When I was 16, my parents decided (most likely over a round
of beer at the local pub) to remedy my lack of a date to the high school
homecoming dance by asking a friend’s 24-year-old co-worker to escort me.
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| Homecoming Queen? Ha! |
Mark proved exceedingly gracious and accepted the proposal,
and once I mentally worked past the embarrassment of relying on my own parents
to pimp me out to a virtual stranger, I relished the idea of creating the
impression a mysterious, good-looking older man was interested in me. He
towered over the boys in my class, wore a professional, businessman’s suit and
his slight hint of a beer belly seemed to say, “That’s right, kiddos: I am old
enough to drink.” The official full-length portrait commemorating this
momentous evening shows Mark and I tilting our heads together and clasping
hands, my artificially crimson-coated lips spread wide in a proud grin. Yes
siree, things were looking up. Next stop: Homecoming Queen!
But 14 years of reflection have since taught me that our
hour-long date (Mark’s was a limited engagement) actually proved detrimental to
my advancement on the high school popularity ladder; My classmates undoubtedly
assumed my escort was a cousin who took pity on me. So it was for the best that
my family relocated the summer between my sophomore and junior years. In
Gainesville, Florida, I could claim a clean start as the awkward newbie at a
small, non-denominational private school, the lone student in a graduating
class of 55 who hadn’t shared the same lunch table since pre-school. Here was
my chance to reinvent myself as the exotic foreigner from Georgia!
But I had just one friend in high school, one friend who would
put up with my nonsense, and she was as ungainly and pimple-ridden as I was.
Jennifer and I were both obsessed with the short-lived TNT series,
“Witchblade,” were suckers for overindulging in ice cream and had, through
extreme patience and perseverance, managed to claim the coveted positions of
varsity women’s soccer team starting benchwarmers. We typically ate lunch
alone, concealed by the air conditioning unit behind Mr. Dawson’s biology lab,
and I wouldn’t be surprised if the 11th grade rumor mill had labeled us as
lesbian lovers. In reality, I was relying on the secrecy afforded by the
rumbling air conditioning unit to confide in Jennifer about my latest crush.
For a time, my romantic radar settled on Chaz Grant, who sat
in front of me in English class. He made excellent grades and his floppy, sandy
hair gathered into a perfect point at the nape of his neck. Together, we would
produce brilliant, beautiful babies. But Chaz excelled at baseball, the most
tedious of high school sports, and, more importantly, he was gravitationally
challenged, rising only to my shoulder. By careful calculations I conducted as
Mr. Gregson recited the endless depths of sexual symbolism presented by Herman
Melville’s “Moby Dick,” I realized I likely weighed more than Chaz did. This
would present a problem on our wedding day, when he carried me across the
threshold of our marital home.
Alexander Leblanc, however, played goalie for the varsity
soccer team, and we would be about the same height as long as I didn’t wear
heels during our first dance as a married couple. As an added bonus, Alex was
color blind (fascinating!), wore fake plastic lenses when portraying his
alter-ego and walked with a mysterious limp (an old soccer injury?) Plus, he
really did hail from an exotic, foreign land: Canada! I was enthralled. We were
in the same physics class, and I always arranged to arrive at Mr. Lewis’
classroom before Alex lurched in so I could brush and perfectly arrange my
long, mousey brown hair. By placing my chin thoughtfully into the cup of my
hand and then tilting my head as if I were intently examining the angular
momentum formulas scrawled across the dry erase board, I created a shimmering
curtain of hair that would surely bewitch Alex and gently nudge him toward
inviting me to prom. You can imagine my surprise, then, when this carefully
executed plan failed to yield an invitation – or even an acknowledgement of my
existence.
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| The author, right, and her dad |
No matter! I had screened enough John Hughes romantic
comedies to know “Mrs. Alexander Leblanc” was my destiny. As a yearbook staff
member, I selflessly volunteered myself as designer for the senior class ad his
mother purchased and spent the entire meeting with the poor woman talking
myself up. Surprisingly, that ploy didn’t seem to work either. Mrs. Leblanc the
Elder (as she would be known once Alex and I were married), must have neglected
to tell her son what a sweet girl I was because he never called – not even when
I forced Hailey to accompany me to a festival in his neighborhood on the
off-chance he might attend. (He did not). Time was running out! I would have to
grab destiny by the horns. So, one day after the dismissal bell sounded, I
cornered Alex in the parking lot and invited him to prom.
“If you don’t mind – um – I mean, if you’re not busy then –
um – would you go to prom? With me?”
Perhaps I caught Alex off guard because he actually accepted
my invitation. I was ecstatic. So was my mother, come the Big Day, when she
could photograph the two of us from every angle, Alex grimacing in a crisp
black suit and me grinning ear-to-ear in the kind of frilly white tulle
nightmare a Disney princess might wear to her wedding. Imagine my excitement
when it came time for me to pin Alex’s boutonniere to his chest! Imagine my
disappointment when I fumbled with the safety pin, almost stabbing him, and a
family friend gathered for the gawk-fest had to take over.
Although I don’t remember Alex opening the passenger door of
his Plymouth Voyager for me, I do recall my rapturous gratitude when he
rearranged a bag of soccer balls at my feet so my voluminous dress could fit
within the vehicle. Sweaty palms buried in my skirt, I attempted small talk but
grew distracted when I learned we were en route to pick up Richard Schneider,
the kid who wore an oversized Tampa Bay Buccaneers jersey to school every day,
and his date, a girl who attended another school. From Richard’s house, the
four of us rode in Alex’s dented, hand-me-down minivan to Steak and Ale, and
not even the fancy, half-timbered façade of the restaurant could impress a
17-year-old lovesick girl desperate for a romantic dinner; all the other
patrons were dressed in T-shirts and flip flops. Our party squished together in
a vinyl-covered booth. Alex and Richard yapped away while Richard’s date and I
mostly stared at each other and silently counted the rhinestones on each
other’s bodices.
But this was still technically a date – despite the two
interlopers, I told myself -- so I ordered a steak, medium-rare, because that’s
how grown-ups like my parents ordered their meat while out on dates.
The drive from Steak and Ale to the party at the Sweetwater
Branch Inn was uneventful. And aside from the heart-shaped marbles I pocketed
from the votive candle arrangements on the tables, the evening proved
unproductive. No matter how often I tapped my foot and fidgeted in my chair,
Alex did not ask me to dance. And no matter how much I leaned toward him over
the passenger armrest on the drive home, he did not try to kiss me – not even
when we ditched the rest of our carpool. It was only later that I learned Alex
had the hots for Ashley Thompson, star of the girl’s varsity soccer team.
To be continued...
To be continued...
