Twas Brillig

Our guest host for Soap Opera Sunday is Thalia’s Child. Be sure you link your SOS back to her so everyone can find the other posts. And be sure to enter your link into her list! And, from now on, the host of the week will be announced in my sidebar where you can all see it easily if you remember to look! Also, if you are interested in being the Guest Host one of these weeks, and you have not yet indicated thus, let me know!

This SOS is inspired by a question from Penny Lane (who does not leave her URL, so I can’t link back to her!) about whether or not I’ve ever had to call 911.

The answer is yes, I’ve called 911 once in my entire life! The story goes like this:

When I was in college, my roommate had a BFF, Kristi, who practically lived in our apartment, and I considered her both a roommate and friend. She was a bit of a follower and she got involved with a guy (who we’ll call Creepy Boyfriend) who took advantage of her and her easy-to-push-around-ness. She announced one day that they were in love and she was going to marry him, and in the meantime she was going to move in with him.

This was a rather alarming announcement, first of all because she was extremely religious and had always firmly believed that premarital sex was a sin. This sudden change from absolute chastity to moving in with her boyfriend was shocking.

But the other thing that concerned us was this weird, creepy, and completely intangible something about CB. We, Kristi’s friends, were all completely uneasy around him, but none of us could put our finger on why.

So, Kristi moved in with him. Months went by. She became withdrawn and when one actually managed to track her down, she would be bruised and full of detail-less stories of falling down. It didn’t take us very long to figure out what was going on. We sat her down and tried to make her feel as safe as possible so that she would talk about the obvious abuse. Once we cracked through the wall she put up, she poured out her misery and terror. We were there to hold her and cry with her, and then encourage her to get out.

She did decide to move out. She arranged her grand move for a time when CB would be out for a few hours. And so a couple of us girls asked a couple of our guy friends (including Ben—you remember Ben, right?) to come with us and help her get her stuff out—not only to have them help us carry stuff, but also because we figured they would be insurance should CB decide to come home unannounced.

Which he did.

He walked in and saw immediately what was going on. By then we were almost done with moving her stuff. CB sweetly grabbed Kristi’s hand and kissed it and begged to be able to talk with her alone for a minute. Ben and I said, “NO. No way.” But Kristi decided to anyway, and she and CB went into the bedroom together. Ben went to listen at the door, while the rest of us finished carrying out the last of her stuff. After I loaded the last pile into the van, I turned to go back in, but noticed that the curtain to the bedroom was slightly parted, so I stopped to peak in.

I watched him slam her angrily into the wall, knocking her head really hard against a door frame. Then I saw him push his hands up her skirt, and force her legs apart. She was crying hysterically and begging him to stop.

I instantly threw myself at the window, pounding and screaming like a mad woman, startling them both. I ran inside and found Ben with his hands all bloodied from trying to break down the bedroom door. Just as he had almost managed to get in, CB opened the door and flung Kristi out at us, as though she were a rag doll. One of the other girls held Kristi and helped her to the car, but I was in a psychotic rage. I literally wanted to kill him. As I ran after him, screaming who knows what, Ben grabbed me around the waist, lifting me off the ground while my limbs were all still trying to chase and attack. Ben calmly said, “let’s go home. Let’s go home.”

He was right, of course. What could I have possibly accomplished by attacking him?

So, we went home. And then we proceeded to push Kristi around. Looking back it’s funny because Kristi never actually made her own choices. CB pushed her into the relationship of abuse, and then we pushed her into getting out of it. I’m not sure she ever really learned anything, or if she even cared. She was just shoved from one way of thinking to another.

I still think we did the right thing, but I felt like I was being as big of a bully as CB had been. I’m not sure if there was a better way or if getting her out of the situation immediately was more important than doing it the right way or what.

So Kristi moved in with us, unofficially of course, and she filed a restraining order against CB. One day, I noticed his car in our parking lot—he was sitting inside his car, watching our apartment. This was a violation of his restraining order! So, for the first time (and last time, so far) I picked up the phone and dialed 911. The police showed up and chatted with him and they left—I’m not sure what happened after that.

