* * * * * *
The canine clearly had other plans.
Abandoning the sidewalk, the dog took off, barking excitedly after a squirrel, one furry, gray body in hot pursuit of a slightly smaller one.
“Max, NO!” she commanded.
Emily held tight to the leash as her pet darted to the right between two short knock-out rose bushes, jerking her forward with his enthusiasm for the prey.
She tried to jump the gap between the shrubs while pressing the retraction button on the leash. Multitasking while running wasn’t her forte. The toe of her sneaker snagged the bush and the lace of the bow caught the tip of a newly pruned branch, stopping her forward momentum quite comically. She did the same to her dog.
As the canine barked after the now escaping squirrel, Emily did a face plant in the neighbor’s front yard, landing with a mighty, “Ummph!”
Sprawled on the lawn, temporarily stunned, she emitted a muffled cry with her sweaty face still embedded in the turf. “Oh crawp!” she sputtered, spitting out blades of grass.
Slowly she got up on all fours or tried to, the laces of one sneaker were still held secure by the branch. Mortified. Emily realized that she probably looked like a human imitation of a rather pale praying mantis. Shaking her foot several times while maintaining this awkward yet absurdly humorous position finally freed the shoe. Pulling her leg forward, she turned over and dropped back to the ground.
Her antics carefully scrutinized by her pet.
“Bad Dog!,” she spoke sharply, still aggravated by having been abruptly snagged by the shrub in the most undignified manner.
The gray terrier, thoroughly unabashed, looked at her face with interest apparently deciding it was too dirty and promptly began cleaning it with his tongue.
“Uh, alright, alright… enough already with the licking,” she groaned, less mad, sitting upright, pushing her canine washcloth away.
Emily lifted the hem of her shirt and began wiping her cheek. Between the dirt, grass and Max’s efforts, there was a big smudge on the fabric when she finished. Finding another relatively clean corner, she rubbed it over her forehead and the bridge of her nose.
“That’s really…filthy,” she observed looking at the newly stained fabric.
There were sudden signs of life from the house.
Humiliation complete, Emily thought, a wave of warmth creeping over her face. Not only had she tumbled from a public sidewalk on to the lawn, apparently the owner witnessed the entire incident. Had Emily any doubts about her conjecture, the next words were more than enough to shatter them.
“Are you okay?” the voice behind her queried. As the kindly neighbor came rushing out to help her.
Emily sat up straighter, as if the change in posture alone would be an assurance that she was unhurt. Secretly hoping that most of the dirt was off of her face. Smoothing down the front of her shirt, as though tidiness made the situation less uncomfortable. She heard a giggle followed abruptly by a snort, as if someone was trying to control their laughter. Shifting her head, she glanced over her shoulder.
She could tell that the giggles had come from the neighbor. The woman had a huge grin on her face.
A couple of decades older and much taller than Emily -- the woman had fair hair, dark roots and warm brown eyes. Bringing a hand up to her mouth, she lightly bit down on the tip of her thumb which seemed to halt any more giggling-- at least temporarily.
“I’m sorry,” the woman snickered. Talking required that the thumb be removed and that was her undoing. She cackled for several seconds before regaining her composure. “Oh, please forgive me…” she grinned, “I can’t help it. You were quite a sight…hung up on the rose bush.” She chuckled again, hastily closing her mouth to suppress it.
“I suppose I was,” Emily conceded ungraciously. She pushed herself off the ground with both hands, making sure there were no obstructions in front of her to trip over. No this is not cringeworthy at all, she thought sarcastically.
Standing, Emily bent to brush the grass and dirt from her nylon running shorts. Normally light blue with pink stripes. Now with brown and green patches that Max had seen fit to redecorate her with.
“Ah, don’t be embarrassed, our dog dug up the neighbor’s tomato plants last week…now having to go over and deal with that…” the woman looked off in the opposite direction for a moment, shook her head ruefully, “That… that was a shameful experience. That’s why he’s locked up in the house now.”
Her smile was irresistible, despite her discomfort Emily couldn’t help smiling back.
