Page 11 of The PTA President
“Nope. It’s not really her scene. She didn’t even know who Taking Back Sunday was.”
“So, you like her? The Prez?” she asks with a raised brow.Do I like Candace? Short answer: yes. Long answer… I don’t know.
“Found you!” I shout, grabbing my boot from underneath a pile of blankets. Megan’s stare is burning a hole in the side of my head. She’s known me since we were kids, so there’s no use in me trying to hide from her.
“It’s…complicated. She just got divorced, has twins in middle school, and we’re basically from different planets. There’s a solid age gap that'd make any respectable PTA member blush. Oh, and did I mention she was married to a guy, so I’m not exactly holding my breath for a sudden switch from eggplant to taco.”
“Sure,” she murmurs. “Because no one’s ever gotten tired of the same flavor and shaken up the menu.”
I roll my eyes at her. As right as she might be, I can’t afford to take the risk and get my heart broken. “We’re friends. Even if she looks like she stepped right out of an Ann Taylor catalog, I’m super drawn to her. I'm a malnourished bee, and she’s a giant honeycomb dripping with honey.”
Megan wiggles her eyebrows and makes obnoxious kissy noises. “Already thinking about her dripping, eh? Sounds likemorethan friends to me?”
“Grow up.” I throw a pillow, and it goes flying at her head, but she couldn’t care less. She’s too busy hugging herself. “Oh no, Mrs. PTA president, don’t make me hand out any more flyers. I promise I’ll be a good girl.”
It’s a dick move to slam the door behind me, but it was that or throw something stronger at her. I don’t need any shit right now. If a friend is the only thing I’m getting from the Prez, that's more than enough for me.I hope.
Driving down mega-mansion alley makes me dizzy. Everyone’s trapped in this fucked-up house of mirrors where every home is the same. They’re all asylum white, with pristine front yards, except for the blue flowers lining the property lines. The gardening bill must be astronomical. They definitely all come equipped with environmentally unfriendly SUVs. I printed out directions instead of writing them on my hand like I did the other night, because no one has time to get lost in this maze.
I pray my brakes don't give out, or worse, develop a spontaneous oil leak as I park my car in Candace’s sloped driveway. I’m sure they’d call a neighborhood watch meeting to discuss a payment plan for resurfacing it.
The doorbell rings once before Candace swings the door open. When I’m a crotchety old lady, I hope this is the memory I’ll think back on the most. She ditched the country club dress and spotless white tennis shoes for a curve-hugging black dress with long sleeves and a short hem. Her curly hair, that's usuallydown, grazing her shoulders, is pinned up in a black clip. My favorite part is her shoes: fire engine red Mary Janes. Stepford meets rockstar.
Note to self: do not finger bang the Prez tonight, no matter how cute she looks. Those shoes might be my undoing, but I’m stronger than that.
“I love your jacket.” She runs her fingers down my arm, admiring the smooth leather. “Do I look nice? I didn’t know what to wear, so I borrowed a dress from my sister. I hope it’s okay.” She looks down double-checking her choice.
“You look hot. Everyone in there is gonna try to nail you.”Oh shit, did those words actually come out this time?
She doesn’t run away after that foot-in-mouth comment. Instead, she giggles and hurries off to grab her stuff.
The ride to the concert house is about forty minutes away, so I spend most of it educating her on the band–whom she’s never heard of.When we’re not running through songs, I’m biting my lip frantically, hoping she’ll get the itch to caress my arm again. My family and I aren’t crazy affectionate with each other, and physical touch has never been my love language. But when Candace does it, I melt into a pile of goo.
“I refuse to believe you don’t listen to music.” I adjust the radio volume slightly. “Seriously, when you’re cleaning your house or planning out school fundraisers, you’re just sitting there with your thoughts?” I ask.
“Yes, although my girls typically have music on when they come home, so I guess it’s notnothing. More like nothing of my choosing.” Her fingers drum the dashboard playing along with the melody.
“But before you had kids. You never just turned off all the lights, plugged in your headphones and felt the music?”
She stares intently out the window at cars passing us. “I thought we were supposed to listen to music, not feel it.” She turns to me, lips pursed tightly.
I laugh a little. “Youabsolutelyfeel it. It’s supposed to take over your mind, body, and soul.”
“I’ve never felt anything like that.” She turns back to the traffic, her face lit by passing headlights.
“Music’s the drug that fixes everything. It’s life-changing. If you let it in, she’ll become your soulmate.”
“Maybe I’ll meet my soulmate tonight if I’m lucky.” She messes with the CD player until she finds a song she likes. I smile like she’s a kid on Christmas morning.
“This one sounds nice. Do you like this band?” She turns the volume back up until a guitar solo is blasting through the speakers.
“I do, actually. It’s Good Charlotte. They’re supposed to be coming out with their third album next year. Fun fact: the lead singers are twins.”
“No way! I wish I had some cool trivia, you’ve always got something witty up your sleeve.” She frowns and flips through my CD case.
The rest of the drive is filled with a comfortable silence while we repeat Say Anything about five times. She learns a few lyrics and is ready once the chorus comes around.
“Stick close to me.” I warn as we get out of the car and head inside. Don’t ask why I say it, some cavewoman part of my brain took over.
