The Journal of Mortifying Moments

by Robyn Harding

  We pull up in front of my building, and I turn to him. “Thanks so much for dinner. It was wonderful.”

  “No problem.” He nods.

  “So . . .” I lean toward him, prompting him to at least put the bloody car into park. “I had a really great time tonight.”

  “Me, too. Good night.”

  “Good night.” I hop out of the car before he speeds off into the night.

  What a disaster. I let myself into the solace of my apartment, glad to be alone and out of that awkward and uncomfortable situation. I kick off my shoes and wander dejectedly to the bathroom. No flirtatious banter over drinks, no eye contact over dinner, no good-night kiss . . .

  I stare in shock at my reflection in the mirror. “Nooooooooooooooo,” I screach. “Noooooooooo!” I sink dramatically to the floor, my head in my hands. I can’t believe this! I really can’t. This is just fucking perfect. I wallow in self-pity for a few moments; then I pull myself together. I stand up, look in the mirror, and peel the Scotch tape from my forehead.

  Chapter 18

  “What did he say?” I ask Val when she calls me at the office Friday afternoon. I know full well what he said, but there is always a slim chance that he didn’t notice.

  “He said you had Scotch tape on your head.”

  “It was for the wrinkle!” I cry. “I forgot to take it off.”

  “I know that, but poor Matt was totally confused.”

  “Did you tell him what it was for?” I’m not sure if I want him to know or not.

  “No . . . I played dumb.”

  “Hmmm. I wonder if I could tell him it was on for some medical reason. Like . . . I had a skull fracture or something?”

  “He’s twenty-four—he’s not an imbecile,” Val says. “He’s not going to buy that you were holding your skull together with Scotch tape.”

  “True. Well, it’s too bad. He’s really gorgeous. But . . . he’s not the ‘one’ anyway.”

  “The one what?”

  I realize I haven’t told Val about Ramona’s predictions for my future soul mate. That’s because I don’t want Michelle to know. She’s so pragmatic and skeptical that she’d undoubtedly scoff and laugh at my gullibility. “Oh, nothing,” I say. “It’s just that Matt was too young for me anyway. And I’d be so insecure dating someone that good looking.”

  “Sam was that good looking.”

  “Yeah, and I was so insecure dating him!”

  Val laughs. “Well, hopefully you’ll find yourself someone old and ugly soon.”

  “Hopefully,” I say. “I’d better get back to work.”

  I have two new messages in my e-mail inbox. One is from my brother, asking me to pick up a Christmas present for Mom from him. “Spend about fifty bucks,” he says. “I’ll send you a check to cover it.”

  Sure he will. I know I’ll never see a dime from him, and I also know that I’ll hustle out and buy a really nice gift on his behalf. My mother will love it more than anything else she’s received until she finds out that I selected it, and then she’ll complain that it’s a bit too small, or the scent gives her a headache, or it doesn’t quite go with the color scheme in the condo, but it was a lovely gesture.

  There is also a message from Theresa at Shooting Star.

  Dear Shooting Star Mentors:

  I’ve got free tickets to the hockey game on Monday between the Seattle Indians and the visiting Canadian team the Kamloops Ice Dogs. This is senior men’s amateur hockey, and promises to be a fun filled and exciting night! If you and your protégée would be interested in going, please send me an e-mail to reserve your tickets.

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

  Theresa

  Hockey! Fighting, swearing, poking each other with sticks! Hockey is sure to appeal to Tiffany’s pugilistic appetites. I e-mail Theresa and request two tickets.

  I pick Tiffany up at her aunt’s apartment. Julie, her aunt, is about my age. She answers the door in her bathrobe with a cigarette dangling from her mouth. “Hi,” she says in a gravelly voice that was probably once Demi Moore–ish but now sounds more like one of Marge Simpson’s sisters. “Tiffany’ll be right out.” Then she leaves.

  I wait in the hall until Tiffany appears.

  “Heeeeeeeeyyy! ’S’ up girlfriend?”

