The Frog Prince

Chapter Twenty

C hapter T wenty

D riving back to San Francisco Wednesday morning, I know I can’t—won’t—let my year at City Events end so ingloriously.

I refuse to let Kid Fest be the conclusion, because there’s no resolution. Only failure. And shame. But I’m not ashamed of me, or my efforts, and this isn’t even about me anymore. It’s about the kids. The kids who got caught in the middle of something they shouldn’t have been involved in.

The kids deserved better. And I like to think that good conquers evil and that in the end the just are rewarded, but I’m not so sure that’s true.

But even if the just aren’t rewarded, I know that until the kids from the Boys and Girls Club get their event, I’m not through.

Kid Fest may be over, and I may not be able to salvage the carnival at the museum, but I can give them something else. A different reward.

Back in my apartment, I spend the night brainstorming a new Kid Fest. I curl up on my bed, thinking back to when I was a kid: the things I loved and the things that were pleasurable, exciting, an escape.

I think about the things kids want to do, need to do, and the things kids are curious about, and I make lists, and in each of these lists a word appears again and again: movies .

What if I give the kids a day at the movies? But not just as a passive audience, but as budding filmmakers, too?

What if they get to learn how movies are made, and have the chance to write stories of their own and maybe even get some hands-on experience shooting film?

Find a cool theater… order tons of pizzas… serve popcorn… give the kids not just fun but information that might actually inspire? Encourage their own dreams? No passive princes and princesses here, please. Everybody’s got to be a warrior, little boy and girl alike. Kids need to be taught to go after life, seize opportunity, not wait for something good to fall into their laps.

I scribble more ideas down, take tons of notes. There have got to be local filmmakers I can contact, people who’d be willing to donate their time, help me put together something creative and meaningful for the kids in San Francisco.

Thursday morning I get on my computer, shoot out e-mails to Josh and Tessa, telling them what I plan to do.

They’re both enthusiastic and offer to help, and that night they come over after work, bringing me files from the office with all the Kid Fest contacts.

Josh knows someone who owns an old art deco movie theater in the Mission district, and offers to contact the owner, see if he’d loan out the theater to us for a Sunday afternoon. Tessa said the guy at Pop’s Pizza, just south of Market, owes her a favor big-time and can probably come through with food and drink.

I go to the kitchen and pull out a bottle of champagne that Ed Hill brought me once back in late February when we were dating. Sitting on the floor of the living room, I open the bottle and fill three Waterford flutes, make a toast: “To good times and good friends.”

Josh and Tessa clink glasses with me, and we drink our champagne and lounge on pillows on the floor. I realize I’ve never liked my apartment as much as I do tonight.

This is why people need big apartments with bay windows and glossy white trim—not for cozy couples on the couch, but so you’ll have lots of room to sprawl out with your friends.

*

During the next week I make dozens of calls and talk to more people than I’ve ever talked to before. I explain what’s happened to the kids and what needs to happen, and why putting cameras into children’s hands would challenge them and encourage them and validate their experiences.

Josh gets the theater for me on a Sunday two weeks from now.

I get cameras donated, and secure a promise from several film students from the local university to come and speak to the kids.

I contact a screenwriter who wants to talk about her work, and then there’s the big-name comic actor who’s lived in Cow Hollow most of his life and wants to do something good, too.

Tessa gets pizzas and sodas from Pop’s, and then Pop from Pop’s takes it a step further, promising sheet cakes for dessert.

I go with Josh to check out the old movie theater built during the art deco period, and it’s beautiful. The owner has refurbished the place, the gold stars on the blue ceiling are freshly stenciled, and the columns lining the auditorium are in gorgeous, vivid color.

The theater’s big, too, and the owner has some old sci-fi films he’ll show in the morning before the kids start work on their own films, if I’m interested. And I’m interested.

Back home I send e-mails to the student filmmakers and the screenwriter and give them the place, date, and time we’re meeting, as well as mention the classic sci-fi films the theater owner has offered to show.

I pore over my to-do list.

Location, firm. Time and date, set. Entertainment and speakers, secured. Food, covered. Drinks, covered.

