Kristin Ashe: Disorderly Attachments Part 9

Every feature in her face telegraphed defeat. "No luck with the speed daters?" I said mildly.

"Plenty of luck, all bad. Only one hit. The tall, blue lady e-mailed me yesterday, couple of minutes after the organizer sent out matches."

"I know she wasn't your first choice, but it's a start."

"Could have been but wasn't. I didn't want to bother writing back and forth. Breeds a false sense of intimacy. Figured I'd ring her up but didn't want to seem antsy. Planned on calling this afternoon to invite her for a walk in the park or a cup of coffee. Shouldn't have stalled."

"What happened?"

"Blue e-mailed me this morning, shared that she'd hooked up with the alpaca farmer last night."

"Hooked up as in-?"

Fran slumped in her seat until she was more horizontal than vertical. "You think I wanted gory details. I have a st.i.tch of pride left. Hooked up as in doesn't want me. Can you believe it? I failed at speed dating. Not fast enough."

"You don't know that," I said soothingly. "Maybe the sleigh-maker, or the professional plaintiff, or the alpaca farmer selected you."

"Big whoop! What's the thrill in being wanted by someone you don't want?"

"Good point. What's your next plan?"

"Plan?"

"You always have a plan."

Fran smiled shyly and sat up straight. "You been reading my mind. Next step is to answer this ad in Westword." She dug in her tattered backpack and retrieved a page from the weekly newspaper. "Saw it this morning."

"A personal?"

"Missed connection ad," she said, her eyes alive with promise. "Check this out. 'You: gray hair, broad shoulders, natty dresser. Me: flowing brown hair, blue eyes, red dress, black pumps. Last Tuesday, at the King Soopers on Ninth Avenue, you let me cut in line. I loved watching you watch me. Can't get that look out of my mind. Let's meet again at the Imperial Ball next week.

"You think this is you?"

"Has to be. I shop every Tuesday at that store."

"Natty dresser?" I said, fixing on Fran's rumpled T-shirt that proclaimed, "Speed Kills!"

Fran glanced at her paint-stained sweats and bedraggled sneakers. "This ain't the only look I sport. I have more sophisticated outfits."

"Meaning you iron one of your T-shirts with a less provocative saying and change to jeans?"

Fran nodded and cracked a mischievous smile.

I peered at her closely. "You remember this, er, woman from King Soopers?"

"Not specifically, but it could have happened. Me, with the full buggy, I always let women with a few items cut in. Common courtesy must have paid off. Good thing I spotted this ad. Gives me a second chance at fate."

"And you know about the Imperial Ball?"

"Never heard of it."

I couldn't contain my laughter any longer. I burst into an explosion of peals that caused tears to run down my cheeks and aches to form in my sides.

Fran looked more confused than amused.

As soon as I could catch my breath, I enlightened her. "The Imperial Ball is the drag queens' annual coronation."

A look of dismay crossed her face. "It's not me?" she said weakly.

"I hope not," I said haltingly, the words eked out between spasms of laughter.

After a long pause and a hard stare, Fran rummaged in her backpack again for a typed sheet of paper, which she thrust at me. "Forget that then. Gimme your opinion of this."

I read the personal.

Lesbian, 67 going on 47. Wholesome, financially independent broad loves golf, s...o...b..arding and Fantasy Football, looking for same. Forget about candlelight dinners and moonlight walks, let's share more substantive adventures.

Fran gave me a hard look. "Think it'll draw response?"

I shrugged. "The financially independent part should do it."

"I don't want that to be the slant. How about you punch it up for me? Add a few lines that'll lure the girls." You want me to rewrite this?"

Fran dismissed my put-upon pout with a wave of her hand. "Or start from scratch. Your call. With my attributes and your wizardry, gals'll be lining up for a crack at the Green."

The green, indeed.

I couldn't stop smiling as I constructed Fran's personal ad. I'd asked her to leave the office, because it was impossible to exaggerate her attributes when I could look across my desk and see the truth. In her absence, I'd cracked myself up with dozens of versions of an ad, none suitable for publication. Around five o'clock, I realized I had to set aside frivolity and concentrate. The ring of the phone, however, interrupted my best intentions.

I answered pleasantly, still in a relaxed mood from Fran's foibles, but at the sound of Carolyn O'Keefe's voice, I tensed.

"I believe I directed you to attend the Urban Teens fund-raiser at the Botanic Gardens." Before I could reply, she added in the same clipped tone, "Where were you?"

"Most of the time, next to the chocolate fountains."

"Oh."

A long pause ensued, one which I refused to fill.

"Did you have a chance to observe Destiny Greaves?"

"Yes," I said, feeling dizzy.

"And?"

"And what?"

"Can you understand why I've fallen in love with her?"

I choked out, "Yes."

"Did you sense the feelings were mutual?"

