Ditched: A Love Story

by Robin Mellom

  There are some parts they don’t need to know.

  “Tel me about this reputation of yours,” Donna says.

  That part, too.

  Gilda eyebal s her. “Let’s not go there.” Donna nonchalantly flips though a celebrity tabloid magazine. “I just think we have a bit of a mystery on our hands. Does Ian want to be her boyfriend or not? And in a juicy celebrity scandal, reputations are things that investigative reporters wil , you know . . . investigate.” 126

  “They’re not investigative reporters, Donna.” Gilda gives her an irritated look. “They’re tabloid jerks. And Justina’s reputation has nothing to do with whether Ian loves her or not.”

  Loves me or not—it feels weird to think of him possibly being in love with me. Or possibly not.

  It also feels weird to have two grown women arguing over my love life. Because maybe there is no argument.

  “Hold on.” I put my hand up to stop their analysis.

  “Donna’s right. My reputation does play a part in this. I don’t know if it’s been long enough for it to suddenly not be a part of me anymore.”

  Maybe that’s why you did what you did, Ian? Lose me before I hurt you?

  Donna stands next to me and puts her hand on my shoulder, like a TV game show host. “Let’s do the math, dol .” I peer up at her. “Math? This early in the morning?” She stuffs her hands in her pockets and walks back and forth the length of the counter. “Reputations can be erased by a simple mathematical formula. Take the number of infractions—so in your case, it’s the number of excessive kissing incidents—and multiply it by 2.5.” Gilda shakes her head and laughs. “Why 2.5?” Donna gives her a chal enging look, radiating superiority, even though the two seem to be equal y having fun with this.

  “Every time you do a misdeed you must do the right thing 2.5

  more times because people don’t just change their mind about 127

  you when you do the right thing twice. It has to be more than just a fluke. And multiplying by 3 is just a pain. So 2.5.” They both stare at me, as if they’re waiting for an answer.

  “What? Now? You want me to multiply the number of guys I’ve kissed by 2.5?”

  They both nod energetical y.

  I mumble under my breath, “Fifty-two weeks in a year . . .

  multiplied by two . . . double that . . . minus Christmas vacations and Easter and that bout with bronchitis freshman year . . . add Jimmy DeFranco’s pool party . . . multiply by 2.5 . . . carry the one . . .”

  Gilda taps at her watch. “You already told me how many guys you kissed. Why is this taking so long?” I bite at my lip. “I left out a few.”

  Donna puts her hand on my shoulder again, back to playing game show host. “And the total number of days until your reputation is erased?”

  I quickly carry the one and add. “Two hundred and twenty days.”

  “Wow,” Gilda says. “According to Donna’s bril iant equation, Ian erased your reputation from his mind”—she looks up at the ceiling for a moment, then—“three weeks ago!” I quickly add up the days to figure out when that would’ve been. “Oh my god.” I can feel the blood rush out of my face and down to my feet. “Three weeks ago . . . that was the day Ian told me I looked pretty. I thought it was just the lip gloss. . . .”

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  Donna snatches a bag of Funyuns, rips them open, and gives me a satisfied wink. “Told ya.”

  We al happily munch on Funyuns because even the name implies things are looking up.

  “As long as you didn’t kiss another guy at prom or anything,” Gilda adds. And the two of them laugh.

  But I don’t laugh with them. “Um. Does dancing with someone else count?” My voice is strained.

  Gilda drops a Funyun and flops her head on the counter.

  “Aw, honey.”

  “It was an accident!” I say, hoping it isn’t a lie.

  Donna raises an eyebrow and inspects my face. “How does one accidental y dance with a guy?” It’s clear to her I don’t have an answer, so she steps back and says, “Wait, are you sure you’re the one who got ditched?” I readjust my skirt, making the stains and rips very visible.

  “Believe me, Ian ditched me,” I say.

  “So this dancing”—Gilda lifts her face to look over my dress—“is that how you ended up with that rip?” I snatch one more Funyun and pop it in my mouth.

  “Nope, that happened over on Lexington Avenue. After the bruise and the tattoo and the thing that happened with the Chihuahua.”

