The Journal of Mortifying Moments_A Novel

by Robyn Harding

  SCENE 1

  Visual:Two teenyboppers are heading into school on the first day back after summer vacation. One is a fourteen-year-old girl in a plaid skirt, a sweater, and braids. The other is a disheveled thirteen-year-old boy with a faded jeans jacket sporting a Marilyn Manson logo on the back.

  Suzie: So, Gary . . . did you have a good summer vacation?

  Gary:It rocked, man.

  Suzie: But isn’t it nice to be back at Central High?

  Gary: Whatever, dude.

  Suzie: I can’t wait to get back into my studies! My parents bought me a great new computer to help me with my homework. They even got me a super, dial-up Internet connection!

  Gary: You gotta be kidding, man? Dial-up is so yesterday. I’ve got a high-speed connection from Prism Communications. I’ll be able to kick bleep in the homework department.

  SCENE 2

  Visual:A dirty and disheveled woman sits in an alley with a shopping cart full of her belongings. She is holding a crack pipe, obviously a junkie about to get high. A man in a pin-striped suit is kneeling down, talking to her, a look of concern on his face.

  Suzie: Spare some change, mister?

  Gary: No, sorry. I’m late for a very important meeting with the president of Microsoft. . . . Wait a minute! Suzie? Suzie Walton, is that you?

  Suzie:How’d you know my name?

  Gary: It’s me, Gary! God, I haven’t seen you since Central High. What . . . what happened?

  Suzie: (to camera) My parents should have gotten me a high-speed Internet connection from Prism Communications. That’s what happened.

  “Bravo!” Gavin and Sonja are clapping. “Hits the nail on the head, Dave! Nice work, Tanya!”

  I am stunned, silent.

  “That’s the basic premise,” Dave says, smiling despite himself. “We have two more executions that we didn’t mock up. One has the guy who got high-speed growing up to be a lawyer, and he’s called to help a death-row inmate with his appeal. And of course, the inmate is . . .”

  “The one who had a dial-up connection!” Sonja and Gavin say in unison, their voices loud with joy.

  “Then the other one,” Tanya says, speaking in her usual monotone. “Is about two high school girls. The one without high-speed gets pregnant when she’s, like, fourteen, and has six kids living in a trailer before she’s thirty. Her friend who got high-speed is the social-services worker sent to remove them from the squalor of their home.”

  “Excellent!” Sonja says. “I’m very pleased. Gavin?”

  “Lovin’ it, guys,” he says, obviously kissing their asses.

  “And Kerry?” I can tell by her voice that she doesn’t really want to hear from me. Part of my brain is telling me to smile and go along, say “great work,” and leave it at that, but I don’t know if I can do it.

  “Ummm . . . well . . .” Gulp. Apparently, I can’t do it. “I think it’s horrifying,” I say bluntly.

  Sonja whirls on me. “What?”

  “Horrifying?” Dave is smirking at me like I am the most inept, unsophisticated person he has ever met.

  “Threatening parents that their children will grow up to be junkies or murderers if they don’t have a high-speed Internet connection? That’s not a bit sick?”

  “It’s a joke.” Dave glowers at me.

  “It’s a sick joke!” I retort.

  “Well, you’re entitled to your opinion.” Sonja is smiling tightly at me. “But obviously, you’re outnumbered here.”

  “Janet will never go for it.” Janet is the Prism client. She is also a mother of three. “It’s too mean.”

  Dave blows up. “Well, she can just lick my crack if she thinks—”

  “No one’s saying you have to do creative with chalkboards and apples!” I scream. “Just not with children turning into junkies and murderers!” Uh-oh. I am going to start crying now. I have a very embarrassing habit of bursting into tears whenever I get riled up about something. I must make a hasty exit. “Whatever.” I wave my hand at them. “I’m outnumbered anyway.” I run to my office.

  A few deep breaths and a quick call to Trevor to tell him I have a great story to share over lunch, and I have regained my composure. It is a good thing, because Gavin suddenly appears in my doorway.

  “Yes, Gavin?” I say with the enthusiasm of someone who is about to have a wart removed.

