I glance at him in the dim light. “Have you ever seen an episode of Stage Moms?”
“Uh, no.”
“Well, it’s this show about mothers who are obsessed with their children being famous or at least push them to be at the top of their game—in my case it’s dancing and cheering. I could be throwing up and my mother would still make me go to practice sick. And she would sit there watching the entire time, yelling instructions at me the same way my coaches would.” I take in a deep breath. “I couldn’t wait to graduate and get away.”
“How far from home are you?”
“Four hours—far enough that she can’t come to every home game and harass me, tell me all the things I do wrong afterward.”
“Isn’t that what coaches are for?”
My laugh is wry. “Ha. You would think. I honestly have no idea what my mom expects me to do with dancing—I don’t want to be on Broadway or in a show, and I’m not good enough to cheer for a professional sports team. I don’t have the motivation to do that.”
“Why does she want you to be a dancer so bad?”
“I have no idea.”
“Was she a dancer?”
“No. My mom was pre-law and wanted to be a lawyer but couldn’t get into any of the law schools she chose, so she quit and became a paralegal—which, by the way, required lots of schooling too.”
“Maybe she feels like a quitter and she doesn’t want you to be a quitter.”
“Well you can’t be a quitter if it’s not something you even want.” I pull at the bracelet surrounding my wrist. “I didn’t ask to be put into gymnastics and dance class and ballet. And I didn’t ask to be put in pageants when I was two years old.”
“Whoa—back up. You were in pageants?”
“Do you have to say it like that?”
“Sorry. But I’ve never met anyone from Toddlers and Tiaras.”
“Ha ha, very funny.” But I do pull out my phone and start scrolling through my photo gallery. “Hold on, I think I have a picture in here somewhere of me winning the Little Miss Coco Cabana pageant.”
I scroll and scroll and scroll down through the weeks and months and years to find pictures of myself I uprooted and then uploaded as a lark. Headshots of myself as a very little girl usually bring me some kind of amusement. Sometimes they even serve as a reminder that my mom has been pushing me to do things I don’t want for my entire life.
I find a photo of myself, blonde hair poofed up in the front and twisted into a professional knot in the back. For these particular headshots, my mother actually put a hairpiece on me so my hair appeared fuller. I mean, come on—what three-year-old has this kind of style? It looks absolutely ridiculous.
I’m spray-tanned, wearing makeup and teeny-tiny little dentures called a flipper.
Apparently my own teeth weren’t good enough for my mother.
I take my phone and hold it toward Roman so he can see. In the light from the phone’s glare, I get a good view of his surprised face. His raised eyebrows and mouth in the shape of an O.
“Dang.”
I take my finger and swipe to the next photograph. I’m dressed in western wear, hands on my hips, in the center of a stage. My pale blonde hair is braided and sticking out from beneath a hot pink cowboy hat. Matching fringe vest and skirt. Matching hot pink boots covered in sparkly rhinestones that I remember my mother painstakingly gluing on individually.
She spent hours on that costume. Was so upset when I didn’t place in the western wear category.
“You don’t look like you’re having very much fun,” Roman says after a few moments studying the picture.
“Really? You don’t think so? Most people think I look like I’m having a blast.”
“No, I can see it in your eyes, and you’re clenching your teeth.”
“That’s my toothy grin, see?” I flash him my best toothy grin.
“Nah, that’s a fake smile. Anyone with half a brain can see that.”
He’s not wrong—it was a fake smile, the same smile I’ve been perfecting ever since. Maybe someday I’ll feel joy in my soul, but for now I’m just playing along.
“Do your parents ever push you into anything?” I wonder out loud.
“Not really,” he says. “I’ve always known I wanted to be some kind of scientist.” Roman picks at the knee of his jeans, at the rip perfectly placed there. “My dad came home with a bottle rocket once after being in Florida, and I’ve been hooked ever since. I’ve spent every moment trying to figure out how particles and atoms create…stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“I’m just trying to simplify it so you don’t get bored.”
“I don’t think scientists or science is boring at all—you don’t have to dumb it down for me.” I wonder if I sound defensive at the same time I wonder if he thinks I’m just an airheaded blonde with nothing going on inside my head but fluff.
He wouldn’t be the first, and he certainly won’t be the last.
“What kinds of things are your friends from high school into besides partying without you, ha ha.” It’s time to change the subject before I get all defensive. I take my phone, close out the photo gallery, and slide it back into my bag.
Roman shrugs. “I don’t know. In all honesty, we don’t actually hang out that much. Just so happens I’m the only one who doesn’t live in the dorms, and my parents basically forced me to come tonight because they don’t want me to become a hermit.”
“How did your parents even know?”
“My mom is friends with Jeremy’s mom, and Jeremy must have told her what they were doing tonight, so his mom told my mom and asked if I wanted to come, and my mom automatically said yes.”
“Kind of like how my mom used to say yes to babysitting jobs without asking me,” I tell him. “I wasn’t available often, but when I was, it used to drive me nuts. The last thing I wanted to do in my free time was babysit, especially without committing to it myself.”
“I mean I guess it’s better than sitting at home with Alex and Aunt Myrtle.”
Aunt Myrtle.
The name makes me giggle.
“Do you know what your situation reminds me of right now? There is a movie my mom used to love, and in one scene, this kid is dragged to the high school by his parents and they’re trying to force him to go to the dance but he doesn’t want to. They shove him through the gymnasium doors and hold them closed while he bangs on the other side shouting, ‘I want to stay home with you, I want to stay home with you.’”
Sort of makes Roman laugh. “That hits a little too close to home to be all that funny,” he says, but I can tell he’s saying it with good humor. “No, the truth is I don’t actually get out much, so it’s probably a good thing that everybody forced me to come tonight, even though Jeremy and his buddies couldn’t have given a shit.
“Maybe someday I’ll have a secret mad scientist lab I can lock myself in,” he continues. “But for now, I have to get out into the real world and show my face every once in a while.”
“I think I show my face too often.” I chuckle. “Every weekend during football season I’m jumping up and down on the side of the field, shaking my pom-poms for thousands of people, and let me tell you right now—it gets old.”