The Journal of Mortifying Moments

by Robyn Harding

  “Okay . . .,” he says hesitantly, still perusing my test results.

  “I was also almost fired last week”—nervous giggling—”so that may have impacted things, too.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “I’m not crazy, Doctor. I’m not! I want to make a difference in a high- to medium-risk teen’s life. Please don’t keep me from being a mentor just because I’ve been going through a rough time personally and professionally.”

  He snaps the folder housing my exam closed and looks up at me. “I won’t. I think you’ll be a fine mentor.”

  It turns out my police record check came through clear, as well. Perhaps my NYPD Blue pal had something to do with keeping the kidnapping issue under wraps?

  Theresa calls me at the office on a Thursday. “I’ve got some great news!”

  “Really?”

  “We’ve found a girl who needs a mentor, and we think you’d be perfect!”

  “Wow,” I say, my stomach filling with butterflies. I suddenly feel completely inadequate to be a role model to anyone.

  “We’d like you to meet with her school counselor first—then you can meet your protégée right after.”

  “Okay,” I say. My voice has gone hoarse.

  “I can give you a bit of background. Her name is Tiffany. She’s fifteen and in ninth grade. She’s bright but doesn’t put any effort into school. She also has a very strained relationship with her mother and recently moved out to live with an aunt. Her father lives in Canada, so she doesn’t see him much. Tiffany was recently caught smoking pot at school, and her truant record is dangerously high.”

  “Oh, my God,” I mumble. I think I am in way over my head.

  “She has been dating a twenty-year-old who is unemployed and appears to have a drinking problem. Tiffany also smokes.”

  “Oh, my God!” I scream. “I’m sorry, Theresa, but she sounds like she needs a psychiatrist or a . . . warden, not a mentor.”

  Thankfully, Theresa laughs. “I know it sounds daunting, but you’d be surprised how much of a difference you can make just by being there. No one’s asking you to turn her into Madeleine Albright.”

  “Okay.” I swallow audibly. “I’ll go to her school on Friday.” I take down the address and hang up.

  Connie Wallace is Tiffany’s school counselor. She is friendly and genuine as she ushers me into her windowless office, despite looking exhausted and somewhat haggard. “Let me just say, right off the bat, how much we appreciate people like you.”

  “Thanks.” I feel like crying.

  “Tiffany is a great girl who has lost her way, but we’re all very hopeful that another positive adult role model will help her get back on track.”

  “Well, I’m hopeful, too, Ms. Wallace—”

  “Call me Connie.”

  “Okay, Connie. But I have to tell you I’m a little nervous. I haven’t really had anything to do with teenagers since I was one—which was about eight years ago.”

  She doesn’t let on if she catches my exaggeration. “That’s understandable. All we ask is that you spend some time with her—we suggest an hour a week—and be there if she needs someone to talk to. Don’t judge her or scold her. Let her know if you don’t agree with her actions, but in a gently supportive manner. We’re not asking you to turn her into Janet Reno.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “I’ll go get her.”

  I am tense and on edge as I wait to meet Tiffany. My heart is thudding loudly in my chest. There doesn’t seem to be any rational explanation, but I feel like I’m waiting to be interviewed for a job I really want but am hopelessly underqualified for.

  The door swings open, and Tiffany steps into the room, followed by Connie.

  “Hi,” I say, jumping up and extending my hand.

  “Hi,” she says disinterestedly. Oh, right—teenagers don’t really shake hands. I hold my hand up in the high-five position, but she chooses to ignore that, too.

  “Tiffany,” Connie Wallace says kindly. “This is Kerry Spence, and she’ll be your new mentor.”

  “It’s really great to meet you, Tiffany,” I say, my hands safely at my sides.

  “Yeah.” She shrugs indifferently.

  “Why don’t I leave you two alone to get to know each other better?” Ms. Wallace says. I want to cling to her legs to keep her from leaving, but I am the adult here. I must set a good example, while still being hip.

  “Sounds cool, Con.” I smile at Tiffany.

  She looks at the floor.

  Connie says, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  And we are alone.

