by Lisa Acerbo
I snort, actually snort, and embarrassment rises.
Sandra notices my discomfort. “Some guy is going to think that is totally adorable. Remember, you will be the right person for someone, and that everyone in this world is flawed. You’re not special in that way. You are good enough.”
“Okay.” I say the words, but I’m not sure I believe them. There are so many things I want to change. If I can’t be perfect, maybe I can work to get closer to it. “It’s so hard to make sure things go well when you start dating someone. Every text needs to be perfect and worded properly so as to not send the wrong message. Then comes the game of waiting for a response. It’s checking Facebook and Instagram and Snapchat and wondering if you should look the person up, invite them to share your stories. There are so many choices, and one bad one can ruin the whole thing.”
“Stop.” Sandra holds a hand up. “Take in some air.” She draws a deep breath to demonstrate. “You can’t question and doubt everything you or another person will do. That will drive you crazy. You can’t understand a person after one date. Some men will be wonderful, but others not so much. Again. Part of the process everyone goes through to find the right partner. I have faith in you. You need to have faith in yourself.”
“How do I do that? I am so scared about dating anyone. As soon as I make a mistake, I’m sure the guy will dump me and find someone better. I have an evil voice inside my head. It’s always on repeat. It tells me nothing is going to work out. Ever.”
“You obviously need to quiet that voice.” Sandra flips through her notepad. “I won’t see you until winter break, right?”
“Right, unless something really bad happens.” I grimace at the potential.
“It won’t. I have faith in your ability to handle whatever situations arise. But you need some homework. In addition to practicing all the strategies we have worked on so far, I want you to date.”
“What?” This is not at all like my usual post-therapy session homework, which includes making lists, repeating three things I am proud of each day, or controlling my breathing. This homework is scary and hard.
“Yes, date!” Sandra is much happier about this prospect than I am. “I want a report when you return home on break about three different men you dated and the outcome, whether positive or negative. It’s important to put yourself out there.”
What can I say? “Okay.”
Anxiety in check for now, I vow not to use the anxiety meds Sandra prescribes at the end of the session even though the prescription acts like a safety net.
I leave Sandra’s office, determined to be normal, to be strong.
After the appointment, we pick up Uncle Ed, who’s wearing a ratty camouflage jacket and stained Patriots hat. We head to the Neptune Diner. It’s decorated outside with fishing nets, rafts, and life preservers. Inside, it’s silver statues of Greek gods and goddesses. As soon as we sit, I read over the menu and try to ignore how Uncle Ed mumbles to himself, broadcasting to everyone nearby how odd my family is.
I fret over grilled cheese or mac and cheese, wondering which is more caloric. I end up getting a salad, but I’m secretly happy my mom ordered the grilled cheese. I can steal a bite.
“How’s school?” Uncle Ed asks me. His unkempt gray beard appears nest-like, and I wait for birds to fly out of the large gaps between some of his teeth every time he speaks.
“I like it. I’ll be working with satellite cells for my honors thesis.”
“I used to do something like that.” Never one to remember things clearly, he peers at my mom for confirmation.
“You were a lab tech,” she says.
“Why don’t they call you Danielle anymore?” he asks me, the random question highlighting his wavering mental capacity.
I shrug, not remembering when people started to shorten my name to Dani. It just happened.
“How’s that friend of yours? The one I met.” He motions with his hands like they will help me visualize my friends.
For obvious reasons, I haven’t introduced many people to my family, so I recognize who he is talking about right away. “Kyle’s good. He’s in his last year studying to be an engineer. He already has interest from United Boat.”
His mind bounces, leaping onto another idea. “I need a new car,” Uncle Ed informs my mom.
“I feel responsible that you lost your license,” she says to Ed. “I should have been around more to help you with your chores.”
“Can you give me a ride today?” he asks. Her guilt doesn’t faze him.
“Of course,” Mom says. “Where do you need to go?”
“Walmart.” He stares out the window with longing, as if the store would magically appear before him.
