The Journal of Mortifying Moments

by Robyn Harding

  The dance was magical! The gymnasium had been transformed into a splendid ballroom. As Brent and I grooved to “She Drives Me Crazy” by the Fine Young Cannibals, I succumbed to the enchantment of this special evening. I was so immersed in the festivities that I didn’t even sneer at the crepe paper streamers, the plastic pompoms, the silk flowers adorning our tables. The surroundings all seemed perfect, celebrating our passage into adulthood. Maureen, Rhonda, and I periodically gave each other the thumbs-up or a suggestive up-and-down movement of our eyebrows.

  Wes had sneaked in a bottle of white rum that we furtively sipped under the tablecloth. We were all getting quite drunk, laughing and falling all over each other. The adult chaperons eyed us suspiciously but didn’t take any action. They would be lenient because it was the most important night of our lives.

  As the evening wound down, the butterflies in my stomach reactivated. They were somewhat calmed by the effect of the rum, but as the moment of devirgining drew closer, the more nervous I got. I pressed my body against Brent’s as we swayed to “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak.

  I crooned the lyrics in his ear. “ ‘Oh IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII don’t wanna fall in love. . . .’ ” Yes, I was doing the right thing. Brent was so cute and cool. He might make it to the NBA one day, and even if we didn’t get married, I could say I lost my flower to a big basketball star. I whispered in his ear. “Tonight has been so wonderful, Brent. I’m so glad you’re my date. So . . . what do you want to do now?”

  “There’s a party at Jason Mannering’s,” he responded. “Why don’t we go for a while?”

  “Okay.” I shrugged. Obviously, Brent was a bit nervous about what was to come. That made me feel even more connected to him. We would spend a few hours unwinding with our friends and then head over to Rhonda’s aunt’s house. I knew our moment would be magical when it happened.

  “Hey!” I called to Maureen and Rhonda. “Are you guys going to Jason Mannering’s party?”

  “We’re gonna skip it,” Maureen giggled as Eddie came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. She flashed the silver key in her palm. “We’re going to take off now.” She gave me the thumbs-up signal.

  “Have fun!” I said, giving an enthusiastic yet subtle thumbs-up. I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. It would have been nice if Brent were as keen to get to Auntie Shirley’s place as Eddie was. But I felt fairly confident that his hesitation was due to nerves, and not to lack of enthusiasm.

  “We’ll go for a little while,” Rhonda said. Of course, Rhonda was already a real woman, so going to the party was fine for her.

  The limo took us to Jason’s, where a large number of teenagers were swilling champagne, pouring it in each other’s hair, down their tops or their pants. A bottle passed by, and Brent took a long pull. He passed it to me, and I followed suit. Then I smiled up at him, hoping to turn this into a special intimacy shared between us. Unfortunately, the bubbles in the champagne caused me to cough and sputter. Brent hit me hard on the back several times. He seemed to think the champagne cork was lodged in my throat.

  “Thanks,” I said, regaining my composure and wiping tears from my eyes.

  “No prob,” he said, taking a beer proffered by a guy on his basketball team.

  “It’s really special being here with you,” I whispered. No response. “It’s really special being here with you!” I bellowed over Janet Jackson’s “Miss You Much.”

  “Yeah,” he said without looking at me. “You, too.”

  “I have to tell you that I’m really glad that . . . you know . . . that later . . . we’re, umm . . . you and I—”

  “Hey, Dirk!” Brent screamed across the room. “Get over here, you dweeb!” He launched himself at Dirk, and they wrestled like five-year-olds with ADD.

  Everyone laughed. I laughed, too, catching the eye of Stephanie Miller and some of her girlfriends, who were enjoying the guys’ antics. “Boys will be boys,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. I was feeling very sage and mature. I would soon be a real woman after all.

  The night progressed in much the same manner until, at 2 am, Rhonda approached. “What are you guys waiting for?”

  “I think Brent’s a bit nervous,” I said lamely. “And he’s having fun with his buddies.”

  “What—is he gay? Tell him you want to go and do it! He’ll go with you.”

