The Journal of Mortifying Moments_A Novel

by Robyn Harding

  “So are you,” I say through the lump in my throat.

  “I had a great time tonight,” he says tenderly. “A wonderful time.”

  “So did I,” I croak.

  “I’d really, really like to come up, Kerry.”

  There is a long pause as a jumble of thoughts and possibilities swirls through my head. “Sam? . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry but . . . no. Good night.” I hop out of the cab and sprint into the lobby of my building so I don’t have a chance to change my mind.

  Chapter 21

  “ ‘I am Woman—hear me roar!’ ” I sing loudly in the privacy of my car as I drive to the office from my weekly coffee date with Tiffany. “ ‘In numbers too big to ignore . . . da nana na nana na nana na naaaaaaaaaaa . . .’ ” I don’t know all the words, but that doesn’t limit the power of my anthem. I am on a high after the events of last night. This is like one of my fantasies coming true: Sam begs me to come back, and I turn him down! “ ‘I am strong! I am invincible! I am womaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!’ ”

  I pull into my parking spot and lower the volume significantly as I exit my car and stroll leisurely to the office. (When the Transisters never really took off, I kind of lost confidence in my singing voice.) In the elevator, the song becomes just a murmur, barely audible to anyone else, but it is still fortifying me, congratulating me for my strength, my courage, my resolve.

  Of course, the fact that I had not shaved my legs for four days or cleaned my apartment for two weeks had significant bearing on my decision not to invite Sam in. But he doesn’t know that, does he? And no one else needs to know it either. Besides, what really matters is that I did not sleep with him and start the cycle all over again.

  I must admit, a small part of me is hoping my rejection will be a huge turn-on to him, spurring him to do something dramatic to win my affection. It would be a gesture so incredibly romantic that I would be able to say “How could I turn him down after that? It was obvious how much he really loved me!”

  The elevator stops on four, and I get out. I haven’t been in the office for almost two weeks. (After the shoot, we spent several days in an edit suite getting the spots ready for air.) There is a spring in my step as I walk to my office. I thought I might feel uncomfortable being back here after the whole Dave fiasco, but that is the furthest thing from my mind. “ ‘I am strong! Woo! I am—’ ”

  “Oh, hello, Sonja,” I say with a bright smile.

  Sonja seems taken aback by my enthusiastic greeting. I decide to take it even further.

  “And how are you on this fabulous Monday morning?”

  “Well . . .,” she giggles rather nervously. “It’s thirty-five degrees and raining . . . not exactly what I’d call fabulous!”

  “Tut-tut-tut!” I say, waving my finger at her. “Glass half-empty, Sonja.” Wow. I am really annoying when I am so happy. It’s great.

  “You’re certainly in positive spirits,” she says. “I hear the shoot went well?”

  “Really well,” I say. I decide to attribute my good mood to the success of the Prism shoot, thus ensuring that I look really into my job. “Have you seen the final spots? They look great, and we’re all really pleased. The first one will be on air tomorrow.”

  “Great.” She smiles. “Well . . . I’m sure you have a lot of work to catch up on, so I’ll let you get to it.”

  “Thanks, Sonja. Have a great day!”

  I boot up my computer and go directly to my e-mail in-box. Yikes, 212 e-mails! I scan through and look for the good ones (that is, ones not work related). There is a message from my brother, asking if I could please buy a gift for Dad because it is much cheaper to ship a parcel to London from the States than from Australia. He’ll pay me back. There is one from Michelle, asking if I’d be interested in joining her at the women-in-communications brunch next week. There is one from Sandra. . . .

  Sandra! Thank God! She has finally forgiven me. I hastily open the missive. It is addressed to Val, Michelle, and me.

  Hello. I am writing to you all to give you an update on my current situation. No, I’m not pregnant. I have been having a very difficult time lately, and the fact that I don’t have any friends to support me has not helped. On Sunday, I will be leaving for three weeks in the Dominican Republic. George and I felt that a little time away from all the pressures of life would do me good.

