“Moooommmmm . . .”
“I guess”—sniff!—“you’re old enough”—sniff!—“to decide what college is right for you”—sniff!—“even if”—sniff!—“your father and I disagree.” Huge sniff!
“Thanks for finally realizing that, Mom.” I was still stuck in her maternal headlock.
“It’s just that”—sniff!—“we worry.”
“Bad things happen everywhere, even close to home.”
As soon as I said it, I felt horrible. Of course she knows this. My mom had every reason to be paranoid about my well-being. Her only son died in his nursery while she slept less than twenty-five feet away.
I wish this was something we could talk about. Maybe one day she’ll trust me enough to tell me how she feels about the loss. Maybe she never will. But it’s not up to me to decide, now, is it? The only thing I can do is be the best daughter I can be to her. I’ll fall short of her ideals, inevitably and often, but I’ll just have to take Bethany’s word about having kids: The blessings of being my mom’s child outweigh the pains-in-the-ass.
“This was fun, Mom,” I said, finally breaking free of her grip. “Thanks for your help.”
“It was my pleasure,” she said. “We should do things like this more often.”
“We should,” I said, so caught up in the moment that I actually meant it.
“I hear the shopping is outstanding in New York City.”
“It is,” I replied.
“Well, you’ll have to show me around,” she said, pushing a lock of hair behind my ear. “Big-city girl.”
And this time we both sniffled through our tears.
the eighth
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Here are some highlights from the Pineville High Senior Prom 2002:
So many girls were bent over at the waist, butt-clapping and body-slapping, that the administration couldn’t even attempt to enforce the “no lewd dance moves” rule.
Sara and P.J. were sent home before they even set foot through the hotel doors, as it was clear to the chaperones by the way they had taken turns vomiting in the parking lot that they had raided the D’Abruzzis’ wet bar and gotten roofed before they arrived.
Manda was voted Prom Queen and Scotty was voted King. This caused more than a minor stir. The royal non-couple broke time-honored Pineville High tradition and danced with their dates (Len, of course, and some anonymous freshman Hoochie Baby) instead of each other.
Bridget did not have an audition (another lie!) and went to the prom with Pepe. They finally debuted as a couple, as she—as they —had planned all along, and Bridget was gracious enough to fill me in on all the major prom hoopla because . . .
I did not make it to the prom. It wasn’t part of their master plan, but all involved parties were very happy, anyway.
Here, in dragged-out, dramatic detail, are several scenarios, all of which did indeed take place at the pre-prom party held at Sara’s house, but only one of which is the real reason I did not make it to the prom.
Scenario #1: Skank Thanks
“Can I talk to you?”
It was Manda, all heaving bosom, body glitter, and baby-blue chiffon.
“I never got a chance to apologize for what happened between you and Len,” she said.
“Why now?”
“Because this is it, isn’t it? It’s never going to be like this again. We’ll see each other from time to time, I’m sure, but it’s never going to be like this again.”
“Thank God.”
“I just want you to know that Len and I are in love.”
Quintuple ack.
“Manda, I understand that you want to apologize so you can go off to college with a clear conscience, but quite frankly, I don’t really care about you and Len anymore.”
“Then if you don’t care, you can hear me out.”
It was clear that she was hell-bent on unburdening her soul, so I gave her the go-ahead.
“Girls with low self-esteem have sex sooner, and more often, than girls with high self-esteem,” she said.
“Oh, which must make me the queen of self-esteem.” I snorted.
“Well, yes, actually . . .”
“Oh, Christ, Manda, I am not in the mood for any of your feminist bullshit.”
“No, listen,” she said. “But guys with low self-esteem postpone sex and have less of it than guys with high self-esteem.”
I thought about this for a second. “Chicken or the egg.”
“What?”
“Maybe the reason they have low self-esteem is because they’re not getting laid. It’s a chicken or the egg situation.”
“Puh-leeze,” she said, though I could tell I had stumped her. “That’s not the point. The point is, I realized that Len and I were both suffering from low self-esteem, which seems to stem from our sexual histories.”
“Or lack thereof.”
“Right.”
“Okay. That’s fantastic. So are we done now?” I said, looking around for Pepe.
“No. Listen,” she said, grabbing my arm. “I realized we could help each other. And we have. I know you think that he’s just another guy, but Len is the first one I’ve truly cared about.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I’m just sorry that it went down the way it did, and I want to thank you for being as cool as you’ve been about it.”
This was as close to humane as Manda could ever get.
“Friends?” she asked as she extended her hand.
I know I was supposed to bypass her hand, bow down, and kiss her pedicured toes for her compassionate apology. Like hell I would.
Did I not make it to the prom because I bitch-slapped her across the face, thus starting the best chick-on-chick brawl since the infamous Bridget/Manda/ Sara cheerleader cafeteria catfight of ’00?
Scenario #2: Jock Shock
“So you’d go to the prom with the Black Elvis, but you won’t go with me.”
