How They Met (7 page)

She nodded.

“What were some of the runner-ups?”

“Well, there was ‘You look like Sylvia Plath waiting for the oven to preheat.’ And ‘You look like you’re taking the SATs and you’ve only brought pens.’ And just plain ‘You look like a castrato.’ I decided to go with the mink.”

“I might’ve gone with Plath.”

“But you haven’t even read Plath.”

“Maybe I’ll go home right now and start.”

I remember this conversation word for word. I don’t remember the way I was holding Theresa or the way she was holding me. I couldn’t even tell you what she was wearing. But I remember each of the things she said to me, and the way we were laughing without having the need to laugh out loud. Just sharing that.

When my dance with Theresa was over, I spied Sally talking to some of her friends at another table. The rest of my girl group—a few of them with dates in tow—joined me and Theresa as the singer tried to make her way through “Brown-Eyed Girl.” At one point, I was opposite my friend Allison’s date, Chad, and when we sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-le-la-dee-da-ed, we both leaned forward so that his bangs brushed up against mine. He smiled at me and I smiled back, and that was all there was. But I remember that, too.

Sally joined us—well, I should say she joined
me
—a few songs in. Some of her makeup had worn off in the sweating and her subsequent restroom visit. Her flushness came through more. The dancing scuffed up her dress, the bubble gum deflating in parts. I honestly think I was the only one who noticed.

The head of the prom committee announced the prom song, “Wonderful Tonight,” and all the groups immediately split into pairs. Sally made her way into me, and I held her. Yes, I held her. Because I had been the one to ask. And because I didn’t want to be an asshole. And because I knew that even if the moment didn’t mean anything to me, it probably meant something to her. So I danced to the song as if it had somehow become ours. As if it showed us what we were meant to be.

When it was over, I kissed her. Closed-mouthed. Quickly. Like I would’ve kissed a friend on New Year’s.

Further announcements were made, about not driving drunk, about remembering to take our prom memento (a coffee mug) from the table. Sally and I hadn’t really talked about after the prom—I knew there were some parties, but we’d only booked the limo until midnight. Finding the limo was a nightmare—there were so many of them outside, and I barely remembered what the driver looked like. Luckily he was holding a placard with our names on it, hyphenated together. As if we were already married.

I was exhausted, and I hoped that Sally would be exhausted, too. But when we got into the limo she immediately leaned her head on my shoulder again.

“What do you want to do?” she asked, running her finger over my sleeve. I could barely feel it, but I was intensely aware of it.

“I don’t know—what do you want to do?”

“How about this?” she said, leaning in closer, about to kiss me. But her dress got in her way and she didn’t quite make it.

“Sally…,” I started.

“Damon, I’m so into you,” she said. And I immediately wished she hadn’t.

She was pulling her dress out of her way now, so she could push closer into me. Then her hands were on my shirt, pressing on my chest, but there really wasn’t anything she could do. My sleeves were cuff-linked tight. My tuxedo buttons could only be undone from the inside. My cummerbund was safely clasped in the back, and it was protecting my pants button from any fumbling. It was like armor. And then there was her dress: Even as she rearranged the poofs, I realized there was no way for her to get out of it without some help in the back. As long as I went nowhere near her zipper, the force field would hold.

“C’mon, Damon,” she whispered. “Let’s make out in the back of a limo.”

I’m all for making out in the back of a limo when you have a chance. But there was no way…except that I couldn’t think of a way to tell her that.

“C’mon,” she repeated, her hands getting to the back of my neck, her lips coming closer.

“I can’t,” I said.

She pulled back a little to look me in the eye, and asked the question I most feared:

“Why not?”

There are so many things I could have said. “I’m still in love with Nina,” for one. Or that old standby “I want us just to be friends.” Or “I’m not ready for another relationship.” Or “I feel weird doing this with the driver of this limo sitting five feet away, with his rearview mirror aimed at us.” Or “Can’t we talk about this first?” Or “That would be against my God.” Or, I don’t know, “I have the biggest cold sore right now.”

Instead I said, “Look…I’m gay.”

It just occurred to me, and I said it, and the minute I said it, I couldn’t believe I’d said it, because at that point I didn’t even get it. It was like my subconscious saw an empty moment it could take for itself and went for it.

Glinda the Good Witch sagged before my eyes. She said something like “Oh, I see,” and retreated into her dress, to her side of the backseat.

And I sat there on my side, thinking I had just told a lie, when it was actually the truth. I wish I could say that I suddenly realized it
was
the truth, that the minute I said it out loud it became real to me. But right then I didn’t see the reasons I said it. I only see them now. I can tell you this, though—after that moment, the reasons were much harder to ignore. I thought I was making up an excuse, but it was actually the beginning of the end of excuses.