I moved away from Cedar City soon after all of this, so I never heard the end of the story. I know that Kristi had been planning to file charges. I signed all sorts of testimony against CB about what I’d seen through the bedroom window that day, but I was never called or talked to again. I can only assume she dropped the charges. I don’t really know.

I would love to say that she is happy now, or that she’s strong, or that she’s figured out what she wants, rather than what everyone else told her that she wanted. But, again, I have no idea if any of that’s true. Here’s hoping.

Part one is here.

So I went home that night, feeling pretty darn good about this psychotic family of my mother’s. I had met some amazing people, and re-met some other amazing people. As I said, my mother’s siblings were on their best behavior. My Uncle John and his wife Kris were warm and friendly and just wonderful. My Aunt Barbie and her husband, who I had never met until that night, were smart, funny, and lovely. And my Aunt Nancy, who was by far the one I was most terrified of and who I had seen at her worst on more than one occasion was… well… pleasant–and avoiding me.

The next day was the funeral. I would be speaking–reading a beautiful letter from my beautiful mother. My mother has a way with words, along with a way with love, and her letter had the room in tears. Not because we mourned my grandma, but because we loved her and we celebrated her. The other speakers did a beautiful job as well. And my new-found cousins/friends sang an outstanding duet. My grandma had been a brilliant musician–an exceptional organist/pianist, which paid the bills when her husband was so miserable and drunk that he couldn’t bring in a paycheck. Because of this, her children were also raised as exceptional musicians. And we, her grandchildren, had also been raised that way by our parents. It was incredible to see these two women who I’d never met before sing a duet that I would have chosen, sing it in a style I would have chosen, and with the feeling and emphasis that I would have chosen.

We all fell from the same tree.

Everything would have been perfect, if it hadn’t been for that one little moment right before the funeral began…

Just before the funeral, we held a family prayer just before my grandma’s casket was sealed. Many Mormons ask in advance to be buried in sacred clothing used in the Temple. Just before the casket is closed, the final touches to the clothing are put on. This must be done by Temple-attending women, generally immediate family. Aunt Kris and Aunt Nancy and I were the only women who fit that bill, and so Aunt Kris (who had made all the funeral arrangements and was therefore somewhat in charge of this whole thing) invited me to represent my mother (who would have fit the bill, had she been there) and help put the final touches on the clothing, alongside her and Nancy.  I’m not sure if Nancy knew that I’d been invited, but she was CERTAINLY not pleased to see me as I approached. As I reached for my grandma and began to help, she shoved–SHOVED me out of the way.

I was flabbergasted. This is considered a very sacred moment, and anyone with authority to handle this clothing, as we were, would know how very sacred this moment is. And here she was, being stupid and petty and angry, and ruining the spirit that should have been there.

(And plus… um… who pushes a gigantically pregnant woman? At a funeral? This was so messed up on so many levels.)

I suppose I could have fought for my right to assist. I suppose I could have screamed at her. I suppose I could have shoved back. But I didn’t. Sigh. No, I wouldn’t make a scene. I took a step back and simply watched–looking like a complete idiot. My brother and sister, who were with me, watching from where the rest of the group was standing, hadn’t seen the shove. They didn’t know what I was doing up there, just standing still and watching. I suppose much of the room wondered the same thing. Oh well.

After the funeral, there was a luncheon, and then a gathering at Kris and John’s farm which was nearby. I laughed and chatted and enjoyed everyone’s company. Overall, the experience had been a positive one. A happy one. And I had some amazing new people in my life that I would cherish forever.

Nancy made herself scarce after the funeral. She could have had a happy, healing experience, as all of the rest of us did. Instead, she reverted to anger, bitterness, pain. I wasn’t mad at her–I felt sorry for her. It can’t be easy to live your life that way.