  I also wanted to say that I am sorry I called the police on you and almost had you arrested. Perhaps it was an overreaction on my part; on the other hand, you were holding me there against my will. If you can all leave your judgments behind, I would be willing to discuss our (possible) continued friendship when I return.

  Sincerely,

  Sandra

  Hmmm . . . She sounds a bit frosty and self-righteous, but at least she is taking the initiative and contacting us. I hit reply then realize she will already be in the Dominican, probably lying on a white sandy beach sipping a mai tai. I’ll e-mail her in a week or two.

  Scrolling down, I find most of my e-mails are from Dennis, and most of them have a red exclamation point beside them. I will leave those till last; I don’t want anything ruining my mood. Here is one from Shooting Star.

  Dear Shooting Star Mentors:

  Believe it or not, Christmas is just around the corner! We’d like to invite all mentors and protégés to the annual Shooting Star Christmas party at the Point Defiance Zoo & Aquarium! We hope you’ll join us on November 18 for an evening of food, fun, festivities, and fish! This year promises to be just as much fun for protégés and mentors as it was last year. Please RSVP at your earliest convenience so we know how many will be attending.

  Thanks for your time and commitment to helping a high- to medium-risk teen.

  Theresa

  Somehow I doubt this event will be Tiffany’s cup of tea, but I hope I can convince her to attend.

  Directly above this e-mail is one from an address I don’t recognize: nick@artsmarts.com. It reads,

  Hi Kerry,

  It was great seeing you at the hockey game the other night. (Although, I’ve just been diagnosed as deaf in one ear from Tiffany’s screaming.) Are you guys going to go to the Christmas party at the aquarium? We went last year and it was great. Anyway . . . I hope to see you there!

  Nick

  Ahhh, Nick! I reply.

  Hi Nick,

  It was great to see you too. Tiffany and I will definitely be at the Christmas party. I’ll look for you. Have a great day.

  Kerry

  P.S. I hope your company has a good medical plan that covers hearing aids.

  I hit SEND. Okay . . . I guess that’s it for the fun stuff. I’d better deal with Dennis’s e-mails before he shows up in my office to berate me. I’ll just quickly call Val and ask her opinion on Sandra’s e-mail.

  When I finally hang up from that conversation, there is a voice message from Michelle wanting my opinion on the same topic. I discuss with Michelle, and a consensus is reached among the three of us. We will e-mail Sandra and tell her that we’d be very happy to meet with her, and while we don’t agree with what she is doing with her life, we will listen and be supportive. But we will stand firm that the intervention was done with the best intentions and we have nothing to apologize for.

  I look at my watch. Yikes! It’s ten thirty! I’ll just quickly phone home and check my voice messages—just in case there is one from Sam, pining away for me.

  “You have—one—new message,” the recorded voice says. Here we go! I am a-twitter to hear his voice.

  “Hi, Kerry. It’s just me, your mother calling. Darrel and I are going to have an open house on the twelfth of December. We’d really like you to pop by . . . and bring Sam if you two are back on again.”

  Oh. I’m somewhat disappointed, but at least my social calendar is filling up (even if it is just a party at my mom’s house). I’ve just hung up when Trevor appears.

  “Can we go for a latte?”

  Oh, shit. I still haven’t done any of
the work I was supposed to catch up on. Dennis will kill me. But a boost of caffeine is what I need to tackle the projects ahead. And I’m dying to tell Trevor about my “sort of date” with Sam last night.

  When we are seated in the café, I ask, “So . . . how’s Captain von Trapp?”

  “He’s great, actually,” Trevor says. “I decided that we can’t have everything in common. That would be boring.”

  “True. And I really think if you gave The Sound of Music a chance . . .”

  “Don’t push it. We’re going to have to agree to disagree on that one.”

  I am about to launch into my Sam story when Trevor leans in and whispers, “Your boyfriend’s here.”

  “What?” I whirl my head in the direction he is indicating, expecting to see Sam. But no—it is Dave and Tanya, cloistered at a secluded table. They appear to be embroiled in a deep discussion.

  “Oh, great,” I mutter. “Keep your head down and talk quietly. Maybe they won’t notice us.”