  “Umm, yeah . . . Can I talk to you for a sec?”

  “Sure.”

  He comes in and shuts the door. “I just felt that I should tell you—since you obviously haven’t figured it out for yourself—that it’s really career-limiting to go against Dave like that.” He’s smiling at me smugly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Dave is the golden boy, Kerry. He was a big shot in Toronto and New York, and the agency is lucky he wanted to mellow out on the West Coast for a while. He’s won awards all over the continent, and management is looking to him to single-handedly build the agency’s creative reputation. We need to support his ideas and take chances.”

  If you put a blond wig on him, he could be Sonja’s Mini-Me. “Gavin, what did you think about the Prism creative?” I ask, point blank.

  “Well . . . I definitely think it’s pushing the boundaries—”

  “—of good taste,” I finish for him. “Let me give you a tip,” I say, remembering for the first time that I have more seniority and am nine years older than he is. “Sometimes you have to follow your gut and do what you think is right for the client. Advertising’s not all about whose ass you kiss.”

  He actually seems to be pondering what I’ve said, for just the briefest moment. Then the smug smile returns, and he says, “Consider yourself warned.” And he leaves.

  Chapter 6

  My mom is taking me to have my tarot cards read and then for lunch. “It is simply amazing what the spirit world can tell us about ourselves,” she says. “We just need to open our minds and our hearts, and the guidance we seek is ours.”

  Sounds a bit wacky, but I could really use some guidance on this whole Sam issue. I have still not spoken to him, but I must admit I’m on the verge of calling. My therapist says that would be a grave mistake. But she also told me that writing down all the horrible, painful incidents in my life would make me feel better . . . eventually, of course.

  My mother and I approach a seedy-looking apartment building, and she presses the buzzer on the intercom. “Hello?” a staticky, female voice says.

  “Hello, Ramona? It’s Gwen Hunter here with my daughter, Kerry. She has an appointment at eleven?”

  “Come on up,” Ramona says, and buzzes us in. I think when you name your child Ramona, you are seriously increasing the likelihood that she will be psychic.

  “I’m so excited!” My mom squeezes my hand in the small and musty elevator. She is wearing a kelly-green caftan of sorts, and chunky African jewelry. This outfit seems far more suited for gaining guidance from the spirit world than my sweatpants and jeans jacket. “Make sure you ask about future children and a husband, of course,” she instructs me. She is more keen to know my future than I am.

  I, on the other hand, am suddenly paralyzed with dread. Open my mind. . . . Open my heart. . . . I repeat this mantra to myself. But I can’t shake this very ominous feeling that Ramona will tell me I have two months to live, or that I will never get married and will spend the rest of my life working for a man named Gavin.

  We reach Ramona’s apartment, and my mom knocks on the door. She then tucks my hair behind my ears and straightens the collar of my jacket. Does she think that if I impress the psychic, I will have a better future? If that is the case, I should have worn one of my work outfits instead of these sweatpants.

  The door swings open, and Ramona stands before us. God, she looks really normal. She is a few years older than me, with funky black glasses and a stylish haircut. I think I was expecting Stevie Nicks. “Hi,” she says casually. “Come on in.”

  My mom has a seat in the waiting room (aka the living r
oom), and Ramona takes me into the, uh, psychic room (aka the spare bedroom). “Have a seat.” She motions to a folding chair opposite hers at a tiny table. There is incense burning on the shelf beside us, and in one corner a small fountain trickles soothingly. I take a deep breath.

  “Are you nervous?” Ramona asks.

  “Yeah,” I admit. “I just don’t want to hear anything bad.”

  “I like to be very honest about what I see,” she says. “But I’m not going to tell you that you’re going to die or anything like that.”

  “Okay,” I say, somewhat relieved. Although, if she’s any good at all, she’ll tell me I’m in love with a heartless cad who has tried calling me only four times in two weeks.

  “When’s your birthday?” she asks.

  “October seventh.”

  “Libra . . . sensitive, creative, indecisive, fickle.”

  Wow! It’s like she’s known me forever.

  “Librans are great lovers of beauty. . . .”

