The Story of You and Me (17 page)

“What’s a little jolt? It’s nothing.” She snapped her fingers. “Try to keep up with me, okay?”

Chapter Fifteen

About fifteen minutes and ten blocks later, I sat next to Blue at Star Hair and Nail Salon. The outside of the storefront looked about five thousand years old. The inside only dated back to the 1980’s.
 

Photos of fancy women with big Early Madonna hair hung on the walls. There were advertisements for eyelash extensions, waxing services, as well as acrylic nails that would last one whole month if you never touched anything with your hands. Like—anything.

Blue spread her fingers on a white folded towel on top of a manicure stand while a female nail-tech applied a clear basecoat to Blue’s nails. Her feet were bare and resting in a basin of warm water. Her pants were rolled up her thin, muscle-atrophied legs to her knees so they wouldn’t get wet.

I was at the mani-pedi station next to her in exactly the same layout, except I sat in a regular spindly chair. I wasn’t in a wheelchair—yet.

“So basically he’s driven you all over L.A. for weeks, flirting the entire time,” Blue said. “He finally made this big to-do at the Grill last night and G-rated kissed you.”

“Yes.”

“And then he kissed you again but for real. Like a PG-13 kiss? Or an R kiss?”

“PG-13.”
 

“Decent smoocher?” Blue asked.

I nodded. “Beyond.”

“But then he left?”

“Yes.” I squirmed as a man scrubbed my feet with a pumice stone. “Why is this supposed to make me feel better?”

“Beautification, darling. Beautification generally helps a girl feel better.”

“You are indeed a wise woman.”

Blue watched as her nail tech carefully applied bright blue polish to her fingernails. “Does he know you’re in the stem cell program?”

“No,” I said.

“Did you tell him you had something stem cell worthy?”

I shook my head. “I wasn’t planning on letting him get too close—”

“I know his type. These guys set their sights on you and lock in like you’re the prize in a video game. I’m surprised he didn’t make some kind of a bet with you to win you over.”

“Um…”

“I knew it! You come to L.A. for stem cell research, you hire a guy to drive you because you can’t drive, or you don’t want to. And you’re in the stem cell study because…” She peered at me. “You have an autoimmune disease. Something that makes driving difficult.”

I swallowed hard and nodded.

“Being that you’re not in a wheelchair, walking fine and just a little peaked, I’d say it’s in its early stages. You’re scared to drive, which is the original reason why you hired the hot guy.”

I inhaled deeply, reflexively, and my chest stretched.

Quite possibly another heart cracking open moment.

I exhaled. “I’ve got early onset Multiple Sclerosis.”

“MS. That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

 
Blue peered down at her feet as the nail tech expertly drew an elaborate flower on her big toe with nail polish. “So the guy you like.”

“I didn’t say I liked him.”

“Of course you like him or you wouldn’t be moping around imagining a capitalized L branded on your forehead. He hasn’t called, or texted, or emailed you yet today?”

I just dropped my biggest bomb on her. I had a freaking awful degenerative disease that left me with embarrassing symptoms that appeared out of nowhere. Yet, she was asking me about my love life.
 

I totally wanted this girl to be my friend.
 

“No,” I said. “I haven’t heard from him today.”

“You know what that means?” Blue asked.

I shuddered as my mind skipped over the dreaded possibilities. “Not really. Kind-of. Maybe. What do you think?”

“Means you need to get flowers on your big toes.”
 

“Um, why?” I gazed at my toenails: they were very pink.

“Because a flower on your freshly pedicured feet signifies you are alive, playful and super girly. Painting flowers on your big toes mean you embrace life and love and you are totally cool with whatever happens because of that.”

I stared at the flowers that the nail tech was perfecting on Blue’s feet. Her toes couldn’t even move on their own and yet they sported splendiferous flowers.

“You want flower?” my opportunistic nail tech asked. “Only five dollar. Five dollar extra for flowers on big toes. Very pretty.”

“Yes,” I said. “I want flowers, please. Daisies on my big toes.” I smiled and looked at Blue. Who watched the nail tech gently place her feet back on the foot pads attached to her wheelchair. My smile evaporated. “What stem cell study are you in?”

“Spinal cord injury. Paraplegic, obviously.”