  Tiffany gawks at me. Her nose is turned up slightly, like she’s just discovered me in her hallway wearing only Saran Wrap.

  Perhaps it is best not to try to speak her language. “How have you been?”

  “Fine.”

  “Don’t be too late!” Julie calls over the blare of Wheel of Fortune. “It’s a school night.”

  “Yeah, yeah . . .,” Tiffany says, closing the door behind her. “She thinks she’s, like, my mom now.”

  “Well, I’m sure it’s just because she cares about you.”

  “Whatever.”

  The drive to the arena is awkward. I babble a constant stream of small talk—about the traffic, the buildings we pass, the rain, the game we’re about to see . . . “Do you watch much hockey on TV?” I ask.

  “My dad used to watch it, but he took off eight years ago, so not really. . . .”

  “Oh. That’s too bad.”

  Long awkward silence . . .

  “My dad took off, too,” I continue. “He’s British, and he moved back to London for a job.” I don’t mention that my dad relocated when I was twenty and that his leaving had very little negative impact on me.

  But in the interest of bonding with Tiffany, I sigh heavily and say, “It’s been tough.”

  Silence.

  “So I guess we have that in common, eh? Our dads taking off?”

  This revelation does not have the bonding impact I had anticipated. “I guess.” She shrugs.

  The Shooting Star program has a block of seats right behind the goal donated by Raincoast, Inc., a large and philanthropic shipping corporation. An employee from Shooting Star is there, handing out T-shirts and baseball caps for us to wear. Unfortunately, the T-shirts are fluorescent green, and the hats are tomato red.

  Tiffany turns her nose up. “I’m not wearing that.”

  “Ugh. Could they have picked uglier colors?” I whisper.

  She smiles.

  “Here are your hats and shirts,” the bubbly brunette from Shooting Star says. “Please wear them. We might be on TV later.”

  “I’m not wearing that on TV!” Tiffany screeches.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, my voice hushed. “I’ll cover for you.” I don the hideous garments and shield Tiffany from the prying eyes of the Shooting Star girl.

  The game begins with an impressive light show and dramatic music as the Seattle Indians take to the ice. Hockey was an excellent choice; with all the theatrics, it is quite similar to WWF or . . . that other one.

  The first two periods are uneventful. Tiffany seems vaguely interested. I buy her a Coke and a bag of popcorn at the second intermission, which elicits a small smile of appreciation. Our group is featured briefly on the Jumbotron screen high above the ice.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” a booming voice says. “Please give a round of applause for the Shooting Star program! Providing mentors for high- to medium-risk teens.” Some of the kids wave to the camera. Tiffany practically crawls beneath her seat.

  In the third and final period, the game becomes exciting. The score is two–all as the few remaining minutes are played out. The crowd is on the edge of their seats, cheering loudly for Seattle’s victory. Even Tiffany, who has previously been ambivalent to the outcome, is getting into it. When two players begin to tussle in the corner, she springs to life.

  “Kill him! Kill him!” She screams, flecks of foam flying from her mouth. “Smash his face in Roberts! Don’t be such a wimp!”

  Oh, my! All eyes in the Shooting Star section turn to us, as do several in the neighboring seats. “Murder him, number nineteen! He doesn’t deserve to live! You suck! You suck!”

  She is standing now, leanin
g over the mentor and protégé seated in front of us as she hurls insults at the players. The mentor, a tallish guy in fluorescent green and tomato red turns to me. His eyes plead with mine: Do something, please. Make her stop. We’re frightened.

  “Hi,” I say to the fruit-and-vegetable-hued mentor. “We’ve met before.”

  After a moment, recognition shows on his features. “Right! At the Silver Unicorn. How are you?”

  “Good, thanks. And you?”

  “Rip his head off, you big baby! Fight! Fight! Fight!”

  We are unable to chat until Seattle scores with two minutes remaining and everyone starts to leave. “You bite, Kamloops!” Tiffany yells. “Losers!” I am now actually glad to be wearing this ridiculous red hat. It is providing camouflage in case I know anyone here—which I’m really hoping I do not. Except, of course, this brownish-sandy-haired guy I met at the work-related function.