  “Okay,” Trevor agrees. “Now what were you going to tell me?”

  “Well . . .,” I begin excitedly. “Last night, I was practicing acquiring Zen wisdom, when the phone rang.”

  Trevor smiles quizzically. “You’re trying to acquire Zen wisdom?”

  “Well, I thought I’d give it a try, but I’m not sure it’s for me. Anyway, the phone rang and interrupted my meditation.”

  “Were you really meditating? I’ve tried before, but never really got to that deep state of relaxation everyone talks about.”

  “I probably wasn’t actually meditating. . . . I was more just . . . sitting really still. But anyway, the phone rang, and it was Sam!”

  “No!”

  “Yes! And then—”

  But my story goes no further. There is a sudden eruption from the back corner of the restaurant. A chair is knocked over, and a female voice screams, “You make me sick! Consider this my resignation!” Trevor and I furtively peek over our booth just in time to see Tanya throwing a glass of water in Dave’s face.

  I can’t help but snigger as I look at Dave’s dripping countenance. Trevor and I exchange wickedly gleeful looks as Tanya stomps by us. But despite the fact that I have my hands over my face to stifle my laughter, she notices me. . . . And stops.

  “You!” she screeches at me. “Here to watch all the fun?”

  “Uh . . . sorry? What? I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Don’t give me that!” she roars. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “I—uh—what? No!”

  “You know what, Kerry? You deserve him.” She glances over at wet Dave. “You are just as shallow and self-absorbed as he is. I hope you have a happy life together. I know you won’t.”

  “Uh—Tanya—I, umm? What?”

  “Good comeback, Kerry,” Trevor whispers, amused.

  But I’m speechless! Flabbergasted. What is she talking about? I look over at Dave, who’s mopping his head with a napkin. My eyes narrow with hatred. I stand up and march over to him.

  “What the hell was that?” I hiss at him through gritted teeth.

  “Tanya resigned,” he sniffs. “She’s a little pissed off at me.”

  “She should be pissed off at you!” I growl. “Why is she pissed off at me?”

  “Well . . . I didn’t really see the point in telling her about Shannon, because she already thinks there’s something going on between you and me.”

  “But there isn’t!” I cry.

  “I know that.” He stands up and looks me in the eyes. “But I figured . . . why get her mad at Shannon, you know? Shannon’s just an innocent bystander in all this.”

  “No, she’s not!” I am really screaming now, and I can feel all eyes in the café on us. “She’s your girlfriend! She’s the reason you broke up with Tanya! I’m the innocent bystander here!”

  “Come on, Kerry,” he scoffs. “You loved the attention you were getting from me. You ate it up! Don’t try to tell me you were innocent in all this.”

  “What? I—ulp—no!” I’ve lost the power of speech again. My face feels purple with rage.

  “Anyway, Tanya is clearing out her office now. She’ll be out of all our lives by the end of the day. There’s no need to make such a big deal about this.”

  I am shaking uncontrollably. I have never ever been so angry! I want to throw hot coffee on him and scald him beyond recognition. I want to stab him with the butter knife lying beside his scone! I want to—I feel Trevor grabbing me gently but firmly by the shoulders and leading me back to our seat. “He’s not worth it,” he says. “Don’t worry. He’ll get his.”

  I sit and try to compose myself. I feel like I’m about to cry. “Trevor,” I say, looking at him tearfully. “I don’t think I can work there anymore.”

  He takes my hand. “I’d hate to see you go, but I can see your point.”

  “It’s just too much weirdness.”

  “I know.”

  “After Christmas,” I say. “I’m going to seriously start looking.”

  Chapter 22

  Why hasn’t he called? I don’t understand it. It has been twenty-three and a half days since my sort-of date with Sam, and he hasn’t called once. That’s sixteen workdays! Three weekends! Of course, the usual bouquet of roses turned up on day four, complete with bunny-rabbit-holding-heart-shaped-balloon card, but I’ve come to realize that this isn’t necessarily the most heartfelt of gestures. Did I misread his sincerity? Maybe he didn’t want to rekindle things with me after all. Was he really just after a roll in the hay with someone he thought was a sure thing (namely Kerry “slutty and easy with a few glasses of wine in her” Spence)?

