Exceptional Rachelle's Version Detour : On Your Mark, Get Set... by Rachelle Allen

Background Rachelle Allen and Gretchen (GW) Hargis are on a road trip from Baltimore to the International FS Convention in Atlantic City when they encounter some detours.         As we sit in the food court, Jane drones on with a poem she wrote entitled “Mi Panties Es Su Panties.” She’s reading it with a ridiculous “accent” that makes her sound like the Mexican bandito cartoon from the 70's  who was a spokesman for corn chips. My only solace is that she’s not dragging out her vowels and consonants with this new syntax, but the “Spanglish” is so incredibly embarrassing – not to mention politically incorrect – that I’m dying a thousand deaths here. The woman has no “inside voice,” and the looks she’s evoking from the other patrons here makes me wish I had a sign that reads: I Lost a Bet. That way, they’d be amused and compassionate instead of looking like they want to tar and feather me. Ay, carumba!               Finally, I catch sight of Gretchen and launch myself toward her as if I’ve been shot from a cannon.         I stop short, though, when I also take in the “new” Rebekah. She’s in skinny jeans, a Snoopy-and-Woodstock tee and sporting THE biggest grin I’ve ever seen on her pretty face. I savor this moment.         “You look SO good!” I say to her and motion for her to turn, which she does. She’s even wearing a baseball cap and sneakers! Wait’ll her horse and goats see THOSE!         “I need to buy you a few more necessities,” I say. “But would you like to experience the food court first?”         She gapes at all the choices that surround us and nods.         “Gretchen, what do you think?” I ask.         But before she can respond, Jane joins us. “I didn’t finish reading you my poemmmmmm!” she whines. “You just left me sitting therrrrrrrrrre!”         “Sorry,” I say. Sorry-not-sorry, I think. Then I add, “Remember your promise from earlier, though, Jane, right?” I give her my No Nonsense Mom Look.         She sighs loudly, rolls her eyes and stuffs her book of smut back into her handbag. “What are we talkinnnnnnnng about?” she asks, and I watch both Gretchen and Rebekah stiffen from head to toe.         We agree to divide and conquer, each of us buying choices from different vendors that we’ll share, “family dining style,” when we meet back up at our designated table.         Watching Rebekah sample things like curly fries and tacos, chicken nuggets and a Frosty is a rush like no other. She’s blossoming before our eyes, and I decide that this moment alone is worth every bit of the frustration and unhappiness that has sprung from our detours. I see the Proud Mama in Gretchen loving it, too.         When we finish, I say, “Rebekah, I need to get you a few music books, and then I also want you to find a beautiful black recital dress – and shoes, of course. Then you’ll have everything you need for the next leg of your journey.”         She looks like a child who’s just eaten all of her birthday cake and has now been told her parents bought her a pony.         “I just can’t believe this is all happening,” she says.         “What am IIIIIIIIIIIIII supposed to do?” asks Jane.         “You can meet us back here in two hours!” says Gretchen, suddenly sounding like a perky game-show host.         “Yes! Perfect!” I say immediately and with matching enthusiasm. “Go shopping! Enjoy yourself! We’ll all show each other our treasures when we reconvene!”         "NOOOOOOOO!” Jane says. “Shopping alone’s no fuuuuuuuuun! I’m going with all of youuuuuuuu.”         Oy. My cousin Tova once again jumps to the top of my “Will Be Seeking Retribution Upon These People” list. How could she saddle us with this totally obnoxious barnacle? Oh, who am I kidding? It was an act of self-preservation for Tova. Begrudgingly, I know I can’t even fault her. In her place, I probably would have done the same thing. I take her off The List.         We hit the music store first for a copy of Schirmer’s Italian Art Songs, then The Prima Donna’s Album and Estelle Liebling’s Coloratura’s Handbook. I also throw in a pack of note-reading flashcards. Finally, because all work and no play is no fun, I also buy her the score for the Broadway musical, Wicked.         Although I am focusing on Rebekah, I keep catching glimpses of Gretchen trying to keep a distance from Jane while Jane proceeds to handle instrument after instrument on display. At one point, I watch our social maladroit get “talked to” by a store employee! Gretchen scurries to an opposite corner at that point and texts me, “Pleeeeeease help me kill herrrrrrr!” She immediately adds, “It’s only fairrrrrr; she’s killing MEEEEEEE!!!”         I quickly pay for our bounty and, as we head toward the door, I mouth over my shoulder to the clerk, “I’m so sorry!” He gives me a nod of understanding.         At our final destination, or, as Gretchen refers to it, ‘the fancy-ass store’ – a term that immediately evokes a full-out guffaw from Rebekah – we explain to a highly coifed, dramatically lip-lined and oh-so obsequious salesclerk what we’re hoping to find: an age-appropriate, tasteful black dress for Rebekah to wear while performing at a vocal recital.         “I have just the thing!” she says, all but drowning us in her gush. “Follow me, Dear,” she says to Rebekah, and Rebekah takes after her like a two-month-old puppy behind its mother.         Gretchen settles into a tasteful, overstuffed beige armchair, and I head to the “Cocktail Dress” section, because I need to replace my original FanStory convention jaw-dropper, the one that was eaten whole by Helene and Ezra’s freaking goats – NOT that I’m still bitter or anything, of course.         I extract a dazzling, emerald green number with sequins and an asymmetrical hemline that begins just below the knee and ends mid-thigh.         “Gretchen!” I call and hold it up for her perusal.         “I trust that comes with a tiara?” she calls back. Everyone’s a comedian on the FanStory roster.         “Ohhhhh! I LOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE IT!” says Jane.         Gretchen doesn’t even try to hide her smirk.         I decide to get it anyway. Redheads are irresistible in green.         The salesclerk sings, “Ta-daaaaaah!” and we watch Rebekah step out from behind the satin curtain in a dress so perfectly made for her and the occasion of her impending recital that I actually have to blink back tears.         It sports a ballerina neckline, three-quarter-length sleeves, a belted waist and a massively full skirt that ends right at her knees. She’s been accessorized with shiny MaryJanes with a kitten heel.         None of us makes a sound, because we don’t want this absolutely perfect moment to end.         Finally, I ask, “Do you like it, Sweetie?” and Rebekah answers, “I know I shouldn’t say this – it’s not humble – but I feel beautiful.”         “Wrap it up,” I say to the clerk and head to the check-out counter with my own already- bagged acquisition.         As I wait for the clerk to cash me out, I see a display labeled, “Estate Sale Treasures” and notice an exquisite, white-on-black cameo on a diamond-and-onyx choker.         Gretchen stands beside me and looks where I’m pointing. “Doesn’t that profile look so much like Rebekah?” I ask.         Gretchen assesses it with her artist’s eye and says, “That’s uncanny.”         “There’s been a lot of that this trip, hasn’t there?”         “That, there has,” she says.         “Could you wrap this up, as well?” I say to the clerk as she begins writing up my receipt.         “With pleasure, Ma’am,” she says.         But I know beyond any doubt in the world that the pleasure is totally and exclusively mine. Recognized Author Notes In observance of our "even though this is a fictitious story, some things are true" tradition, the books I mentioned ARE the ones that a newbie opera student would need. ...And redheads ARE irresistible in green.

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