When I Was Your Girlfriend

by Nikki Harmon

  The junior prom came and we had some decisions to make. We could skip it and risk suspicion or we could go with some boys we hardly knew and just try to have a good time. We debated it for a while, but in the end Candace’s mom decided for us. She wanted Candace to go. She bought a dress and had a boy from church all lined up for her. His name was Chad Winslow. He was tall, dark, handsome, and gentle and I could tell he’d had a crush on Candace for a while. He was in the church choir with her. He sang bass. If she was going, I had to go. I found a boy through my Health Careers Club. He was the cousin of Jill, a future pediatrician or cardiologist depending on how it went. My date’s name was Omar Jackson. He was OK looking, taller than me, which was all that really mattered in high school. My mom was worried about him being a Muslim, but I liked him because he was into music – he played the saxophone.

  Candace and I had a long talk before the prom about rules. We both agreed that we had to seem like we were having a good time, but make sure they knew by the end of the night that we did not like them. Also, they could have one quick good night kiss at the door, but that was absolutely it. We decided to go separately to make it easier, but we decided to go to the same after-party at Shari’s house, then IHOP, then home.

  The prom itself was fine. My date was polite but funny and I thought I could probably be friends with him. My obnoxious fuchsia satin dress was itchy and the stockings impossible, but I had on comfortable shoes so that put me ahead of the majority of my limping classmates. We ate the bad food, sat at our table making small talk, and danced quite a few times. We both ignored the slow songs and enjoyed being sarcastic. Our prom picture would not have been horrible if I had kept my eyes open and if he wasn’t smirking.

  We talked a lot with Viv and her date, Stuart, some gorgeous gay boy she found at CAPA. I thought she was really testing her credibility, but everyone seemed to buy it. Maybe they were entranced with his green eyes and curly hair, but I thought it was funny. She fawned all over him and he played it cool. Actually it was quite an impressive performance and they produced a great prom picture out of it. I don’t know how she knew him, but I never saw him again after that.

  The problem that warm May night was Candace and her date. She looked elegant in her cobalt blue off-the-shoulder dress. He looked clean in his white suit and matching cobalt blue cummerbund and skinny tie. I would not have admitted it out loud, but they looked good together. I can’t remember what their prom picture looked like as I tore it up immediately. Because they knew each other from church, they were already friendly and had a lot in common. He took the opportunity to really make a play for her. He would not keep his hands off of her, though they were sitting at a different table with other people from their church, and I could see him with his arm around her shoulder or a hand on her knee or whispering in her ear or touching her hair. I had to keep looking away and pretending I didn’t see. Inside, I could feel a slow boil starting, so I turned to Omar for more jokes.

  She told me later that he tried to feed her from his fork, had a flask with him that he kept trying to pour in her glass and three times, tried to get her to leave and go to the parking lot with him for a smoke. It’s a good thing I didn’t know that then. When they danced, he kept sliding his hand lower and trying to talk all in her ear. I could not tell what she thought of his attention. Sometimes she would smile and it seemed like she was flirting back—sometimes she seemed to be annoyed. I tried not to watch but as the evening went on, I was fed up with the whole scenario.

  I was finally able to talk to her in the ladies’ room by the sinks.

  “Candace, what is going on with your date?” I asked in a whisper.

  “What do you mean?” she whispered back.

  “Why is he all over you? Why are you letting him be all over you like that?” I demanded. The jealousy monster I’d been suppressing all night was threatening to break out of the little cage I’d made for it.

  “I know, he’s very touchy-feely, but he’s always like that. I don’t take it personal; I just keep telling him that I’m not interested. Don’t worry. I got it under control,” she said.

  “What do you mean ‘He’s always like that’? At church? Candace, seriously, tell him to keep his dirty hands off of you. I can’t…. What are you smiling at? I’m mad,” I angrily whispered to her.