“Max has a problem with squirrels.”
“I think that’s universal with all dogs, dear.” Her smile didn’t waver. “You sure you’re not hurt?”
“Just my pride and maybe my shoe lace,” Emily admitted briefly glancing down at her sneaker before looking back up, still a bit mortified about appearing so stupid.
Saying goodbye to her neighbor she tugged on Max leash.
At least it was getting dark. Lights shown in windows up and down the block. Mostly single family homes. Emily’s studio apartment was a bit farther up the street, one end of a large ranch-style house that had been sectioned off into cozy units.
Less illumination meant fewer prying eyes, she mused. A little sore from the face plant, Emily waddled toward home more slowly than the pace the pair had set before.
Raising a hand to her nose, she blew a quick, strong breath out of her nostrils. There was still enough daylight to see that more dirt came out as well. She abruptly stopped moving.
Max tugged on the leash, whining slightly in protest. He glanced back at her for a moment before his own nose led him to the edge of the sidewalk. No doubt investigating some new odor.
Emily grabbed another section of her shirt that was relatively clean, leaning over she used it swab around her nose, wiping her hand in the process. Self-conscious of her exposed abdomen, she bent over more out of modesty. No need to show the world my bra, she mused, still rubbing the end of her nose.
It was not the first time she’d been in an awkward moment.
How can someone with legs as short as hers be so clumsy? Her feet aren’t exactly big enough to be considered a trip-hazard. That didn’t prevent her from being klutzy, she mused without amusement.
“Come-on boy,” she said, straightening and loping forward again.
Max looked up, dark eyes vigilant. He began trotting beside her.
Whether it was rose bushes or the occasional slick floor, bumbling into obstacles wasn’t new. Thinking back nine years ago -- she remembered a day in high school shortly before the Sadie Hawkins dance. Surprised at how easily all of the embarrassing details returned to her mind.
“You have to ask him,” instructed her classmate. “It’s the Sadie Hawkins dance…girls ask the boys…it’s tradition,” the girl added with evident glee.
“I dunno…I’ll think about it,” Emily’s then 14-year-old self replied.
She had another plan in mind. One that was already in action. Emily had stayed up late the night before writing a poem about the object of her affection. The folded sheet of lined notebook paper was in his locker. Secretly, before lunch, she’d slipped it inside through one of the metal slits in the door.
Emily smiled quietly to herself. He’s going to love it.
“You have to ask him…before somebody else does,” stressed her friend as the line slowly moved forward in the cafeteria to where the trash cans and the tray racks were.
Both girls needed to discard the remnants of lunch before heading back to class.
Emily nodded benignly, her friend required little more response from her than the occasional, “Oh wow!” to keep the conversation going.
Another classmate, immediately behind them joined in, debating whether it was better to go up to the prospective date…uh…teenage boy…with the assistance of a wingman or wing-girl rather. The theory being that it was less frightening in pairs.
“Oh rea
lly?” Emily murmured, looking at the tray in her hands. She shouldn’t have gotten the lima beans, they were way too salty, she mused, keeping part of her attention on the discussion going on next to her.
The girls had moved on to the big no-no’s of social engagement. Clearly a great deal of consideration had gone into the proper planning of how a girl should or should not ask a boy out, which included nothing in writing.
That tidbit of teen insight got her full attention.
“What if I just pass him a note or something,” Emily asked speculatively.
“Oh God! Don’t do that! I know a girl who did that,” her friend replied leaning closer with a conspiratorial look on her face. “She passed it to the girl in front of her and it went down the row of desks…but.”
“But what?” Emily asked, interested.
“Another student…this guy…I don’t remember his name… he snatched it and read it aloud to the whole class. How embarrassing! The boy made smooching-noises and everybody teased her about it for months.”
“Months?”
That sounded appropriately terrifying to Emily. Opening her eyes wide, she asked, “What’d she do?”
“She ran out of class and into the girl’s room of course.”
The last vestige of sanctuary for a teenager -- the school bathroom.
