Jill Smolinski - The Next Thing on My List

‘ I don’ t claim to know anything about writing books,’ I said, neglecting to mention the Carpoolers Guide to Road Safety I’ d authored, ‘ but don’ t they say ‘ Write about what you know’ ? Shouldn’ t you have written about a gay relationship?’

‘ This is what I know. It’ s the story of my parents’ courtship-and it’ s a love story, but it’ s also a story about drug addiction and wife swapping and other things they grew out of and would be humiliated to have anyone know they used to do. They’ re dead. I wrote this to honor their memory in my heart, but to publicize it to the world as their story would have them spinning in their graves.’

There it was.

How could I not help a man trying to tell his dead parents’ story of romance?

‘ Oh, crud& ‘

He saw his opening. ‘ Sit next to me while I sign. Emit estrogen. That’ s it.’

‘ Fine,’ I huffed. ‘ But you’ d better really be gay.’

‘ Please. Would a straight man wear shoes this expensive?’

AFTERWARD OVER DINNER, I got the whole story. JJ was his boyfriend, to whom the book was dedicated and who-along with the rest of Sebastian’ s friends-boycotted the reading. That’ s how disgusted they were about his playing straight. But one friend-a Latvian model-trying-to-turn-actress named Mjorka, who had a tendency to be game for anything-had volunteered to play his fiancée. When she canceled on Sebastian for a last-minute shoot in Bolivia, in desperation he posted a profile online to see if he could find someone. Then along came my e-mail.

‘ JJ’ s probably dumped me for good,’ he lamented. ‘ So maybe I’ ll switch my profile over to a gay site. How do you like Internet dating?’

I explained what I was doing with Marissa’ s list and decided to cross off Go on a blind date right there at the table. He made me feel the evening was worth it, applauding so wildly that the waitress came by to ask if champagne was in order.

Chapter 5

R ose Morales peered at me over thick red reading glasses. ‘ So,’ she said, straightening papers on the desk between us, ‘ why do you want to be a Big Sister?’

‘ I love kids, and I feel I have so much to offer,’ I replied, delivering the line I’ d spent ten minutes rehearsing outside the Big Sister offices. ‘ It’ s been a lifelong dream of mine to be a mentor to a girl-to share with her all I have to give.’

Rose nodded.

She seemed to be buying it.

As director of the Los Angeles Big Sister program, she was in charge of interviewing potential Big Sisters-weeding out the felons and any weirdos who were in it for the wrong reasons. While she went over the particulars of being a Big Sister-a ‘ Big,’ was how she put it-I sat smugly, congratulating myself on my clever plan. Susan had said I couldn’ t handle the task Change someone’ s life on my lunch hour, but here I was, noon on a Thursday, doing just that. Or at least getting it started.

The idea had come to me as I’ d ridden the bus home the week before. Gazing out the window and listening to Whitney Houston on my iPod-volume low so the hip-looking guy sitting next to me couldn’ t overhear-we passed a billboard for the Big Sisters program. In huge type, it announced: ‘ Change Someone’ s Life-Be a Big Sister!’

Talk about your signs from above, literally.

I filled out an application online as soon as I got home. Okay, after eating dinner and browsing on eBay for new sunglasses. Still, the speed at which I pushed the idea forward amazed me, considering that changing someone’ s life struck me as the most difficult task. It’ d take time. Perseverance. The type of thing I’ d usually put off-avoiding the hard things until it’ s too late to do them right, or to do them at all.

And yet.

If all went well-and Rose had seemed mighty impressed that I worked as a writer, even if it was brochures-I’ d soon have a Little Sister of my own. The idea of a sweet, freckled little piece of clay, eager to be shaped and molded, made me giddy. I’ d buy her balloons and take her to pet ponies. She’ d gaze up at me, her tiny hand clutched in mine, and say, ‘ Gee, you’ re so much cooler than my mom.’ True, my motives for signing up weren’ t entirely sincere. I wanted to change someone more than bond. But as I listened to Rose talk about how vital role models were in the lives of these girls, I remembered how I do believe that children are our future. Teach them well. Let them lead the-

‘ How often would you want to see a Little?’ she asked abruptly.

‘ How often?’

‘ Yes. Most people do outings once a week. Or every other week.’

‘ Weekly,’ I said, amazed that that was all they were asking. Why hadn’ t I thought to do this before? Why didn’ t more people? ‘ Definitely weekly.’ Excitedly, I added, ‘ It’ ll be so fun! Taking a girl shopping for cute little outfits, and-’

‘ We frown on shopping sprees,’ Rose chided. ‘ It’ s not to spoil them so much as to be a positive influence. We suggest sporting events or going to the beach or museums. Even cooking together can be lots of fun and very rewarding for both of you.’

‘ Of course,’ I said, reddening.

Now I knew why more people didn’ t do this. It sucks enough to not get a job you want-it’ s downright humiliating to be rejected for a volunteer position. How big a loser would you have to be for that? I didn’ t care to find out. There was a matter of a July 12 deadline, and if I didn’ t get a Little Sister, odds were I wouldn’ t encounter any more billboards providing instructions on what to do from there.

Rose must have sensed my worry, because she said, ‘ A little shopping is fine.’

She went on to explain that they’ d need to follow up on my references and do a background check, which typically took a few days. ‘ If it pans out, hopefully we’ ll have a match for you soon,’ she said, packing up my file. ‘ Anything you want to add before I let you go?’

I thought about the five months remaining before my deadline. It didn’ t seem like much time to change a life, but it was all I had. ‘ Only that I’ m eager to get started,’ I said heartily.

FEBRUARY 14. Valentine’ s Day. The day started on a sour note by being Valentine’ s Day. It then went from bad to worse before I even changed out of my pajamas. I’ d stepped on the scale to discover that I’ d gained five pounds. I didn’ t need Linda and her spreadsheet-making abilities to know that that constituted half of my total weight loss regained-and that every one of those pounds had gone straight to my ass.

No chocolates for me, I realized, sighing. No nibbling at the heart-shaped cookies people would bring into the office. No celebrating the holiday in the way I’ d come to know it: as an excuse to consume mass quantities of sugar with joyous abandon. Not after seeing how much I weighed.

Then again&

I leaned over to pick up the scale. Then I placed it directly into the trash.

#17: Throw away my bathroom scale.

That Marissa was a genius, I thought as I scrambled an egg for breakfast-compensation for the damage I’ d be doing later to my blood sugar. Getting rid of that scale had been positively liberating. So much so that I’ d have tossed away my body shaper underwear, too, if it weren’ t for that one blue dress that I look lumpy in without it.

SHORTLY AFTER LUNCH-I’ d had a chicken salad to make up for the damage I in fact did to my blood sugar-I popped into Susan’ s office. ‘ Am I still on to baby-sit tonight?’

She peered around a bouquet big enough to be mistaken for shrubbery. That was her husband, Chase. More is always more. ‘ If you don’ t mind-I’ d be forever grateful. We’ ve got reservations at Nic’ s. Chase’ s mother offered to watch the boys, but she had that toe surgery the other day. I hate to ask her to run after a couple of five-year-olds so soon.’