Which brings us back to the fact that I’m hanging out waiting for her to return from her latest ocean rescue mission. After drying my hair, I plant myself on the couch in the great room with a book. From here I have a good view of the door leading in from the garage to the kitchen at the other end of the great room.
Her electric Tesla Model S makes not a sound when she arrives close to ten. I leap from the couch when I hear the garage door open. The moment Mom walks through, dragging a carry-on-sized rolling bag behind her, we have a clear full-body view of each other. Rather, I have that view of her. She would see me, though, if she looked up from her phone.
She’s wearing a fitted black suit with a flouncy seafoam blouse to add a touch of femininity. Instead of heels, she’s wearing Skechers. A few hours ago she was perfectly made up, but now her choppy dark blond hair is limp, and the skin under her eyes is gray with melting mascara and eyeliner. She is texting furiously with one thumb.
“Hi, Mom. Welcome home.”
She doesn’t respond immediately, just taps her thumb on her phone a few more times before looking up. Then she smiles, and I think she’s really glad to see me. “Hi, sweetheart.”
Mom leaves her rolling bag in the kitchen, and we meet in the middle for a hug. After a few seconds she pulls back and fluffs my long mulberry waves with both hands. “This is new.”
I shrug like it totally doesn’t matter that she noticed. “Time for a change.”
She smiles brilliantly and shakes her head the tiniest bit, like, Silly girl. She takes a step back.
I say, “How was San Diego?”
Dramatic exhale. “I wouldn’t know. I spent the whole week in a conference room, slogging through board reports and budgets.” She goes to the cupboard and pulls out the Motrin. “The board liked the new fundraising initiatives and approved my ideas for generating more international, interagency cooperation. It’s everybody’s ocean, you know?” As she talks, she pops two Motrin and retrieves her luggage. She takes a few mincing backward steps toward the hall, as if maybe I won’t notice that she’s trying to get away from me.
I feel a childish desperation to keep her talking, to keep her here. I wish I could nudge her to ask about me, but unfortunately, nudging doesn’t work on her. Trust me, I’ve tried. So I resort to words. “Will you be working with that Dutch foundation?”
ICYMI, a guy in the Netherlands invented a way to collect floating trash out of the ocean a few years back, when he was like seventeen. He’s kind of a BFD in the world of ocean advocacy. Usually bringing him up buys me at least thirty or forty seconds of Mom face time.
But not tonight. She shoots me an apologetic look. “Hon, I’m sorry. I have a raging headache, and I have a videoconference at six a.m. Can we catch up more later?”
The classic “raging headache.” Nice out, Mom. I used to worry that she had a brain tumor. Now I just worry that she’s trying to avoid me. I swallow a feeling like gulping down sand and smile. “Sure, Mom.”
She calls, “Thanks for understanding. Love you. Lock up,” as she retreats down the hall.
* * *
Okay, so, yeah, my home life isn’t perfect. But honestly, I don’t have time to wallow.
I’m needed. Elsewhere.
My new Cindy appears in record time. Less than seventy-two hours after Carmen’s triumph, I’m walking down the math-and-science hall after Poms practice when I happen to see a girl bent over a textbook, all alone in Chem Lab A. Her hair is in a haphazard ponytail, and she picks at her face absentmindedly while she reads.
And I get hit with a glimpse. I stop and put my hand on the lockers to steady myself as the here and now spins away.
The girl is rocking a deep-red sari, standing in line with three other girls in formal dresses on the track that rims the JLHS football field. Vice Principal Martinez says, “Vindhya Chandramouli,” into a microphone before placing a silver-and-rhinestone tiara on her silky black hair. The crowd in the bleachers goes wild—cheering, pounding feet, banging cymbals.… Vindhya perches carefully in the back of the VW Bug convertible and waves regally as the car makes a lazy path along the track.
The glimpse dissolves as quickly as it came. I blink the present back into focus: this hallway, these lockers, Chem Lab A, Tuesday. The girl—Vindhya.
A familiar feeling of purpose and power sends my shoulders back and my chin up, as my personal problems fade into the background. There’s a Cindy in need. That’s what matters now.
I tap lightly on the open door as I step into the room. She glances up, sees me, and pinches her eyebrows together like my presence is suspicious. I offer a smile. “Whatcha reading?”
She tilts the book up so I can see the title: Talking to Humans: Coding for Dynamic User Interface.
“Looks riveting.” No hint of irony creeps into my voice.
She glances around—looking for an exit? Reinforcements? Then she retreats back into her coding book.
Still smiling, I pull up a stool at the lab table, facing her. “I don’t think we’ve really met. I’m Charity.” I raise my eyebrows, inviting a response.
She clears her throat. “Vindhya.”
The next part is always a bit touch-and-go. How does one broach the subject of secret dreams and deepest wishes—of life as you know it doing a sudden 180—without inducing panic or sounding like a wacko? The rip-off-the-Band-Aid method is my fallback. I’m a cut-to-the-chase kind of girl. “Would you like to be homecoming queen this year?”
She fumbles the book. “What?”
I say it again, word for word. Standard procedure for a first client meeting—lots of repetition. Lots of disbelief.
Vindhya laughs—one strained, unamused Ha. “Yeah. Right.”
I resist the urge to respond but don’t break eye contact. Sometimes an uncomfortably long pause is the thing that really draws people out.
After said pause she says, “Like I would even want to participate in the homecoming court thing. It’s objectifying and… and shallow.”
She hesitated. Even if I hadn’t glimpsed her true desire, I would know she’s fronting. She’s in denial now. Unruffled, I nod. “Yeah, it is shallow. But still…” I sigh. “Wouldn’t it be amazing to see the smart girl wearing the crown for once? Instead of the girls who play to every patriarchal, beauty-over-brains, pretty-princess stereotype?” Okay, that might have been a stretch. Last year’s HQ ran track and got into Pepperdine. But sometimes you’ve gotta sell it.
Vindhya’s back straightens and her eyes flash. “How would that ever happen in a million lifetimes?”
“It’s in you, Vindhya. I see it. And I’ll help you, if you’ll let me. Under one condition—no one can ever know I was involved.”
Vindhya’s eyes go wider and wider as I speak. When I pause for her response, she blinks twice rapidly and glances around the room again—maybe looking for a hidden camera. “Is this a joke?”
“No joke. No strings. Just a legit, onetime offer.” I hold out my hand to her. “What do you say, Vindhya? Do you want to be queen?”
She’s vibrating a little now. I hope she doesn’t pass out. That has happened a couple of times, and it’s just so awkward. Thankfully she stays lucid and I… I wait with my hand in the space between us.