Dream Me(20)
“So good to see yew, Bing,” she drawled.
Her platinum blond hair was perfectly done in a French twist updo. Either she was a hair styling genius or they had a stylist on staff at The Lucky Lady. And Mrs. Buell for sure was one lucky lady. They say people “drip” diamonds. Well, she had a total downpour going on. A huge rock weighed down her left hand, a platinum string of diamonds encircled her right wrist, and her earlobes weren’t spared. She was beautiful, of course. Could she be Mrs. Buell and not be beautiful? But her face was tightly pulled back, which always makes me cringe. Still, it was fun to observe her, in a reality show kind of way.
Mr. Buell was tall, silver-haired, and elegant, which made me wonder why men could be silver-haired and still considered handsome, but if women were silver-haired they were considered old. He looked like he should be drinking a mint julep or at least something like it. Not that I knew what a mint julep was, but it sounded like something you would drink if you were rich and living in the South.
Note to self: taste a mint julep.
I was ready to give the Buells the extra special VIP treatment which would have been the same treatment I gave everyone else, when I caught Mr. Buell giving me the eye. That is, the eye in a flirtatious sense. He looked me up and down and then went back to his conversation with his wife and Bing. Could he really be looking at me that way? Seventeen-year-old me? With his wife standing mere inches away?
After some more chatting about upcoming singles tournaments, and getting some help from Bing with his serve and his wife’s tennis elbow, the Buells decided they’d better get out on the court before it got too hot. They were going to hit with each other that day, since they had a luncheon planned for some friends on the boat, and Mrs. Buell wanted to get back to supervise preparations.
At one point Bing mentioned my name and pointed in my direction. I put on my friendliest, most helpful smile, and Mrs. Buell swiveled her frozen face in my direction and returned my smile with what I would describe as a semi-friendly gaze. Mr. Buell looked over at me and nodded all business-like. Then he followed his wife out the door, racket in hand. When he shifted his body to close the door behind him—which wasn’t necessary because it was the kind of door which closed by itself—he looked at me again. That time there was no mistaking the look he gave me. It sent shivers through my body. The bad kind.
__________
The rest of the morning was much like the day before. I was busy inside while Bing was busy outside. I honestly don’t know what he would have done without me there since Kay was on leave. I suppose they would have sent someone over from the golf shop to help out—they had more funding and therefore a bigger staff. But I liked to think I was making myself indispensable since I already knew so much about the tennis scene and didn’t require much instruction.
After lunch the Club sent over the sandwiches, cookies, and lemonade I ordered for the Friends Across the Bay program, which was supposed to start at two o’clock. Already some of the participants were straggling in, wanting to get there early for the first day. I could spot them from their anxious expressions. A few of them knew each other and sat quietly in a corner, occasionally whispering, but mainly just looking around pretending to be disinterested. I wondered how many of them were there against their wills, forced by their parents, like Alonso, to do something out of their comfort zones. I also wondered how many of them would view this experience as a positive event in their lives after a month under Mattie Lynn’s supervision.
The adults cleared out and the young club members trickled in. I counted twelve kids who I was pretty sure were FAB participants. Twelve was the magic number so I went over and directed them to help themselves to the refreshments—thin, crustless white bread sandwiches and huge, chunky gourmet cookies. This inspired only a little bit of interest, probably because most of them had likely already eaten lunch before arriving.
Half of the group was African-American, in stark contrast to the mentors, who were all white. The other half was white, with the exception of one Asian boy, who looked very small, very young, and very shy. I’d have to keep an eye out for him if he didn’t partner up with someone I considered nurturing enough. I could already tell he had the potential to break my heart.
Of the African-American kids, I tried to guess which one was Alonso, and I came to a quick conclusion. Three of them were boys, and two of them looked fairly athletic. Only one looked like the type of kid whose muscles were underdeveloped—probably the result of TMCT, an acronym my dad invented when we were younger for Too Much Computer Time. TMCT was considered a bad thing by my parents. The three boys stood off to the side, separated from the others.
Since I promised Dee I’d check up on Alonso, I walked over to the boy I assumed was him. “Are you Alonso?” I asked.
He shook his head, “No, I’m James.” So much for my powers of observation.
I looked over at the other two boys who were standing within earshot. One of them immediately looked down at the ground. The other one smiled at me and nudged the one looking at the ground.
“He’s Alonso,” the smiling boy finally said when there was no response from the nudged, ground-looking boy.
Alonso had his mother’s beautiful skin and warm looks.
“I’m Babe,” I said to the three of them. James suppressed a giggle which was, I suppose, the result of hearing my name. “Alonso, I know your mom,” I went on.