When I delivered this report to my mother, it made her very sad. She assured me that Nancy’s actions had not really been aimed at me but at her. I suspect that this was true, but that certainly doesn’t make it better–possibly it makes it worse.

I wonder if, looking back, Nancy was embarrassed, ashamed. I wonder if she realized in that moment that she needed help. I wonder if it was a turning point in her life. I doubt it, but I still hope. I pray that she doesn’t spend the rest of her life holding on to all this unhappiness.

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For those of you playing along at home (find out how here–it’s open to anyone), here’s a Mr. Linky. A few rules: only enter your link AFTER your Soap Opera Sunday is up and make sure it links back to both me and Kate. Also, it would make things easier for people if you enter your entire permalink (the link to the actual SOS post, not just your site in general). Thanks! Can’t wait to read what y’all got for us this week!

Check out what Luisa from Novembrance made for me. This arrived in my email today with no fore-warning. And I haven’t stopped laughing yet!

(click it to big it)

I really think I should put my hair into a side-ponytail and sit on the couch with him, don’t you?

Hubby, always the mercenary, responded with, “Dude! [Yes, he calls me "dude"--he really does.] You should totally make those t-shirts and sell ‘em!” Uh… yeah. I’m sure I’d make my first million bucks within just a couple of days. Watch out, world. Brillig’s about to frickin’ brackin’ take over.

So, Luisa wins. No, I have no idea what the competition was, but she wins. Hands down.

Soap Opera Sunday!

Almost exactly a year ago, I found myself at a funeral with the most bizarre group of people you’ll ever meet–my family.

Well, my mom’s family, to be a little more precise. I guess that makes them mine. But, sadly, this was the first time I met many of these people. My mother’s mother’s death brought us all together, so to speak.

I was eight months pregnant. I’d left my hubby and three kids behind in Utah while I flew with two of my siblings, J and Laura, to Ohio. I had a letter from a midwife (not MY midwife, but a midwife nonetheless) stating that I was safe to fly. She lied about my due date–sorta. What she said was true–my baby wasn’t expected until the first week of October, because all of my babies had been born well after their due dates. But technically, I was due in the middle of September. No airline would have allowed me to fly if they’d known the truth. But it was important to me that I be there. I was representing my mom.

My mother chose not to attend this funeral. She was on a luxury cruise in Europe when she received word of her mother’s death. She had already said her goodbyes, knowing that the end was near, so she felt no need to attend the funeral ritual. Still, her siblings resented her for her decision not to come home, and they brought it up over and over again.

My mother grew up in a home where her father was an alcoholic. I don’t mean he drank from time to time, I mean he was a drunkard. Mean, ruthless, out of control. My mom’s mother was also unstable–perhaps equally so–her conception had been an accident and she’d been told by her family every day of her life that she wasn’t wanted. She was emotionally unwell and being married to that man didn’t make it better.

My mother was the oldest of their four children. As many oldest children, but especially children from dysfunctional families, she became the mother hen. She cared for everyone, including her parents. She saw that everyone ate, that everyone went to bed, that everyone woke up in the morning. And, understandably, she became bossy and controlling.

Her childhood was filled with such chaos that she spent much of her life being perfectionistic and demanding–controlling what she COULD control, because her life had been so out of control. But the very people she’d intended to help became very frustrated with her. They couldn’t stand her anymore.

They all grew up, they all went their separate ways. My mom’s anger and confusion and all the other residual anguish from her childhood came to a head and she sought help. She was brilliant, driven, accomplished, but she NEEDED HELP. And she received it. She made great efforts to turn her life around. She overcame most of her anger issues, and she mostly stopped trying to control everyone. She found peace and happiness and she led a beautiful life.

But much of the damage had already been done. And her siblings, who also needed help desperately for their anger and pain, never sought it. They never changed. And they resented her happiness and the life she created for herself.