“Perfect. Dani needs some supplies before she heads back to Central State. I wanted to make a quick run over there anyway.” She pauses as the waitress puts down my salad. Mom’s grilled cheese smells much better. Even my uncle’s meatloaf temps me. She notices me eyeing her food and smiles. “Want a bite?”
“Only if you’ll eat some of my salad,” I say.
“Only if you’ll go to Walmart with us.”
“Fine.”
We exchange food.
Ed devours his meal with noise and mess. I should be used to his childish behavior, but it still shocks my senses to see this grown man completely unaware of the stares he receives. It’s a quick meal, and when Mom finishes her last bite of sandwich, she gets up to pay the cashier. We head to the car and drive to Walmart a few blocks away. The parking lot is jam packed, and we circle a few times. In the front seat, my uncle rocks back and forth with anticipation.
Finally, we catch a break, grabbing a spot at the end of one of the last rows. Ed doesn’t pause for a breath. He’s out the car door, with Mom and me running to keep up. We catch him at the entrance. He’s talking to the greeter at the doors.
“Where’s the Harley Davidson scooter that’s on sale for one hundred and ninety-nine dollars?”
I step inside Walmart. Entering always overwhelms me. Everything glows cheaply, hurting my eyes. There’s too much stuff and too many people. The knot in my stomach tightens, my skin prickles, my brain squeezed from overload. Because of this all-too-familiar reaction, I try to avoid the big stores and malls whenever possible.
I stare at my mom, afraid to ask Uncle Ed about the scooter. But I can’t resist. “What kind of scooter do you want?”
He doesn’t answer me, but instead jogs off in the direction the lady pointed. We follow.
“He’s heading to the back of the store. Hurry.” My mom peers at me over her shoulder.
His chaotic mind has fixated on the bike. One thought dominates, making him blind and deaf to everything else.
Trying not to draw attention, fighting my own issues with public, I’m speed-walking as I try to keep up with them.
“Where’s the Harley Davidson scooter?” Ed asks another sales employee.
“Toy section,” the young, pimply clerk replies.
“Toy section?” My mom mouths at me.
I shrug. There’s nothing I can say. Sadly, events like this are normal for my misfit family. He’s starting to whimper. People are looking, stepping out of his way. We wander the store for a few minutes before I realize that Uncle Ed is lost. I’m just about to tell my mom to help him when he finds another Walmart employee and interrupts the man helping a disgruntled customer who refuses to carry a large package for herself. This woman is in the midst of a tantrum, and the employee is frantically calling someone on the intercom.
“Where’s the scooter?” Ed asks.
The question hangs in the air as Bill, according to his Walmart name badge, speaks into a phone and lifts a single finger, signaling Ed to wait. Of course, Ed doesn’t. Hurrying down the aisle, he finds a second, even less pleasant sales clerk. This guy gives Ed’s faded coat and near toothless grin the once-over and dismisses him.
“I want to see the scooter,” my uncle demands.
We’re causing a scene. My skin crawls as people stare
. I hate this, hate how it makes me feel. I just want to leave with or without Ed, but my mom steps in to help.
She smiles at the judgmental employee. “Can you please help us find the electric scooters?”
The guy rubs his nose. “Scooters would probably be next to the bikes.”
“Thank you.” Mom jerks Ed away.
“This is great.” He grins like a kid on a treasure hunt.
I wonder if he’s having flashbacks and believes he’s still young with a wife and kids. We march down a main aisle toward the toys, avoiding patrons with overflowing carts.
I’m beginning to relax when Ed makes an unexpected spin into the hunting equipment and corners another sales associate who guards a case full of knives, hunting supplies, and ammunition.
I feel like crying when he actually asks for directions again. At this point, I see the toys and could show him the way.
My mom thanks the man behind the counter and tries to pull Ed away. He’s eyeing the hunting knives with a little too much joy.
I’m concerned.
My mom finally gets his attention, telling him the bikes are two aisles down. Ed is off again at a jog. The bicycles line the air, teetering on metal shelves, and below them stand a variety of scooters and battery-operated cars. At the end of the row, Ed spots the Harley. It is three feet tall, black, made of cheap plastic, with red tassels streaming from the handlebars. And it’s obviously made for children.
