“Sit down, I need to talk to you,” my mom said excitedly.
“Mom,” I whined. “I don’t have time. I’m supposed to be meeting everyone in twenty minutes!”
“SIT!” she ordered, motioning towards the espresso-colored countertop bar stools.
I rolled my eyes and sighed. No use in fighting. “You have five minutes,” I said, glancing at my cell phone, “starting now.”
“Guess where Jimmy and Daddy are?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know. I’m not psychic.”
My mother ignored my sarcasm with a bright smile. “Diamond shopping!” she squealed.
I was confused. “Why would Dad bring Jimmy to go buy you a diamond? Like Jimmy cares.”
She shook her head. “It’s not for me; it’s for Gwen. Jimmy went to Gwen’s parents’ house last night and asked for their permission to propose! Jimmy’s proposing! My son is getting married!”
My face froze in horror as Mom lunged forward and wrapped me in a big hug, rocking me back and forth. “My son is getting married! My son is getting MARRIED!”
I didn’t hug back. If I moved an inch, my nausea would have bubbled up to the surface and across the sparkly clean, rustic kitchen tile. My baby brother was getting engaged… BEFORE ME! I fake-politely broke my mother’s embrace. “Don’t say he’s getting married; you may jinx it,” I half-joked. “She has to say ‘yes’ first.”
“Carla!” My mother exclaimed in horror. I was bracing for her to yell at me, but she swung her arms around me again. “The answer won’t be no! The answer will be yes! YES YES YES!”
Of course, she wasn’t going to say no. Why should Jimmy D’Agostino, Jr. have to face any adversity in his charmed life? Unlike mine, my brother’s course had been charted out at birth. It was common knowledge around these parts that when Jimmy graduated high school, half of D’Agostino Construction would be his. If I had known I’d be heir to a successful business, I would have only spent my time working out, partying and chasing the opposite sex too, instead of worrying about petty things such as grades and where I fit into life’s master plan. Everything always came easily for Jimmy; work (see above); sports (he was an all-state football, track and baseball player); looks (he was classically handsome); and love (he met his future bride, southern belle Gwendolyn Carrington, his freshman year of high school after she moved up here with her family from Texas, and has been an amazingly doting boyfriend to her ever since). Granted, he’s not always the sharpest tool in the shed, but he basically has me beat in every category, including getting engaged at age 24, my expired engagement benchmark.
Meanwhile, since I was the oldest (and a girl) my parents were much harder on me, and I bore the brunt of their old-school Italian mentality. I had a midnight curfew until I was 20; anything below a B was unacceptable, and I wasn’t allowed to move out before marriage (among other things they didn’t want me doing before marriage). They were New Age in the sense that they pushed me to establish a career, but the fact that my chosen profession was sports broadcasting was baffling to James and Nancy D’Agostino…
“You want to work in sports?!” Mom shrieked as she started crying and babbling nonsense to herself.
“Yea, I do!” I said defiantly.
“A sportscaster?! No girls do that! Do something practical with your life. Become a nurse or a teacher!” Dad barked.
“Hey, it’s your fault, you introduced me to sports!” I shot back.
“Why do you want to work in sports?” My mother continued. “Are you a lesbian? Only butch girls like sports as much as you do.”
“MOM!” I screamed in horror, partly due to her close-mindedness, and partly due to my prudish mother saying the word lesbian. “What is this, 1920? Women can do whatever they want!”
“No, they can’t!” My dad argued.
“YES, THEY CAN!” I yelled.
“So you ARE a lesbian?”
“NO!” I shrieked.
“I don’t believe this,” my father sighed.
“I thought this sports thing was a phase,” my mother added dramatically.
Long story short, I went off to college (as a commuter, I wasn’t allowed to live in a dorm) and compromised with them, double majoring in broadcasting and business. If an on-air career didn’t work out, I could at least fall back on working at D’Agostino Construction (which was as appetizing as a trip to the gynecologist). Luckily, I proved them wrong and landed a job at WSPS Sports Radio 950 AM right after graduation…but as a producer, light-years from where I wanted to be.