So I, in my insanely huge pregnantness, and my sister gripped each other’s hands as we made our way towards the funeral home for the viewing, wary of the welcome we might receive. (And wary of what these people might say about my mother. We were NOT going to allow anyone to slander her.)

It was bizarre to walk in that night and look around and see the reception line–the family. Some we knew a little bit, some we recognized, others we’d never seen before. And yet, we all looked alike. We were clearly family, though total strangers.

It was a pleasant evening. My grandma was beautiful in her casket. Her children gazed towards her lovingly. Everyone was on their best behavior.

I met two of my cousins for the first time–the daughters of one of my mother’s sisters. These cousins of mine were incredible girls–full of life and energy and beauty. One was just older than me, the other just younger. After talking for a few minutes, one threw her arms around me and told me, through impending tears, “we should have been great friends!!” We held each other for a moment, not needing to say anymore. The great loss that we were mourning was not my grandma–no, she was old and had suffered a long and difficult life and had survived cancer four times before finally losing the battle on the fifth. We did not mourn the loss of her. We mourned the loss of each other. We mourned for the pettiness and selfishness and silliness of our progenitors, and for all that wasted time.

As I said, everyone was on their best behavior. Some even seemed like they weren’t faking it. One, the one I was most concerned about, avoided me. Her “best behavior” was to not speak to me. After all, if you can’t say something nice…

It wouldn’t be until the next day that she would choose to inform me just exactly what she thought about me, in a most inappropriate moment…

(to be continued…)

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And now, won’t you join us? (For information on how to play along, look here.) If you’re playing Soap Opera Sunday, enter your Soap Opera’s link here:

1. Dedee 2. Thalia’s Child 3. MommasWorld 4. Goofball 5. Jen at a2eatwrite

6. nell@meanwhile… 7. Kateastrophe 8. anno 9. Fourier.Analyst 10. Minivan Diva

11. Thalia’s Child 12. VirtualSprite

Thanks, all, for your thoughts and prayers for my Fuzzles. After 21 hours in the hospital, he’s home now and doing fine. More on that later. For now, it’s Soap Opera Sunday!!!

(No button yet–there was an unexpected delay. Otherwise, we’ll proceed as planned! Yay for our first Soap Opera Sunday launch! )

To preface, in the fall of 1996, the internet was still a pretty new thing–as least for me it was. It was my Freshman year at BYU. My dorm had an internet connection in it and my roommates and I were transfixed by this new magical world. Because of the newness, there were certain rules that are now basic common sense but at the time they weren’t quite so obvious. Like meeting strangers in chat rooms and letting them take me out for breakfast…

Okay, the breakfast thing only happened once. And I was lucky–the guy didn’t turn out to be a homicidal sociopath. But he wasn’t exactly Mr. Right either.

I met him in a chat room one night–or was it super early one morning? After “getting to know each other” for a few hours through chatting, we realized that we were only chatting a few blocks away from each other. Did we want to meet? Should we go to breakfast? He knew of a great waffle place in Salt Lake City (an hour away) and he’d come and pick me up from my apartment in a few minutes. Sure, I said! And gave him my phone number and address (cuz, as I said, I was really smart like that).

So, I grabbed my roommate’s sassiest outfit and washed my face and I was ready to go. I sat by the window waiting for him to pull up. As he walked up the path to my door, it looked like he had definite possibilities. But once he got closer, it was clear that he was not nearly hot enough for me not exactly my type. Oh well. I was committed to breakfast with this total stranger and he’d seemed cool enough as we were chatting. So while romantic intentions were completely halted on my part, perhaps I could make a new friend.

So, we made the long drive to Salt Lake and I was… bored. The guy had plenty to say, though nothing very interesting. Blah, blah, blah. There were times when I thought, “um, is he still talking?” But I did notice that we’d been driving around forever. In circles. Finally he announced that he couldn’t find the place he was looking for and how did Denny’s sound. By this point, I was so ready to be done with him that I said yes, whatever. Let’s just eat.