  “I can see that. So this is what you look like when you’re jealous? Interesting, very interesting,” she said. She looked quickly around; we were alone, and she quickly kissed me on the lips. “Dee, you have nothing to worry about. He’s just a boy, a stupid boy. I can handle him. Now, how’s your date?”

  “He’s fine,” I mumbled, “nice actually, but that doesn’t mean I would let him feel me up.”

  “I’m not letting him feel me up, I’m playing the game we have to play to be together,” she said.

  Two girls came in giggling and hiking up their pantyhose. Our conversation over, we re-applied our lipstick and went back into the fray.

  The prom finally ended, and couple by couple we drifted to Shari’s house. As expected, it became a drinking, grinding, making out party with a few indiscreet and tacky souls having some kind of sex in the corners. Omar and I arrived fairly early. We ate pretzels and talked about how lame high school was. I wanted to get out of there and I could tell Omar did too. He kept talking about real food like pancakes and sausage patties. He asked if I wanted to leave but I said no. Maybe he thought I wanted to ‘get busy’ because then he leaned in and tried to stroke my arm. My look sent him back to his seat looking relieved. I was not leaving until I had Candace with me. She and Chad finally arrived looking winded. She grabbed my arm and whisked me upstairs for “girl talk.” We found an empty room. It looked and smelled like a baby’s room.

  “Ugh, I have got to get rid of him,” she complained.

  “Oh, is loverboy finally getting on your nerves?” I sneered. “What were you doing? What took you so long?”

  “He insisted we take a drive. He asked me to be his girlfriend! Yuck!” she said. “I told him absolutely not. Now he’s trying to play this hurt victim thing and convince me that the least I could do for him would be to have sex with him, you know, to help him get over his sadness.”

  I laughed. “Is he for real? What an asshole! OK, let’s think of a way to get rid of him,” I said.

  “In a minute,” she said, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to do all night.” And she pulled me close to her and kissed me. We made out passionately and thoroughly for a good 15 minutes in that powder blue room until we heard Omar’s voice coming up the stairs. We pulled down our dresses, straightened up my pantyhose and fixed her bra. We both pulled out our lipsticks as the door opened to Omar standing there looking bored, bewildered and bereft all at the same time.

  “Um, Candace? Your date is getting drunk; you might want to see about him. Dee? I’m hungry! Can we go?” Omar asked.

  “Absolutely!” I said. “Candace would you like to go to IHOP with us?”

  “Yes,” she replied and smiled at me. I loved her so much at that moment. We left Chad at the party pseudo-sobbing to some poor sucker and went and had some pancakes with whipped cream.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Monday morning’s early meeting is not about me but about business falling off. I’ve been so preoccupied I didn’t really notice, but I realize I do seem to have more free time than I used to. We come up with ways of advertising and decide to do more community outreach. I’m thrilled. I need something distracting to put my energy into and this is perfect. I volunteer to help with everything. After the meeting, Meadow comes up to me and asks about my trip.

  “I caught up with an old high school friend, and it was fun,” I say.

  She looks at me quizzically. “Then why do you look so sad?”

  “I’m not, just tired I guess. I’m sorry I’ve been so distracted lately. We were looking for another old friend of ours, but we didn’t find her. But I’m back now. Let’s go find us some pregnant women, OK?” She l
ets me change the subject.

  “OK, let’s go!” We link arms and head back to our offices.

  Unfortunately, my very first appointment is with Laurie and Leslie. Has it been a month already??? I put on some Erykah Badu – “Green Eyes” comes on, my eyes start to tear up at the first note, I skip past it. “Bag Lady,” uh oh, skip, “Window Seat,” OK, forget it. I put on some jazz instead. I get out my patient files, light a peach-scented candle, and try to prepare for Leslie’s questioning. Maybe I can quick call Noema before they get here. I find her info and hit “call”. She picks up on the third ring.

  “Hello?” She sounds rushed.

  “Hi, Noema. It’s Dee. I’m sorry, but I can’t make it tomorrow. I’m really swamped at work this week.”

  “OK,” she says, “How about Friday night? Let’s go out and have some fun.”

