Just Believe

Just Believe -- Chapter Two

She loved him. The sad part was that she had to let him go. It was difficult for me, because I felt it was my fault that she lost him. I had crossed the line without even realizing it. Now I can only pray that once again, God intervenes. After all, He had His hand in it from the beginning.

The Meeting

My daughter sat in front of the computer like she does every afternoon, glued to the screen and the Instant Messages she received. She tapped noisily on the keyboard, as if the keys would run away if she did not slap them back into place. A shrill, followed by an attempt to jump out of the chair and into the kitchen in one motion, attracted my attention. As she clumsily tripped over the casters of the computer chair, I cringed at the prospect of her hitting the floor.

“You know it simply amazes me that you can perform ten sets of wings, double pull backs, and a time step, in slippery tap shoes, but you can’t get from the den to the kitchen without taking your own life in your hands!” I uttered in complete wonderment as she continually tripped, arms and legs flailing, all the way to the kitchen sink.

“It’s a gift,” she quipped. “Please can I go?” she asked finally composing herself.

“What in the world are you talking about Destiny? Would you please be careful? For goodness sake, you’re going to hurt yourself,” I insisted.

“The Jonas Brothers are opening up for Jesse McCartney at The Music Fair. Kenzie got eighth row seats. Please!” she begged.

“Okay, how much are the tickets?” I asked.

She slumped. Dropping her posture revealed her thin long frame, sharp shoulder bones and lanky stature. “Well…” and as if saying the words at a hundred miles an hour would lighten the blow, she spit out, “$160 each.” Little did I know then, it was not one hundred and sixty dollars; it would be thousands!

“Oh my God, one hundred and sixty dollars? Per ticket?” I questioned. “Des, are you kidding?”

“Please mom, it can be part of my birthday present. I really want to see them. You know how much we love them, Mom. It’s the eighth row! Can we get them?” Her forehead wrinkled and her hands were in begging formation.

“Your father is going to kill me. Ugh, go ahead,” I conceded, “But don’t you tell him, let me."

“Thank you, thank you. You’re the best! Yes, yes, yes!” She leaped to the den now taking long graceful strides as if the good news instantly made her coordinated. She planted herself back into the permanent butt mark on the rolling chair.

Clackety, clack on the computer keys again, excitedly telling her best friend the good news.

It was all she talked about for the entire week, but on the Monday before the show, the you-know-what hit the fan. Mackenzie’s mother, Johanna, called. She was on the warpath. Jo and I developed our friendship over the years as two, die-hard cheer moms. We traveled together to UCA National Championships in Florida and schlepped to cheer competitions all over Long Island. We, along with a couple of other moms, were in charge of raising funds for the varsity cheerleading program; or twisting arms for donations, if necessary. Johanna stayed on top of folks who made a commitment to the program but didn’t pay up; kind of like one of those guys who collect for the mob. She didn’t take no for an answer.

“Christy, I’m fit to be tied! The broker that sold me the tickets made a ridiculous mistake. He said he had already sold those tickets, yet neglected to remove their availability from his website!” she growled. “A likely story! I threatened him several times, and notified him that he was going to have to disappoint two teenage girls and tell them they were not going to see The Jonas Brothers! Apparently, crazy moms from Long Island do not intimidate shysters who wreck the dreams of young girls. I should’ve said I was originally from Brooklyn!” She paused, probably considering whether or not that would have been more effective. “Anyway, I hung up in disgust. What in God’s name are we going to tell them?” she groaned. “They are going to be devastated.”