Once inside the grease-infested Denny’s, we ordered and he started… staring… at me. “You’re so pretty.” I thanked him. “No, really, you’re so pretty! I mean, I expected that you’d be nice looking, but I never expected that you’d be so beautiful.” Ewww–the tone of voice. Come on, you know exactly the tone of voice I mean–the kind that makes you feel so icky.

“Thanks,” I said again, feeling utterly creeped out. The way he was staring and talking made me want to hide from him!

Finally, food eaten. Bill paid. Wending our way back down to Provo. All of a sudden, he pulls into the shoulder of the freeway, reclines his seat, and says, “I’m really tired. Mind if I take a nap for a minute?” YES, I minded, but I didn’t say so. I was like, sure, whatever. After a few minutes, though, I thought I was going to die. The little car (not to mention the weirdo reclined in his seat) was making me feel very claustrophobic. I was dying to get home and report to my roommates get back to my life. Finally, I said, “look, I’m sorry, but I really need to get home.” So he sat up, angry with me, and drove me home.

Ahhh, home. I was so glad to get out of that car. I’m sure I said something non-committal like, “hey, yeah, it was fun meeting you, maybe sometime we could hang out again, blah blah blah.” I was never very good at saying things like, “Dude, you’re creepy and you don’t have a prayer with me, so go home now and don’t call me again.”

Anyway, life went on. Every once in a while, he’d call me–not really to ask me out, but to see how I was doing, etc.

One night, I was with Matt at the grocery store (in the middle of the night, natch, and probably doing something bizarre and probably wearing something bizarre, but I don’t remember the details) and we ran into Weird Internet Waffle Guy there. I waved hello and was friendly, but I was on some important mission with Matt, so I didn’t pay much attention to WIWG (as I’m apparently now calling him).

The next day, I get a phone call. “Hi. This is WIWG.”

“Oh, hey, howzit?” I say, already bored with the conversation. hahaha.

“You have some explaining to do.” Oh my gosh, he was so angry. What the crap? “I saw you!!!” he screams out. “I SAW YOU WITH ANOTHER GUY!!!”

Ho. Ly. Crap. He was freaking out. He went on, “So, who is he? What does this mean for us?”

So, I told him, honestly, that Matt was someone that I was very close to who I loved very much and with whom I expected to spend a lot of time. (I conveniently left out that he was gay…)

“Okay, then, that’s it. I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN.” He was dumping me! “You and I are THROUGH!!!” And he hung up on me.

Mmmmm, okay!

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And now, here are links to all our other Soap Opera Sunday participants today!

Walking Kateastrophe

Anno’s Place

The Quiltmaker’s Gift

Soccer Mom in Denial

Fourier Analyst

Novembrance

Mimi

Temporary? Insanity

Canadian Flake

Rhonda Can’t Help You

Magically Mama 

Wanna play too? If so, please leave your permalink (the link to the actual post) in the comments (or email it to me) and we will update them periodically throughout tonight and tomorrow (Sunday) morning. And please remember that you must link back to Kate and to me in order to play along.

Thanks, everyone, for making our first communal Soap Opera Sunday such a success!!!

Soap Opera Sunday!!!

A couple months back, Stacy of Jurgen Nation issued me a challenge to tell, among other things,  about a boyfriend, using the following words/phrases: “philharmonic,” “frozen chicken breasts,” “vomit,” “Electric Youth perfume,” and “fishnet stockings.”

And, of course, I immediately thought of a special someone and our special story.  And here it is, in all its glory.  It’s kinda cheating, but I’m so behind on all my blog-reads that I gotta buy myself some time.  Plus, the story had never been told as a Soap Opera Sunday, and it SO belongs here. 