Scottty was well on his way to a DUI.
“Yeah,” I said.
“You look hot,” he said, looking down the front of my dress. “You should dress like that more.”
I must admit, I filled out the dress just fine, thank you very much. But it made me uncomfortable to know that Scotty had noticed too.
“That wouldn’t be very practical,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest.
“I mean, more like a girl. You wear jeans too much. You should show off your legs more often.”
“Well, if you’re done criticizing my appearance, I think I’ll find my date.”
“No,” he said. “Wait. I didn’t mean it. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I always say the most stupid fucking things in front of you.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I can’t stop thinking about what you said to me when I asked you to the prom.”
“What?” Whatever I had said had slipped my mind.
“You asked what happened to me.”
“Oh, right.”
“I know I’ve changed,” he said. “And I know why.”
“Okay. Why?”
“I was a pussy.”
Oh, Christ. My eyes rolled around like triple cherries on a slot machine.
“No, seriously. Guys only care about two things—getting laid and getting respect from other guys. You only need to get one to get the other. Get laid, get respect. And being a pussy was not getting me laid.”
“Here’s a novel idea,” I said. “How about getting respect from girls?”
Again, my retort had stumped its target.
“I liked the old you, the guy you call a pussy, but who I thought was a nice guy. I even respected that guy. That’s where you lost out. You were dead wrong about nice guys not getting laid, because I just might have slept with that pussy, and I will never, ever in a bizillion years sleep with you.”
Did I not make it to the prom because Scotty spent the rest of the night trying to reclaim his former pussiness in an
attempt to get into my fancy prom panties?
Scenario #3: Lies Surprise
Chaos Called Creation hit the stage at seven P.M. for a mini farewell concert. With Len off to Cornell in the fall, they’ve decided they just can’t go on without him. I really wasn’t all that eager to watch Len and Marcus revel in groupie glory for one last time. I told Pepe that we should get going, since the prom was about to start and was about a twenty-minute drive from Sara’s house.
“Everyone arrives fashionably late,” he said with a curious edge to his voice. “What’s the point in going there if everyone is here?”
It started to become clear why he wanted me to stay when Marcus stepped up to the microphone. He had shaved off the rooster tufts, and the resulting buzz cut somehow made him seem more vulnerable and childlike. Or maybe it was the absence of his trademark smirk, which had been replaced with a beatific smile I had never seen before.
“Our first and last song for the evening is our only ballad,” he said. “And it’s the only song I’ll ever sing. So I hope you’re listening.”
He looked straight at me, then stripped off the button-down he was wearing, under which, he was wearing a passion-red T-shirt that said: YOU. YES. YOU. Then he strummed the guitar and began singing his song for me. Yes. Me.
Crocodile Lies
I confess, yes, our Fall was all my fault
If you kissed my eyes, your lips would taste salt
But you think my regret is a lie, and the tears I cry
Are the crocodile kind.
The sweat on your upper lip starts to boil
White hot with anger, still convinced I’m your foil
You keep fighting me, though my eyes are free
From crocodile lies.
You, yes, you, linger inside my heart
The same you who stopped us before we could start
I didn’t want to leave, but you began to believe
Your own crocodile lies.
The only person stopping you is yourself,
You won’t accept that I want no one else,
So until you do, I’ll let someone else have you
Every day, I live the lie
But not the crocodile kind.
How do you react to something like that? How? How do you react when you find out the exact opposite of what you’ve been telling yourself is true? Let’s get more specific: How do I react when I find out that Marcus still wants me after all? Or maybe he doesn’t and this is just another move in the Game? How do I react when I have no clue if Marcus is for real?
Dazed, I drifted in his direction.
“I wanted you to be happy,” he said.
“Happy,” I said.
“If you wouldn’t be with me, I thought that you should be with the one guy I thought deserved you, my best friend,” he said.
“Friend,” I said.
“So that’s why I had to help him out, and tell him the perfect presents to buy you and stuff,” he said.
“Help,” I said.
“Your unhappiness with him just proved that you and I should be together,” he said.
“Together.”
“But I was just as scared to be with you as you are to be with me.” Scared, I thought, but couldn’t bring myself to say out loud.
“So what do you think?” he asked.
As if that was an easy question to answer. So I responded with an inquiry of my own.
“Why now?” I asked. “Why tell me all this now?”
“Because of Hope,” he said.
Marcus went on to tell me that Hope had called him not too long after our last long phone conversation about all the reasons why Marcus was messing up my life. She called him to tell him that she knew he couldn’t have stopped her brother’s death, and she was tired of hearing my psycho excuses for why I wouldn’t let Marcus back into my life. She called him to tell him what I was too afraid to say out loud: that he was right, I was pushing him away because I was petrified of what would happen if he got too close. Hope called him to step in where she knew I wouldn’t. The two of them—Marcus and Hope—got Pepe and Bridget involved in this prom scheme, too. But it was Hope’s doing, mostly.