  “Friday night is great, and yeah, I could use some fun. I’ll pick you up at 7 p.m.,” I reply. Just as I hang up, my office phone buzzes; Laurie and Leslie are here for their six-month appointment. ‘Ha!’ I think, ‘take that, Leslie!’

  ~~~

  The week goes by quickly. It’s mostly consumed with work. I stay late every day working on outreach and catching up with my patients. I decide to start running on a regular basis so I get up early to get a mile in before work everyday. It’s working. I’m early up jogging to an audio book, and then work all day, late to bed watching bad TV. There’s hardly any time at all to think about Candace. Friday comes and I’m looking forward to this date with Noema. It will be a great distraction; I just hope she doesn’t ask too many questions.

  I make sure I’m outside her place before 7 p.m. She lives in Bella Vista, which is a cool neighborhood, but the parking is a bitch on the weekends. I took a cab. She has the top two floors of a converted row house. She buzzes me in and I walk up three flights. The door is open and she’s waiting for me. I’m glad I’ve been running this week. I’m only panting a little, but my thighs are burning some. She invites me in. Her place is gorgeous. Gleaming hardwood floors, white walls filled with artwork, built-in shelves filled with books, and a spotless kitchen filled with shiny stainless steel appliances. I feel like I walked onto a movie set. I look at her and can tell she’s been cleaning all day…for me.

  “This is beautiful, Noema,” I say, starting to walk around and look at the artwork. “Is all this yours?”

  “No, actually only a couple are mine. I like to trade with my friends sometimes. Keeps us honest—keeps us inspired,” she replies. “This is mine,” she says. She points to a huge canvas covered in a vibrant swoosh of orange, red, and yellow. There is a thin line wavering through the center and then zooming off the frame and onto the wall. I love its energy. Underneath there is a little placard that reads, “orgasm series 2/14.” I raise my eyebrows at her. She blushes and moves away to give me the rest of the mini-tour.

  She has made a 7:30 p.m. reservation at a Moroccan restaurant within walking distance, so we rush out and take a quick walk to South Sixth Street. It’s elaborately decorated, dimly lit and tinkling with Middle Eastern music. Thick rugs on the floor serve as our seats, the appetizer is a hookah passed around tasting of fresh apples and ginger. She is good company – funny, talkative, accommodating.

  Our main course comes with a belly dancer that she seems to know. She gives me a little extra attention and I am not sure what to do. Dollar bills would probably be inappropriate. They both smile and tease me because I can’t keep my eyes off her super low skirt and softly rounded belly. The dancer pulls Noema up to dance with her and she does, tucking up her shirt and revealing her dangling belly piercing. They perform a little routine for me and I am trying not to be charmed by this artist chick, but I kind of am. When the song is over, Noema takes her seat next to me and the dancer moves on to the next table. Noema sits down breathless and laughing; she gives me a quick kiss on the cheek and says “You’re cute.”

  I smile back at her; she’s not so bad herself. After dinner, we catch a cab up to Olde City. It’s First Friday and all the art galleries are open. It’s crazy crowded on this beautiful summer night, but we manage to squeeze into a few cool places. There’s a trio playing some New Orleans jazz on the sidewalk and we find a spot to hang out and listen for a while. I look over at her and think, ‘maybe?’ I close my eyes, sigh, and look away.

  “You OK?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I’m great actually. I haven’t been this relaxed in a while,” I say truthfully.

  “Relaxed? Oh, that’s not good. Let’s go dancing! I need to know if you can dance,” she teases.

  I shrug, “OK, where to? Where do you like to go?” I ask.

  “Let’s go to Shampoo,” she says, hailing a taxi.

  We get to the club around 11 p.m. and dance our asses off until 3 a.m. I haven’t danced that long or that hard in a few years. I’m sweaty and my hair’s a wreck, but I got my life and feel cleansed. God bless house music, all night long! Since we’re close to my house, we cab it there to pick up my car so I can drive her home. I consider inviting her in, but it’s late and I don’t want her to sleep over. We drive back to her house content.

  “Would you like to come in for a nightcap?” she offers.

  “No, thanks. You have worn me out. But what are you doing next weekend?” I ask.

  “Oh, I’ll have to check my calendar, but I might be able to fit you in,” she says.

  “Thanks for a great night, really. I had a lot of fun,” I say.

  “Me too,” she says. We lean in and share a quiet perfect first kiss. “Goodnight!” she says and hops out the car. I watch her walk in and try not to be excited. I think I like this woman. I drive back home, get in the house, and pass out all sweaty on top of my bed.

  The next weekend’s date goes just as well. We go to a Mexican restaurant on Chestnut Street, drink a pitcher of Margaritas then play pool and darts for the rest of the night at Buffalo Billiards. When I take her home, we make out in the foyer of her building but I don’t go up. I’m a three-date girl. We make plans for the following weekend. We both are excited about it. I think she must be a three-date girl too.