His name was Todd. He was incredibly hot. We were both going to school in Southern Utah, but we both came from up north. I wanted to go home for a weekend, and he had a car (I didn’t) and was already heading north, so our roommates set it up. That’s really how we got to know each other in the first place. Anyway, we started hanging out, and he was fun, though he had about the brain capacity of frozen chicken breasts. But, see, he was hot…. One day we just sorta made it “official” that I was his girlfriend–but he hadn’t even kissed me yet. Weird. I’m still trying to figure out exactly how that happened–I mean, while I’m not the kind of girl who went traipsing around in leather mini-skirts and fishnet stockings, I still generally at least made out with a guy a few times before signing up to be his girlfriend. But that same night, after I’d somewhat committed myself to him, he finally kissed me. And for me, in that moment, it was over. Somehow I’d imagined that kissing him would be amazing, blissful, philharmonic. But no. It was the worst kiss ever. EVER!!! I realized that I would rather drink a gallon of Electric Youth perfume than have him or his lips ever come near me again. Even so, I stuck it out for a whole two weeks and finally dumped him. He was actually really cool about it–it was the best dump-session I’d ever had! My roommates and TWO guys I’d lined up for after the “break up” (oh my gosh, that’s so embarrassing) were standing outside my door trying to listen in as I was dumping him. Hahaha. All they heard was laughter and friendship, cuz that’s really how the whole thing ended. I never did tell him, though, that the main reason we needed to break up was that his kisses made me want to vomit into the empty cavity of his skull where his brain should have been.

And that’s it today, Gentle Readers.  Short and not at all sweet!

Soap Opera Sunday, friends!

Because many of you know where I went to High School, I have to tread lightly here…

As I was registering for High School just before my freshman year, I looked over possible electives. One of them on the list was simply not an option, it was a must. The subject was a passion for me, and I was good at it. I signed right up.

The first day of class, I strutted my stuff. I WAS good at this, notably the BEST in the class, right off the bat. The teacher was impressed. It was important to me to impress him.

He was fascinating and… handsome for an old man. And by old, I mean about forty, I guess. Still, since I was 14, forty was OLD!

I excelled in his class and received a lot of special attention from him. I was his star student. He began insisting that I call him by his first name. It didn’t seem all that weird, because there were several others who did that too, male and female.

The next year, I decided to take his more advanced class. He was thrilled, as was I. We were really becoming great friends. He offered me a position as his Teacher’s Assistant and I accepted. This would mean a guaranteed “A” for that class period, along with allowing me to delve even deeper into my understanding and knowledge of this particular subject, while still being his student during another class period. Two hours with him! It also meant that he and I would be alone in his office quite often. Again, we were becoming great friends, and this wouldn’t be uncomfortable at all.

Throughout my extended alone time with him, I learned all about his marriage–and how it was falling apart. He painted his wife as the ultimate wench. I felt so bad for him. It never occurred to me that it was totally inappropriate for him to be telling me these things. We were just really good friends, and it seemed like something that would naturally come up in conversation between friends.

Soon he started making jokes–that if his wife were more like me, they’d get along so much better. Everything would be better, if she were just a little more like me. That eventually evolved into him making jokes about leaving her for me. It was so silly. I was only 15. It was just a joke, but part of me kinda hoped he meant it.

To clarify, I wasn’t completely unaware of his attachment to me. I wasn’t so very naive. But I also didn’t see it as any big deal. And I was extremely flattered. I admired him, for sure. I was intrigued by his knowledge and delighted by his humor. I knew he was a popular teacher and I enjoyed being the center of his attention. I don’t think I returned the sentiment, the bizarre infatuation, but my ego loved the game, so I allowed it. I even had some romantic dreams involving him that got my brain all messed up. I really wasn’t quite sure how I felt about him. But whatever it was, it was just a silly little thing. And probably all in my head. I knew that no one else would understand how harmless it was, so I never mentioned it to anyone.

One day, he’d had a nasty tiff with his wife, and he sat down with me and told me about it, as he always had. And then, suddenly very serious, he told me that he really would leave her for me, if I would have him. I caught my breath and felt the crazy tension in the air.