  Or . . . did he really want to get back together with me and when I turned him down I bruised his ego so badly that now he is afraid to call? In that case, should I call him? But what if the first scenario is the correct one and I call? Then I will seem really needy and pathetic and—Wait! What if he has been injured and is unable to call? What if his taxi was sideswiped by an SUV and he is lying semiconscious in the hospital? Maybe I’d better call?

  Of course, I can’t deny that this not-calling behavior fits Sam’s past relationship profile to a T. It is just like him to profess his feelings, pour out his heart, and then not bother to pick up the phone or take me out for so much as a friggin’ coffee. He’s obviously so confident that I am crazy about him that he doesn’t feel the need to even speak to me. Because why wouldn’t I be? He’s perfect—with his fancy car and his great job and his thick hair. I don’t need more of his head games—I really don’t. In fact, I’m tempted to call him up and read him the riot act. How dare he tell me I’m one in ten million and then not call me for twenty-three and a half days!

  But a glance at my watch tells me that I won’t have time right now. I’ve got to pick up Tiffany and get down to the Shooting Star Christmas party at the aquarium.

  As anticipated, Tiffany wasn’t exactly overjoyed at the prospect of eating Christmas cookies and drinking cocoa while wandering around looking at a bunch of fish. I appealed to her love of violence by mentioning that there may be a shark-feeding demonstration. “It’s really bloody and gory,” I ad-libbed.

  “Okay,” she relented. “I guess I can go.”

  We travel slowly through the Saturday afternoon traffic. Rain spatters the windshield, and the wipers slap back and forth methodically. I’ve learned from our weekly hour-long visits that conversation with Tiffany is initially painful, but if I persevere, she often becomes more chatty in the last ten minutes or so. It is a lot of work for a ten-minute reward, but when she does open up, we’ve had some great conversations. Besides, today we will have several hours together.

  “So . . .,” I say, trying to fill the vacuum of silence. “How’s school going?”

  “Sucks.”

  “Really? That’s too bad.” More awkward silence. “What about English?” I ask hopefully. Tiffany had mentioned recently that they were reading The Outsiders and she was enjoying it.

/>   “I failed my final paper,” she says dully.

  “Oh, no!” I am chagrined. “I thought you were enjoying The Outsiders?”

  “The ending was sad and stupid, so I didn’t feel like writing a paper on it.”

  “Oh . . . How will that affect your final grade?”

  “I’ll probably fail English.” She shrugs.

  Long, awkward silence.

  “Uh . . . have you talked to your mom lately?”

  “Yeah, I’ve talked to her. She’s still a bitch.”

  Nervous giggle. “Oh, dear! I’m sure she’s not all that bad.”

  “You haven’t met her.”

  “True. I know how moms are, though. My mom and I have kind of a weird relationship.”

  Silence.

  “How are things going, living with your aunt?”

  “Lame,” she says. “She’s starting to get really bossy and act like she’s my mother or something. I’m thinking of going to live with my dad.”

  “What?” I am taken aback. “In Canada?”

  “Yeah.”

  It’s been only a couple of months, and I have already failed her as a mentor. I can’t believe she’s going to leave town before I’ve even had a chance to help her. To turn her into Madeleine Albright or Janet Reno! (I know that wasn’t expected of me, but I had secretly hoped that I would surpass all other mentors and turn a troubled teen into secretary of state or attorney general or whatever.) This is really going to look bad on my mentoring record. I can just see the look of disappointment on the school counselor’s face. “We were so hopeful you’d have a positive impact,” she’ll say. “Oh, well. Can’t win ’em all.” And Theresa at Shooting Star will say, “Thanks for trying, Kerry, but I think you should leave mentoring to people who are hip and cutting edge despite their age.”

  “Are you sure that’s such a great idea Tiffany?”

  She shrugs. “I dunno. Since Rollie and I broke up, I don’t really see any reason to stick around.” Rollie is the twenty-year-old pothead alcoholic she’d been dating just prior to us meeting.