But more on that later. Let’s get back to the latest blow to my ego. My mother, in her blacked-out excitement, finally started to regain consciousness and picked up on my quietness. “What’s wrong?” she asked wearily, pulling away from me. “You don’t seem happy. I thought you liked Gwen.”
“No, what do you mean? I LOVE Gwen!” I exclaimed. That was no lie, I loved her like the little sister I never had (her perfect size two, however…)
“So what is it?” My mom pressed.
I sighed. I could take this a few ways. I could tell her about my dream; I could admit my extreme jealousy over the engagement. I could tell her about the jeans debacle. I could tell her about the save-the-date OR I could just do what I normally did and plead the fifth.
“Nothing, it’s just…shocking, that’s all. I can’t believe my little brother is out buying a diamond and proposing. Wow!” I said, half-heartedly.
My mom narrowed her eyes at me. “That’s not it,” she pressed.
I swiftly got up from my chair. “You never believe me when I talk. Why?” I snapped.
“I’m a mother, and I know these things. I can tell when my kids are lying and when they tell the truth!” she snapped back, meeting me at eye level.
I had to give her something to shut her up. Otherwise, I could see this fight escalating and cutting into my brunch (and subsequent bitch session). Besides, I was genuinely happy for Jimmy and Gwen and didn’t want to spoil the mood for everyone.
“It’s really nothing….I got the save-the-date for my ten-year high school reunion yesterday, and it had me a little bummed out. But I’m fine now,” I lied.
“I told you something was bothering you,” she boasted.
I pursed my lips. “Congratulations, you got me yet again.”
“What about the event has you bothered?”
This woman is always on a mission! “Nothing really, it’s just that ten years have flown by in a flash!” I exclaimed, faking nostalgia. “It’s crazy that we are all adults now! I was reminiscing about the good old days, when we were little kids running around the neighborhood, and got a little sad that those memories are from so long ago.” I crossed my arms and gave my mother a wistful look, hoping my little act did the trick.
“Uh huh,” she said, eying me up and down accusingly. “Some people are a little more adult than others.”
“Anyway,” I continued, ignoring her. “When is Jimmy planning on proposing?”
“Oh, it’s the cutest idea!” she beamed, snapping back into her euphoric state. “He’s going to set up a romantic picnic on the 50-yard-line of the high school football field, and he’s going to pop the question then. It’s where they first met-”
“-during the football pep rally, when he was the star junior varsity quarterback, and she was the captain of the junior varsity cheerleading squad, I know,” I finished dryly, my heart sinking to my feet.
“Isn’t it such an adorable idea?” Mom cooed.
“It is. It’s perfect,” I swallowed. “But let me go, I don’t want to be late.”
“Where are you going again?”
“Brunch with the Jade Meadow Drive crew.”
“Where?”
“On the moon, Mom,” I laughed. “We’ve been doing brunch one Sunday a month for the past three years at the same spot. Nothing’s changed.” (Including her need to know my coordinates at all times.)
“Okay, have fun. Tell everyone I said hello. Don’t dr
ink and stay away from carbs since we’re having pasta for dinner,” she said, leaning over to kiss me on my forehead.
“Are you trying to imply something?” I snapped. My mother was a health nut and always trying to impose her views on me.
“No, I just want you to keep healthy. I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been living in that dress,” she said with her eyebrow arched, pointing her index finger accusingly up and down. “I must have washed it twice a week since April. What are you hiding under there?”
“I’m sorry, did I forget to tell you I was pregnant?” I mocked.
“GOD FORBID!” she said dramatically, giving me a death stare.
Yes, God forbid I have sex and procreate. “I like how you knew I was joking. You are getting better at the pick-up,” I said, grabbing my purse. “Text me when the diamond has landed!”
2
I got to Downtown, the hippest brunch spot around, precisely at eleven o’clock. I sat at our usual table, on the second floor by a window overlooking the center of town, and waited for my three best childhood friends, with whom I’d grown up with on Jade Meadow Drive. Instead of looking forward to seeing them, though, my green-eyed thoughts were churning around in my head. I rested my chin on my clasped hands and gazed outside, thinking about the latest turn of events and came to one general conclusion: This blows.