Now it’s time to invite the guests, and this is the hard part.

No one at South San Francisco Boys and Girls Club wants to talk to me. No one from the city organizations cares to take my call, either, so I show up in person, hand-deliver big invites in even bigger gold envelopes with purple, gold, and black balloons attached.

“I know it’s short notice,” I tell staff members, receptionists, directors, “but it’s going to be a wonderful day, and the kids are going to learn something, too.”

It’s a hard, hard sale. The only thing that seems to spark any real interest is when I mention the famous comedian who has agreed to come and perform some funny stand-up routines appropriate for kids during their pizza lunch.

I call Barb from Balloon Wizardry and ask if she could send a crew the morning of the event and do something special to the art deco movie theater. “I want glamour,” I say, “and fun. Something almost Oscar night-like.”

“What’s this for?” she asks.

“Kid Fest Two.”

“So I bill the company?”

“No.” I hesitate, suddenly nervous. “I don’t work for City Events anymore.”

“You don’t?”

“No, but I do need your help, and you’ll just bill me.”

“You’re not paying for this, are you?”

“Yes. I can give you my credit card number now.”

She sighs, a worried sigh. “I don’t understand any of this. What happened?”

I wish I could say I don’t know, but I do know. It was Olivia, getting even. Olivia, sticking a big, fat butcher knife in me. But maybe I did have it coming. I certainly pulled rank in my own little-minion way. “I made someone mad,” I say at last.

“Troublemaker.” And then Barb laughs. Real laughter that makes some of the horrible sick feeling that’s been in my stomach the past two weeks go away. “Shoot, girl, who did you take on? Olivia Dempsey?”

I nearly choke on my own tongue. “How’d you guess?”

“Long story. But I’ll tell you someday.” Barb makes a clucking sound. “Well, well, well. Let’s see what we can do to help you out, and no, I’m not going to take your money. This is my gift—”

“No—”

“For the kids,” and she rides right over my protest as if it had never been said. “I’ll make a few phone calls, too—see if we can’t put together something fun for the kids to take home. You know, a goodie bag, something like that. What do you think?”

A lump fills my throat. “I think that’s very generous.”

“And I think you’re going to end up on top, girl. You just stay strong.”

I am.

*

May 16, the morning of Kid Fest2, arrives, and I’m up early, practically at the crack of dawn. I’m nervous.

What if no one comes and it’s just a huge waste of time?

What if all the kids show up and they hate what I’ve planned?

Or what if Olivia has found out about Kid Fest2 and she’s already sabotaged the day?

I’m chomping on Rolaids as I arrive at the theater two hours before the event is scheduled to start, panicked we’re going to have another lockout, but as I approach, the marquee out front reads, “Welcome Kid Fest!”

That’s a good start.

Inside the lobby, Barb’s balloon crew has just about finished transforming the old art deco theater into a kiddie paradise.

But Barb hasn’t just sent her crew; she’s there, too, and she spots me by the concession stand and comes over and gives me a huge hug. “How are you doing?”

I pull the package of Rolaids out of my pocket and show her. “Good.”

She chuckles. “It’s going to be fine. The kids will have a ball. I love The Blob —”

“That’s what we’re seeing?” I interrupt, vaguely remembering the black-and-white horror film from the ’50s, a story about a flesh-eating blob from outer space that gets bigger with each kill, and nothing about it strikes me as appropriate for children.

“It’s a classic.”

“The blob kills people.”

“No kid today will be frightened by it. Even in the sixties people thought it was corny.”

I’m not so sure, and I reach for another Rolaids.

“What are you eating?” a male voice asks, and I know that voice. I turn around to find Brian Fadden standing in the theater lobby.

He’s still tall and rather rumpled, but he’s got the makings of a tan, and he looks so at ease in his jeans and denim shirt. “Rolaids. Want one?”

He lifts a hand. “I’ll pass.”

I pop another one into my mouth. “I don’t remember sending you an invite to Kid Fest.”

“Tessa did. She thought you could use the moral support.”

“I thought she was coming.”