  When the final buzzer sounds, the crowd moves slowly toward the exit. I find myself standing directly in front of him as we inch our way out of the stadium.

  “So . . . how long have you been a mentor?” he asks.

  “Just a few weeks,” I say. “You?”

  “Two years. I met Brian when he was just twelve.” He gives Brian a friendly punch in the arm. Brian is an overweight, acne-prone teen who beams up at his mentor with a look of adoration. I hope someday Tiffany will look at me that way. “I’m Nick, by the way.”

  “Right! Nick!” I say as I recall our previous meeting. “I’m—”

  “Kerry. I remember.”

  “You have a good memory,” I say, a bit flirtatiously (but not overly so—I don’t want to send the wrong message to Tiffany and Brian).

  “It’s not hard to remember a girl covered in Caesar salad and chicken satay.”

  “I guess not.” I smirk sheepishly.

  We make pleasant small talk until we reach the doors and part ways. “It was nice to see you again, Kerry.” He smiles sincerely. He really does have a very nice face: square jaw, twinkling blue eyes, and a hint of sexiness in his smile. In fact, he must be really quite good looking, considering I am finding him attractive despite his tomato hat and lime-green T-shirt.

  “You, too, Nick.” I smile back. “I’m sure our paths will cross again at another Shooting Star event.”

  “I hope so,” he says.

  “Bye, Tiffany,” Brian says. “See you at school.”

  “Whatever.” Tiffany turns away from him dismissively. As we walk into the drizzly night, she says, “What a loser.”

  “Who? Brian?”

  “Yeah, Brian. Who else?”

  “He goes to your school?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he in your grade?”

  “Some classes. But he’s in a bunch of idiot classes, too.”

  “You mean remedial classes?”

  “Whatever. We call them idiot classes.”

  I know I’m supposed to show support and not scold; I know I’m supposed to be a big sister, not a mother figure, but I can’t let this pass. “You know Tiffany, a lot of people who became very successful started out as overweight kids in remedial classes.”

  “Sure.” She snorts in disbelief. “Like who?”

  “Albert Einstein, for one.”

  She scoffs, uninterested.

  “Tom Cruise,” I say.

  She stops snorting and seems to absorb it a little.

  “Brett ‘the Hitman’ Hart and Hulk Hogan.”

  “Really?”

  “Really,” I say, though I am totally making this up as I go along. “They were both fat and pimply and in special classes for math and science. And look at them now!”

  “Yeah.” She nods.

  “So who knows? Brian could end up becoming a really famous wrestler. You wouldn’t want him to remember you as the girl who was mean to him at school, would you?”

  “No.”

  I am pretty good at this mentoring thing.

  Chapter 19

  I am due at the television shoot at eleven. I will go into the office first to check e-mails, follow up on a few other projects, and generally show my face around, so as to look very zealous. (I could probably have gotten away with sleeping in and going straight to the shoot.) I also had a frantic call from Trevor last night, requesting an emergency chai latte session this morning. It seems he is having some issues with the amazing guy he met at the Silver Unicorn.

  I have barely taken my coat off when Trevor appears in my doorway.

  “Can we go now?” he says. “I’ve been waiting all morning.”

  “It’s only eight thirty!”

  “Yeah . . . let’s go.”

  I will at least turn my computer on to give the impression that I have already been in . . . which I have. If Sonja happens by, she may wonder “Where is Kerry?” but a glance at my computer will tell her that I have obviously been in to catch up on e-mails and other projects. I’m not sure why I am still trying to impress Sonja. I know it’s a hopeless situation—the spirit world knows it, too! Sucking up to her must be force of habit.

  At Starbucks, we order our beverages then find our usual secluded back table. I was very angry with Trevor after he tricked me into meeting with Dave at Corky’s; I wasn’t sure it was possible to be friends with someone so deceitful. And I told him so.

  “But, Kerry,” Trevor responded. “I had the best intentions, and you have to admit, things did turn out well.”

