I didn’t realize how closely Coach had paid attention to my time off, but apparently, he has.  I like girls, I admit, but I don’t have plans to commit to anyone.  I didn’t before this talk, and I really don’t now.  I don’t need the distractions of love.  Love isn’t permanent, anyway.  People fall in and out of love so easily, but not me.  I close myself off from that torture because not only is focusing on my game a priority I know no one will ever come before, but also because I have no desire to allow someone in that closely.  They could destroy me from the inside out.  No FUCKING way.

“Charlotte, smile. Sit up straight and try to look like you’re happy to be here with your family.  People are watching,” my mother sneers in a hushed tone while taunting me with a well-practiced smile plastered across her face.  This conversation appears to others as pleasant.  However, it’s anything but.

I sit up, pushing my shoulders back, and give it my all to smile through the torment of having to fake the appearance of our perfect little American family.  I know better than to challenge my mother’s almost constant critiques.  Doing as I’m told for the next two hours is a far more effective use of my time than engaging her and enduring the several hours of lecture on the importance of my role in this campaign.

I look up at the antique wall clock hanging in the ballroom of the Plantation Golf Club willing the time to pass more quickly.  The second hand moves ever so slowly around the face, and without the ability to lose myself in the distraction of my iPhone under the watchful eye of my mother, I’m dying.

I sit up smiling pleasantly to those walking by.  In the distance, I see my best friend, Morgan, laughing and socializing by her parents’ side.  I watch as she laughs at the perfect times in conversation and shines her endearing smile as others remind her parents how fortunate they are to have such a lovely daughter.  She is far better at this routine than I am.  I’m not sure how she does it, but I wish it came as easily to me.  You’d think since she was my best friend, it may have rubbed off on me a little.  Wrong.  She’s still my best friend, though.  She’s my only real confidant and the one person who knows the ins and outs of my whole life.  Without her, no one would really know me both inside and outside of this family showcase that equates to my personal hell.

My mother's voice impedes my thoughts as if she’s reading my mind.  “You know, you could take a lesson from Morgan there.  Look at her.  I wonder where her mother got that beautiful dress?  She looks marvelous in plum.  It complements her features so well.”  I look at my mother giving her my full attention as she takes advantage of the couple of hours I’m forced to be here to chastise me instead of using this quality time to grace me with her love and affection.  I hide the need to laugh at the idea that my mother could or would spend any time with me doing anything other than criticize, but I nod anyway hoping that will suffice until something else distracts her.  However, she continues before I have a chance to feel a reprieve.  “I’m going to call Libby at the boutique next week and have her work on your wardrobe for the campaign trail.  You’ll need to look a little more pleasant and be in something other than the all black you currently wear, given your lack of personality.  The least we can do is have you look happy and vibrant.”

The pang of her comment hits the core of every self-esteem issue I’ve ever had, but it’s truly all old news.  I’ve heard this all before, time and time again, so it doesn’t take much effort to sweep it under the rug into the graveyard of other insults from over the years.

She’s a complicated woman.  Having a backbone and defending myself is not a character trait that she’d accept, and definitely not one she’d use to define a proper young woman.  So, like always, I stay quiet and wait for the moment to pass, as it hopefully soon will.

My mother, Sandra Jacqueline Baker, is the modern-day political equivalent to a gold digger.  She knows exactly how to behave and what to say to impress my father’s political supporters, which results in men and women opening their wallets to throw money at the campaign.  She plays this game well.  She’s my father’s most valuable tool during this process, and thus, I am hers.  I am here for appearances, to be the proverbial perfect daughter of the future president, the daughter who says and does all the right things, yet I fail her no matter how hard I try.

The membership catalog for this golf club remains one of the most elite in the country.  Tonight’s dinner in my father’s honor will be one of the most lucrative fundraising events for his just-announced presidential campaign.  Money is pledged here discreetly with secret promises of favors when my father’s election is successful and he finally takes office.  The hidden contingencies behind each of these donations leave me with a sickening feeling.

The room filled with beautiful women on the arms of very influential men would likely impress most people, but I’m not one of them.  Growing up in this world, I quickly learned these events are more of an ego shakedown hidden among the façade of perfection than anything else.  The well-dressed men in hand-tailored suits and women wearing the latest fashions from couture designers appear as though they’ve stepped off the pages of a society magazine.  They live for these events and relish the opportunity to be put on display and for others to feel less than they are.  It’s no more than a
Keeping up with the Jones’
reality pageant.

“Hello, Laura, it’s so lovely to see you again,” my mother coos then stands to lightly embrace the woman approaching our perch.  Laura Odom is a regular attendee in settings such as these.  She’s a divorcee, and her ex-husband is an oil tycoon from Texas.  Their split was as amicable as could be since he heavily padded her bank account as a parting gift.

I smile at my mother’s side while she compliments Laura on everything the eye can see.  My face is aching from the rehearsed, constant smile I’ve been wearing for hours that takes more effort than I care to admit.  “Good afternoon, Ms. Odom.  It’s so nice to see you again,” I lie.

She carefully assesses my appearance and gives her lackluster acceptance by nodding and greeting me with a simple, “Hello, Charlotte.  Nice to see you as well,” before returning her attention to my mother.

“Sandra, my son, Davis, whom you met when he attended the dinner with me a few weeks ago, is graduating from Brown University next spring and will be moving back to the South.  Maybe we should introduce Charlotte and Davis to one another?” she inquires, reaching for my mother’s approval of the arranged setup.  My stomach tightens at the thought, and I struggle to maintain the appearance of fake happiness.  Another staged setup is the last thing I need.