  “You’re right,” I said, and guzzled the remains of my beer. “I’m taking him to Auntie Shirley’s.”

  I marched up to him. He had Jason Mannering in a headlock and was giving him a noogie. Stephanie Miller and her friends were cheering them on. “I need to talk to you,” I said, positioning my body between him and the group of spectators. He was my boyfriend, this was my prom night, and I needed some devirgining.

  “Okay.” He let Jason go and followed me into the hall.

  I pressed myself against him and whispered in his ear. “I’ve got a key to an empty house, and I want to take you there and ravage you, and we can even . . . you know . . . go all the way.”

  He was quiet for a long moment.

  “I said—”

  “Yeah, I heard you. Let’s go.”

  We made out in the back of a taxi, and I could tell that Brent’s nerves (and other parts of him) had steeled for the event. He seemed really into it, kissing me and pawing at my mermaid dress.

  “You kids take it easy,” the Pakistani cabdriver said. “This is not a porno.”

  I let us into Auntie Shirley’s house, still kissing him as we stumbled through the unfamiliar rooms. We found an empty bedroom; the door opposite was closed, indicating that Maureen and Eddie were in there. We left the light off, but the moon through the window illuminated the bed. It had a floral bedspread, and propped against the pillows were several teddy bears seated on a lace doily. With a sweep of his arm, Brent knocked them to the floor.

  “Thanks,” I said, giggling. Then I slowly and seductively unzipped the back of my mauve mermaid dress. Brent was watching intently as the taffeta began to slide to the floor. Unfortunately, a dress of this style required some serious undergarments. I was wearing a corset of sorts, with industrial strength whalebone to hold up my breasts in the strapless gown. I was also wearing control-top pantyhose, which were really hideous, but if I could pull them off quickly enough, I did have some cute lacy panties on underneath.

  “Wow,” Brent murmured, seemingly unfazed by the matronly underwear. He began to unbutton his shirt as I walked slowly toward him.

  “ ‘Close your eyes,’ ” I sang. “ ‘Lend me your hand. . . .’ ” I affected a sweet, girlish tone, much like Susanna Hoffs from the Bangles. My hands gripped the waistband of my pantyhose. “ ‘Is this burning . . . an eternal flaaaaaaaaaaaaaame?’ ”

  There was a loud and angry banging at the back door.

  “Oh, my God!” I shrieked, pulling my pantyhose back up. “Oh, my God! What is that?” My first thought was that it was the police. Surely a houseful of teenagers having sex must be breaking several laws? Or worse—it was a guy in a hockey mask with a butcher knife who couldn’t get laid on prom night and finally snapped!

  Brent looked terrified, as well. His hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt but had no success. “I’m going out there,” he said.

  God, he’s brave. It would have been wonderful to lose my virginity to someone so courageous, but now he was sure to be arrested or stabbed. I considered struggling back into my mermaid dress, but there was no time. I wrapped the taffeta around my hips and followed Brent into the kitchen.

  Eddie and Maureen were already there, their naked bodies wrapped in sheets. I would have given her the thumbs-up if we weren’t in such a dire situation. “What the fuck is going on?” Eddie demanded of Brent.

  Brent was marching toward the door.

  “Grab a knife!” I called after him. “Just in case.”

  He paid me no mind and opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

  Stephanie Miller stumbled into the
room. “You prick!” She screamed at Brent. “Did you sleep with her?! Did you? Did you have sex with her!” She was crying, black rivulets of mascara running down her cheeks.

  “What are you doing here, Stephanie?” I demanded, going over to stand by Brent.

  “You were supposed to tell her after the dance,” she continued to scream at Brent. “You were going to tell her it’s over!”

  “What are you talking about?” I was filled with panic. Stephanie had obviously gone mad, and we could all be in serious danger.

  “Tell her now, Brent!” she screeched. “Tell her nooooooooooooooooowwww!” She collapsed on the floor in a sobbing heap of sea foam satin.

