The Journal of Mortifying Moments_A Novel Page 8

  How did everything get so messed up? Tears are stinging my eyes, and I want nothing more than to crawl under my desk, curl up in a ball, and cry for three hours. But it is not to be.

  “Ohmigawd! There you are!”

  “Hi, Trevor,” I say glumly as he takes a seat in my office.

  “I’m so sorry about what happened to you last night! You must be mortified.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I tried to come into the ladies’ room to help you, but one of the bouncers saw me and wouldn’t let me through. I was all, like, ‘Trust me, honey. There’s nothing in there that interests me,’ but he wasn’t budging. So I went back to the bar and had a few more cocktails, and I met the most amazing guy who works at LPM. So gorgeous, smart, and sexy! He makes fucking Rory look . . . fat and boring!”

  “Great.”

  Silence.

  “So . . . obviously, you made it home all right?”

  “Yeah . . .” Despite my somber mood, I am filled with glee to finally be able to share my Dave story. “But . . . I was almost murdered.”

  “What?”

  “Dave accosted me in the stairwell.”

  “Oh, God! Kerry, how horrifying! What did he do?”

  “He tried”—I lower my voice to a dramatic whisper—“to kiss me!”

  “No! Oh, my God!” Trevor screams at the top of his lungs.

  “Shhhhhhhhh! I’ve practically been fired already this morning. I don’t want to draw attention to myself.”

  “Sorry,” Trevor whispers, and scoots his chair closer to me. We pretend to be poring over a creative brief while I quietly give him the details of last night’s stairwell encounter.

  When I am finished, Trevor sits back and looks at me. “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I hate to say this, but I think Dave’s ‘the one.’ ”

  “The one what?”

  “The ‘one,’ the ‘one’ Ramona was talking about.”

  “Yuck! Shut up! Don’t be gross.”

  “Think about it,” he says. “He’s got sandy hair, his name starts with D, he’s in a creative field.”

  “It’s not him, Trevor. He’s been married three times! He has a girlfriend!”

  “She said there would be obstacles to you two getting together.”

  “Those are pretty major obstacles.” My voice is getting louder. “It’s not him! It’s not him, okay?”

  “Okay . . . but maybe you should have more of an open mind? You don’t want to let true love walk out the door just because he’s a serial killer with a girlfriend.”

  Just then Sonja walks by with Bob Copley, the managing director. Trevor is quick on his feet. “The brief looks great, Kerr,” he says. “Nice point of difference. Way to push the envelope!”

  Chapter 10

  This weekend marks the beginning of the new Kerry Spence. I am turning over a new leaf. I will be a kinder, gentler, more spiritual and true person, and in return, the universe will reward me with abundance. It’s all outlined in this book I picked up after work on Friday. It is called You Get What You Give, by Dr. Rainbow Hashwarma, and it’s helped me enormously already. I’ve read only the first two chapters, but I’ve managed to glean the central theme of the book. Basically, it purports that the life you have is the life you deserve. So, if you are lonely, hate your job, and the man you are meant to be with is a two-timing murderer, that is because you are a shitty person and you deserve it. I have decided to make some major changes in my life and attitudes. I have created a short list of ways to become a better human being.

  Be a better friend. (I will never again desert a friend in her time of need to go off to a stupid work-related function—or even to a really good party.)

  Deal with Sam in an honest and straightforward manner. (This avoidance thing is getting rude. He left another message this morning.)

  Never giggle and make jokes when someone is talking about a person who is emotionally exhausted or getting a new wheelchair.

  Develop a strong, loving, and uncritical relationship with my mother. (This is more of a long-term goal.)

  Write and phone my dad more. (Just because he is a workaholic who lives on another continent doesn’t mean he doesn’t love and miss his children.)

  Write frequently in the journal of mortifying moments in order to analyze these situations with my therapist, absolve myself of blame, and learn to love men with an open, unguarded heart.

  Start going to yoga.

  Volunteer for something. (Hopefully something that is kind of fun where I can meet single men who are also kind, gentle, spiritual, and true.)

