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"Only when we are no longer afraid do we begin to live." ~ Dorothy Thompson
Jean flashed a confident grin to
the full-length mirror in her room and fixed the collar of her maroon blouse
while music from La Roux played on her computer. She brushed away the stray
hairs in front of her face to follow the path of her bangs that she parted to
the left. Her brown eyes lit up with the application of black liquid eyeliner
and a light kiss of golden eye shadow. She finished her look with a creamy nude
lipstick and smoothed out her black slacks. Despite having to cover an
assignment on a Sunday night, an upbeat rhythm guided her steps.
Trinity had invited her to dinner
over the phone. Dinner! She expected a simple lunch at a café somewhere, not a
full-blown meal at a Pakistani restaurant in Brighton Wednesday night. Was this
a date? Wait, what? No way. Of course not. Jean laughed at her reflection. We’re just two acquaintances about to know
each better so we can become friends, yes? She wanted friendship; maybe
even a new roommate so she could live someplace more decent, but it was wishful
thinking to believe Trinity needed a roommate too. And would she be comfortable
sharing an apartment with a gay woman?
She bit her inner check, ashamed by
the thought. It shouldn’t matter of course, so why did the awful question pop
up in her mind? Culture and upbringing,
she answered even if it was a poor excuse. Her eyes jumped to her loose, silver
watch bracelet. Time to go! She picked up three silver rings from her makeshift
jewelry box and put two on her right thumb and one on her forefinger. Jean
grabbed her midnight blue pea coat in lieu of her favorite leather jacket. She
slipped on her business flats, grabbed her bag from the hook, and bolted for
the subway. Calculating the commute time in her head, she frustratingly
accepted that she might arrive fifteen minutes late to the benefit. Why did
time hate her so much?
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| via flicker.com/briburt |
Jean reached the entrance of the banquet hall twenty minutes
after seven. In the lobby, she approached a young woman who sat behind a table
covered with flyers, the ceremony’s programs, and a myriad of inserts full of
information about domestic violence, prevention, and support services. The
plastic nametag dangling from her neck read Amanda
typed in big block letters.
“Hi Amanda,
I’m Jean Noble,” she said and extended her hand. “I’m here on behalf of Utopia
Magazine. I’m actually covering for Claire Reyes…”
“Let’s see,
I do remember seeing her name,” Amanda said as she looked through a box with
plastic nametags. “I wondered whether she was coming at all. Here we are!” The
young woman smiled and gave Jean the tag intended for Claire.
“Um, do you
have a sharpie I can use to write my name in?”
Amanda
shook her head. “I’m sorry. We prepare all of these before hand.”
Obviously. Jean took out the piece of
paper with Claire’s name and turned it over. She used her own pen to write in
her name as dark as possible. Unfortunately she started out in cursive and
ended in print. She sighed and wrote Utopia Magazine underneath. It was far
from professional but it would have to do. She inserted the paper back into its
plastic pocket.
“What a
shame. Your tag won’t have our logo on it,” Amanda piped.
“Yes, darn
shame.” Jean prepared to enter the hall, but the young woman stopped her.
“Oh wait.
Wouldn’t you like to donate to the domestic violence shelters in the greater
Boston area? We would appreciate it very much.”
Jean
swallowed the negative answer that swelled in her throat. The month ended in
two days and she needed whatever little she had to purchase a bus pass for the
next month.
“Uh, sure!”
She reached into her bag and scrounged for her pocketbook. Inside sat a lonely,
but hefty twenty-dollar bill. She had her ATM, but doubted a debit card would
work here. And her checkbook was forgotten and tucked between books back at her
apartment. She stared at the bill and all the magical powers it held: a
seven-day subway pass; four lunch meals; more purchases of apples; paying her
dinner at the Pakistani restaurant on Wednesday...
“Is
everything okay?” Amanda asked.
Jean raised
an eyebrow at the impatience. “Why would anything not be okay? Here you are.” She bit her tongue to stop any acid
from leaking out and put the twenty on the table. This donation would serve as her
church offering for the week.
“Thank you
very much. We appreciate your donation.”
“Yes,
you’re welcome.” She grabbed a program and several other reading materials and entered
the banquet hall, notepad and pen already at hand. Luckily, the introduction of
the night’s keynote speaker had not ended. She found a seat in a table at the
back and listened intently as she put together a story from the night.