“She was. But at the last minute Josh invited her on a weekend getaway. So they got away.”

“And here you are.”

“You’re disappointed.”

“I’m not.” Barb moves away, and I walk toward Brian, and it’s like walking toward a great friend. It’s really wonderful to see him. He’s disgustingly tall and very smart, as well as funny and creative and kind to me. “I’m glad to see you. It’s been a long time.”

“Six months.”

“Wow.”

“So do you have a new boyfriend?”

“No.” I grimace. “I think I scare most guys away.”

He laughs, and the sound is deep and husky and makes me smile. “Let me take you to dinner after Kid Fest ends.”

I hesitate.

“Come on,” he says, his smile slipping a little.

“Okay. But on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“I get to pay.”

His wry grin is back. “Deal.”

*

Kid Fest 2 is a success. The event, “A Day at the Movies,” works. It’s not what it was before, but in some ways it’s better.

I wasn’t sure the kids would get The Blob , and even less sure the chaperones would approve of the film, but there were no complaints as the kids and adults settled into their seats with drinks and tubs of buttered popcorn.

After the film, Chaz, one of the graduate film students, a tough-looking twenty-something-year-old who dresses like a gangster rapper, got up in the front of the theater with the microphone and began to speak.

Chaz told the kids he grew up on Potrero Hill, spent most of his life in and out of bad situations and foster care, but was now a graduate student on a full film scholarship at University of California in San Francisco. He made movies because he had something to say. The kids all leaned forward, listening hard. Movies give you a voice, Chaz said. It’s about being heard, making your thoughts known, standing up and being counted in life.

The next filmmaker, a slim, pretty, and very intense Latina, talked to the kids about how many independent films were made today, demonstrating how she and Chaz used nothing fancier than a video camera to shoot their films, and then explained how they edited and did special effects on a computer at the campus, though lots of filmmakers edited at home. Today’s technology and software, she told them, allows everyone to be filmmakers.

Then Chaz asked the kids how many of them would like to make movies, and nearly every kid in the audience raised his or her hand. When Chaz suggested the kids break up into groups and brainstorm story ideas for their movies, the kids were wildly, hugely enthusiastic. They broke into groups, sitting on stairs and the carpet in the balcony, and began to chatter, outlining their ideas and dreaming big.

I stand at the side near one of the velvet curtains, and I can see Brian. He’s crouching next to one of the small groups, listening to the kids talk.

This is good, I think, crossing my arms, holding the happiness in. This is good, what we did today. All we have to do is open the door to possibility, and incredible, hopeful things can take place.

*

Kid Fest 2 ends, and the kids leave, filling their buses and vans, and I’ve shaken hands and hugged little people, and even hugged some of the big people who were so angry with me three weeks ago.

I’ve drained my savings to make today happen, but it’s okay. I’m glad. I needed to do this, needed to try to put things right.

Brian’s still waiting for me as the theater goes dark and the last of the kids have gone.

“What now?” he asks as we head outside into the late afternoon sunshine. We both have cars, and we stand on the pavement facing each other.

“Meet me for dinner later,” I suggest.

His brow furrows. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.”

“Where?”

I think of special places, places with good menus, great cocktails, cool ambience. “Balboa Café.”

“That’s pretty spendy.”

I feel as if I’d swallowed a big soap bubble. I feel intensely happy. “Yeah. I know.” I pull my car keys from my purse. “But maybe you’re worth it.”

The corner of his mouth slowly tilts, a crooked smile, very dry, very cute. His eyes are a pale blue, like the color of faded denim. “Maybe?”

“Maybe.” I turn, head for my car, but glance back at him over my shoulder. I’m smiling big. “Seven o’clock?”

“I’ll be there,” he says.

“I’ll be waiting.”

*

On my way home I call Balboa Café, make reservations for two at seven. The hostess tells me I’m extremely lucky, that they’ve only just had a cancellation for that evening; otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to squeeze us in.

I feel lucky, too, and I drive home with my window down, singing far more loudly in my car than I should.