That’s precisely why she is my best friend, and always will be no matter how much distance separates us.
I didn’t realize that I had been standing there mute for a minute until he said, “Are you quiet because you’re surprised or because you’re repulsed?”
“Neither,” I replied. “I’m quiet because we’ve done enough talking.”
Did I not make it to the prom because I took his face in my hands and pressed my mouth to his, long and full and wet, right in front of the entire prom-going senior class? Did I not make it to the prom because we quickly hopped into the Caddie, never letting go of each other’s hands, and drove back to his house? Did I not make it to the prom because we were all alone and unchaperoned because his parents were visiting his brother in Maine? Did I not make it to the prom because we, without speaking, and barely breathing, slowly and nervously and tenderly undressed each other, and even more slowly and nervously and tenderly made love in his bed, on black-and-white-striped sheets that smelled like smoky cedar trees, exactly like I had imagined all this time . . . ?
For the record, I was not under emotional duress.
While you know I can’t write in detail about these things—you know, sex things—especially when it’s about me, I do feel that after all this obsessive talk about dying a virgin and everyone else in the world doing it but me, and wanting to wait for the perfect time and the perfect place and, most important, the perfect person, I should at least say this to put your mind at ease:
It was well worth the wait.
Holy shit, was it worth it.
Right before I was about to fade into slumber, my eyes popped open. I suddenly remembered that I needed to ask him a question.
“Marcus?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your middle name?”
“Armstrong.”
Marcus Armstrong Flutie.
“Like Neil, the astronaut?” I asked.
“No,” he replied.
“Like Louie, the jazz singer?”
“No,” he replied.
“Then like who?”
“Like me.”
“Thank you,” I said, before drifting off into a long, uninterrupted, dreamless sleep.
the tenth
Is there anything more priceless than a yearbook picture of the Class Couple who are no longer a Class Couple? I nearly split my spleen when I saw that picture of Scotty and Manda making gooey eyes at each other. That alone was worth the seventy-five dollars.
But then there was the shock of seeing Sara in her Best Buddies and Class Motormouth photos, taken when she was still summertime skinny. Her weight gain was so gradual that it was impossible to pinpoint the day she was officially chunky again. It would have made an awesome subject for a time-laspse photography film: Size 2 to 14 in 180 School Days.
Of course, the most excruciating photos were of Len and me, captured before there even was a Len and me. It was weird to see us in our Most Likely to Succeed and Class Brainiac pictures, the two of us not knowing what would happen between us this year. When the picture was taken, we weren’t comfortable enough around each other to touch. In both pictures we’re smiling and everything, feigning camaraderie, but keeping a safe distance. It’s sort of how we act around each other now, as exes.
QUIZ!!! MATCH THE YEARBOOK QUOTE TO THE PERSON!!!
Of course, looking at excruciating photos is only half the fun of yearbook-getting.
If there’s anything I learned on prom night, it’s that we seniors are compelled to kiss each other’s asses before we graduate. Everyone’s trying to mend fences and end feuds and basically get in everyone else’s good graces, as if two weeks of nicey-niceties can erase nearly four years’ dickheadedness. Ever notice how people wait until they’re not going to see you anymore to say something nice to you? Nowhere is th
is more apparent than in how these people are signing my yearbook.
Notice how I’m playing games instead of writing about the most important thing in my life. It’s because I haven’t found a way to say it yet. Not right, anyway, which is why I’m glad Marcus did not buy a yearbook. He says he’ll just look at mine whenever he’s compelled to remember these people, which he does not anticipate happening very often. This spares me the humiliation of writing something sticky-sweet sentimental and trite.
This is what he wrote in mine:
Jessica:
There is nothing I can write in here that I won’t be able to tell
you in person.
Forever,
Marcus
the fourteenth
Tonight, when I came home from Marcus’s house, I went upstairs to my bathroom. Showered. Dried off. Towel-squeegeed my hair. Put on boxers and the COMINGHOME T-shirt that still smells like him. Meticulously applied zit crap to my facial landmines.
All of this before sitting down and writing about an emotion I cannot express.
I cannot write about love. It’s harder than writing about sex.
I found it even more impossible to talk about it with Hope on the phone, but I had to. I needed to know that she was okay with all this. I needed her to believe in Marcus and me as much as I do.
“If I didn’t want you together,” Hope said, “I wouldn’t have gone through all that trouble.”
That made perfect sense, of course.
“Are you okay with, you know, me not being a virgin anymore?” I asked.
Hope cackled into the receiver. “You were the one with the virgin complex, not me. I’ll do it someday. But until then, I’ll just have to live vicariously through you. You little vixen, you.”
I’m so relieved that my relationship with Marcus won’t come between me and Hope. Still, there are things that I will keep to myself. Like how I cut Senior Cut Day and spent it with Marcus instead. In his bed. Not the whole day, but the afternoon hours before his parents came home from work, which, quite frankly, was about as much as I could handle, as I am afraid of turning into a nymphomaniac.
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