  To my surprise, Brent dropped to his knees and cradled her in his arms. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “It’s all going to be okay.” He looked up at me then. “I’m sorry, Kerry. I should have told you before. Steph and I . . . we’ve been seeing each other for a while.”

  “What?” I was in shock. How could this be happening? Two minutes ago I was singing “Eternal Flame” and getting naked with him. This couldn’t be real!

  “I’m sorry but . . . it’s true. Steph and I are together.” He picked her up off the floor, and the two of them headed out the back door. Just before he closed it behind him, Brent turned to me. “I hope I didn’t ruin your prom night.”

  Maureen approached me with an afghan and wrapped me in the multicolored yarn. It was only then that I realized Brent’s last vision of me would be standing in the kitchen, wearing a corset and control tops.

  Chapter 11

  I place the journal in the junk drawer in my kitchen. That was a hard entry to write, but I am sticking to my commitment to deal with these issues and eventually resolve them. I feel a sense of melancholy whenever I reflect on that night. It seems everyone has some romantic memory of their prom night, of their deflowering. And I have that fiasco. I think about Maureen and Rhonda for a moment. We speak only about twice a year now, although they live in a suburb less than an hour away from me. Maureen stays home with her three kids. (The first child is Eddie’s.) She’s married to a salesman. Rhonda is living with a guy who owns a bar in Kent. I met him once—he was overweight and sweaty but apparently has quite a lot of money. I should call them one day. Perhaps reconnecting with the the Transisters should go on my self-improvement list?

  Today though, I am tackling a major item on that list. I am facing Sam in person. In my last therapy session, I told my therapist that I felt the need to meet with Sam face-to-face.

  “Are you sure you can handle that, Kerry?” she said, her heavy eyebrows knitting together with concern. A little waxing would really lighten up her face and improve her looks immensely.

  “I’m quite sure,” I replied, sounding more confident than I actually felt.

  “Well, if you’re sure that you’re ready for this major step, then we’ll proceed.” Her man hands were clasped together, fingers entwined. “But this meeting must take place in a public place, with absolutely no alcohol involved.”

  “Okay,” I agreed, feeling rather sheepish that she knew how easy I am after a couple of cocktails.

  So I’m meeting him for coffee at Pike Place Market at 10:30 AM.

  Yes, it is time to deal with Sam openly and honestly. Since my disastrous brunch with Sandra, I am more committed than ever to the principles outlined in You Get What You Give. I even left her an apologetic message:

  “Sandra? It’s me, Kerry. I just wanted to say that I’m really sorry about the way I acted at brunch. I have realized that the only way you can find your way to true enlightenment is by making your own mistakes. It was wrong of me to force my beliefs on you, no matter how clear it is to me that you’re going to regret this decision for the rest of your life. Only by allowing you to come to your own conclusions can our relationship endure.”

  She hasn’t called back.

  I’ve been up since seven. I did a few sun salutations in my living room, called my mom to wish her a happy Saturday, and then began grooming to meet Sam. The grooming is not to impress Sam and make him want to get back together with me; it is to make him realize that I am an attractive, confident woman who can live without him and will likely be able to find someone creative and sandy-haired to love me in the foreseeable future.

  It is a beautiful fall day as I head to the bus stop. There is a nip in the air, but the sun is shining. The leaves are vivid shades of red and yellow, and the city feels clean and fresh. I am wearing a chunky orange turtleneck sweater and a chocolate down-filled vest. My outfit and my mood fit the beautiful autumn weather perfectly: cheerful, upbeat, confident.

  A quick trip down the hill, and I am at the market. As I hop off the bus, I check my watch and see that I am ten minutes early for our date—I mean, meeting. That will not do. Sam cannot see me sitting there, waiting for him like an anxious, love-starved spinster. I plan to be six minutes late, thus sending the message that my life is full and busy and he is such a low priority that it was hard for me to get there on time.

  I stroll around the market, immersing myself in the energy and diversity of Pike Place. Absorbing the plethora of colors and smells, I cheer on the fish-tossers, say good morning to vendors, and smile at passersby, even helping an elderly lady load her groceries into the basket of her motorized wheelchair. I am bound and determined to be positive and helpful in my everyday life, thus ensuring the smooth, karmic flow of good fortune back to me (page 78). And my good deeds keep me from dwelling on the upcoming encounter with Sam.