  That explains my infatuation with Sam.

  “You crave harmony. . . .”

  And that explains why I hate my job and spend so much time trying not to burst into tears at the office.

  “Okay . . .,” Ramona says, handing me a large plaid deck of cards. “Shuffle these.” I do, with an open mind and an open heart. I cut the deck in three and then restack the cards from right to left.

  Ramona begins to lay them out in a complicated pattern. As each card is turned faceup, my horror increases. Oh, my God! Death. The Devil. A burning tower. People impaled on swords, weeping into their hands. Surely this must mean the end of the world as we know it? How did I let my mom talk me into this?

  Ramona, however, is calm. “I see a man in your life.” She taps one of the cards. “He’s very good-looking . . . very charming. And you have very strong feelings for him, and he cares for you but . . .”

  But? But?

  “You’re not his number-one priority. He will always put himself and his career before you. I don’t think he really knows you as a person . . . or cares to know you. You need to cut him loose.”

  “Already done,” I say confidently.

  “I’m not so sure,” she says. “I think you have more to deal with where he’s concerned.”

  Apparently, you can’t bluff a psychic.

  “There’s another man here, too,” she says. “He is very kind, with an open, giving heart. His feelings for you are much more genuine.”

  “Really?” I am excited by the prospect. “Who is he?”

  “I don’t think you’ve met him yet . . . or you may know him casually.”

  “Where will I meet him? When? What does he look like? Will we get married?”

  Ramona chuckles. “The tarot cards are not a crystal ball. Fate is still in your hands. Let’s see. . . .” She touches the card, closes her eyes, and breathes deeply. “He’s in a creative field—an artist, or a photographer . . . maybe a writer, but it’s more likely to be a visual art. You’ll meet him at a social gathering, but there’s a work connection. Where do you work?”

  “At Ferris and Shannon Advertising.”

  “Yeah, it’s got something to do with work . . . some kind of work-related function.”

  “Okay.”

  “He’s nice looking, with sandy-colored hair, and he has a wonderful, caring soul. There’s a D here, like Darren or Daniel or something. There will be obstacles to you two getting together, but if you follow your heart and go with him, he’ll make you very happy.”

  “Great.” I feel peaceful and hopeful.

  On the next spread of cards, Ramona addresses my career. “You’re not happy in your job.”

  She’s good.

  “You’re eventually going to have to decide what you want to do. I’m not saying you’re in the wrong career necessarily, but there are all sorts of negative vibrations here. There’s a woman. . . . She doesn’t like you.”

  Really? I wonder who that could be?

  “She’s jealous of you, even though she’s your superior at work. She will always try to keep you down. Your career will go nowhere as long as you’re working for her.”

  “Thank you,” I say sincerely as I pay her sixty bucks. “That was really helpful.”

  “The cards are just a tool to help us read what our intuition already knows,” Ramona says. She seems very wise and centered—not at all spooky and weird like I had expected.

  “So?” My mom jumps up as I exit the psychic room. “How’d it go?”

  “Good,” I say, feeling a bit funny. “It was very interesting.”

  As soon as we are alone in the elevator she asks, “Am I going to be a grandma anytime soon? What about a husband—is there a husband in your future? Are you going to be able to work things out with Sam?”

  “We mostly talked about work stuff,” I say.

  “Oh . . .” She is clearly disappointed, having no interest in my career whatsoever. “Where shall we go for lunch?”

  Lisa and I were at the ski hill. It was a brisk winter day, but the sun was shining and conditions were perfect. Lisa had on a baby blue ski suit that looked great with her pale blond hair. I was wearing black—a black ski jacket, black ski pants, black hat, black gloves. There were darts of color across my chest and down my thighs, elongated triangles of fuchsia and turquoise. The effect was supposed to make me look smaller.

  “Oh, my god! There they are!” Lisa whispered to me as we lined up for the chairlift. She was pointing to the ski hill. The two boys were cruising at frightening speed down the face, both of them expert skiers. They skidded to a snowy stop at the bottom and skated themselves over to the line. Lisa looked back, none too subtly, then turned and giggled. It had the desired effect: they noticed us.