“What happened? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”

“Riding accident,” Blue said. “I was jumping a thoroughbred that I’d never ridden before. He was big and beautiful and I’d seen him with other riders. Watching people ride him was like watching a painting come to life. I wanted to be part of that. Feel it. Be in it. At first everything seemed fine. We were walking. Then trotting. I encouraged him to step up the pace. He moved from a smooth canter to stopping on a dime. I wasn’t expecting it. My foot twisted and I lost my grip on the reins.”

She re-lived the moment on her face. It morphed from excitement dancing in her eyes to apprehension, followed by terror.

“I flew through the air and the next thing I knew I landed hard and twisted on the ground. Blacked out. Came to in ICU. Couldn’t move my legs.” She blinked and her face registered shock.

“Oh, Jesus. When?” I asked.

“Nine months ago. My parents and my doctor lobbied their insurance program and got me into the USCLA program. Apparently the stem cells work better for cord damage if you haven’t been injured for all that long. Although I know other people who’ve been paralyzed for years and they’re still trying it.”

“How do you even deal with it? Are you pissed?”

“Of course I’m pissed. I’m also sad and freaked and worried and scared that people won’t want to be with me because of this stupid chair. That people won’t love me because they’ll think I won’t fit in. My parents make me see a therapist to vent my feelings.”
 

I nodded. My mom made me go to a therapist after my MS diagnosis.

“On the flip side? I get to do a lot of fun things they wouldn’t let me do before the accident,” Blue said. “Parental guilt totally works in the favor of teenage accident victims. One of the few majorly awesome perks. You should make note of that. It would probably work for teens with shitty degenerative diseases too.”

I nodded and thought of Mom who didn’t want me to be out here.
But yet, here I was.
Perk noted.

“I can’t be pissed at the horse,” Blue said. “He’s just a horse. It’s still somewhat confusing that one day I was moving at the speed of light and the day after? I was dreaming of baby steps.”

I nodded. “We need to toast to baby steps.”

Blue held up an imaginary glass toward me. “Here, here.”

I clinked her imaginary glass with mine. And I wondered,
Maybe I should confide in her? Maybe it would be okay to tell her the real reason I was here. All the healers. All of my baby steps.
 

My phone buzzed and my eyes widened.

Blue said, “I don’t care if it’s him. Don’t ruin your manicure.”
 

I plucked it gingerly out of my purse. By the time I finagled the phone the message had already gone to voicemail. I jumped when I saw Alex’s number.
 

Blue cast a knowing look at me. “It’s your guy, right?”

I nodded.

She pointed to her feet. “Witness the flower power.”

I clicked the button on my phone and listened.

“Sophie. I’m so sorry I took off like that. I apologize. Like one hundred percent, get down on my knees—again—and apologize. I have a good reason. You must forgive me! My folks are having a last-minute BBQ tonight. I really want you to come. Hang out, it’s casual, have some great food. But I promised my mom I’d stay home and help her get ready. So it’s going to be tough to pick you up. But it’s close to your apartment. Maybe you could talk Cole into driving you here. He’s welcome as well. But not Gidget. My mom has her own version of Gidget. We’re at 212 Copa de Oro in Bel Air, about a quarter mile from the gates. Let me know that you can make it? Thinking of you. Dreaming of you. Alejandro.”

I clicked off. “Want to go to a BBQ tonight at his family’s house?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got plans. Interesting. He just moved from stalled to fast forward,” she said. “Aren’t you glad you got the flower? Now you need to pick the perfect outfit.”

“I’m not a fashion slave. I don’t really worry about that stuff,” I said.

“Big mistake,” Blue said. “How much?” she asked the guy who ran the shop.
 

He calculated in his head. “Two mani-pedi with flowers? Forty dollar.”

I reached back in my purse for my wallet.

“I’ve got this,” Blue said. “Leave the tip.”

She paid the manager on a credit card while I passed out cash to the techs. “Why a big mistake?” I asked her.

“Because you’re meeting the parents, girlfriend.”

* * *

I knocked on Cole’s door and asked him if he wanted to attend a BBQ at Alejandro’s house in Bel Air. He asked me the address. When I told him, he jumped like he was on springs about a foot in the air. I took that as a yes. We both retired to our respective residences to beautify.

