Chapter 10: Chapter 10
Thanksgiving finally rolls in at our house, the fog is lifting with every passing minute. Soon, I will finally be able to visualize this Scott guy. It is hard for me to make myself believe that I’m going to learn to skate with another person. The sheer prospect of meeting a stranger that I have to learn to trust throwing me into the air and lifting me over his head with one arm might I add while skating on a hard surface is completely daunting.
I’m in no rush to get out of bed because once my mother hears my footsteps from downstairs, she’ll force me to clean before our dinner guests arrive.
My phone is flashing blue on the charger telling me there is an activity I haven’t seen yet. I press the menu button and two emails; three texts and four upgrades are waiting to be approved. To me, there is nothing more annoying than having to download upgrades on applications I never use. It’s the provider's way of ensuring phone upgrades every two years, a conspiracy at best.
I ignore the upgrades knowing it will slow down my phone making it take longer to get through my texts and emails and chose to look at my emails first.
Email (1):
To: Isabella Moyes
From: The Lagos scatting club CC: Mr.& Mrs. Moyes
Thank you for joining the Lagos skating club! Attached is your new schedule for the fall and winter ice skating sessions. We hope you enjoy your membership!
Email (2):
To: Isabella Moyes from Mr. Tammy
CC: Mr.& Mrs. Moyes,
I would like to extend my warmest welcome to you as your new coach, Mr. Tammy. You can call me Mr. Tammy.
Should you have any concerns or need to discuss training sessions, please feel free to call the Lagos skating club’s main number and ask for the skating office. I look forward to working with you hard.
Yours truly, Mr. Tammy.
My nerves increase, with every word in both emails. Holy shit this is becoming real! What did I get myself get into? I can’t skate as a pair! I’m going to smash into a thousand tiny pieces all over the ice! I’ve always enjoyed watching pairs on television and at competitions, but I never wanted to BE one. I attempt to shake off my increasing apprehension and the butterflies that are making their way up my esophagus ad- nausea by focusing on my new texts.
MICHAEL: Can you sneak out next Saturday?
ISABELLA: Sure. I’ll tell my parents I’m with Anna.
MICHAEL: I’ll pick you at 12 where I always drop you off. ISABELLA: Sounds like a plan! What R are we doing?
MICHAEL: It’s a surprise.
ISABELLA: Love surprises! Tell me, please!
MICHAEL: you have to wait. BYE. Second text:
ANNA: O.M.G. I can’t believe you meet Your new partner today! Are you nervous? You're going to tell me everything right?
ISABELLA: I can’t believe it either! Of course, I’m nervous, but I’m not NERVOUS. I will tell you everything the 2nd they leave.
ANNA:
ISABELLA: I don’t care whether Scott likes me or not. I already hate having to hear about him ALL the time & having to skate at HIS rink with HIS coach. It’s hardly fair if you ask me. I’m > nervous about the idea of me hating pairs or having to quit skating because it’s not working out more than about meeting him.
ANNA: Those R legitimate concerns. Are you coming over for Thanksgiving dinner at my house Monday since Yours is Sun?
ISABELLA: No, I made pluck with Michael next Saturday.
ANNA:
ISABELLA: Plans (stupid autocorrect) Can I use you as an excuse? He has something plucked.
ISABELLA: Planned
ANNA: Shut off Your auto-correct & try dictating in2 your phone!
ISABELLA: Sure, is this better?
ISABELLA: For the love of God, bee!
ANNA: I know what you mean. Stick with figure skating.
ISABELLA: BYE
ANNA: BYE Third Text:
07062875523: you can always have me if you get sick of him!
ISABELLA: Who is this? 07062875523: Johnson.
ISABELLA: Does he Know your texting me? Johnson: Nope, stole YOUR # from Michael’s phone. ISABELLA: & you are texting me Because?
Johnson: (mope face icon :-()), Anna’s not responding to my texts. Is she mad at me?
ISABELLA: Nope we’ve been texting each other, she’ll respond, just give her a minute.
I went back to ANNA:
ISABELLA: Are you There?
ANNA: Yup, what-sup?
ISABELLA: Johnson’s been trying to text U.
ANNA: Why is he texting U?
ISABELLA: He stole my # off Michael’s phone. He wants to know why you are not texting back.
ANNA: I don’t want him to think I’m easy, you know, the thrill of the chase. Let him stew. Tell him I’m out.
ISABELLA: I can’t, I just told him we’ve been texting each other.
ANNA: Ok, just tell him you didn’t get thru to me. I must have turned my phone off.
ISABELLA: Ok, BYE.
ANNA: Bye
I went back to Johnson
ISABELLA: She’s not answering me either, sorry.
Johnson: No problem, ‘later babe.’
~~~
I don’t go to the door when the bell rings. The last thing I want is to appear anxious. I hair-spray my curly brown locks for the fourth or fifth time until I’m sure every strand won’t budge. Anna is always teasing me about my spray usage. If she ever finds out my hairdo attracts bees in the summer, she’ll never let me hear the end of it. I tone it down whenever she’s around.
My carefully selected outfit is a red Ankara with a black form-fitting jacket over top. I can’t even wear underwear with these pants because the tear under my ass is so high you will see them. The only thing I can wear with my favorite Ankara is a thong and I hate wearing them, it’s a wedge issue.
I spend the most time perfecting my face. I create a soft Smokey look in my eyes. My lips are colored a stunning shade of red with a frosty pink color in the center giving the illusion of a pout. I lightly gloss them to complete the art piece.