  There is a long awkward silence. “So . . .,” I say, frightened that she can hear my heart beating. “What made you want to join the Shooting Star program?”

  “I didn’t.” She looks up at me then. Her eyes are icy blue, ringed in heavy black liner. Her skin is coated in a thick layer of makeup, which does a poor job of camouflaging her acne problem. She has shoulder-length, lank, blond hair—at least the bottom two-thirds are blond; the roots are jet-black. “They made me sign up for Shooting Star,” she finishes.

  “Oh . . .” I am momentarily speechless. “I didn’t realize that. Well . . . I hope that we’ll be able to do some fun things together anyway.”

  “Whatever.”

  “What kind of things do you like to do, Tiffany?”

  She shrugs.

  “Because . . . well . . . I thought maybe we could go to a movie or a play sometime? Or we could go out for dinner?”

  “Do you like wrestling?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Wrestling,” she says. “I love WWF and RAW. If they ever do a live show here, I totally want to go.”

  “Uh . . . okay, I’ll keep my eyes open, and if I see that they’re coming, I’ll get us some tickets. What was it called again?”

  She rolls her eyes like I am the stupidest adult she’s ever met. “You’ve never heard of WWF?”

  “I have . . . but the other one. What was it?”

  “RAW. It’s the best one. It has Booker T and Triple H. My boyfriend says they are the toughest dudes in the sport.”

  “Oh, right!” I say. “Booker T is so cool. In the meantime, why don’t I see if I can get us tickets for something else? You know, just while we’re waiting for WWF or RAW to come to town.”

  “Whatever.”

  “So . . .,” I say resisting the urge to look at my watch. Where the hell is Connie Wallace? How could she leave me here for so long with this hostile teenager? What do I say? What do I ask her?

  “So . . . you’re fifteen?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Uh . . . do you like school?”

  “No!” she snorts. “It sucks.”

  “Yeah . . . I didn’t really like school either.”

  “You didn’t?” She sounds somewhat interested.

  “Well . . . I liked some things about it, but I always felt that we had to learn so much useless information.”

  “Totally,” she agrees.

  “Like, I’ve never had to dissect a frog in my adult life,” I say.

  She is laughing!

  “Or a sheep’s eyeball.”

  “Gross!” she says gleefully.

  “And it’s not like I read tons of Shakespeare in my free time.”

  “Shakespeare bites,” she says.

  We continue on like this until Connie Wallace returns.

  “And the value of x,” I am saying as she enters. “No one has ever asked me to calculate the value of x! What a waste of time! And how about those exponents?”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Connie says. I blush a little at being caught bashing the curriculum, but the point was for us to bond, wasn’t it? “Tiffany, you’d better get back to class.”

  “It was great to meet you,” I say as she gets up to leave.

  “Yeah,” she says, in a tone that is quite a bit warmer than when she first entered.

  “So . . . we’ll have coffee next week, okay? I’ll pick you up.�
��

  “ ’Kay!” she calls over her shoulder.

  I think the meeting was a success.

  Chapter 17

  Val calls me at the office on Thursday. “We have to meet for dinner. Jay’s taking Taylor out for pizza, so I’m free after work.”

  “Is this about Sandra?” Surprisingly, I have still not heard from her.

  “Well . . . we should talk about Sandra, but there’s something else,” she says cryptically.

  “Really? What?” I am intrigued.

  “It has to do with you.”

  “With me?” I panic. “What? Is it good or bad? Oh, no. It’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “It’s good, it’s good, you spaz!” Val is laughing. “It’s about a certain twenty-four-year-old who called me and asked for your number.”

  “Get out!” I shriek. Oops. I lower my voice to a whisper. “That Matt guy? He asked for my number?”

  “Yep. I’ll fill you in tonight. Let’s meet at The Palomino on Second at six.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Wow. Life is really good right now. I don’t know what Dave told Sonja and Tanya, but they have both been basically leaving me alone. And when they do have to acknowledge my existence, they are borderline pleasant. I think my first meeting with Tiffany went really well, all things considered, and now cute young Matt wants my number! This is further proof that You Get What You Give really works (although, I sort of lost interest after chapter 6 and have decided to use it as more of a reference book).