I knew none of this then, and Sally knew even less. I told her I was sorry. I asked her not to tell anyone. I said I wanted us to be friends—and that, I think, was the only real lie I told.

She didn’t scream or yell or cry or anything. She just let the limo driver take her home. Who knows—maybe she actually knew more than me. Maybe the moment I said it, it made perfect sense to her.

When the limo got to her house, I told her I’d had a good time, all things considered. And in the first real moment of spark she showed the whole night, she said she’d had a good time, too,
all things considered.
I watched from the backseat as she walked up her front steps, as her mother opened the door. I felt sad for us both. And also relieved.

Of course, Theresa called the next day to ask what had happened. It wasn’t until my first month of college that I started to figure things out and told her the truth.

“So the first person you came out to was Glinda the Good Witch?” she asked me. “That is
so gay.
”

And I laughed, because we were okay. And I cried, because we were okay. And I thanked Sally Huston for being so wrong about me.

the escalator, a love story

When I was born, my mother loved me. That was love—

the pain and such and my head snapped into shape

by a nurse. (Of course, I’m being overdramatic. Of course

I don’t remember this—I don’t remember any of the times

when I was very young and everyone looked at my little body—

so chubby—and loved me instantly. Why would I want

to remember such pure love?) Certainly, my family will always

love me—it’s part of the package, the unwritten pledge. But

what was my introduction to earned love? Well, I fell for

Emily Mercer in kindergarten. She had red hair, freckles,

and my heart. It didn’t work out. I broke a few crayons.

Maybe I’ve been harmed because my best friends have been

girls—I grew up seeing both sides of love and why guys were

slime. That was always the word. Slime. So I had to prevent

myself from doing slimy things, because I wanted to be in love,

sometimes with my best friends. (Now there’s a complication.)

Sure, I had crushes in elementary school. But mostly I watched,

gossiped about who would be getting valentines signed “Love,”

and who would send Love and get nothing in return.

Even in junior high—what did I know? I had an early inkling

that the boyfriend/girlfriend stuff wasn’t love, just a way to fill

the space next to you. Love was long run and nothing

would ever be long run in junior high.

Now I’m in high school, wanting to fall in love

if it’s not inconvenient. Do I want to be in love? Yes

and sometimes no. Do other people want me

to be in love? Hell, yes. That’s why I am here now,

wandering around the mall with Mandy. Such a name, Mandy.

Not the kind poets have fun with. It’s a plain name and she’s

pretty plain herself. This isn’t to say I don’t like her. I do.

I like her, she likes me. We leave it at that. When you’re in

high school, love is rare and like is enjoyable, so you just take

what you can get. And I got Mandy.

We’re here in the mall, looking for a birthday present.

It’s assumed we’ll be giving a present together—that’s what

couples are supposed to do. After a while, you become part

of a proper noun. We’re Daniel-and-Mandy. It makes people

happy and jealous. I feel it, too, when I look at other couples

with something real between them. I look at their eyes, the way

they know each other’s paragraphs, and something seems right.

I doubt people see that in me and Mandy, but I hope they do.

We might as well make them happy and jealous.

Mandy and I are walking through the hall, holding hands.

That’s about as close as we usually get. We’ve kissed,

and that’s about it. We don’t really hang out on the fast track.

Our friends say we fit, and I imagine us as Legos. My mother

once told me that you really know someone when you know

their parents. I think this was her way of telling me to invite

Mandy over to dinner. I never have, although I guess I should.

I’ve only been over to her house a few times. I still haven’t met

her father, although I think my father knows him. (I’d remark

here that it’s such a small world…but the truth is that

it’s just a small town.)

What do I know about love? Not much—that’s the safe answer.

Even when I think I have a grasp on it, something comes along

to make me realize I don’t know anything at all. It’s just a

concept to me. It’s the thing that all the songs are written about,

the thing that makes smart people act stupidly. If I can make love

a concept, it makes me a better observer. And it also leaves a

place inside of me hollow. Sometimes I can actually feel it. To

reach down inside that part—I wonder how it would feel, to

touch a void. That nameless empty.

This makes me seem lonely, which isn’t really true. I have other

parts of me—friendship, for one—which compensate

for the void. I can’t feel the nothingness except in those rare

times when there’s nothing else to feel.

Mandy must fit into a part of me. I don’t feel alone as we walk

from card store to card store. It feels nice to hold her hand.

Not spectacular, but nice. We can’t really find an interesting

card. The stores are full of artificial rainbows, nicotine-voiced

sarcasm that’s never actually funny, and cute little cartoon

animals holding Happy Birthday balloons. After making the

rounds we decide to go back upstairs to Hallmark

and give in to Snoopy and Woodstock.