Idiotically, thinking Michael will like seeing me done up, I take a selfie and send it to him before turning my phone off and joining the others. I don’t have the foresight to think it will cause jealousy, countless calls from Michael wondering why I’m so dressed up just to meet a skating partner.
I deliberately focus on the stairs rather than the front door. Their stares are cast directly on me, it’s palpable. I nod a polite greeting to whom I assumed was Mrs. Brandon offering her my hand, “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Brandon.” She is my height and a very beautiful looking lady with short brown hair and hazel eyes.
“The pleasure is mine,” she reciprocates.
I am morbidly curious, dying to know what Scott looks like. I hide it in my slow gestures, turning my head down and towards him, letting my eyes drift, up, up, really fucking high up. Usually, height isn’t the first thing I notice or care about, but when I’m supposed to be lifted overtop his head while he’s figure skating, it’s damn important. The guy is too fucking tall! He has to be a good four inches taller than Michael. If I have to guess, 6’3! Skates add two more inches, all the higher to fall from. So now I’m picturing myself being held up by one hand six and a half feet above the ice while the guy who walks on water skates across the rink. Yes, that isn’t happening.
Another obstacle involuntarily makes my eyes linger, his shoulders. Some crazy person must have shoved boulders under his skin because there is no way those are his actual muscles! I catch myself staring at his deltoids, and trapezius wanting to let my eyes coast back downwards hoping to catch a glimpse of his pectorals, and oh my God how I would love to see his gluteus Maximus. I inhale slowly forcing my eyes back on their journey upwards. I abhor my behavior, knowing I’m treating him like the piece of meat that he is, grilled to perfection, and smoking hot.
My eyes behold his, frozen in the locked position, the most intense melted dark chocolate eyes I’ve ever seen. They match his wispy longish brown hair perfectly. This is the guy whom I hate? Now I have to rethink it!
Michael, Michael I chant in my head. I have to remember Michael. Scott’s looks alone are the last thing I expect, but I’m sure he has to be cocky, selfish, arrogant, or something. Talking myself down isn’t working.
I amaze myself at how shallow I’m being. I’m stunned stupid at the sight of him. I shake it off and hold out my hand to greet him, “Hi I’m Isabella, nice to meet you.” He scoops my hand gently into his, never for a second breaking eye contact with me. Unmistakable chemistry is filling the air. My parents and Mrs. Brandon smiled knowingly at each other, so far, so good.
Mom has the table decorated elegantly. She has her best China out and the centerpiece is the golden-brown turkey, cooked to perfection.
“This is lovely,” Mrs. Brandon compliments.
“Thank you,” my mother answers shyly. She’s acting really weird. I notice how hard she’s trying to create a good first impression. Mom NEVER USES her fine china. It is a dead giveaway.
Scott and his mother sit on one side of the table and I sit facing him.
My parents sit at opposite ends.
We quietly and politely pass the dishes around until everyone has a little bit of everything on their plates before discussions begin.
Mrs. Brandon addresses me first, “So dear, I hear from your mother that you had a bad fall a few weeks back?”
“Yes, I did, but I’m better now.” “I’m so glad to hear it.”
“Are you dating anyone in school, dear?”
“No, she’s not,” dad answers firmly. I know why it matters to my parents but why does it matter to Scott’s mom? Why don’t my parents ask if HE was dating anyone or is there an unspoken double standard I’m unaware of?
Scott doesn’t contribute to the conversation. He is apparently the strong, silent, observant type. The rest of the conversation is between our parents. I become an observant type too.
I learned that Scott’s mother divorced her husband when he continued to complain about her obsession with Scott’s skating. Scott’s been coached by Mr. Tammy for seven years, and I’m his second partner. The first one quit because she wasn’t able to handle the pressure of the competitions. She would fall apart during their performances causing Scott to lose medal contention.
By the time we get to dessert (mom gives me the evil eye when I reach for one) and aperitif’s, it’s nearing eleven. I manage to be excused shortly thereafter practically running up the stairs to start texting Anna.
When I look at my phone for the first time in four hours there are messages from Michael waiting for me, but I’m too excited to talk to Anna to bother checking them. They can wait until later when I can savor every word he wrote me:
ISABELLA: I met him!
ANNA: What did you wear?
ISABELLA: My holy jeans & camisole with the black jacket my mother gave me.
ANNA: Face and makeup?
ISABELLA: Picture, perfect!
ANNA: What did he look like?
ISABELLA: A Greek god’s body with intense dark chocolate brown eyes & wispy brown hair. He’s the > beautiful guy I’ve ever seen.
ANNA: Fuck off!
ISABELLA: Serious!
ANNA: Do you like him? ISABELLA: No, I hate him. ANNA: Why?
ISABELLA: His club, his coach, double standard.
ANNA:
ISABELLA: The first question from Mrs. Brandon after asking about my injury was, ‘are you dating anyone Honey?’
ANNA: Seriously?
ISABELLA: Yes, & do you think my parents asked him if he is dating any1? NO.
ANNA: What did you say?
ISABELLA: What do you think I said? No, I don’t have time to date!
ANNA: So, are you going to break up with Michael?
ISABELLA: Why the hell should I? As far as I know, Scott might Be dating someone & nobody seems to mind. Why shouldn’t I be afforded the same courtesy?
ANNA: Amen to that sister, if your parents ask what we did tomorrow, what should I say?
ISABELLA: Just say we hung out at Lara’s.
ANNA: What are you & Michael doing?
ISABELLA: I don’t know, he wants to surprise me.
ANNA: Well, don’t get caught!