Many in-depth interviews and friendly chats later, Jean
retired to a chair as people slowly filed out of the hall. Overall, it was a
successful night and she met several high impact people and friendly college
and grad students who in were attendance as well. She gave away all her
business cards that had taken shelter in her bag. Surely one of them needed a
roommate, right? She half-smiled at her desperation. Anyway, their bright faces
and passion brought back nostalgia of her media study days at NYU. The
combination of living in Harlem and commuting downtown for school gave her two
years of experiences she would forever cherish.
A beautiful woman arguing with a man
at the corner of an emergency exit intruded her act of remembering. Jean piqued
her ears even though she knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, but as a writer, she
was always on the hunt for new material.
“You’re
sick, you know that. You waited until now to tell me this? Why now? Tell me,”
the woman said. She wore a form fitting, sea green sleeveless dress that
stopped several inches below her knees and were accompanied by black pumps. Light
brown, curly hair spilled below her shoulders. The blues eyes set against her smooth brown skin intrigued Jean. Were those contacts lenses or
authentic?
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| via weheartit.com |
“It just
had to happen now. I’m sorry, Charity,” said a gorgeous dark skinned man in an expensive
black suit. “I really am, but tonight I finally
reached my limit.”
Wow, these two look like a power couple,
Jean thought. She almost wished she could snap a picture of them. Too bad it
appeared that they were breaking up.
“Get out of
my face. Now, before I…” Charity pushed both palms against the air. “Go. We’ll
talk about this later.”
“There
won’t be a later. This is it,” the man said.
“Say what
you want, but it’s not over until I say it’s over. Now, please, just get out of
my face.”
The man
shook his head and walked away in resignation.
Charity
pressed her fingers underneath her eyes and breathed deeply. She turned her
eyes at Jean.
Jean almost
fell off her chair from the sheer anger and hate sent toward her direction.
This woman’s aura was powerful! She marched toward Jean.
“I saw you
staring. Do you usually do that? Sit and listen to people’s conversations while
watching them like some damn movie? Did you find that entertaining?” Her blue
eyes widened after each question.
Jean searched for the faint lines
of contact lenses. They were none she could see. Those really were her eyes.
Interesting.
“I’m Jean.”
She offered her hand, but the woman did not accept it, so she retrieved her
hanging fingers. “I’m sorry about listening in on your private conversation.
That was rude. But let me make it up to you. Want to talk about what just
happened?”
Charity
crossed her arms across her chest and scoffed. “You have got to be kidding me? Who
the hell do you think you are?”
“Just a
concerned stranger who wants to help.”
“You can
help by minding your own business next time. Some people.” She shook her head
and turned for the opposite direction.
“Charity.”
“I didn’t
give you my name, so do not use it,”
she said, spitting ice cubes.
“I’m sorry.
Look, why don’t I give you…” Jean remembered that she had no more business
cards as she looked through her bag. Damn. Well, this was painfully awkward.
What should she say next? Reason said to let Charity be on her way, but
instinct didn’t want to let go. “Listen,
I’m very sorry. I had a really long night and was just resting before taking
the commute back home. You two were talking and looked so gorgeous together
that I stared like some five-year old without manners. I truly apologize and
meant no harm.”
Charity
finally relaxed her tense shoulders and sighed. “Apology accepted. We were
pretty loud so I don’t blame you too much,” she said. “I’ve been having a
pretty rough week myself so I’m sorry if I came off as too abrasive.” She held
out her hand and Jean accepted it with her signature, soul-snatching smile.
“No, not at
all. Anyway, without coming off as very strange, do you mind if I have your
contact info? I’ve run out of business cards to offer.”
“Here, you
can have one of mine.” Charity took the green feathery clutch from underneath
her right arm and opened it to unearth a card, which she offered.
Jean
glanced at the card in her hand and learned that Charity was a resident
physician in the field of child psychiatry. Pretty amazing.
“I treat
childhood trauma and maltreatment,” she said. “Thus why I’m here. Well, Jean,
although we didn’t meet under the best circumstances, I hope you have a good
night. I really should be going now.”
“Of course.
Thanks. Have a good night, too!”
Charity
nodded and walked away.
Jean
realized she and the janitor were the only two people left in the hall.
“Good
night,” she told him with a wave.
He smiled
and waved too. “Good night.”
To be continued….
Adolescence 2.0 © 2012 C.S. Severe
All Rights Reserved
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