I have a theory. My theory is that a man can be whipped even if he doesn't have a girlfriend. The night I had dinner with Mommy Dearest was full of evidence to support it. As instructed, I wore a white button up, which you better believe Camille took the liberty of tucking in, black pants and a pair of dress shoes I had to wear for my cousin's wedding two years ago. Yes, my feet have been the same size for two years. Get over it.
The ride over there was nothing short of excruciatingly awkward. Camille's dad hasn't exactly forgiven me for 'breaking his little girls heart', although I do find it ironic that no one cared to defend this little boys heart. So, there was of course lots of questions and accusations, he even tried to pullover on Main Street and kick me out of the car. Fortunately for me and my dress shoes, Camille made gave her father an ultimatum; If I didn't come to dinner, than neither did she. It worked effortlessly and although I don't quite condone undermining one's parents, I don't condone walking far distances in formal attire either.
I couldn't help but be impressed by the restaurant Camille's dad chose. It wasn't so fancy that the menu was in French, but it was fancy enough that I couldn't afford the salad. When we were seated, Camille and her dad ordered their drinks. The two of them scanned the menu as I took in the ritsy atmosphere. I assumed it was a restaurant celebrities attended daily, just by looking at the kinds of people who were there. It was one of those awkward moments where you feel like you don't belong; like everyone in the room is staring at you, like you're totally out of your league. Camille obviously didn't share in my anxiety, because she was discussing what appetizers her mom would enjoy with her father like it was something they did all the time. I suddenly felt a wave of loneliness; I thought for sure she would feel the same way I did.
A short, blond woman wearing a deep burgundy dress suit and the highest stilettos I'd seen off the red carpet approached the table with a huge grin on her face. Camille and her dad stood up, both of them kissing her on either cheek. I quickly stood up, realizing she was the woman of the hour. I remembered what Camille had told me on the car ride over in between her father's interrogations: Don't slouch. Use your interview smile. Look her in the eyes. Keep your head up and your feet together. Don't let her know you're intimidated.
"Well, tell Sylvia if she wants us to represent her than she needs to get her act together. We're not running some local, sibling run, bail-out firm! We're a little something she may not be familiar with: Professional! Am I right or am I right? Hold on, Janet. And who are you?" I patiently waited for her to pause so I could make my thoroughly practiced first impression. Hello, ma'am. My name is Logan Mitchell, I'm a good friend of your daughters. She's told me so much about you; it's an honor to meet you. 36? You don't look a day over 20.
You know that feeling when you feel like everyone's eyes are on you? Well, I was getting that feeling. But that was because everyone's eyes were on me. Camille, her father and her mother were all staring at me, expectantly. I was genuinely confused. Was I doing something wrong? If I hadn't been mistaken, the last thing said was between her and whoever was on the other line on her mother's phone ... wasn't it? Yeah, yeah I'm pretty sure she'd been talking crap about some lady behind her back, then she'd told the lady on the phone to hold on, then she asked who the lady was, then ... Balls. Balls. Balls. Balls. Balls. She'd been talking to me.
"I'm sorry, did I miss something? Is this some sort of mute waiter or ...?" Camille's mom asked her and her dad. I glanced at Camille and saw her shut her eyes like she wished she could be anywhere but there. I'm with you, sister.
"Mom, this is my friend Logan. Logan, this is ... Mom." Camille didn't even open her eyes when she spoke. Man, did I have some redeeming to do. I reached out and grabbed her hand, shaking it a little more frantically than necessary, but I couldn't help but be nervous. Thus, breaking one of the most important rules Camille had given me: Not to let her see my intimidation. I tried to say something, but nothing seemed fitting now that I'd made a fool of myself, although shaking her hand like an idiot wasn't exactly working out so well. In fact, she snatched her hand away after at least fifteen seconds of it, then cleared her throat and took a seat. The remainder of the night didn't get any better. A majority of the time she talked about herself. The law firm, her boyfriend, money, her clients, her co-workers, money, her employees, money. It was all so repetitive, I actually zoned out for a while. Until, of course, Camille stepped on my foot with her heels, which hurt so very good and no doubt left a mark on my only dress shoes.
"And once we'd won Johnson vs. Pennsylvania state it was like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders." Camille's mom took a sip of wine and so did her dad. May I just add that besides my foot being stabbed, my existence was completely unacknowledged for a majority of the night. Camille's dad made a sound like he'd just remembered something and put down his glass.
"Sweetheart, why don't you tell your mother about the part you landed!" Her dad sounded so enthusiastic about it, but Camille didn't look very thrilled. She dropped her fork and stared down at her chicken alfredo as if it were speaking to her.
"Um ... that's okay. It's nothing big-"
"Wait, you got a part? When did this happen?" I asked, completely oblivious that I'd A) Spoken out of turn and B) Camille really didn't want to talk about it. She cleared her throat, wiping her hands on her napkin although they weren't dirty.