  The boys were four chairlifts behind, but we were quite sure they could see us as we rode up the mountain. “Totally!” We shrieked with laughter. “That’s so true, isn’t it? God!”

  “Such a loser!”

  “Like, totally from Loserville!”

  Laugh, laugh, laugh. They would think we were very cool . . . assuming they could hear us. They were still quite a ways down the mountain.

  At the top, we glided off the lift, stopping to ponder which run. “Hmmm? Which run should we take? I don’t know? What are you in the mood for—easy or hard or in between? Hmm . . . which run? Which run?”

  Soon, they skied up to us. “Hey,” the best-looking one said to Lisa. “You guys want to ski with us?”

  “I guess,” she said indifferently, masking her inner euphoria. We followed them down an intermediate run. I was not a great skier, but I did my best to keep up. But I still lagged behind, as even less cool than not keeping up would be having an embarrassing wipeout. Not far down, the really good-looking boy pulled into a secluded stand of evergreens. The rest of us followed.

  “I’m Kyle, by the way,” he said to Lisa.

  “Lisa.” She pulled off her hat and shook her shiny blond hair. “And this is Kerry.”

  “Todd,” the other guy said, looking at me. He was kind of cute too, but really skinny. He was an excellent skier, though, which was cool and sexy, and his eyes were very blue and sparkly. I smiled at him flirtatiously. At least I hoped it was flirtatiously. At fifteen, this was all quite new to me.

  “Wanna smoke a joint?” Kyle asked, pulling one from his pocket. I looked with panic-filled eyes to Lisa for a cue. What did we do now? Would they think we were immature little girls if we said no? Would they ski off and leave us, destroying any possibility of budding romance? But if we said yes, would we be able to get safely down the mountain? We had never smoked pot before, so who knew the effect it would have on our coordination.

  “Sure,” Lisa said casually, showing no sign of the anxiety that was gripping me.

  Kyle lit up, inhaled deeply, and passed the joint to Lisa. She took a little puff and then passed it to me. I followed her lead but ended up coughing and hacking uncontrollably. Soon Lisa had joined me, and we were both doubled over, our lung
s fighting for air.

  “Virgins,” Kyle said to Todd with a laugh.

  I righted myself, turning fifteen shades of purple with embarrassment until I realized he meant that we’d never smoked pot before. Phew!

  I passed the joint to Todd, who took a huge drag, held it in for an impossibly long time, and then blew it into the air. He was really very manly—must be seventeen at least. A few more tokes for the boys, and we were on our way again.

  Todd stayed behind with me, darting back and forth across the hill, banking off the sides, and doing little jumps and tricks. I tried to watch him, but I was concentrating heavily on not falling. I didn’t think the marijuana had any effect, since I had coughed all the smoke out, but it may have subtly messed with my equilibrium. I had to stay focused on getting down the hill safely. Todd was very impressive, though. I quite liked him.

  When we reached the bottom, Kyle and Lisa were already lined up for the chairlift. Todd and I sidled in behind them. I was feeling excited, nervous, and self-conscious at the prospect of sitting beside him for the seven-minute ride up the mountain. He was not really that skinny—more wiry. And those blue eyes. Sigh.

  “What school do you go to?” he asked when we were seated, our skis floating against the blue backdrop of the sky.

  “Maple Grove,” I said. “You?”

  “West Seattle, but I’m graduating in June.”

  Oooh! An older man! “You’re so lucky,” I said. “I can’t wait to graduate and move out.”

  “Yeah.” He smiled at me. He was still smiling at me, and I was still smiling back. Our eyes were locked, and his head was slowly moving toward mine. Oh, my God! He was going to kiss me right there on the chairlift. How romantic! A soft gentle kiss as we soared above the glistening white slopes. It was like a movie.

  The kiss wasn’t exactly soft and gentle. Todd seemed to be trying to dislodge something stuck in my back teeth with his tongue, but I guessed that was the way older boys kissed. It didn’t last too long. He pulled away and smiled at me, his eyes glassy from the passion—or was it from the pot?