“You never…ever…want to do it in writing,” her classmate advised wisely. “What if the boy says No? How awful! Then the boy can pass the note to all of his friends and wham! You’re the laughing stock of school!” The girl shuddered at the monstrous notion.
Emily’s gaze remained wide as the feeling of optimism drained from her body. Her quick wits digesting that friendly caution a bit too late. Mind racing. Had she signed the poem? In her haste to get it into his locker, she had not checked.
Each stanza started with a letter of Ben’s name. She wasn’t sure however if her own name was on it. What if he said no and made fun of her?
Inwardly cringing.
Lost in adolescent abstraction, she didn’t see the slick spot on the floor near the garbage cans where multiple containers of milk, soda and water, missing their mark, had landed on the floor before being hastily grabbed by young hands eager to rectify their flubbed aims and escape the disapproving glare of the cafeteria monitor.
Size six shoes soon informed her of this oversight. Feet immediately sliding out from under her. Contents on the tray spilling backward sending a half-finished carton of chocolate milk, and what was left of the lima beans that she’d merely poked at during the meal -- slopping onto her. All the mess taking direct aim at her t-shirt and face it seemed. She landed squarely, rather hard, on her bottom with a noticeable thud.
Several students witnessing the spectacle, cheered. A dozen boys applauded. Even her friend had difficulty suppressing a giggle as she reached down to help. A snicker escaped her bow-like lips.
Emily half-glared at the traitor.
“Sorry.”
From the way people were grinning at Emily, her too warm skin must have produced a nice compliment to the pale green lima beans and the dark liquid. She felt the flush deepened as the laughter around her spread.
“Give me your tray, I’ll take care of it,” a classmate promised her.
What was there to take care of? The contents was all of her. Still, she relinquished it willingly. Mortified.
Emily floundered, looking ridiculous. The knapsack full of books strapped to her back didn’t help her graceless efforts. She resembled a rather large turtle on its shell struggling to right itself.
Scrambling awkwardly to her feet with all the dignity she could muster, which wasn’t much. Her face felt so hot, it must be scarlet. Emily ducked her head down and ran down the hall, passing other students who, not having witnessed her clumsiness, barely glanced at her.
She made it to the girl’s restroom without any interference. Luckily she was alone. What are the odds, at this time of day? she mused.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she realized it wasn’t as bad as she’d imagined. Lima beans clung to the dark strands of hair mainly around her neck in a few mushed tangles, the milk stuck some of it to her flushed cheeks. The splatter didn’t make it to the top of her head.
Her t-shirt was a real mess. In terms of general dishevelment though, she had to admit, there were times when she looked worse. Much worse.
Sensible and practical, she set about repairing her appearance.
Turning on the tap, she washed her face, neck and arms, then did her best to finger comb the beans out of her hair. Splashing handfuls of water on the dark strands to dilute the bean juice or chocolate she encountered, then squeezing it out.
Trying to clean up the t-shirt caused additional problems, the wetter the lightweight fabric got, the more translucent it became. Her bra was clearly visible and it was an older, ratty one with a tear in the side of the band from where it had gotten caught in the washing machine. And the cup size was a little too big.
The way some teenage boys visibly drooled over the cheerleaders when they were in their skimpy uniforms, there was no way she was going to class in a wet t-shirt. Fortunately the sweatshirt she’d worn over it that morning was still in her backpack.
Dashing into one of the stalls to change, closing the door, she heard a metal pinging noise and saw a hanger on the door’s inner hook -- swinging back and forth. Swapping out the disgraced garment for the clean, dry one, she rung out the t-shirt over the toilet, before shoving it in her bag. Half sitting, half leaning against the three rolls of toilet paper on the row of holders on the inside wall, she hoped the paper would absorb some of the wetness on the back of her jeans. She didn’t have a spare pair of those in the bag. They were damp, not sopping wet. The dark denim camouflaged the stain well.
Now all she needed was time enough to calm down and for her face to cool off, she thought. Not caring at that moment if she was late for class.