I don’t remember what happened or who interrupted us, but I never had the chance to respond. Just as well. I had no idea what to say, but I was finally starting to feel a little creeped out.

I began to be a little more distant. He knew it, I knew it. I still considered him a great friend, but I knew we were crossing into dangerous territory and I didn’t know how to deal with it, so I just avoided him.

The next semester, he gave me an “A-”.

I was… um… FURIOUS.

I stormed into his classroom and grabbed him by the hand and dragged him into the office. This was witnessed by many students. I wonder what went through their heads! They had already probably realized there was something “weird” going on with us. I never really stopped to think about how it all looked to everyone else.

I yelled at him. I was clearly his very best student –I had never once gotten a question wrong on a test!–and I was given an A-. WHY??? He just laughed at me. He wouldn’t answer me me, or even pretend to take me seriously. He just laughed.

I should have done something, tattled on him to someone, but I was embarrassed and never quite sure of what had actually happened between us emotionally and wondered if it had all been in my head, etc. I decided that I couldn’t possibly tell anyone about it. So the A- remained as it was.

My mom was so ticked off at me when she saw my grades. She couldn’t understand why I wasn’t “living up to my potential.” How could I get less than a perfect grade in this subject? I had no answers for her, of course. I just let her believe that I was lazy and frivolous–she was prone to believe that about me anyway–so after listening to her familiar speech until its bitter end, I went to my room and bawled, feeling so completely helpless.

He and I grew apart, and never talked like that again. I finished his whole series of classes and just moved on. A few years later, all grown up now, I had to stop in at the school to pick up a transcript and I ran into him there. He couldn’t remember my name (hello?) but he said, “what I remember about you was that one time that you were unhappy with your grade and so you made a huge scene and screamed at me.” Laughing, again.

Ick.

I know that this whole situation certainly wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but still, such a relationship was completely out of place. Sadly, this wasn’t my only “inappropriate friendship” with a teacher. There was one other, which we will reserve for another story at another time. And, looking back, it seemed like there were other teachers who had “special friends” who were students that, from appearances, bordered on the inappropriate too.

What would you have done if you’d been 15 years old and in a similar situation? Did you see/experience this stuff in your school too?

Hello, Gentle Readers! It’s been so long since we had a Soap Opera Sunday! So, seek out your inner drama queen, and let’s go!

(The only thing Soap Opera-y about this one is that it contains all the angst and emotions of the high school world. No torrid love affairs, I’m afraid.)

My Freshman year of high school, I had a great group of close friends–a boy named Mark was an integral part of that group. He was funny, talented, intelligent, and (to my little fourteen year old eyes) drop dead gorgeous. Which, I suppose, is where the problems started. I liked him. A lot. And it was no secret. And, apparently, it was not reciprocated.

My passionate devotion to Mark burned him out. Slowly but surely, he began distancing himself from our group of friends and became, well, rude. And that caused me to freak out at him, which caused further distance and rudeness, etc. By our Sophomore year, we were barely speaking to each other (but speaking PLENTY behind each other’s backs, natch).

The trick here is that both Mark and I were also passionately devoted to one other thing: Theater. And we’d both climbed the totum pole to the top, so we often had to work together, but we weren’t nice about it. Every time the spotlight shone on him (which was all the time) I gagged a little, got nasty and gossipy about him, or furiously jealous. Whenever Mark saw me, I was at my snippiest, snottiest worst–which is so funny, because I wasn’t really like that at all. Just around him. I just kept making it easier and easier for him to hate me.

It was so strange, to know each other so well and share happy memories and hilarious inside jokes, and yet feel so strongly negative towards each other.

By the time we were Seniors, Mark had his groupies, I had mine (Mark had, shall we say, a lot more adoring fans than I did….which, of course, bugged me too). Everyone knew that we weren’t very fond of each other, but almost no one knew that once upon a time we’d been best friends.