What to wear? Oh crap, the last thing I needed was fashion stress. I thought I left that behind after I was diagnosed with MS. Because, who really cares what you’re wearing when holes open up around your spinal cord? But tonight was different, and for a change, I really wanted to look pretty.
 

I yanked open my closet door and examined each item of clothing hanging on the rod. I sorted through them, pushing the hangers from right to left, occasionally grabbing one and tossing it onto my bed. One hanger, two, ten, forty. I picked an assortment of about twenty cute dresses, tops, skirts and pants.
 

I grabbed a matchy skirt and top from my bed, yanked them on and checked out my reflection in a skinny wall mirror.
 

Choice #1: Both the skirt and top were short. Really short. I struck a come-hither pose. “What’s up, Alejandro’s parents? My name’s Sophina. I know you’re expecting your brilliant, gorgeous son to graduate at the top of his class and get a bitchin’ job with benefits. However, I’m making him my beck and call boy as well as my personal shampooist. The job has benefits. Get over it.”
Too sexy.

I ripped off that outfit. Tossed it and shrugged on different clothes. Choice #2: A pair of black, loose lawyer-esque pants and a fitted white buttoned up shirt. I looked in the mirror. “Awfully nice to meet you, Alejandro’s parents. My name is Miss Priebe. I am here to do your taxes, walk the dog, stare slack-jawed, aka Forest Gumpish, at your son and then disappear into a hole-in-the-wall somewhere never to be heard from again.”
Too bland.

I stripped those off and tossed them on the bed. Looked for something in-between. Choice #3. I pulled on a family friendly but super cute sundress. It was a poly-cotton blend, soft colored floral print without being fussy. A T-shaped back showed a hint of skin on my shoulders and upper back. I accessorized it with low-heeled sandals and simple small hoop earrings. I turned to the mirror. The reflection of a somewhat sane and kind-of pretty girl stared back at me. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Levine. I’m Sophie Priebe. You have a wonderful son and I’m so pleased to meet you tonight. Thanks for inviting me. Anything I can do to help with your BBQ?”
Perfect.

I applied minimal makeup, peered into the bathroom mirror and pulled my hair back into a goddess-styled modest bun with wisps and tendrils hanging down my back. I grabbed an elegant black, cropped cotton sweater in case things got cool the way they always seemed to during an L.A. summer night.

I fed and cuddled Napoleon. Looked at the clock—yikes, the way things were going I might be late again. I really didn’t want that, tonight of all nights. Meeting family was huge. And big. And scary. Or maybe it wasn’t.
 

Maybe Alejandro had invited all his friends, the Drivers and even Nicole. Perhaps there would be so many people I would just disappear like a fly on a wall into a vast party, the plain girl in the middle of all the sparkly, exciting people.

I walked the few feet to Cole’s place and knocked on the door. Gidget jumped up and down on the windowsill and barked excitedly from behind the screen. “Three more minutes!” He hollered from somewhere inside his place.

“Hurry up! I don’t want to be late.”

“And I don’t want to show up wearing the wrong shirt. Priorities!”

I trudged back to my place and clicked on my laptop’s email. Saw a correspondence with the Kelsey Vision Quest address. Opened it. There was a personal email from Dr. Carlton Kelsey to me. Hmm. How did he get my—oh right. Sign in for the free seminar on the ledger. Print your name. Include your email contact info. Check the box that says you will accept emails from us in the future.

Dear Ms. Priebe:

I regret we did not have a chance to further discuss your medical situation and how I, as well as The Quest, could best help you. You mentioned endorsements of The Quest featured on YouTube. I’ve enclosed a link to our channel. Feel free to check them out. We will be updating our site after the next Quest. I’m inviting you to a less public, more private gathering the day after tomorrow at The Century City Plaza Towers Hotel at noon. I do hope you will be able to join us. Please R.S.V.P.

Sincerely,
 

Dr. Carlton Kelsey
 

P.S. On a more private note, a little bird informed me that my bodyguards might have been overly zealous and conducted themselves unprofessionally with you. I apologize. Being a bodyguard isn’t the easiest profession in the world and the job description doesn’t always attract the sharpest tools in the shed.