Ed eyes it lovingly. “It’s better than walking,” he tells us as we stand, staring.
“What’s he thinking?” I ask my mom as he inspects the scooter.
“I don’t think he realizes the scooter is made for kids,” she says.
“Oh, God.” I shove a hand to my mouth.
A flustered sales associate comes over to help us before my mom has a chance to explain anything to Ed. Ed asks for a brochure on the scooter, but, of course, there isn’t one. I read the information on a plaque below the Harley out loud to him. It’s recommended for children between three and eight. Adult supervision required.
My uncle listens to the description and then asks the sales associate, an older female, “How does the scooter run?”
“It runs on a battery,” the woman replies, popping her gum.
“Can it use gas, too?”
“Naw?” The woman appears slightly shocked. “It’s for kids. You can’t fill a child’s toy with gasoline.”
“I don’t want it then. I need something I can fill up at the gas station.” With that declaration his treasure hunt is over. A sad mask cloaks his unkempt features. Ed’s shoulders slump, and his eyes focus on the floor.
We leave the store empty-handed. Ed’s disappointment hangs in the air between us.
“We can always get you a regular bike, Ed,” my mom says as we settle back into the car.
“Really?” He perks up, distracted from his shattered dreams of owning a scooter.
“Sure, why don’t we plan for next week?” my mom asks.
Ed is happy on the ride home. We drop him off at his apartment.
“That was weird,” I say as we drive home. “And I didn’t get any of the stuff I need.”
“Mental illness can be inherited. It seems to run in our family,” she says, irritation finding a way into her usually calm voice.
We cruise into the driveway.
Mental illness. My worst nightmare. Something else to obsess over at school. “Gee, and here I thought our family was super-normal. Never would have guessed. Thanks for the update, Mom.”
She smiles at my salty attitude. I scurry out of the car and head to the house.
Once inside my room, I lock my door and review my calendar again to check the date I’m leaving this place to head back to school. Two days seems so far away.
#peopleofwalmart
#familylove
Chapter 2
September 30
One-night stands are normal, or you want to believe they are when you’re at college. And if you had the pleasure of attending as many drunken parties as I’ve witnessed from my lonely corner of the room, you’d believe monogamy dead. You also probably believe others share in the experiences and values you and your friends believe in. Most people on campus drink grain alcohol mixed with Kool-Aid out of old Gatorade coolers, receive occasional grades of D in oh-so-tough courses led by lousy professors, and have meaningless one-night stands. You’ve always been the exception, but you’re wrong. It’s shocking when you realize your experiences aren’t so far removed from others. Or how easy it is to jump down the rabbit hole.
* * * *
Here I lie on strange sheets. My body rigid. My finger itching. I refuse to scratch and give Jeremy, the almost naked guy next to me, any indication of interest. Instead, I fist my hand, manicured nails digging into the soft flesh of my palm. Control.
I hear myself swallow, loud in the silent room, and tell myself to relax. Five deep breaths in through the nose and out through the mouth. I try and control the fear.
One-night stands are normal. Right? Everyone does it?
Control the anxiety now, my brain screams.
Until my senior year, I never wanted a one-night stand. I might have considered how exciting the possibility could be when I watched strange men exit my roommate Tanya’s bedroom, but I never believed I’d have one.
I surprise myself when I end up in bed, contemplating a one-night stand with a guy I barely know. I’m not the kind of girl who would normally be in a strange man’s apartment in the early, early hours of morning. In an unmade bed smelling of sweat and boy parts, too terrified to move an inch.
Never have I felt less normal than in this moment. Other girls have fun. Why can’t I shut off my hyper-moralism, enjoy the wildness, and explore my sexual freedoms? No, my conscience has to strike up a marching band in my head, clamoring for attention.
I’m sure many other college students can relate when I say I’m not sure how I ended up here, some of the helpful details obscured through a haze of hard cider and Fireball. Earlier tonight, I strutted out of my on-campus apartment in my new slutty pirate outfit, yet somehow managed to feel less than attractive.