The hanger slowed its arc and eventually stopped swinging altogether as she waited. She stared at it, mentally preparing herself to go to class. There was still time.
Now that she was relatively clean, dry and away from the laughter, her thoughts strayed back to what her friend had said about the note. The heat returned to her already flushed skin. Her earlier embarrassment supplanted by the perceived humiliation to come.
“How can I get my poem back?” she murmured. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure if the boy she’d written it for liked her all that much. He was older. His big brother and her big brother, Sam, were friends.
Footsteps entered the bathroom, walking across the tile, interrupting Emily’s conjectures. She expected them to pass by the obviously locked stall. Instead, they stopped outside of it. A hand lightly tapped on the door, rattling the hanger again.
“Occupied,” Emily called out.
Whoever was out there could just go to the next one, she thought crossly, unwilling to leave the relative seclusion of her refuge just yet. Anger edging out embarrassment.
“I wanted to check on you…Are you okay?” Her friend called from the other side.
“Oh.” Chagrin colored Emily’s tone at her uncharitable thoughts.
“Um…I’m fine…just needed some time to clean up…collect myself,” her tone now more tolerant.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“We’ve still got fifteen minutes before class starts. I need to get a book from my locker, but I can wait here with you…if you want me too.”
“Nah…I’m fine…really… I mean I’m totally embarrassed…my face feels like it’s on fire, but I guess it will cool off in a minute…I hope so…anyway. I’m okay…really.”
“Em…don’t worry about it… I fall all the time. Remember last week in gym class?”
The corners of Emily’s mouth flashed upward unexpectedly at the memory. Her friend had caught her shoe on the edge of the tie-down bracket for the net and had tripped on the tennis court landing in a mud puddle. She fall
s down a lot, Emily thought wryly.
Suppressing the grin, she said, “Go on to class…I’ll be there in a little while.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am.”
The girl tapped the door once more before departing, making the hanger bounce again. “Okay I’ll see ya in a bit.”
Emily’s eyes rested on the swinging piece of metal. Feeling better about the cafeteria mishap. Her friend was right. Ever practical, Emily would get over it. It’s not like she’d never fallen in public before. Still, she worried about the poem. Not wanting to be humiliated twice in one day.
The hanger slowed again and finally stopped moving. It was the old kind. The ones that come from the dry cleaners. All metal.
Someone must have left it, she thought. Had another girl rushed into this very stall with clothes on it -- to change like she had? To get out of a wet blouse? Or an embarrassing situation, she wondered, deciding the latter was less likely.
Inspiration struck.
It would be a good hook, she thought. The rudiments of a plan forming in her mind.
“Maybe there’s still time,” she murmured.
Hand reaching up and seizing the hanger, she untwisted the top of it below the hook and proceeded to bend out the kinks until it was in a straight line. Armed with the wire, she slid the straps of her backpack on her shoulders before unlocking the stall door.
Taking a hasty look in the mirror over the sink at her hair, satisfied that no more lima beans lurked in the strands, then confirming that her face was pale again. Turning sideways, checking out her backside, patting the fabric with her hand so she could feel where it was still slightly damp, but she couldn’t see it. That was the important thing.
She walked out of the bathroom holding the long stiff wire discreetly by her thigh. Determined. She was on a mission.
The hall was less crowded, what kids there were took little notice of her recently changed sweatshirt and dark, damp, jeans. Most were chatting with their friends or retrieving needed books, notebooks or projects for the next class.
Walking past row after row of lockers, her target was a third of the way to the end of the hall, where it intersected with another hallway. His locker was there, about eight or nine from that cross-point.
Using the hanger, Emily believed she could retrieve her poem before Ben saw it. Saving herself from more grief. It was a good, solid plan.
At the corner of the intersecting halls, she drew up short, ducking back for cover by the wall of lockers. There was a slight hiccup in her thinking.
Ben was at his locker!
Another teen was by his side. Both had their backs to her.
Emily edged forward, holding her breath, spying on the pair.
The boy’s nimble fingers turning the little black knob to the right, then the left, then right again as he entered the combination.