  They both look at me like grandparents holding an iPhone . . . total y confused.

  “Okay, so I accidental y danced with a guy just before I got this.” I point to a light brown stain. Thigh high.

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  8

  Rubbery Chicken Marsala

  AT THAT POINT, crying seemed like a ridiculous waste of time, given everything that needed to be done to get my dress back together. But it was the only solution I could come up with.

  Just then two girls came into the bathroom. Platform heels. Animal print dresses. Mike’s and Other Mike’s girlfriends—the Ledbetter girls.

  I was scrunched in the corner trying to stifle my tears, but they didn’t notice me. They were already mid-conversation.

  “So? His thing. Is it, you know . . . big?”

  “Like a zucchini!”

  “Real y? Which kind?”

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  “What do you mean which kind? The stir-fry kind.” I stayed smal and quiet, not wanting to interrupt their conversation. But also not wanting to hear their conversation.

  I had heard rumors that Ledbetter girls like sex. And food. I just didn’t know they meant together.

  The brunette fluffed up her hair in the mirror. “No, I mean like is it the mutant ginormous overripe kind you see at the state fair? Or is it one of those wimpy Italian zucchinis?” I did not want to know the answer to that question. Mike was my lab partner, for chemistry’s sake! “Hi,” I interrupted.

  My voice must have sounded like a talking mouse in the corner.

  They both turned to each other.

  “Did you hear something?”

  “Yeah. Eery. No more weed.”

  “Down here,” I said, and they both looked down at me, probably relieved I wasn’t a talking mouse and the start of a bad hal ucination.

  The blond one said, “Didn’t you come in here to fix your dress? Like a while ago?” Her tone was sharp. “Why are you just sitting on the floor?”

  “The girl Ian sent in here was—”

  “And dinner is almost over,” the brown-haired one chimed in. “Ian wasn’t too happy about eating alone.” Oh no. Why didn’t I just let Al yson help me? I could’ve been done, safely pinned into my dress and much closer to Ian’s lips if I’d just let her help. I needed to stop worrying 132

  about what Al yson thought about Ian.

  Except she seemed to have lots of thoughts about Ian.

  I made an attempt to explain al this to the Ledbetter girls. “But the girl who tried to help me, she . . . she—”

  “She what?” The blond girl squinted her eyes. “She smooshed you into a corner?”

  “No, she was tel ing me about Ian’s different facial expressions, like she knew him, you know, real y knew him, and I assumed that she . . . you know . . .” Their faces were pinched. Like I wasn’t making any sense.

  Crap. Me and my assumption problem. It always got in the way. I couldn’t believe I’d left him alone for most of dinner because of my assumption addiction.

  The first step was admitting it. So there. I admitted it.

  But I needed to get back to Ian and admit it to him—

  which meant I was going to have to get help from the Ledbetter girls. Even though I was a little worried they actual y were going to smoosh me into the corner.

  I decided to go with the gracious approach. “I could real y use some help. If you happened to have a safety pin in your purse, that’d be fantastic, um . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know
your names.”

  The dark-haired one cocked her head. “I’m Skank. And this is my friend Ho.”

  And with that, the rift between Ledbetter and Huntington girls was on the table, open for discussion. I held my dress up as I wobbled and stood to face them. “Listen, I don’t know 133

  why the girls at my school say bad things about Ledbetter girls, but—” I was trying to make my point about not being like the other Huntington High girls by adding some dramatic hand gestures but that’s when my dress fel down yet again. “Oh, sweet god, when wil you give me a break?” I whispered straight up at the ceiling.

  They studied me careful y as I wriggled like a caterpil ar, trying to get my nasty, stained, zipperless dress to stay up. I think it suddenly dawned on them there was no explanation needed. . . . I was not a typical Huntington girl. It didn’t take an expert to see this dress did not include a designer label.

  The dark-haired one dug around in her purse that looked more like an overnight bag. “I have an idea.” She rooted for a long time and eventual y got sidetracked.

  “Oh my god, look at this picture of me and Mike up at the lake.”