And then the inevitable happened. We were cast in the school play as romantic leads opposite each other. “Fine,” I thought. Sure, we’d be working even more closely with each other than we’d worked before, but we could get through it.

But this was different. Due to many factors (which are too long and boring to explain) this play was very emotionally charged and extremely stressful. Both Mark and I were feeling the pinch and, not feeling like we could lean on each other to get through it, we instead grew extremely antagonistic. Fortunately, we didn’t actually have that many scenes together, and when we did have scenes together, there was nothing too lovey-dovey. The words were lovey-dovey, but there were no *ahem* actions involved.

During our final dress rehearsal, our director said to us (after weeks of rehearsals, and nary a word prior) “you two are going to have to kiss at that part.”

The theater, which was full of people, went completely silent, before it erupted into psychotic giggling. Everyone in that room knew how we felt about each other.

I couldn’t breathe and I think Mark was about to throw up.

(Part of the ridiculousness was that never in my life had I been surrounded by so many boys–in the cast and the tech crew– who would have fallen all over themselves to be the one kissing me. For some reason, it was almost as if someone had hand-picked every boy who’d ever had a crush on me up to that time and put them in the cast and crew. And yet I was slated to kiss the one who found me utterly disgusting.)

I don’t remember what we said or if we said anything. But we never looked at each other or acknowledged to each other what we’d just heard. And we CERTAINLY never PRACTICED.

The next day at school, complete strangers were coming up to me saying, “Hey! I heard you and Mark are gonna have to kiss each other in the play tonight!” And they would heckle me and giggle and go on their way.

So, that night—Opening night, I wasn’t nervous about anything besides that kiss–that unpracticed kiss with a boy who loathed me–a kiss that all our friends, and even our non-friends, were sitting in the audience to witness.

I remember that right before that scene, I grabbed his arm backstage and shoved a breath mint into his hand. (Yes, I’m still snickering about that.)

We performed the play four times. I remember each night’s kiss distinctly, after all these years. Our first night’s kiss wasn’t remarkable. We were just in a hurry to get it over with. Our director’s notes after the second night were that it was “WAY TOO SHORT AND PASSIONLESS” which was SO true. You’d think we’d just given each other a hi-five with our lips or something. And so the third night we took it slower, as we’d been told to do, and it was… delicious. At least in my memory it was. I don’t actually know what Mark thought of that one, but I suspect that he was perhaps even more disgusted with me because he could sense that I was allowing myself to enjoy it a little bit. Haha. Anyway, the last night was the best. By far.

Because the whole school showed up to take a picture of it.

Clearly printed on the programs were the instructions not to take pictures. It didn’t matter. There we were, taking the “kissing position” and all we heard and saw were *clicks* and flashes. Hahahaha.

In the moment that all those pictures were audibly snapped, I could feel Mark starting to laugh, which made me want to start laughing. Both of us realized how absolutely RIDICULOUS this whole situation had become, that there was so much real-life drama between us that people were turning up just to take pictures of us STAGE-KISSING!!! The audience didn’t know that we were both on the brink of busting up laughing–we covered it well and moved on with the scene as normal. But we knew it about each other, and that was enough to undo a lot of the crazy years of anger and disgust. We now had something to laugh about together–ourselves. Stupid as it sounds, it was a really healing moment.

It was a turning point for us. For the rest of the school year, there wasn’t exactly comradery, but neither was there hatred, disgust, gossip, and jealousy. We were just co-existing. It was marvelous in it’s total unremarkableness.

Nowadays, I don’t know where he is or what he’s up to, though from time to time I hear things about him. Apparently, he pursued the professional acting thing–hey, if anyone can do it, Mark can. He really was that good–way, way better than I was. And, obviously, I made very different choices for my own life. But the point is (point? did someone accuse me of having a point?) that oddly enough, there’s nothing but kindness and respect between us now, on both sides. I hope that wherever he is, life is treating him well and that he’s happy. And I can say with 100% confidence that he hopes the same for me.