The picture on the package screamed sexy. But my black leggings are itchy and covered with cat hair even though I’d made every attempt to hide them from the demon cat, Snuggles, who illegally lives with me. My high-heeled black boots make me wobble, and the neckline of my low-cut shirt fell to the left, letting anyone appraise, not only my cleavage, but also my bra. Luckily, I passed on my old, ratty, but extremely comfortable bra and put on black and lacy. Points for me. My hair, in a high pony-tail, is moderately well-behaved, and only a few brown frizzlets sprout from the sides.
I sit in my car on the other side of campus, gathering my courage to enter Kyle’s apartment. I know it’s crazy, but I scan the emptiness for a sign of my ex-boyfriend, Jace. Last year, his presence haunted me. I couldn’t avoid him on campus or online. This year, he’s a ghost.
People stagger out of Kyle’s front door. He’s having a costume party even though it’s only the end of September. His favorite holiday is Halloween, and he starts celebrating early. My courage grows at I study the selfie I posted on social media. I look good, but my heart still thumps to the eager rhythm of bass pulsing out his windows. Once inside the door, I weave through the dense crowd, Drake lyrics in my ears. Bodies drive into me, leaving me sticky with heat. I lift my chin and decide tonight will be a great night.
I find Kyle.
“Hey, Dani,” he slurs as he hands me a drink. There is no time for warm and fuzzy. Pulling me over to a tall, skinny, slightly hunched stranger, he says, “This is Jeremy.”
Although he’s my best friend, Kyle doesn’t linger, leaving to mingle with other, obviously more interesting ladies. From the introduction, it’s not clear whether Jeremy and I are on a date, but I remain hopeful. He’s dressed as a zombie, not the fairytale prince I long for. I can’t see his face, but I’ve been in a boyfriend drought since junior year.
Loneliness isn’t fun. I need some fun.
We sit on the faded blue couch, my legs and torso torqued away, a cushion between us becoming a wall.
“Look at that.” Jeremy’s shoulders slouch unevenly, making his spine appear crooked as he points to a guy falling over a chair. Falling boy is already too drunk to see straight, and it’s barely eleven.
“Hope he calls it a night soon,” I say. “Should we call Safe Rides?” After the words rush out of my mouth, I realize I sound lame, like a mother worried for the safety of her child. I hug my arms to my stomach.
Jeremy just shrugs, clearly not caring.
“Nice costume,” I say to break the awkward silence that begins.
My eyes lift to his face, which is decorated like a decaying zombie. My gaze drops when Jeremy grunts in acknowledgment. He doesn’t compliment me, so I feel dumb. Sitting here, wishing something good would happen, I can’t help wonder what he looks like under all the fake blood and gore. I’m hoping for handsome. Surely Kyle wouldn’t set me up with a dud, right? Doubting myself, doubting Kyle’s judgment on finding me a date, I pick up my bottle of hard cider and take a long drink.
An overweight guy in a banana suit slaps Jeremy on the back, and they start talking about the chances of the New England Patriots making the play-offs. As I wait, nerves being my only constant friend, I pick apart one of the coaster napkins scattered around the living room. Few people are actually using them, and wasting one won’t be a great loss. The more I pick, the tighter the knot of tension inside becomes. Awkward, uptight, out of place. That’s me. A sigh escapes my lips as I stifle my inner demon, focusing my attention to the rest of the attendees at the gathering.
People, other than me, seem to find the fun: dancing, drinking, and socializing. All the things I’m not wonderful at, except with my friends or after a couple drinks. I scan the room for my best friend and lifeline, but he’s engaged in whispered conversation with a short blonde in a Catholic school girl outfit. My pirate outfit seems dowdy and lame next to her.
Finally, Jeremy returns from the world of sports and also scans the room. I hope he’s not bored and checking out the other women, but that’s a possibility. I tend to have that effect on men and wonder why I agreed to attend the party when Kyle first mentioned it.
