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At the orientation, I sat smugly on my school chair with the little desk. I’d always suspected I was a good person, but my decision to become a Big Sister confirmed it for me. Here I was taking the time out of my busy schedule to fill out a mountain of paperwork, get interviewed, and pay 50 bucks for the organization to run a criminal background check on me and even submit my boyfriend to a background check (which I would’ve paid a hundred for). But I knew this was nothing compared to the personal rewards I would be getting back in spades. I couldn’t wait to start enriching a disadvantaged youth’s life! I wanted the personal satisfaction I was sure to get from “expanding horizons through one-on-one friendships” as the official Web site advertised.
Once I was cleared to be what they refer to as a “Big” in the program, I’d be matched to a “Little” based on location and compatibility. Sort of like Match.com for non-blood-related siblings who don’t plan on screwing. The volunteer went on to give us some tips for success on forming a relationship with your new “Little.” According to the program, Littles are pleased as punch just to have a new friend, so there is no need to do things that cost a lot of money. In fact, playing a board game, sharing a pizza with only one topping, taking a walk in the park, or just hanging out and talking were perfect activities. I didn’t quite see how if I was a Little I’d be impressed with my Big taking me for a walk in the park to chitchat for an hour. They were clearly underestimating my creativity, possibly used to dealing with amateurs, not seasoned camp counselors like myself, so I cut them some slack.
Next, we went over the ground rules: a commitment of seeing your Little at least once a week — if possible, communication with your Little’s parents and checking in with your caseworker every so often for a progress report — sounded easy enough to me. All this “business” was making me fidgety, though. I couldn’t wait to get this show on the road. I imagined getting cards and letters from my Little years after our experience, telling me what a huge positive influence I’d been on her. Maybe she’d follow in my footsteps and become a writer and dedicate her first novel to me: “To Stefanie, My Big, the person responsible for opening my eyes to all I could become in life. I couldn’t have done this without you.” Or, maybe we’d accidentally lose touch and years later I’d be contacted by a producer from “The Montel Williams Show” and told that a certain Little had been thinking about me for years and called the show to help reunite with me, her long-lost Big. I wiped away an anticipatory tear.
A few weeks later, to my great excitement, I was assigned a Little. It was on! Her name was Ashley, she was 9, and the first time I called I got her mother, Patrice, on the phone.
“Hi. Is this Patrice?”
“Yes.”
“This is Stefanie. I’ve been assigned to be your daughter’s Big Sister. I’m really excited to —”
“Ashley Lynn! Pick up the phone!” her mom yelled half into my ear, leaving a slight ringing sensation.
“Who is it?” I heard a voice from far away.
“It’s your Big Sister. Just pick up the damn phone.” A minute or two went by while I absently flipped through my mail.
“Hello?” said a slightly dour voice.
“Hi, Ashley. This is Stefanie, your new Big. How are you doing?”
“Fine, I guess.” I tried to engage her in a little small talk and found that she was not exactly forthcoming over the phone. But, hey, she was probably just shy, not used to people taking such a keen interest in her — or maybe just not really a phone person. I refused to let that dampen my enthusiasm. I’d loosen her up. I’m great at bringing people out of their shells. Especially after a couple of cocktails. I made plans to see her that coming weekend.
Ashley was cute, and with her brown hair, brown eyes, and baseball cap she sort of looked like me. “Hey, it looks like I really could be your big sister,” I said.
“Well, maybe my mother.” I chose to let that one go. She probably didn’t know what I meant. Instead, I focused on how cool she was dressed. She was decked out in a red Adidas sweatsuit and was sporting a fairly new pair of Air Jordans. I immediately complimented her on her outfit.
“My last Big Sister got it for me. The shoes, too.”
“Oh, really?” I tried to keep the edge out of my voice.
“You had a Big Sister before me?”
“Terry. She’s real cool. She took me to Magic Mountain.” Great. There was already an ex in the picture I had to compete with. I really wasn’t in the market to become a 9-year-old’s sugar daddy.
“What happened to Terry?”
“Um, she’s pretty busy. You know, we kind of grew apart. The Big Sister I had before that was busy, too.” I couldn’t believe it. This girl was a serial Little! One thing was certain. I wouldn’t be leaving her. She needed me and I wasn’t going to let her down.
I had planned an easygoing first outing, but with Terry breathing down my neck I figured I’d better up my game. It seemed doubtful that hanging out playing Pictionary (the only board game I currently owned) was going to cut it, so after grabbing a couple of disposable cameras, I drove us straight to the Santa Monica Pier, where I handed over $15 for parking. We rode the Ferris wheel, then the roller coaster, ate soft pretzels, and I even won her a stuffed iguana after about $40 worth of tries at the Coke bottle ring toss. If there’d been a sound track under us, it would have been a perfect movie montage — especially because Ashley barely spoke the entire time. I felt myself working hard to forge a connection with her, but she answered any questions I asked with one-word responses and I’d usually have to ask the same question three times. It was like spending the day with Marlee Matlin — only Marlee would’ve offered to pay for at least a soda. On the way home, I asked her if she had fun. “It was okay. Next time could we go to Magic Mountain?”
“I have an idea,” I said, pulling into the parking lot of CVS. I wanted to get us a journal. It would be our Big Sister/Little Sister journal, and I figured we could paste photos we took together in it, color stuff, cut pictures out of magazines, and keep a record of all of our Big Sister/Little Sister outings. It would be a keepsake for her to look through later and remember that when the chips were down, she always had me in her life to lift her spirits and guide her way.
Okay, hold up, was Ashley eyeing a pack of Marlboros behind the counter? “This way, young lady.” I steered her away from the smokes and toward the Hello Kitty notebooks, purchased some markers and glitter, and then took her home, where I pasted some pictures into the journal, sprinkled the glitter, added decorative stickers, and then wrote a little paragraph about our day. Meanwhile, Ashley and Patrice watched TV the whole time, completely oblivious to the fact that I was in the same room with them. Before leaving, I told Ashley she needed to call me anytime during the week so we could arrange another outing and that she should think of two ideas for things we could do together. The caseworker had told the Bigs to let our Littles be part of the process. It was up to them to help figure out activities.
Ashley never called me. But on Thursday Patrice did.
“Hello, Stefanie? This is Ashley’s mom, Patrice. When are you picking her up?”
“Oh, hi, Patrice. I was hoping Ashley would call me herself, but how’s Saturday?”
“Well, I’m going to be home on Saturday — I need you to take her when I’ve got to be somewhere else. Can you come on Sunday? I gotta get my hair done.” I sincerely hoped Ashley’s mom knew this wasn’t a babysitting service.
“Okay, I can come on Sunday. Why don’t I pick her up around noon?”
“Can you drop her off around six? I need to get it colored, too.”
“I was actually thinking that a couple of hours would be plenty. Why don’t I plan to have her back by three?” I thought I detected her sucking her teeth in disapproval, but I chose to ignore it.
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