I studied my reflection in the window. Blossoming hips and borderline size 8 notwithstanding, I guess I’m not that bad, I reasoned. I have long, thick brown hair, intense, hazel eyes and an olive-skinned complexion. On the inside, I have a heart of gold (a quality that hasn’t shown itself to you yet, but you’ll see) and a sharp, quick mind. I’m fun, passionate, and will kill for those I love. Oh, and I can tell you what the New York Giants did versus the Dallas Cowboys in 1993 while sipping on a glass of wine and rocking out a designer dress with stilettos. How many girls do you know who can blend the best of both worlds so seamlessly?
But on the other hand, nothing has been easy for me. I feel that I’m never enough, and the older I get, the more this realization manifests itself through all facets of my life. In high school, I didn’t fit into any stereotypical category. I was never the “prettiest” or the “smartest” or the “coolest”—I was never at the top of anything (or anyone; I was probably the only virgin in our graduating class). I did all of the announcing for our school’s events and games, and I wrote sports for our school newspaper, The Bear Cave. Despite my eager-to-please attitude, I was always an after thought. Even then, I was always the bridesmaid, never the bride.
“Hiii!” A familiar female voice said, breaking me out of my trance.
I broke into the first genuine smile of the day and rose to embrace Katie Lansford. I was hoping she would be the first one to arrive, and my wish was granted (for once).
“I’m so happy to see you--even more than usual,” I said.
“What, you don’t see me enough?” Katie quipped as she settled into her seat across from me.
Like yours truly, Katie hadn’t been able to forge her own path outside of Jade Meadow Drive. Unlike yours truly, she couldn’t have cared less. She was happily single, worked as a pastry chef and lived with her parents (no siblings). Katie was a Honey Crest townie through and through, and I would not be surprised if she ran it one day.
I studied her as she earnestly picked up the menu. Katie was a beautiful Irish girl--red-blonde hair, piercing green eyes, white porcelain doll skin. While I sat there and fretted about being in-between single digit sizes, Katie had always been a bigger girl, and was a proud size 14. She was teased growing up (her nickname in middle school was “Katie Cake”), but her infectious personality won the critics over, and by high school she was easily one of the most popular girls in school. She was class president and was even voted Mama Bear at our senior year homecoming.
Katie’s positivity was her most endearing quality. While everyone else (read: me) stressed out endlessly about their problems, Katie laughed her way through life’s curveballs. She was not a clown, but it took a lot for her to lose her toothy grin (the beer she almost constantly had in her hand didn’t hurt either). Don’t mistake her kindness for weakness; if you crossed her, you were better off dead. She was always on my case for being “a pushover” and urged me to be more resolute like her. However, I was not lucky enough to have people naturally gravitate towards my aura the way she was; I had to bend over backward to gain the respect of my friends, co-workers and lovers (I hadn’t had to do much bending lately for the aforementioned third group.)
“What are you having?” she asked without looking up.
“I don’t know,” I replied glumly. “Probably just scrambled egg whites and a water.”
Katie looked up with a sour look on her face. “What the hell kind of meal is that?”
“I can’t fit into any of my clothes,” I moaned. “I have to go on a diet.”
“You people and your diets,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s ridiculous. If you want a Belgian waffle, go ahead and have the damn Belgian waffle with extra whipped cream! Who cares?”
“She does,” I said, pointing to a dark figure making its way to us.
“Hi, guys!” Andrea Deveroux chirped, dropping the five bulging shopping bags to the floor. She leaned in to give us each a kiss on the cheek. “What are we having?”
“I’m having a meal, and Carla apparently is going to sit here and suck on a lemon for brunch,” Katie joked.
“Ha-ha. I’m sure Andrea will want exactly what I’m having.”
“No lemons for me,” Andrea said, clearly not picking up on the joke. “I’m in the mood for some pancakes and bacon!”