"I have no idea, Carolyn," I said, a quiet rage building inside me. "You're paying me to look into her background and trace her movements. I can't get inside her head."

"Did you watch us together?"

"Briefly."

"Could you feel the electricity?"

I rubbed my arm so hard I could feel a bruise forming. "Not from a distance."

"You will," she said and disconnected.

My foul mood didn't improve one bit when Destiny popped in unexpectedly an hour later. She wanted to take me to dinner, to our favorite Italian restaurant, to celebrate.

"Kris, you'd be so proud of me," she said, bouncing with enthusiasm-"I've gained Carolyn O'Keefe's confidence. We brainstormed this morning and came up with a program to introduce to the schools, in phases, depending on the support of administrators. I know I'm not supposed to talk about work, but can I tell you about this?"

Destiny pulled me out of my chair and swallowed me in a hug, an intimacy that made me recoil when I smelled perfume in her hair. The scent that had coated my office and stuck in my throat, the whiff of Carolyn O'Keefe, now clung to Destiny's body.

"Go ahead," I said, almost shaking.

"We'll bring posters into high schools, advertising suicide-prevention hotlines, safe s.e.x options and access to community support. That should be relatively easy, right?"

I plastered on a smile. "If you say so."

"Carolyn's heard about funding for studies that tie in the prevalence of gay slurs to the number of dropouts. A national agency's tackling this, but she thinks we can piggyback with their efforts and obtain numbers for Colorado."

"What will numbers do?"

"It's part of the process," Destiny said patiently. "On a more practical front, we'll encourage student councils to accept same-s.e.x couples at dances and other functions."

"How?"

"We haven't figured that out yet, but Carolyn has fantastic ideas. She's sure we can include topics on h.o.m.os.e.xuality in s.e.x-ed courses for elementary and middle schools. There's been talk of it for years. That would give kids exposure and support before they hit adolescence. How exciting is this?"

"Won t conservative parents object?"

"Care says she can handle them. She wants to press for training for all high school counselors on s.e.xual orientation awareness and coming out. Wouldn't that be helpful?"

"But-"

"And mandatory awareness training on gay issues for all coaches in the high schools. She's working on that immediately. In Arizona, she used a curriculum that encouraged coaches to monitor their language, not only for its effect on gay and lesbian athletes, but for the message it sent straight kids. She says training could help coaches support kids in transition, as they come out and have to deal with locker-room hara.s.sment. She knows it can work, Kris. She believes in me and my ideas."

"It sounds like most of the ideas were hers."

Destiny looked hurt. "Not necessarily. I proposed grants for schools to form gay-straight student alliances. I also suggested we print brochures to educate parents of gay children. I told her we could contact Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays about printing an initial run of five thousand. I offered practical ways in which schools could make use of gay speakers' bureaus. Care had no idea we have volunteers ready to come into the schools to talk about s.e.xual orientation and gender-ident.i.ty issues. I asked if we could force a mandatory session, as part of a civics cla.s.s. She agreed to talk to the heads of her social studies departments, to get their feedback."

"Would these be your programs or hers?"

"Were not fighting over credit at this point," Destiny said, still defensive.

"I hope Care isn't stringing you along," I said, wanting Destiny to notice the way I'd spit out the nickname.

She became utterly still. "Why would you say that? Are you jealous?"

"No."

"I've found a mentor, someone to guide me. What's wrong with that?"

I stared at my desk pad. "Nothing."

Destiny moved closer to me. "Why are you so negative?"

I raised my head. "How can these things be possible? If they were, why hasn't someone done them?"

"They have," she said bitingly. "Every one of them. In different schools around the country. But no one has done all of them, in a comprehensive approach. Probably because no one has ever formed the partnership that Carolyn and I have. She's an expert on school politics, and I'm an expert on gay and lesbian issues. Together, we create something incredible, very potent."

I felt as if someone had kicked me in the stomach. With no emotion, I said, "What's your next step?"

"We'll set priorities. We'll make phone calls and send e-mails to put the plan into action. I might have to work extra hours for the next few months. You don't mind, do you?"

I looked at her steadily. "How many?"

"As many as it takes," Destiny said, clearly resentful that I hadn't immediately acquiesced.

I could feel a power struggle coming on, along with a dull headache.

Chapter 11.

"Roberta Franklin will fail. Consider that a guarantee, not a prediction."

Ridiculous words, and they weren't the worst that had come out of Philip Bazi's mouth. Without contradiction, I had let pa.s.s bold statements, boastful declarations and flat-out lies as I sat in his nightclub, Xstatic.

My head ached from a hangover of anger, but I was determined to control my temper.

Needless to say, the night before, Destiny and I hadn't gone to any Italian restaurant to celebrate. She'd gone home, presumably, and I'd spent the night at the office.

On a pull-out sofa in the back, I'd tossed and turned, changing positions at least a hundred times. My clothes had strangled me, but no more so than my thoughts.