  When I finally meet Val in the swanky yet casual second-floor restaurant, I have worked myself into a frenzy. All day I’ve been dwelling on Matt: his smooth golden skin and the exotic air about him, his taut young body with its chiseled pectorals clearly visible through his sweater. At first, it was getting me excited (and a bit hot and flustered) but as I thought about it more, I began to feel insecure. I am in my thirties. I have a deep frown wrinkle between my eyebrows and the butt of an eighty-three-year-old. I have crows’-feet when I smile and an ugly spider vein on my right thigh. He will undoubtedly find me repulsive.

  “You’re being too hard on yourself,” Val says. “You’re barely thirty.”

  “Barely thirty? I’m thirty-one!” I inform her.

  “So? Look at Jennifer Lopez. She’s thirty-two or something like that.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I snap. “You’re supposed to be making me feel better! Comparing me to J. Lo is not making me feel better!”

  “I’m just saying that woman are sexy and desirable well into their thirties, forties, even fifties. Look at Sophia Loren.”

  “She is a freak of nature. She’ll be sexy and beautiful when she’s ninety.”

  “True. But it’s no big deal, Kerry. Everyone’s dating younger men these days. It’s like a trend or something.”

  “What about you?” I ask Val, who is thirty-six. “Would you go out with Matt?”

  “Well . . . Matt’s always seen me as more of a maternal figure, I think. But if I’d just met him, then yeah, definitely.”

  “And would you get naked with him?” I spread some chèvre rolled in poppy seeds onto a cracker and pop it in my mouth.

  “In the dark, yes,” she says, sipping her Bellini. “But I’m older than you, and I’ve had a baby. I think you’re worrying too much.”

  “Val . . .,” I say, pausing to swallow my cracker. “When Sam and I were going through our problems, I ate a bowl of cream cheese icing every night. You can’t do that and not have some lasting effects.”

  “Well . . .,” she says.

  “And this wrinkle!” I point to the deep indentation by my right eyebrow.

  “What wrinkle?” She squints her eyes to see.

  “Come on! You can totally see it. It’s from frowning so much. . . . I blame my mother.”

  “Look, Kerry,” she says, spreading cheese on a cracker. “If you’re feeling that insecure, you’ve got lots of time to do something about it. He hasn’t even called you yet.”

  “Great idea. I’ll book myself in for some emergency Botox and liposuction.”

  “You don’t have to be so extreme,” Val says, sounding very motherly. “Drink more water, eat salads for a few days, tape up the wrinkle . . .”

  “I guess.” I shrug. “ . . . What do you mean, tape up the wrinkle?”

  “Lots of stars do it,” she says. “I read about it in some magazine. When you go to bed at night or when you’re puttering around the house, you apply tape to the wrinkle to pull it smooth. When you remove it, it’s less noticeable.”

  “Really? I’ve never heard about that.”

  “Rene Russo does it.”

  “What kind of tape do you use?”

  “Anything sticky,” she says. “And if you do it enough, the wrinkle may even disappear.”

  “Really?” This is great. I know I’ll never be able to save enough for Botox, and I don’t like needles.

  “Well . . . theoretically anyway.”

  It’s worth a try. I immediately begin my new regime to make me look good enough to seduce a twenty-four-year-old. I bring a liter container to work, fill it with water, and drink four of them throughout the day. For lunch, I eat salad with only a few sesame seeds on top and a low-fat yogurt-based dressing. As soon as I get home from work, I apply tape to my deep frown line. It makes me look a bit like a creature off Star Trek, but that is the beauty of living alone—it doesn’t matter! For dinner, I eat one and a half Lean Cuisines (because one is just ridiculously small).

  The phone rings on Sunday evening. My caller-ID box shows an unrecognized number, and my stomach fills with butterflies. “Hello?” I say, sounding as youthful as possible.

  “Hi. Is this Kerry?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “This is Matt Torres calling.” He sounds shy. “I don’t know if you remember me. . . . I used to work with Val Campbell.”