There’s nobody on the escalators. There’s really no one in the

mall. It’s February and, as my father loves to point out, we’re in

a recession. Occasionally an employee will pass us, wearing a

T-shirt that says,
In My Life, I Love The Mall.
Looking at the

escalator, I have an idea. (It’s actually more of an impulse than

an idea.) I turn to Mandy and say, “Why don’t we go down the

up escalator?”—I used to love to do that when I was a kid, and

me and my friend Randy would be able to fit side by side and

race to the top. Running to stay still. Mandy just gives me this

what are you talking about?
look that tries to convince me she

isn’t in the mood. I leap onto the third or fourth stair and

start running.

The rest of the mall dissolves—I feel my legs pushing me up

against the flow. I’m making it—step, and step, and step. I

reach the final leap—the most dangerous part. Especially if your

shoelaces are untied, as mine are. I take a breath and jump onto

the second level’s marble floor. I raise my arms to complete the

arc, like a champion Olympic gymnast, conqueror of the mall.

I look down and see Mandy at the base of the escalator, making

mock clapping gestures. “Come on,” I yell, motioning for her

to follow. She touches her hair in hesitation. I can feel the reason

killing the impulse. “You can do it,” I say, but she shrugs.

I don’t understand. Anyone can do it. We’re at some sort of

standstill, like when a conversation abruptly stops

and you can’t think of anything more to say. I don’t think

she’s going to do it. I really hope she does.

I’m about to yell “
Don’t bother
” with a particular edge

in my voice. But then Mandy pulls her coat firmly around her

shoulders and throws herself onto the downward escalator.

How can I explain what I suddenly feel? I see her jump,

her hair lifting in the air, and I can’t help but think something

along the lines of
Wow
. I once asked Randy how he knew

that he had fallen in love with his girlfriend, Amy, and he just

looked at me like it was the hardest question in the world.

I expected some floral, florid explanation, about the air

lightening and flute music filling his ears. This relationship

that had him so transfixed—I expected a masterpiece of

sentiment, one that would make me so happy for him and

so empty inside. Instead he just turned to me and said,

“The minute I knew I was in love was the minute when

there was no question about it. One night I was lying

in the dark, looking at her looking at me, and it just

was there, undeniable.”

There is no question about it. I look in amazement

as Mandy pushes herself up the stairs, not looking up

at me, concentrating on her footwork. I want so much

for her to reach the top. I want her to reach me

at this very moment. I picture myself embracing her

when she makes it, looking into her eyes for the

confirmation of my feelings. What do I feel? If it isn’t

love, then it’s certainly the potential for love, the realization

that there’s more to us than liking and dating and being

each other’s Pictionary partners. I’m so happy. I’m so

afraid. Does she feel the same way? All I know

is that I know. When she reaches the top, maybe I’ll

dance with her to the piped-in non-music drifting

from the ceiling. I’ll do anything—I want to do something

totally strange and new and special. I want to hold her.

I want to sleep with her—fall asleep with her in my arms.

I want to wake up that way. I’ve never seen her asleep.

All of these strange impulses—I want to tuck her in.

I want to be there, and be there, and be there.

And then she falls.

It’s over before I can register what’s happening. Her foot

hits one of the steps and, well, she trips. It isn’t dramatic—

she doesn’t fall down the escalator or anything.

It isn’t even good comedy. She just stumbles face-first onto the

steps. Then she pushes herself up and rides the rest of the way

down. I run to her—it’s as if I’m moving doubly, being

carried as I go down. I get to her. I can’t tell if she’s crying

or laughing. “I can’t do anything!” she says, brushing back

her hair, and I see her exasperation isn’t serious. I say

something along the lines of “Don’t be silly, it could’ve

happened to anyone,” and gather the things that fell

from her bag. She’s still sitting when I’m done, so I offer her

my hand. She doesn’t get up—she just keeps looking at me,

not at my hand but at my face. I put the bag down and sit

beside her, right there on the floor of the mall. “Are you

okay?” I ask. She says, “I fell,” and I say, “I think I’ve fallen, too.”

It’s never like the movies, is it? A great romantic moment, and

clunky, corny things just tumble out. “Oh,” she says, and I wonder

if she’s saying it just to see what I’ll offer next.

“Yeah,” I reply, saying it to see what she’ll say next.

Which is, “You have to be careful.” Now what does that mean?

Indirect discretion. No one wants to fully commit—

everyone’s afraid that they’re misinterpreting because no one

is talking straight. Playing the old What Are You Thinking? game.

You have to be careful. Mandy has skinned her hands

and her lip has a little cut in one of its corners.

“Sometimes…” I say.

“Well…” she answers.

And I can’t take it anymore. She just looks at me, no help at all.

But, then again, all I’m doing is looking at her. A silent standstill.

A time for something. On her lip, there’s a little drop of blood.

I kiss her anyway. At this particular moment,

there’s just no question about it.