  Stop joking about Dave being a serial killer. This is unkind to the victims of real serial killers, and if it does (God forbid) turn out that he is the “one” I am meant to be with, I’d like the joke to just go away.

  My first step is taking Sandra out for brunch. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem angry at me about the other night. When she hears how that event turned out, she will realize I have already been punished enough.

  I pick her up, and we head to a tiny diner we frequent near the waterfront. Sandra looks quite a bit better, but I’m a little worried that she’s on something. She seems glassy eyed and lethargic, but otherwise, in fine spirits.

  We find a seat by the window and order coffees and French toast for me, an omelette for her.

  “It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?” I say, gazing out the window. “The ocean looks so haunting when it’s gray and rainy out.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” she agrees distractedly.

  “So . . . how are you, anyway?” I ask, taking her hand across the table. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you the other night.”

  “I’m fine.” She smiles vacantly.

  “Really? You’re okay?” Something is not right about this.

  “Yeah . . . I mean, the situation is less than ideal, but we can work through it.”

  “Pardon me?” I sputter on my ice water. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying George and I have worked things out.”

  “Worked things out?” I scream. All eyes in the restaurant turn to our table. I lean forward and hiss the rest of my discourse. “Sandra, please tell me you are not going to continue your relationship with him.”

  “Kerry . . . I’ve thought a lot about this, and it’s my decision to make. He told me you guys would try to talk me out of it.”

  “Are you high?” Oops. The volume level has crept up again. “Seriously, are you on something?” I whisper.

  “I’ve taken a little something to help me relax,” she says. “It’s no big deal.”

  “What is it?” I demand, although I don’t know anything about hard drugs, and unless she says crack or heroin, I’m not going to know whether I should be concerned.

  “A little Valium.”

  At least I have heard of Valium—but should I be concerned? Didn’t all the housewives in the fifties take Valium, like every day? But didn’t many of them also end up dead inside? I don’t know what to do! “I don’t think you should be taking Valium, Sandra,” I say in a strong voice that conceals all doubt. “You need to keep a clear head.”

  “It’s clear,” she says, pouring cream into her coffee. “I know what I want, and that’s George in my life.”

  We sit in silence for a while, each staring at the ocean, immersed in our own thoughts. At least I am immersed in my own thoughts; Sandra is probably floating on a fluffy pink cloud. Given my recent commitment to being a better friend, I must carefully consider the tack I take with her. On the one hand, maybe her relationship with George is enough for her. Maybe she doesn’t want a man who loves only her and will give her a home and children and stability and security. In that case, I should just butt out. But on the other hand, I’ve known Sandra since college, and I can’t forget the dreams she’d shared with me. She did want a family and a home and a man to love her! It’s not like she’d fantasized about a relationship with her old geezer boss who evidently still scr
ews his wife!

  “Listen,” I say, pouring syrup on my French toast. “As your friend, I need to tell you how I feel.”

  “I know how you feel,” Sandra says casually, taking a bite of her omelette. “But no one understands the situation like I do.”

  Is there a computer chip planted in her brain? Has George replaced her with a Stepford mistress? “Sandra . . . I know it’s hard to end things with him, but you deserve more than this. You deserve a man who loves only you! You deserve to have a home. And children.”

  She smiles. “I am going to have children.”

  “Oh, come on!” I say, frustrated by her Zen-like acceptance. “By the time George’s latest child grows up, he’ll be ninety.”

  “Seventy-six.”

  “Okay, seventy-six. Do you really want your child to have a father who’s almost eighty? Too old to play catch, too blind to play video games, too incontinent to—”

  “No, I don’t,” she says calmly. “George and I have discussed it, and we’re not going to wait. We’re going to try for a baby later this year.”

  “What?” I cannot believe I’m hearing this. Again, I grasp frantically for the right way to handle the situation. I wish I’d read more of You Get What You Give. Surely Dr. Rainbow Hashwarma must have a chapter on how to support your friend but make her see sense, as well. I decide I must take a hard line. It’s for Sandra’s own good.