  “I remember you, Matt,” I say, in a very deep and seductive Lauren Bacall–ish voice. Then I remember that Lauren Bacall is about eighty, so probably not the best celebrity impersonation to choose when trying to entice a younger man. So I say, “Like . . . totally, dude!”

  “I was just wondering if you’d like to go out sometime? With me?”

  “That would be great, Matt. I’d love to.”

  We settle on the following Thursday. He suggested Tuesday or Wednesday, but I told him I was busy until Thursday. This way, I will have had a full week to work on my cellulite and frown wrinkle, and I will also appear to have a very busy and active social life.

  When the day arrives, I make an excuse and sneak out of the office at four thirty. He is taking me for dinner and drinks at seven. I want to take my time getting ready—have a glass of wine, do some calming breathing exercises, maybe meditate a bit. Tonight is going to be great. I don’t need to feel intimidated just because he is twenty-four with a body like Enrique Iglesias. I have a lot to offer such a young stud.

  I shower, dry my hair while scrunching for tousled, carefree waves, and apply my makeup. When I am done, it is only five thirty. I decide to tape my wrinkle, pour a glass of Shiraz, and listen to some calming Enya on my stereo. I sit cross-legged on the floor in my flannel pajamas, breathing deeply while the melodies wash over me. “I am sexy. I am youthful. I have a lot to offer a hot young man.” I repeat this mantra until it is time to get dressed.

  “Hi,” I say brightly, opening the door to Matt. God, he is good looking. He looks just showered fresh; his skin is all dewy and soft and twenty-four.

  “Hi,” he says, his eyes darting around anxiously. Awwww . . . He’s nervous. It must be intimidating dating someone with so

  much . . . experience. I must put him at ease.

  “I’m really glad you called, Matt,” I say sincerely. “I think we’re going to have a great time tonight.”

  “Uh . . . yeah,” he says. “So . . . uh . . . are you ready?”

  “Yeah. I’m like, totally psyched!” I say, employing some of the youthful
lingo I’ve picked up from hanging out with Tiffany.

  Matt drives us to a dark and intimate bistro in his red Acura Integra. I am relieved to see that he’s made a reservation. I thought maybe guys his age didn’t make reservations (much like teenagers don’t shake hands). But Matt is mature beyond his years. He has direction and purpose and a very bright future. I must remember that and stop thinking of him as someone Tiffany could hang out with.

  “Would you like a cocktail, or should we order some wine?” he asks when we are seated in our candlelit booth.

  “Wine would be great,” I say. He really is very debonair for his age.

  “Uh . . . okay. What, uh . . . kind do you like?”

  I select a cabernet sauvignon from the wine list, and he orders it from our sleeveless waitress. Did I just see him checking out her toned arms? No, my own insecurities are planting ideas in my head. I hope I’ve chosen an appropriate outfit. I’m wearing a black rayon blouse that wraps at the waist, revealing just the right amount of cleavage. I have on black slacks with a subtle white pinstripe for a slimming effect. My hair is tousled and carefree. My makeup is understated and elegant. I am sexy. I am youthful. I have a lot to offer a hot young man.

  Our conversation is stilted over dinner. He seems somewhat unfocused, like there’s somewhere else he needs to be—or would rather be. I use my excellent skills as a conversationalist to draw him into an interesting exchange, but his eyes and thoughts seem to wander. As attractive as Matt is, perhaps guys his age just don’t have anything very interesting to say. The term “eye candy” floats through my brain.

  When the waitress asks if we’d like dessert or an after-dinner drink, Matt says, “Not for me, thanks. I’ve got an early morning.”

  “I’m fine, too,” I say with a forced smile. “Big day tomorrow at the ad agency. We’re casting for a commercial we’re shooting next week.”

  “Cool,” Matt says uninterestedly. “Just the bill, please.”

  On the ride home, I can’t help but feel disappointed. Matt really was quite dull . . . and hard to talk to. Maybe we should have done something more appropriate to his age—like gone to a sports bar where we drank beer and watched baseball. Or a video arcade? But I am still hopeful that this evening won’t be a total loss. I am dying to kiss him and run my hands over his hard, youthful physique.