Katie and I looked at our friend, shocked. Andrea lived at the gym and hardly ever cheated on her strict diet.
Of all the Jade Hollow Drive alumni, Andrea was clearly the breadwinner. Her goal in life was to marry rich and never have to work a day in her life. Well, mission accomplished. She married neurosurgeon Richard Deveroux, 20 years her senior in a lavish, 300-person wedding extravaganza two years before. They lived in the ritzy Honey Crest Falls section of town, in a giant mansion that she didn’t have to worry about cleaning (thanks to her live-in maid, Dottie). Andrea spent her days working out, shopping, doing lunch with the other high society wives, and… well, I was not entirely sure what else.
I was as close to Andrea as I was to Katie, but just in a different way. I’d go over the Lansford’s when I wanted to watch movies and eat comfort food after a shitty day. I’d go over the Rocha’s when I wanted to drink underage without judgment or needed to get ready for the clubs so my parents couldn’t criticize my risqué outfits. Andrea’s parents were off-the-plane Brazilian and very free-spirited. If I had brought home an old man to marry, my father would have had my head, no matter how much was in his bank account. But the Rocha’s were very happy with their union and celebrated their daughter’s “achievement.” Ah, nothing like reaching the full potential of the American Dream!
If I wasn’t practically family with Andrea, I’d probably hate her. She had a tall, model’s body, brown-black eyes, and a flawless cocoa complexion that’s graced the pages of Seventeen. But Andrea could also be a fiery bitch. In high school, when she wasn’t busy dating her newest flavor of the week, she was putting her latest frenemy in place. We knew that her bark was bigger than her bite, but it wouldn’t have shocked me in the least if there had been an Andrea Rocha dartboard floating around somewhere. The stunning five karat diamond that now adorned her finger, coupled with a closet full of couture fashion and her husband’s infinite bank account, just added fuel to her Mean Girls persona.
Knowing all this, Katie and I were baffled that Andrea was willing to subject her perfect body to fatty meats and complex carbohydrates like us normal folk.
“Are you feeling okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine, why?” Andrea said innocently.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Katie said, catching my eye. “We just thought pancakes and bacon fell in
to your “poison foods” category.”
“Can’t a girl live a little?” Andrea asked defensively. “And you, Katie, of all people, should not be questioning my choices.”
“Hey, guys!” A male’s voice interrupted.
The three of us looked up, startled.
“Dante Ezra, on time for brunch? I thought I’d never see the day!” I exclaimed.
“Dante’s on time AND Andrea’s ordering real food! Okay, where are my friends and where did you hide them?” Katie laughed.
“Very funny girls,” Dante said, swinging the wooden chair diagonal to me around so he could rest his arms on its back. He grabbed a menu. “What are we having?”
I shook my head and laughed, which I constantly found myself doing whenever I was in Dante’s company.
Dante rounded out our little neighborhood group, and if he hadn’t been like a brother to me, I would probably have fallen victim to his charm at one time or another. Dante was my go to friend when I wanted to head over to Prudential Center to catch a New Jersey Devils game, or randomly book a weekend to Baltimore to see the New York Yankees and Orioles play. In return, I would always help him with his songwriting when he was stuck on a particular lyric. In high school, generally the jocks and choir geeks didn’t mix, but Dante was the exception. He was the state’s top football star, and he balanced that by singing lead in our school’s nationally-recognized chorus. He even started his own rock band, “Dante’s Inferno” that enjoyed some local success. Dante’s number of conquests may have made Wilt Chamberlain take pause, but even if he had not been super talented, he would have had no problems with the opposite sex. With his jet black hair and piercing blue eyes, he was nothing short of drop-dead gorgeous.
Unfortunately, post-Honey Crest High, things hadn’t been so easy for him. A fractured vertebrae ended his football career during his junior year of college, and when he lost his scholarship, he dropped out of school. Ever since, he’s been trying to break into the music business while working various side jobs to pay for the studio apartment he rented in town. I knew the past few years had taken a toll on his psyche, but his pride didn’t allow him to admit his pain.
Ten Years Later Page 2