  “I guess they did, but how would you feel if I asked you to go for a drink and instead, fucking Rory showed up?”

  “I see your point.” He acquiesced. “I’m sorry.” He gave me a quick hug. “But I can’t help it! I still think Dave is the one the psychic was talking about!”

  “He’s not! How many times do I have to tell you? It’s not him.”

  “I think she doth protest too much.”

  “I doth nothing, Trevor. And if you care at all about our friendship, you’ll stop talking about Dave right now.”

  He did.

  So . . . now we are ensconced in the most private corner of the busy Pine Street Starbucks, and Trevor is about to spill the details of his latest drama. “I don’t know why I have such shitty luck with men,” he says, taking a sip of his latte.

  “Well, if you’d like to borrow You Get What You Give by Dr. Rainbow—”

  He silences me with a look.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask sympathetically.

  “I told you about Joseph, right?”

  “Not much. Just that you met him that night at the NAPI party and that he works at LPM. And that he’s amazing.”

  “He was amazing,” Trevor says morosely. “Is amazing, I guess. I mean . . . he is amazing, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I’m starting to think he might be a bit . . . old.”

  “Old? He’s old?”

  “He’s not old!” Trevor snaps. “He’s older. You know . . . older than me.”

  “How older is he?”

  “Forty.”

  “That’s not so old.”

  “Okay . . . he’s forty-four, but he doesn’t look it. Except—”

  “Except?”

  “Naked. He looks older when he’s naked.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah, I know it sounds shallow, but there are other things, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “His taste in music.”

  “Uh-oh.” I know Trevor takes his music very seriously. He is really into house.

  “He likes show tunes. Especially Rodgers and Hammerstein. He has the same taste as my mom!”

  “Well . . .,” I say, taking a sip of my frothy drink. “I am a huge fan of The Sound of Music.”

  “How nice,” Trevor retorts. “Perhaps we should invite you over for a duet? You and Joseph can be Lisa and Ralph.”

  “Leisel and Rolf,” I say. Like, duh?

  “Whatever.” He waves his hand dismissively. “I can’t stand it.”

  “Can’t stand it?
Are you crazy?” I begin to sing in my sweetest Leisel voice. “ ‘I am sixteen, going on seventeen, I know that I’m naïve.’ ”

  “Stop!”

  “Okay . . . How about this one? ‘High on a hill was a lonely goatherd—’ ”

  “If you yodel, I will scald you with this latte!”

  We are holding our sides with laughter when suddenly—

  “You two look like you’re having an awfully good time.”

  Shit. Sonja.

  “I thought you’d be at the shoot, Kerry.”

  “I will be,” I say quickly. “I just came in to check my e-mails and follow up on some other projects. I think you’ll notice that my computer is already on in my office.”

  Trevor shoots me a look. I guess that wasn’t very subtle.

  Sonja ignores my comments anyway and looks at her watch. “It’s nearly ten. You should get going. Janet said she’d be there before eleven, and I wouldn’t want the client to show up before you.”

  “Yes, I was just about to leave. I’ll just go back to the office and grab Gavin and give him a ride out there.”

  “Oh, Gavin’s already there,” Trevor interjects. “I saw him earlier this morning. He said he came in to the office at seven to catch up on some things and left for the shoot around eight.”

  Gee, thanks, Trevor. Remind me to serenade you with “Edelweiss” at every given opportunity.

  “Well,” Sonja says. “I suggest you join him. Please call in with a progress report this afternoon.”

  As I drive to the Tacoma set, I realize that I didn’t have a chance to check my e-mails or follow up on any other projects. No doubt, Dennis the production manager will see Sonja in the hall and ask, “Have you seen Kerry? She was supposed to follow up on several projects, and I haven’t heard from her.” If this sparks her curiosity, she may open my e-mail program to find a row of unopened messages, dated this morning. She will know I came into the office, turned on my PC, then promptly walked out to drink chai lattes with Trevor. It is definitely time to dust off my résumé.