  Her friend nodded. “Hot. Does he shave his chest?” Wow, they were into details. I cleared my throat. “Find anything to fix my dress?”

  “Yeah, see, here’s the thing.” She put her purse/overnight luggage on the counter and looked down at me—I was back to scrunching low against the wall. “Mike is always using this particular type of wire to clean out his bong, cuz it’s like the oldest scrappiest piece of glass ever. He should trash it in the dump yard, I swear. But he loves that thing. Thinks it pulls the cleanest smoke.”

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  “But it gets al jammed up after a few hits,” her friend added.

  “I know, right? Why doesn’t he get handmade glass?” I fake coughed. “My dress?”

  “Your dress. Right, so that wire would be the perfect thing to sew your dress back together.”

  “Bitchin’ idea.” Her friend high-fived her.

  She snatched her purse back and rooted some more.

  “Here it is!” She pul ed out some wire and bent off a piece about a foot long. “Let’s get on our Martha skil s!” They spun me around, and the dark-haired girl said, “I’m assuming you don’t mind if we ruin your dress?” I shook my head. “Not at al . It may even look better.” They both worked on punching through the fabric with the wire and lacing it together so that it stayed up. They hummed and giggled while they worked—like members of Snow White’s clan. “Thanks, you guys,” I said. “I don’t even know your names. I mean, your real names.”

  “Serenity.”

  “Bliss.”

  I don’t know what I was expecting, but not that. “Cool,” I lied. Were they for real? “Were you . . . were you both born with those names?”

  “Nah, Mike and Mike cal us by our essence. Not our names.”

  As freaky as it sounded, it was also rather sweet.

  “That’s why we came to your prom tonight, not ours,” 135

  Serenity said. “Any guys who cal us by our essence are guys we want to fol ow.” The girls nodded and winked at each other.

  “You mean it’s Ledbetter prom tonight, too?” Serenity yanked on my dress to squeeze it tight. “Yep.

  But I had to come to this one. Mike was so excited about your prom color. Purple. His favorite shade of lava lamp.”

  “What’s the Ledbetter prom color?”

  “Skin.” Serenity spun me around. “Done! Check you out, lady.”

  I could see the back of the dress in the mirror—it actual y looked cool. A little punk now. I liked it. “Thanks. I think Mike and Other Mike are right about your essences.”

  “Thanks, Sweetness.” Serenity turned back to Bliss.

  “Let’s pee then dance our skinny asses off!” They both threw their hands in the air and howled. I half howled with them. No—more like a wimpy screech.

  When I went into one stal to pee, they shoved into another one to share a cigarette. But after getting a whiff, I knew it was no cigarette.

  As we walked out, the girls were red-eyed and giggly, and I was stil stained, sober, and sewn together with bong wire. To make matters worse, the dinner tables had been cleared and the dance floor was jammed with people. I had completely missed dinner! Even worse, Ian was nowhere to be seen.

  Oh, no. No, no, no. Why didn’t I let Al yson help me? I had to find him.

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  But Serenity and Bliss grabbed me by either arm and dragged me out to the dance floor. They joined up with Mike and Other Mike and made out for an uncomfortably long time, lots of tongue again, and I started to hear some moaning. They had already lost interest in me, so I stepped away from their smooch fest and stood at the edge of the floor, looking for Ian.

  I scanned the crowd and final y saw him. He was at the far side of the room by the exit sign, facing the other direction talking on his cel . “Ian!” I cal ed out, waving my purse in the air. But he couldn’t hear me over the music.

  “Wanna dance?”

  It was Brian Sontag—stocky, with a fresh buzz cut, and gleaming white teeth. He glanced over to the other far side of the room, where Al yson was standing. On her cel phone.

  “Our dates are busy.” He gave me an energetic grin. “No reason why we can’t have one dance.”

  Was he hitting on me?

  Brian started swaying, and I couldn’t think of a single word to say. Al I could do was ping my head back and forth from one side of the room to the other, trying to figure out if Ian was talking to Al yson. What was going on?

