Ethel 'n Opal

three

o p a l   t r e v o r

------------

She's the one.

I didn't wanna jump to conclusions before but I can't argue the strong gut feeling I've gotten these past few days. When she left the dean's office last week I tried to come off casual when I asked Tassie "who was that?". While on the inside, I was actually desperate to confirm whether or not it was Ethel. But all I got in response was "you don't have to worry about her". 

See, not that useful.

I can't deny that the occasional doubt would set in and this would make me want to forget it ever happened to begin with. But that voice? Her laugh? Especially that bit of a southern drawl? Things about that night are a little fuzzy but this was all too convenient. There's just so much that checks out. But what if I'm wrong? And why am I stressing over a complete stranger in the first place?

Anyways, it might've taken a couple back and forths, but finally, I arrive to my conclusion: she's the one. She's Ethel. She has to be or I'm just insane and desperate.

The warm, febuary evening wind blows against my cheek, ruffling my blonde 4c curls, and plasters my graphic-tee tighter against my slightly sweaty chest. I stand in the lower section of the football field, trying my hardest to listen as Flora - my band instructor - rambles on and on to the other forty-nine tired band members, about how import it is we clean up our execution of "When the Saints Go Marching In". There's an upcoming home game next month and this performance just has to be perfect - her words not mine. 

Luckily for us, the football team didn't have practice scheduled today, so we had as much room to be as loud as needed.

Beats being trapped in the stuffy basement with no a/c.

Well, maybe not too loud because we do occupy the field with the cheerleaders, and they seem to be conducting their own practice. In a variety of gym shorts, tank tops, tees, sneakers, and ball caps, they still manage to look consistent as a collective. Even without the glamour and glitter of cheer uniform and swishing ponytails, they still put me and the rest of the band to shame. 

I scan the rows of talking girls and there she is. Third girl at the end of the second row in all of her sassy, pompom-shaking, confident glory.

"Sorry."

"What you apologizing for?"

"Sorry."

I can't help to stare. When the team captain claps her hands loudly and yells at the squad to take it from the top, my eyes stay trained on her. 

She leans against me and huff. I'm probably annoying her with the excessive apologizing but I can't help that I'm nervous. One minute I'm sitting in the corner waiting on some friends and the next a total stranger's stumbling into my lap.

"...-can I call someone to come get you?..."

 When her graceful arms bend and extend to form various shapes in the air, and her hips sway like a luring dance, its like I'm hypnotized.

"Dance with me?"

I smell the alcohol on her breath and debate whether or not this is a good idea.

"Dance. With. Me... please?"

I hesitate. Call me crazy but in this split second I feel the energy around us shift. Like my next words held more weight than I could ever know. My body goes lax right when I'm about to turn her down gently.