  “I’m sorry, Sandra, but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Who does George think he is, François Mitterrand?”

  “Who?”

  “The president of France who had—look, it doesn’t matter. The point is . . . I don’t think you should settle for this. You deserve to have a proper family, not a part-time husband and father for your child.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion, Kerry.”

  “Seriously, Sandra,” I continue in a firm yet gentle tone. “I think you need to make a clean break from George. Maybe you should see my therapist? She’s really helped me move beyond my relationship with Sam.”

  “Really?” She smirks at me. “You call screening your calls and avoiding him moving beyond him?”

  “I’m going to talk to him very soon,” I say, blushing. “Anyway . . . this isn’t about me. This is about you.”

  “My mind is made up,” she says with a shrug. “I’m happy and at peace.”

  “That’s the Valium talking! You can’t do this. If you have a baby with George, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” Her eyes narrow, and there is a glimpse of the real Sandra through the fog of contentment.

  “I . . . I’m not going to support you in this,” I say firmly. “I will not stand by and watch you throw your life away.”

  “Thanks, Kerry. You’re a real friend.”

  “It’s called tough love.”

  “It’s called being a judgmental bitch,” she says. She throws a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Nice seeing you.” She storms out.

  I drive home on autopilot, my tears camouflaged by the pouring rain. When I am inside my apartment, I rush to pick up You Get What You Give. I flip through it frantically, eager for some reinforcement that my tough-love approach was the right one. I find the section I am looking for on page 112.

  When you are truly at one with the universe, you must let those you love find their way to true enlightenment by making their own mistakes. One must not force his or her opinions or beliefs on a friend or loved one, no matter how clear the answer may seem. Only by allowing the people you care about to come to their own conclusions can your relationships endure.

  Shit, shit, shit!

  “You look amazing!” my best friend Rhonda squealed as she opened her front door for me.

  “You do!” Maureen, my other best friend, chorused. “A mermaid-style dress is perfect for you!”

  “Thanks, you guys! You look so beautiful, too,” I gushed. And they did. Rhonda was radiant with her blond, feathered hair and lacy pink gown. Maureen’s cheeks glowed with happiness, framed by curling-ironed tendrils of dark hair. Soon, we had all three dissolved into tears and were clinging to each other, the taffeta of our prom dresses rustling with each sob.

  “Look at the princesses!” Rhonda’s dad said, circling us and snapping photos.

  “You look like angels,” said Rhonda’s mom. “Pink, mauve, and peach angels.”

  “I have a little gift for you guys,” Maureen said through the lump of emotion in her throat. She broke away from the circle.

  “I do, too.”

  “Me, too.”

  We retrieved the wrapped boxes from their plastic bags and sat in the living room for the gift exchange. Rhonda didn’t sit, though. Her pink dress was formfitting; it did not allow sitting.

  “Open mine first,” I said, presenting them each with a small box.

  They both gasped, removing the small gold pendants from their green velvet nests. “Oh!”

  “Turn them over,” I said excitedly. Engraved on the back of each tiny heart was

  THE TRANSISTERS 4 EVER!

  1989.

  “Oh, my god!” We all started to cry again. The Transisters (pronounced Transistors) was the name of the rock band we were going to form after graduation.

  “Now mine,” Maureen said. Rhonda and I tore off the wrapping to find pewter goblets, each engraved with

  THE TRANSISTERS.

  CLASS OF ’89.

  More tears.

  Rhonda passed out the last gift. “It’s beautiful!” we bawled when we saw the bronzed plaques reading

  LIVE LOVE LAUGH.

  THE TRANSISTERS ALWAYS AND FOREVER.

  CLASS OF ’89 ROCKS!

  “You girls better freshen up,” Rhonda’s mom said, wiping a tear from her eye. “The boys will be here in a few minutes.”

  We all giggled and scurried (as fast as one can scurry in skintight taffeta) to Rhonda’s room. We passed around the Mary Kay plum eye shadow trio, the cherry blush, the pink pearl lip gloss. Then we stood side by side and took in our reflection in the mirror.

