The Santa Monica Pier juts out into the Pacific, a rustic boardwalk dotted with restaurants and souvenir shops, right next to a small amusement park.
The minute I parked the car, Angel sprinted out to use the bathroom at one of the restaurants. I followed her inside and found myself in a tacky seafood joint with fishermen’s netting draped on the walls and a giant stuffed swordfish hanging over the bar. As Angel hustled off to the ladies’ room, I took a seat on a bar stool and eyed a bottle of Jose Cuervo. You’ll be ashamed of me, I know, but I seriously contemplated ordering a margarita. At eleven in the morning. But sanity prevailed. Instead I asked for a glass of water, and gulped down a few Tylenol to quell the headache that was now throbbing in my skull.
I sat there for a while, waiting for the pills to take effect and ruing the day I ever saw that story in the paper about L.A. Girlfriends.
Then I checked my watch and realized that ten minutes had passed since Angel had gone down the corridor to the ladies’ room. That’s an awfully long time for a trip to the bathroom. And suddenly I panicked. Dire scenarios began flashing in my brain. What if she’d run away? What if she slipped out a back door? Or wriggled out a bathroom window? For all I knew, she was turning tricks in the men’s room. Oh, Lord. Her father would never forgive me.
I jumped off the barstool and raced down the corridor to the ladies’ room, or as it was known in this particular establishment, The Little Mermaids’ Room.
“Angel?” I shouted, pounding on the door. “Are you in there?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
My knees buckled with relief.
“What’s taking you so long?”
“I’m coming. I’m coming.”
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A few seconds later, she sauntered out with enough makeup on her face to stock a Cover Girl display.
“What on earth have you done to your face?”
“My dad doesn’t like me to wear makeup, so I wait till I’m out of the apartment to put it on.”
I considered making her take it right off again, but I knew it would be a battle royale and frankly, I didn’t have the energy.
“Let’s go.” I took her by the hand and hustled her outside.
“So what’re we supposed to do now?” she asked, squinting into the sun.
My first choice, going back inside for a round of margaritas, was clearly out of the question.
“How about a ride on the merry-go-round?” I suggested.
“Are you kidding?” she sneered. “That’s for kids.”
“What about the roller coaster?”
“Nah. I don’t want to mess my hair.”
“Then let’s just walk around the pier.”
“Okay, but if we run into any kids from my school, pretend you don’t know me.”
I ground my teeth in annoyance, wondering if anybody would notice if I tossed her over the pier.
And right away I felt ashamed. I really had to stop this negative thinking, and give the kid a chance. So Angel was a little difficult. That was all part of being a mentor. I bet Sister Mary Agnes dealt with lots of difficult kids over the years. I had to try to establish an emotional rapport, like they said in the Girlfriends Guidebook, and get her to open up to me.
“So tell me about yourself,” I said. “What’s your favorite subject in school?”
“Puh-leeese. I hate that place. It’s like a prison. They won’t even let you wear bustiers.”
“You have any idea what you want to do when you grow up?”
“Marry a rich guy and move to Bel Air.”
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Why was I not surprised?
I asked her a few more questions, most of which were greeted with monosyllabic grunts. It was like talking to a fire hydrant.
“Look,” she said, when I’d finally run out of steam.
“There’s a souvenir shop.”
“Forget it, Angel. I’m not buying you a present.”
“Well, you have to buy me lunch,” she pouted. “I’m hungry.”
For once, we were on the same page. I was a little peckish myself.
“How about a burger?” I said, pointing to a nearby burger stand.
“I don’t want a burger,” she whined. “I want nachos.”
Needless to say, they didn’t have nachos at the burger stand two feet away from us. So we trekked to every restaurant and snack shop on the pier till we finally found a place that sold them.
I got a burger and Angel got her precious nachos and we settled down on a bench to eat them.
“Mmm, this burger is good,” I said, wolfing it down with impressive speed.
Angel took two bites of her nachos and yawned. Then, before I could stop her, she tossed them in the trash.
“What did you do that for?” I wailed. “We traipsed all over the pier for those stupid nachos.”
“I wasn’t hungry any more,” she shrugged.
“Why’d you throw them away? I could’ve eaten them.”
“I bet you could,” she said, her voice ripe with innuendo.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” All wide-eyed innocence. “You said you could eat them, and I agreed.”
“C’mon.” I wadded my burger wrapper and slammed it into the trash. “Let’s go play frisbee.”
“Do we have to?”
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“Yes, we have to.”
“But I’ll ruin my shoes.”
“So take them off.”
I took her by the hand and practically dragged her down to the beach.
“I’m cold,” she whined, as we made our way toward the ocean.
“Your dad told you to take a sweater.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Take mine.”
I took off my hoodie and handed it to her. She looked at it like I’d just handed her a dead rat.
“Do you want it, or don’t you?”
“Oh, all right,” she said, putting it on. It hung on her tiny body like a bathrobe.
I reached in my purse and fished out the frisbee I’d brought along for our carefree day at the beach. Then I tossed it to her, only to have her gaze at it vacantly as it whizzed by.
“Do I have to go get it?” she moaned, staring at where it had landed. “It’s so far away.”
“Yes, Angel. You have to get it. That’s how playing frisbee works. If you miss the frisbee, you have to go get it.”
She took her sweet time and sauntered over to pick it up.
At the rate she was going, I’d be on Medicare by the time she threw it back to me. At last she got it and tossed it back. A feeble toss that landed practically at her feet.
“Now it’s your turn to get it,” she smirked.
My jaw clenched in annoyance, I ran over to her and picked it up. I was standing so close to her when I tossed it back, she had no choice but to catch it.
“Okay,” I grunted, “now throw it back.”
I’d had gum surgery more fun than this.
Then, to my surprise, she flung her arm back and hurled the frisbee with decathlon force. I watched as it sailed into the ocean.
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“Your turn to get it,” she trilled.
For a minute I was tempted to let it float out to sea, but that’s just what the little brat wanted.
So I took off my shoes, rolled up my jeans and waded out into the surf. The ocean was rough, and for a minute it looked like the frisbee was a goner, but then I saw it drifting back toward the shoreline.
I raced over and snatched it out of the water, holding it aloft in triumph.
So there, you little monster!
I stood at the shoreline, waving the frisbee at Angel and savoring my victory. Which was a major mistake. If I hadn’t been standing there flapping that damn frisbee, I would’ve seen the wave that was about to break right behind me. And break it did, with a big wet thud against my fanny. The next thing I knew, I was sopping wet and dripping with seaweed.
I looked over at Angel. For the first time all day, she was smiling.
I checked my watch, and to my dismay, I saw that we’d been at the beach for little more than an hour. Funny, it felt like decades. I’d planned on spending the whole afternoon with her, but I simply could not face five more minutes with this brat.
“C’mon,” I said, yanking her by the elbow. “Time to go home.”
“Fine with me,” she snapped, and we trudged back together in icy silence to my car.
I dried myself off as best I could with a mildewy beach towel from the trunk of my car, then sped back to Angel’s apartment with my foot on the accelerator, cursing every red light in our path.
At last, we pulled up in front of her building and got out of the car.
“So,” she said, as we headed to the rickety metal staircase, “you taking me to the L.A. Girlfriends Christmas party?”
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