  When I arrive at Sally’s Café on Pike, I am only two minutes late. I prepare to walk on by and go around the block for another four minutes when I notice Sam seated inside. He is reading the paper with a mug of steaming coffee sitting in front of him. I may as well get this over with. Taking a deep breath, I enter the coffee shop.

  His head pops up at the sound of the door, and he smiles at me. Oh, those dimples . . . No, I am strong, positive, confident. . . . Remember what Ramona said: Sam doesn’t even know the real me, or care to get to know the real me. Although . . . she didn’t exactly say it was Sam, did she? She just said it was someone really good-looking whom I was completely crazy about. What am I saying? Of course it was Sam! Who else could it be?

  “Hi.” I smile coolly, giving no indication of the manic internal dialogue proceeding in my head.

  “Hey . . .” He stands up and kisses my cheek. “It’s good to see you. You look great.”

  “Thanks. So do you,” I say formally without looking at him. He pulls out my chair, and I sit.

  “How have you been?” he asks.

  “Excellent. And you?”

  “Pretty good. Busy with work.”

  “Me, too. Really busy with work. Absolutely swamped, in fact.”

  “That’s going well, then?”

  “Great!” I give a false smile. I look at him and realize he’s not buying it. “Well . . . it’s going okay,” I admit. “At least I haven’t been fired yet.”

  He seems to find this incredibly funny and throws his head back with laughter. “How could they ever fire you?” he says, looking at me fondly.

  “Yeah . . . well . . . Look, Sam—”

  “Let me get you a coffee. Americano?”

  “Okay, but I can pay for it.” I dig in my purse for my wallet.

  “It’s just a cup of coffee,” he says with a wink, and goes to the counter to order. He is back within minutes, presenting me with a tall mug. “Two sugars, right?” He passes me two sugar packets.

  “Right,” I say, feeling the resolve drain out of me like air from a leaky balloon. He remembers that I take two sugars? How could someone who doesn’t care to know the real me remember such a minor yet important detail? I clear my throat and steel myself for what’s ahead.

  “Look, Sam . . . I think we need to talk.”

  “I agree.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course I do. I haven’t seen you in almost a month. You don’t return my calls. There’s obviously somethi
ng going on with you.”

  “Well, yes . . .” I stop to consider what to say next. I want to tell him that it is time for me to move on, to find someone who wants to have a future with me, not just a quickie on the kitchen table, but the words are harder to summon than I imagined.

  He interrupts my reverie. “I may as well just ask you point-blank. Are you seeing someone else?”

  “Yes,” I say quickly, sensing a solution to all my problems. “Yes, I am seeing someone else, so obviously it wouldn’t be right for me to go on seeing you and calling you and stuff.”

  He heaves a heavy sigh. “I guess I knew this was coming,” he says. “But it’s still hard.” He looks up at me with those beautiful, intense gray eyes, and I feel like I might cry.

  “It is,” I say mistily.

  Suddenly, we are interrupted. “Excuse me?” a twentyish, skinny blond thing is saying to Sam. “Sorry to interrupt, but my friends and I are having a debate. Are you Patrick Dempsey?”

  “No,” he chuckles. “I’m not Patrick Dempsey.”

  “He’s not Patrick Dempsey!” She calls to her friends. “Okay . . . sorry about that.”

  “No problem. I get that quite a lot.”

  “I bet you do,” she says flirtatiously as she backs away. “You’re actually better looking than Patrick Dempsey . . . more like JFK Jr.”

  “Okay, run along now!” I wave her away with my hand. God. This is not helping things.

  Sam turns his attention back to me. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I snap. “You can’t help it that you look like Patrick Dempsey except even better.”

  “So who’s the guy?”

  “What?”

  “The guy you’re seeing?”

  “Oh . . . I met him at a work function. He’s in the visual arts . . . Sandy-hair, wonderful and caring soul.”