Элисон Скотч - The Theory of Opposites

Email from: Willa Chandler-Golden

To: Raina Chandler-Farley

Subject: Our mother

Raina — I’m 99% sure that mom is now a lesbian. We should probably talk.

Daring Yourself to a Better Life!

By Vanessa Pines and Willa Chandler

STEP TWO: RESIST INERTIA

Summary: This might be the scariest dare of all: to refuse to let life carry you along in its stream, to plant an anchor in that stream and say, “enough.” “Enough” of letting life whiz by, “enough” of accepting just okay for yourself, “enough” of refusing to be bigger than you think you can be. Giving in to inertia is the most natural, most innate human tendency, so we cannot promise that this second step will come easily. But when it does, you’ll feel it, deep in your soul, deep inside of your heart, that you — little old you — might just have the ability to change everything.

I immediately regret emailing Nicky, but Vanessa had urged me to, or at least sort of. It’s part two of the book. Dare Yourself!

“Dare yourself to resist inertia!” she implored tonight, as we headed to Safeco Field to watch the Mariners play the A’s. She didn’t specifically say to email Nicky (or indirectly Shawn), but if she scoffed (or caught wind of the email, which I actually really hoped she wouldn’t), I had an answer: I haven’t exactly fought for anything in my life before, so if I’m going to fight for something, maybe it should be my husband. That’s resisting inertia. That’s rewriting my master plan: after all, the first time, I just let Shawn walk away. I let him draft the stupid rules of our intermission, and I didn’t make a peep, didn’t put up an argument, didn’t throw a fucking pan at his head and tell him that we’d taken vows and this was the stupidest goddamn idea I’d ever heard. We were Shilla, for Christ’s sake! Maybe now, my version of resisting inertia was fighting to get my husband back. So when Vanessa made a bathroom stop at a bar in Pioneer Square, I pressed “send” to Nicky.

Take that, inertia!

Vanessa got us tickets when our concierge mentioned a singles mixer at the stadium in section 210. Evidently, every single person in our near vicinity would be available and looking. I protested my involvement but Vanessa said: “Dare yourself, Willa! Jesus, if you end up sharing Cracker Jacks with a hot guy for a few hours, will you actually die of cardiac arrest?”

And I sucked on my cheeks and said, “No, I actually won’t.”

“Great, because I wasn’t sure.”

“But I haven’t been on the singles scene in half a decade.”

So she snapped, “Which is entirely the point. Maybe you’ll actually have fun.”

Now, in the bleachers at the ballpark, Vanessa says, “Damn, I love a baseball game on a perfect summer evening. The peanuts, and the buzz of the crowd, and the beer. And the men. Have you looked at all of the men?”

I dig my hand into my solo box of Cracker Jacks and I unobtrusively check my phone with my other hand, but less unobtrusively than I thought, because Vanessa says, “Yo, what the hell, William? Can you not put down your phone for a second? What are you waiting for? Your knight in shining armor?”

And something must give me away (okay, my face gives me away because my face always gives me away), so she says:

“Please tell me you didn’t email Shawn.”

And I say (without lying):

“I did not email Shawn.”

And on home plate, a Mariner cracks his bat and the ball soars toward the stands, and the crowd is on its feet cheering, so we are on our feet too but not really sure why because we weren’t paying attention, until the same crowd falls to a hush and sits back down when the ball lands foul.

Vanessa sinks into her plastic seat and says, “I didn’t just fall off the dumb truck, you know. Why are you emailing him to get him back? The guy who made a list of rules of your break!”

At this, the very cute guy next to me turns. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but what a dick.”

“I know, right?” Vanessa extends her right hand and says, “I’m Vanessa. This is Willa. We’re from New York.”

And he says: “New York girls scare me.”

So she says: “We don’t bite.”

And he leans over me and says: “Well, I don’t mind a little nibble.”

And I roll my eyes and stare up at the dusk sky and realize I’ll never have to dare Vanessa to do anything because there’s nothing she’s afraid of.

I offer to swap seats with cute guy, and we do this awkward thing of pressing our bodies against each other while trying very much not to press our bodies against each other on the way to the other’s seat. Cute guy’s friend leans over, close enough so I can smell the beer on his breath, and says, “Hey, I’m Bill.” Before I can answer, there’s another loud pop from home plate.

The crowd is on its feet again, this time cheering louder, then louder still, and the wave of energy is pulsing right through section 210. I look up and I see it, the white flash of lighting, the ball coming right toward me. I don’t have a glove, and though I know it is stupid, I know it is so moronic to reach up with my bare, open palms, I do so anyway. I resist inertia, resist the urge to let cute guy leap in front of me, to let anyone else stake his claim. I outstretch my hands, and I feel it, the hot leather ball land smack against my palm.

“Holy shit!” Vanessa yells.

“That was awesome!” the cute guy shouts.

Bill picks me up and pulls me into a bear hug, and then, much to both of our surprise — caught up in the euphoria of the moment — I lean down and kiss him.

Everyone in section 210 starts pointing and screaming, and I unclamp my lips from Bill’s and peer across the field to see me, my face, 100 feet wide, up on the Jumbotron. It’s a face that looks happy, a face that looks brave. A face that didn’t duck when the smarter thing would have been to take cover. I offer a little wave, and the stadium cheers back.

“Sorry about the kiss,” I say to Bill, once we’re seated.

“I didn’t mind,” he replies, laughing.

“It was a one-time thing.”

“One time is better than never.”

I nod and suppose that he is right. One time really is better than never.

It’s only about fifteen minutes later when the throbbing sets in.

I gaze down and realize that my fingers have swelled to hot dogs, that my palm is purple and bruised.

I knew it, I think, as I try to make a fist but fail. Nothing good ever comes from reaching for the stars.

Theo meets me at the emergency room of Harborview Hospital.

“First dates in ERs seem to be our specialty,” he says.

“I told Vanessa not to call. I could come alone,” I say.

In fact, I’d begged Vanessa not to call Theo, all the while insisting that she go share a drink with Cute Guy. I had grown weary of being her pet project, and I craved a break from her psycho-scrutiny, even if it meant trudging to the ER solo.

“Also, this isn’t a date. Unless, like, you’re a masochist,” I add.

“Duly noted,” he says, holding out his arm to steady the door, though the door was automatic and would have steadied itself. “And to the second part, I’m pretty sure you know that I’m not.”

I do know that he’s not. I know that he is pretty good cook and always willing to bring home fresh flowers and the type of guy who will give you the covers if he notices that you’re cold and also tell you (lightly, with enough humor so you don’t want to kill yourself) when you need to go brush your teeth. He’s not a masochist. But he didn’t want to marry me. So I’m trying not to be a masochist and entertain the notion that this could be a date.