  “We made it,” I said.

  “Yep,” Rhonda agreed. “This is the beginning of the next chapter.”

  “Yeah,” said Maureen. “Just think . . . next time this year we’ll be traveling the country as the Transisters.”

  “It’s going to be so awesome!” We’d been planning our rock band since tenth grade. Maureen would play drums (she had been practicing on her cousin’s drum set), and Rhonda would be lead guitar (she planned to start taking lessons soon). I would be the lead singer. I knew this was not because I had the best voice necessarily, but since I was the tallest, we felt I’d have the most stage presence. We would begin our search for a bass player in the summer.

  “It’s a big night for us.”

  “In more ways than one,” Maureen giggled.

  “Are you guys still in?” Rhonda turned from the mirror and looked at us each gravely.

  “I’m in,” I said, my stomach turning over with nerves.

  “Me, too,” Maureen said. “Just think . . . tomorrow we’ll be real women.”

  “Yeah,” I said nervously. “It’s really cool that tonight will be the first time for all of us.”

  “Yeah,” Maureen said. “It’s very cool.”

  Rhonda was conspicuously silent.

  “Why are you so quiet?” Maureen asked. “Are you chickening out?”

  “No!” Rhonda’s face was red. “No . . . it’s just that . . . umm . . .”

  “What?” I asked, secretly hoping that she would chicken out, thus letting me off the hook.

  “It’s just that Wes and I kind of . . . already . . .”

  “What?” Maureen and I shrieked. “When?”

  “Last month.” Rhonda shrugged.

  “That’s just great,” Maureen sniped. “We’ve promised each other since tenth grade that we’d all lose our virginity on prom night.”

  “Yeah,” I said to support Maureen’s indignation, although I was only slightly perturbed that R
honda broke our pact.

  “Look, you guys,” Rhonda said, normal color returning to her face. “It just sort of happened, okay? The point is, we will all have sex tonight, and tomorrow, all three of us will be nonvirgins.”

  “True,” I said to smooth things over. “That’s really the point.”

  Maureen gave in grudgingly. “Okay.”

  “Besides,” Rhonda said to me. “You and Brent are such a great couple. You are so totally meant to be.”

  “Thanks,” I said shyly.

  She addressed Maureen. “And you and Eddie, too. You’re so lucky to have found your soul mate at such a young age.”

  Maureen smiled. “Yes, I am.”

  “Okay . . .” Rhonda lowered her voice. “Here’s the plan. You know how I’m looking after my Auntie Shirley’s cat while she’s in Reno?”

  “Yeah,” Maureen and I said in unison.

  “I got two extra keys cut.” She reached into her jewelry box and presented us each with a silver key. “There’s a bedroom downstairs, and two upstairs. If the door is shut, that means the room is occupied, okay?”

  “Okay.” We heard the doorbell ring downstairs.

  “Good luck tonight, girls,” Rhonda said. We all hugged and then checked our makeup one more time. As we headed down the stairs, I had to ask. “So, Rhonda? Was it . . . you know . . . fun?”

  “Pretty fun,” she whispered back.

  Brent and I had been dating since eleventh grade. I’d had a crush on him since the ninth, but I was four inches taller than he was then, so he hadn’t really been interested. The year we turned seventeen, he shot up to almost six feet and finally noticed me. He had shiny, dark feathered hair, deep brown eyes, and was the strong and silent type. He was also a really good basketball player. Some people thought he could make it to the NBA. That would be cool, I guess, except that with my career as lead singer in a rock band, we’d hardly ever see each other.

  I held his hand as we sat in the back of the limo with our friends. I looked up at him and smiled adoringly; he glanced over and gave me a quick grin. He seemed tense. Maybe the pressure of tonight’s events was weighing on him, too? I had always thought that boys just wanted to “do it” all the time, but I suppose there would be some anxiety attached to the whole affair for them, as well. Tonight would not be Brent’s first time, though. He told me he had slept with a girl the summer before we got together. She was his cousin’s neighbor in Olympia. I was actually quite relieved that he would know what he was doing.