Oh God, why did I have to put that poem in his locker?
Heart hammering so loudly in her chest, she was surprised when neither boy turned to see what was causing the racket.
If Ben teased her about it…or worse…showed the note to his friend…it would be ten times worse than slipping on some spilled milk.
Ears straining to hear what they were saying over the thudding noise in her temples. She leaned forward, pressing against the cold metal lockers that served double duty in hiding her.
“What was everybody cheering about in the cafeteria?” Ben asked.
Heat resurfacing in Emily’s recently cooled-off skin just fifteen feet away. He didn’t see the accident. Oh well, he can have a good laugh, she thought. Why not. Everybody else has.
“Oh that…a girl slipped and busted her ass.”
“What girl? One of the cheerleaders?” Ben’s voice sounded worried.
“Nah,” replied his lanky cohort, “a freshman…Emily Wren…you know her?”
Ben was quiet for a second, eyes focused unmistakably on the task at hand, opening the door to the locker. Fingers reaching inside, retrieving a book for his next class.
A piece of folded, white, lined notebook paper fell as he did so. Armed with the quick reflexes of youth, he snagged it with his other hand.
Emily’s heart stopped. She felt faint. Like any second now, she was going to fall right there on the floor again. This time spilled milk would have nothing to do with it.
Pressing the book to his chest with one arm, he used both hands to open the note. Light blue eyes scanning it, unaware of the darker gaze that spied on him from across the hall. His brow puckered, his expression turned thoughtful. A slight smile on his face.
“Emily Wren? Yeah, I know her,” Ben responded belatedly.
Emily’s heart thundered back to life in her chest rushing much needed blood throughout her body, insuring that a collapse was less imminent. He knows me, she thought, smiling smugly. Of course he does, Sam and his brother are friends.
“...Sam Wren’s little sister,” Ben said as if confirming her thoughts. “He’s awesome on the soccer pitch! You know he’s at State with my brother,” Ben turned slightly to the teen beside him.
He didn’t say anything about the poem. He read it. She saw him. He must like it, Emily mused. Heart swooning. Cafeteria incident completely forgotten, fear of being humiliated by the object of her affection ebbing, joy spreading through her adolescent soul with unchecked restraint.
“Cool man…I know Sam...he’s got real talent,” the lanky teen agreed, “But that sister…what happened to her…talk about a plain Jane! She’s stumpy with serious thunder thighs.”
The spreading joy froze. Emily cringed. A new wave of mortification sending the flush on her flesh right to the roots of her hair.
“Yeah man, what a dog,” Ben agreed.
The breath left Emily in one quiet whoosh like a deflated balloon and with it -- any hope she had of going to the dance.
Slamming the locker door closed with a metallic clang, Ben turned to face his friend.
“What’s that?” the other teen asked, eyeing the note.
“I dunno…some stupid way to write out my name…I guess.”
“Who sent it?”
The paper crinkled as the lanky teen pulled at it, examining it for himself. His mouth soundlessly forming the words as he read. A narrow brow crinkled in concentration.
For one agonizing instant -- there was silence. Just enough time for Emily to wish that the earth would open and swallow her whole right then and there.
“Dunno…there’s no name on it but mine….Stupid huh?” Ben replied, balling up the paper with one hand as the two began walking down the hall in the opposite direction of Emily.
She suddenly felt nauseous, like any minute now she was gonna hurl. Catching sight of her reflection in the glass of the bulletin-board case not far from her, Emily saw the ghastly expression on her face. She leaned back against the lockers, dropping the metal hanger on the floor with a slight clatter.
Emily sighed, shaking her head at the distressing memory. They had finally reached the front yard of her apartment.
Max trotted over the grass, sniffing. Pausing here and there as if inspecting it for any signs that intruders dared to step on it in their absence.
The air around her felt dry and somehow heavy. People can be very ugly to one another -- especially when they’re young, she pondered. How long had it taken her to get over that insult? To get that message-- that she didn’t fit in-- out of her mind. Sometimes she wondered if she ever had.