"Couple weeks ago..." She murmured. If I wasn't so stupid, I probably would have gotten the hint, what with her eyes wide and her words behind clenched teeth. But I was feeling idiotic that night, obviously, so I idiotically missed it.
"Well, what was the role? What type of media was it? Is it a movie? Are there any other celebrities you get to work with?" If only there was a janitor there to mop up the question vomit I was spewing everywhere. Hey, horrible situations call for horrible metaphors. Camille threw her napkin on top of her food, as if she was completely done, then looked at me with a face that looked angry. Except her eyes. In her eyes I saw hurt and almost ... betrayal.
"It's not a movie, actually, it's a commercial." Her words came out quiet, yet firm, like she wasn't quite ashamed but still not comfortable with sharing. On top of that, she didn't even try to answer any of my other stupid questions. Cut me a little bit of slack here, though. I was really exited for her! I guess I'm just one of those freaks who pukes when their exited. It went dead silent when her mother asked what kind of commercial. I silently prayed that it wasn't something pathetic like goldfish or Hot Pockets. I heard clearly the sound of Camille swallowing just before she answered her mother's question.
"Skin care. Neutrogena." Hmm. Not bad. Or so I thought. Her mom? Not so much. The woman actually laughed, like seriously, threw her head back and laughed. It was so loud that people in the restaurant stopped what they were doing just to stare at her, the odd woman sitting with a man and two kids, laughing to her heart's content. When she was finished, which took her a while, she wiped the tears from her eyes and sighed.
"Gosh, honey. Might as well just go into the music business! Look Camille, you're obviously not cut out for this acting business, whereas in the music industry, you don't even need to have any talent!" Sure, I was offended. Not offended enough to say anything just yet. It wasn't about me anyway. Camille was staring down at her hands in her lap and it was only a matter of time before the tears started to fall. I had suspected that her mother would just stop, since her dad scolded her for being so harsh, but she instead took the liberty of continuing. "I mean, look at that poor, deluded, boy band member you dated a while ago. The glitz and glam of Hollywood had him convinced that him and his little friends actually had talent!" Alright. Now I was more than offended.
"Uh, Tracy? Logan is the poor, deluded boy band member you're referring to." Camille's dad said, surprisingly sounding defensive. Not as surprising as Camille's idly sitting there whiles her mother completely disrespected me.
"Ah, well then you're the culprit?" She said, stabbing me with her stare. If I looked intimidated before, I don't even want to know what I looked like then. "It's you, you and you're little boy band, who've been encouraging my baby to continue with her little pipe dream. Do you even understand the potential she has? And yet, here she stays, wasting her best years for school memorizing useless words and having romantic relations with-"
"Whoa, alright. I'm just going to stop you there," I said, holding out my hands in halt. She was obviously having a fit and I wasn't about to tolerate her anymore. I got a look from Camille telling me to back down, but I was so done with backing down. It was about time somebody stood up to this darned woman. "First of all, I don't have to encourage Camille to go after her dream. Her relentless determination and endurance take care of that one. Second, I don't even think Camille understands how much potential she has. But it's because of that, that I know she will go further than she could ever imagine in life. And third, we're not a little boy band, we're Big Time Rush, and we don't need the glitz and glam of Hollywood to realize how great we are." Okay, so that last part might not have been necessary, but I wasn't going to go down without a fight. plus, what did I have to lose? Everyone's eyes were on me again, but this time I made it happen, and I was glad I did. Camille's mom looked like she wanted to jump across the table and rip me limb from limb. Obviously, she hadn't been spoken to like that much. "Oh, yeah. And I've got a sneaking suspicion that weight is not the only thing being lifted from your body."
"Camille? Are you going to let this boy talk to your mother like that?" She didn't break our gaze, her and I'd been making eye contact since I interrupted her. Then Camille said something I didn't think she would say even if a psychic told me she would.
"Yeah, mom. I am. Not only am I going to let him talk to you like that, but I'm going to agree with him." Her mother's mouth dropped open and she looked at Camille, astonished. I wanted to laugh, I was so happy for her. Camille's dad sat there sipping on his wine, enjoying the show like it was freaking' dinner theater.
"Excuse me? You will not talk to me like that, young lady! I suggest you show some respect or-"
"Or what? You'll move back East and completely remove yourself from my life? Too late, you've already done that." Her mother opened her mouth, then closed it, like she was going to say something but decided against it. Camille was standing up now, and breathing heavily. I knew then that she'd been harboring those feelings for a long time. What more of a punishment could I have? What's worse than never having the approval let alone support of your own mother?" The tension in the room was extremely thick. It was dead silent; everyone in that section of the restaurant had been watching us. The only sound I could hear was the faint clattering of dishes in the kitchen and the sound of Camille's breath. Camille shook her head and I saw her eyes water. I stood up and placed my hand on the small of her back, and then we left the restaurant. Her dad didn't yell at us to come back or offer to drive us home like I thought he would. He just sat there at the tension filled table, laughing.