  But then again, I was the one on the dance floor in close vicinity to a swaying Brian Sontag. The last thing I needed was for Ian to think I was dancing with another guy. But I needed to know if he was talking to her. Surely it was a coincidence. “I gotta talk to Ian.” Brian tried to respond, but 137

  I was already hauling it to the other side of the room.

  I pushed past people, weaving in and out like a basketball point guard, trying to get to Ian quickly. I reached the exit sign where he was standing, but it was an empty space.

  He was gone.

  I dashed around the bal room looking for him, cal ing his name out like he was a missing puppy. “Ian? Ian?!” But nothing. Out of desperation I hunted down Eva, worried that maybe he was with her. But I spotted her in a corner holding up a mirror for Jimmy while he smoothed the stray strands on his floppy faux-hawk.

  Al yson was now on the dance floor with Brian. They were dancing, but not too close—no body parts touching.

  Maybe she wasn’t talking to Ian? Maybe I had come down with a severe case of date-stealing paranoia?

  Then it hit me: Ian must have gone out to the car to get my peanut butter cookie. Since I’d missed dinner, he’d know I’d be starving, and he took his role as Lord of my Blood Sugar seriously.

  My stomach growled and led me away to find leftovers somewhere, because when my brain isn’t thinking straight, my stomach takes over as Head Commander.

  That’s when I heard the clink of dishes. The waitstaff was cleaning up the dinner and taking plates off to the kitchen, whooshing quickly in and out of the swinging kitchen doors.

  I made my way across the room and stood near a waiter carrying a large tray of empty plates. Except there was one 138

  plate stil ful . The entire meal was untouched. It was mine.

  My stomach was in ful commando mode, and it was taking too long for Ian to bring me a cookie.

  “Excuse me?” I stepped closer and leaned in to get the waiter’s attention. “I know this sounds weird, but I was stuck in the bathroom during the entire dinner and I didn’t get to eat mine. Could I just have a taste?”

  “Of course.” He laid the tray down and handed me my dinner. But another waiter swung through the kitchen door at that exact moment and smacked right into him.

  The plate flew, food hurtled through the air, and yet another stain came to town and made its new residence on my dress. Chicken ma
rsala. Thigh-high.

  I rushed to the bathroom— again! —and tried my best to scrub it off. It was the same dril : search around the overly decorated bathroom/living room for something to fix my ridiculous problem.

  There were no paper towels, only air dryers with stickers that said, “This is an environmental y friendly bathroom.” The environment is super great and al , but couldn’t Al Gore have agreed to provide some freaking paper towels for al the pathetic stain-covered girls on prom night?

  Everyone who passed through had an opinion. One girl suggested using ice water, and another said soda water, and another said apple cider. It didn’t matter—it was pointless.

  I had to face reality: my dress attracted flying liquid. And I’d managed to spend virtual y my entire prom night in the 139

  bathroom, and not attached to Ian’s lips.

  This was a disaster.

  After eyeing the tampons again, I gave up on ever getting my dress looking presentable, and shuffled back out to the bal room. I scanned the crowd, looking for Ian, but no luck.

  Cookie retrieval did not take that long. Where was he?

  I reached for my phone to cal him, but the crowd started getting wild and my ears fil ed with thunderous music. Everyone was juking around, jumping up and down to some old-school heavy metal, and based on Mike and Other Mike’s excitement, I guessed it was a song they had requested. Even the school counselor was bopping her head to the beat.

  Without realizing it, I suddenly started to sway. Maybe a little twirl, too. I couldn’t help it. Electric guitar, deep bass—

  it lured me.

  “Hey, it’s my new dancing partner.” Brian Sontag was suddenly next to me, bouncing his head to the music.

  Was he everywhere?

  The counselor scooted next to us. “You guys make a cute couple.”

  Oh my god, she thought we were dancing together.

  Wait. He was swaying. I was twirling next to him . . . we were dancing together! Had anyone else seen?

  Hearing the word “couple” jolted me back to reality, and I stopped swaying. “It’s nice of you to ask. But your girlfriend probably wants to dance with you.”

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