Miracle Girl Part III

 

          No way.  There's no way.  I step aside to let her out of the bathroom, scrambling frantically to think of something to say that will keep her here a little longer.

          "What kind of contacts do you wear?"  I ask.

          She laughs.  "I don't wear contacts."

          The answer takes me aback.  "Then why are your eyes purple?"

          The girl shrugs.  "It's just the way I was born.  Some genetic defect, or something."

          I bet she gets questions like this all the time.  I feel a bit bad about making a big deal out of it now but my mind is still wrapped up in trying to come up with a strategy.  One thing's for sure, I can't let this opportunity slide through the cracks.

          "What's your major?"  I ask, then realize that that's probably one of the weirdest things to ask someone after just helping them escape a locked bathroom.  She looks at me strangely but rolls with it.

          "English."

          Suddenly I can't think of anything else to say.  My mind locks up like a vault and suddenly I'm back at the apartments, standing in front of Mara's door, watching my window of opportunity slowly shrivel up and die.  There's only one thing I can think of that could possibly save the situation, but the words are stuck in my throat.  The girl thanks us and starts to walk away and with a burst of willpower I force them out of my mouth:

          "Would you like to come with me to the Arts Festival next Thursday?"

          She stops and swivels around slowly.  She's smiling with some mixture of humor, but it's a genuine, sincere smile.  "Sure.  Do you want my number?

          I fumble around in my pocket for my phone and slide it open with far less grace than I could have hoped.  My hands are trembling slightly.  The guy who pushed the cart out of the way is still looking on.  I wish he would leave.

          "208-247-1187"

          I punch in the number and then I'm turning to go, my mind still whirling at a hundred miles an hour.

          "What's your name?" she asks.  I spin back around, blood rushing to my face.  I just asked this girl on a date and I don't even know her name!

          "Nick.  What's yours?"

          "Mercedes."  She smiles again and her purple eyes gleam and suddenly I don't feel awkward anymore.  We both turn and walk down the hallway in opposite directions.

 

 

          Two days later finds me waiting next to a light pole on the south end of campus.  I can't seem to stop my fingers from drumming on the concrete base of the light pole, but other than that I don't feel too nervous.  I run through my plan again in my head.  I'm still not 100% sure what I'm doing, but it's clear to me that the only way forward for me lies straight through the middle of this situation, so I'm going to take it by the horns.

          I resist the urge to check my watch again to see how much time has gone by.  It was two minutes past the time she said she'd be here the last time I looked.  I'm not upset that she isn't here exactly on time, but I do notice.

          "Hey."

          I turn and there she is, swathed in darkness, the radiant glow from the streetlight falling like a halo to the crow of her head, cascading from there down the strands of her hair and splaying off with glowing tendrils into the night, making her profile shine with an ethereal aura.  She seems so much like a character from a fantasy movie that sometimes I have difficulty believing that she's more than a figment of one of my daydreams.  Seeing her in the flesh makes me feel the miracle of it all over again.

          We have to believe that not only do miracles happen but that they will happen to us.

          Well, I did, and look where I am now.

          "How are you?"  I answer back.

          "Great!  I just got done with my last midterm."  We turn toward the Dayton Center, where the Arts Festival is.  I'm a bit surprised at how cheerful she sounds.  Maybe she doesn't need as much help as I thought after all.

          "Tell me about yourself."  I say as we walk.  "Where are you from?   What's your story?"

          "I'm from Wisconsin, on the east side by the Michigan border.  Two brothers, one sister.  I just kind of ended up here because tuition was cheap enough for me to afford."

          "Are you glad you're here?"

          "It's alright, I guess."

          "I sense some hesitation in there."

          Mercedes shrugs and smiles a bit but doesn't comment further.  "How about you?"

          "I've always wanted to come here.  They have a decent pre-med program and that's all I ever wanted to do."

          "At least you'll end up doing something useful with your life.  I don't have any idea what I'm going to do with English."

          We push through the doors of the Dayton Center and head down the long hallway by the food court to the Exhibition Room.  My thoughts are focused and intense.  I have to make this more than a what-is-the-color-or-your-toothbrush sort of date if I'm going to have any chance of turning this sociology assignment into reality.   I dig down deep into my mental faculties to find something that will pierce her guard.

          "What makes you special?"  She half-laughs at the question and I feel kind of silly, but I still look on in hopes that she's going to answer it.

          "What do you mean?"

          "I mean, if you had to describe yourself in one word, what would it be?"

          She cocks her head thoughtfully.  "Inconsistent."

          "Why?”

          "I can never settle on anything.  I change my mind all the time."

          I smile back.  "I have a sister that way, too.  Does your family bug you about it a lot?"

          "My family hasn't really been...I don't know...Oh, look!  They have Picasso here!"  We've just entered the Exhibit Room.  Mercedes goes off for a while on how much she likes cubism and how different it is from other kinds of art.  It takes a few seconds for me to grasp that Mercedes has just changed the subject.  The more I think about it, the more obvious it becomes.  After all, who in their right mind actually likes cubism?  Mercedes doesn't seem nearly as excited about anything else at the Festival, which confirms my suspicions.  I need to find a way to get more information without coming off as too obtrusive.

          A few minutes later I bring up my family again, but this time she doesn't bite, so I go off on impressionistic painting for awhile, then make a sharp turn in the conversation and ask:  "Who do you talk to when you need to get something off your chest?"

          Mercedes doesn't answer for a minute and I almost think she hasn't heard when she says:

            "I'm not really close to anybody."

          She has to be lying .  No one doesn't have anybody close to them.  It just comes along with being human.

          "Not even your sister?"  I prod further.  "Isn't that what sisters are for, to be there for each other?"

          And just like that, Mercedes shuts down.  It isn't so much anything that she says as it is a door that I see swing shut behind her eyes.

          "No.  Not her either."

 

         

          After we both get tired of the Arts Festival I ask if I can walk her home and she says yes.  The conversation is pleasant, but something is missing that was there before.

          "Did I say something to upset you?"  I ask.

          She looks confused.  "No..."

          "Oh, well...I just..."  I feel heat rising into my face.  "Never mind."

          "Do you know what word I would use to  describe you?"  Mercedes asks.

          "What?"

          "Unconfident." 

          I feel like she just hit me, but the part that stings is the matter-of-fact, non-condescending way in which she says it, the fact that the only reason why she brings it up is because she sees that it's true, not because she's trying to be mean.

          "Um...well...I guess so..." I say, proving her point exactly.

          "Well, this is my stop."

          I look up and think there's some mistake.  The blue gray buildings that we're standing in front of are all too familiar.

          "I live here."  I say dumbly.

          "I know,"  says Mercedes.  She spins around , her hair splaying out in an arc behind her.  And just like that she's gone, disappearing into the depths of the stairwell, slipping silently up the steps towards apartment 26.

Part IV will be posted on Thursday.