In Cow Hollow I find a parking spot just steps from my doorway—I am lucky!—and climbing the stairs to my apartment, I try to figure out what I’ll wear to dinner. I wish I had something new to wear, something pretty and fun, but it’s been ages since I went shopping, and now that I’ve wiped out my savings account to put on Kid Fest2, I won’t be doing any shopping anytime soon.

I’m standing in front of my closet when the phone rings. “Hello?” I answer, still staring at my pathetic wardrobe.

“Holly? Alex.”

Alex? Alex who? Then it hits me. Gorgeous Guy! “Hi.”

“I don’t know what your schedule’s like—”

And somehow, most unluckily, I drop the phone. I’m on the floor, scrambling for the phone when it rings again. “Hello?” I pant.

“Holly Bishop, please.” It’s not Gorgeous Guy.

I suffer serious disappointment. “This is Holly.”

“David Burkheimer.”

Not as disappointed. “David!”

“How are you, Holly?”

“Good. Thank you.” I sink down on the foot of my bed, wrap my arm around my knees.

“I’ve had calls about your ‘Day at the Movies.’”

My stomach rises up, and I suddenly think I could use another Rolaids. “I had to do something, David. I couldn’t let Kid Fest end the way it did—”

“Thank you.”

I fall silent.

“I’m sorry how things ended a couple of weeks ago,” he adds. “I know now your event was sabotaged. Sara came to me, told me all about it the end of last week.”

I don’t know what to say.

“Olivia’s moved down south to be with her boyfriend,” he continues. “And we’re looking to fill her job.”

“Oh, David—”

“Don’t say no yet. Just think about it.”

I fall back on my bed, stare at the ceiling dappled with late afternoon sunlight, all shades of dark rose and deep gold. I see the outline of tree limbs and shapely new leaves before closing my eyes.

“You’re good, Holly.”

I smile despite myself because, bless him, he said “good,” not a “good girl,” and he’s right, I am good. I’m really good, but it has nothing to do with being nice.

I’m smart and fun and clever, and I’ve great friends and great hope and all kinds of opportunity.

“I’ll think about it,” I say after a moment, and I’m grinning up at nothing, grinning just because it feels so damn good to be alive.

David’s still talking. “How about we meet for lunch on Friday and we can discuss the salary and benefits in person.”

“Um…”

“It’s a significant pay raise.”

“I don’t know…”

“Everybody here likes you.”

Yet I still hesitate, and I’m not sure why, because I’d love to be back at City Events with Tessa and Josh, but at the same time, I’m not ready to commit to anything. I kind of think I should check out my options, see what else is out there.

“I’ll think about it,” I say finally.

“Let’s still have lunch on Friday.”

“I don’t know, David.”

“We want you, Holly.”

We want you, Holly. Now, there’s something every girl wants to hear.

I stretch, cradle the phone against my ear. “I’m not promising you anything, David. It’s just lunch.”

“Just lunch,” he echoes. “At Boulevard.”

Boulevard, tucked into the historic Audiffred Building on the waterfront, happens to be the coolest, swankiest, hottest restaurant in the city. I’ve always wanted to go there. Always.

“That’s kind of a nice place,” I say.

“Well, I intend to make you a nice offer.”

I feel my stomach somersault, but; it’s with happiness this time, not fear. “How nice?”

He pauses. “One you can’t refuse.”

“Oh. I like the sound of that.”

He laughs. “You really are a princess, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” I agree, feeling that soap bubble of happiness return. It’s rising inside me, full and glossy, shimmering with possibility. “I’ll see you Friday.”

As I hang up, I jump off my bed and do a crazy war dance around my bedroom. I’m meeting Brian for dinner at seven tonight, my former boss on Friday for lunch, and—oh! Gorgeous Guy! I’ve got to call him. I’ll apologize for dropping the phone, smoothly segue into asking him out for a drink…

Things are definitely looking good.

Getting married and divorced in a year was pretty damn awful, but I have to say, kissing that toad two years ago probably saved my life. I wouldn’t be where I am today if I hadn’t discovered that all the magic I ever wanted is right inside me.

I am a princess. I’m the Frog Princess.

The End