  ~~~

  The week goes by fast. I check my Facebook several times a day, nothing from Ms. Brown. Maybe I’m not supposed to find Candace. Maybe I should just move on. I feel frustrated with myself. I call Viv.

  “Hey Viv, how’s it going?”

  “Well,” she says, “Now, we are seeing a couples counselor.” It was her best friend’s suggestion. “I think it’s a waste of money, but it’s something we’ll do so we can say we really tried. Meanwhile, she caught me looking for work on the West Coast, and I caught her going through sperm donor profiles.”

  “Sorry,” I say. There’s not much more to say about that. “Yeah, well, I don’t know about you, but think I’m tired of this whole love business.”

  “Yeah, I can dig it. Maybe I’ll get a dog when I get to Cali.” She laughs a sad little laugh and we get off the phone to deal with our own regrets.

  That night, bored, I check my Facebook and notice that Ms. Brown had finally “friended” me! Ignoring her polite and warm message of greeting, I open Ms. Susan Brown’s page and go straight to her “friends” list. It’s over 500, which is a pretty good sign that she’s accepting students as “friends.” I scroll down to the C’s, and then I go slow, savoring the search, not wanting to miss anything. I find Candace. The name says “C. Olivares,” but the picture is of Candace. It’s dark; she’s sitting on a big rock. I click on her name.

  Her page is also on lockdown but I can see where she lives, Albuquerque, New Mexico. Holding my breath, I google her new name and Albuquerque and she comes up in the local high school Web site as faculty. There is a picture. My heart leaps in my chest. She looks older and has a shorter, sensible haircut, but she’s still beautiful. Her freckles are still where they were, her smile is still big and sincere. I found her. I can’t believe it. I exhale. I can’t stop smiling. She still exists. I am relieved. Now what?
I feel conflicted. I call Viv.

  “Hello?” she answers.

  “Viv, girl, I hope this is a good time, because I have good news!!!” Unsure or not, I cannot stop smiling.

  “What’s up?” she exclaims.

  “I found Candace! She’s in New Mexico! Albuquerque, if you can believe it. She changed her last name, its Olivares,” I tell her.

  “Oh,” Viv says, her voice dropping. “So she got married, then.”

  “Oh, yeah, I guess she did.” My excitement waned some. “But at least I found her, right? I know where she works! But Viv, what should I do now? Facebook ‘friend’ her? That seems so lame. But I’m not sure I even want to do this anymore. I just started dating this other woman, Noema, who I think I really like. What would you do?” I ask.

  “Honestly, I think I would go out there and see her. If you are wondering if she is still your true love, you’ll know if you are alone together, in the same room. Online is too impersonal. It’s just too easy to be dishonest or stretch the truth or sidestep it altogether. I say ‘what the hell, go for it’!” She laughs, of course.

  “Do you want to come?” I ask hopefully.

  “Naw, Dee, this is all you, buddy, all you,” she replies. She’s right, of course.

  “What should I do about Noema?”