Bellamy's Redemption

“Is it just the three of us on the bus, or are there lots of other people as well?”

“Um, there are others on the bus too,” said Shane.

“How exactly does he threaten her?”

“He gives her a little shove. Knocks her hat off.”

“He knocks her hat off?” I repeated, picturing it in my mind. I did my best to block out the roomful of eyes upon me and to really come up with a good, honest answer. The scene starts unfolding for me. It’s a cold winter night. The bus is rambling and skidding along on icy roads. The man looks like a young James Spader. The woman is little and cute, but her face is a blur. And the hat! It’s not just any hat. It’s a pink pillbox hat with a small veil. Just like that, pow, the James Spader lookalike smacks it right off her head. The hat lands in a puddle of dirty slush on the bus floor. It’s ruined. She had that hat since she was a young bride. She wore it on her honeymoon.

“Emma, do you have an answer?” asked Shane.

“Yes,” I said, tucking my nervous, shaky hands beneath the table. “That is pretty rude of him, knocking her hat off for no good reason. I would tell him to back off. Hopefully someone else would get with me, but if not, I guess I’d have to go it alone.”

“So you would tell him to bac

k off?”

“Yes. Yes I would. Because, you know, you have to stand up for justice.” I nodded, satisfied with my answer, and took another sip of water.

“Great. Great answer,” said Shane. “Okay, next. Picture this: You’re invited to have dinner with the members of your favorite band, but the only way to get to them is to hike up a mountain. What would you do?”

“Hike up the mountain?”

“Great answer!” Shane boomed, scribbling on a yellow legal pad.

“Do you believe in Big Foot?” someone asked me.

“Oh, yes!”

“Wonderful,” said Shane, scribbling some more.

“What about Nessie?” asked someone else.

“Of course not.”

“How about ghosts?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Are you a good dancer?”

“Well, yes. I think so, anyhow. You saw my video, right?”

“Yes, yes. How could I forget? That was excellent. Do you get jealous much?” Shane asked.

“It’s my worst fault. I go a little crazy sometimes.”

“Okay, okay. Great! Now we’re getting somewhere! What might you do if you were jealous?”

“Hmm, I might…” I tugged on my lip, trying to come up with an honest answer.

“Yes? Yes? Think hard, Emma. Jealousy is real and normal. Nothing to be ashamed of there,” said Shane. He seemed delighted with my jealousy issues.

“Honestly, I usually get quiet and read a book or take a nap until the feeling passes,” I said.

His face fell. “Huh.” He scribbled some more. Eyes began to shift and papers were shuffled. I sensed they were all losing interest in me.

“But once,” I said, raising my voice, “I chased down a guy, on my bike, who had cheated on me. That jerk! I grabbed a loaf of French bread from out of the basket on my bike, a nice crusty baguette, and I threw it at him as I pedaled by,” I said, desperately making up on-the-spot lies. “Then I went back and finished him off with a bunch of grapes and some Brie.” I just love anything having to do with France.