Eternally Mortified
This is my diary. If I find out you are reading it I will have to burn it.
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
The Sequel That Wasn't, Part III
SAM
Samantha
Gwynn was outside the Spruces’ cabin, sending her last text. It was to Charlie—luv u miss u. She’d
only been at camp for ten minutes, and already Uncle Don was taking away her
phone, her lifeline. How would she
survive eight weeks? Just this morning she
and Charlie had been in the tree fort in her backyard, fooling around. Of course, Luke had followed them up
there. Normally, she wouldn’t have
minded her little brother horning in, but today was different. She wanted Charlie to herself. She wanted to savor every minute.
Charlie
rode the “T” with her into the city.
They kissed goodbye at the bus depot.
“Will you write to me?” Sam said.
“You
know I will,” Charlie said. He swept the
bangs off his forehead and handed her his basketball jersey, number 13. “I want you to take this.”
His
lucky jersey. She would wear it to bed
every night, she promised. After all
Charlie had done for her, she owed him that much. She owed him everything. Did he even realize how grateful she was?
“Sam!”
Evyn was grabbing her arm, snapping her to attention. “The New York bus!”
“So?” Sam said.
“So?” Evyn stared at her. “The Boys are here!”
The
Boys. Jono Hollander, Aidan Glass, Benji
Steiner, and Seth—“The Dorf”—Dorfman. The
Super Senior Boys. Their Boys.
Jono
was walking toward them, leading the pack.
It was Jono, right? This boy with dark hair and faded jeans who
looked like Jono—but he was taller and broader, with biceps bulging under his white
t-shirt, straining from the weight of his duffel.
“Ev!”
He dropped his bag and lifted Evyn like she was a feather. He spun her around while she laughed.
“What’s
up, Iz?” He fist-bumped Isabelle.
“Sammy.” Now he was looking at Sam. Was this really Jono? Skinny little Jono Hollander who juggled
oranges in every talent show? Yes. That crooked smile, dimple on the left. For the five summers she’d known him, Jono had
been smiling. Even the summer she was a
bitch—her angry summer, the summer her dad started drinking again and she was mad
at the world—Jono still smiled.
“Hey,”
Sam said.
“Hey
yourself.”
He was looking at her face, but now he was
looking at her chest. This was not new,
because Sam had had boobs since she was twelve and boys were always staring at
them. She was used to it, so why was the
heat rising up her neck? She couldn’t
believe she was blushing here, now, in front of Jono Hollander—but a part of
her was intrigued that he was so obvious.
He wasn’t even trying to be subtle.
“Yo,
ladies. Did you miss me?”
Just
like that, the moment passed. The Dorf
was upon them. Seth Dorfman—with his pink
cheeks and crazy curls and Pillsbury Dough Boy body—had Sam, Evyn, and Isabelle
in four-way hug. Then Aidan joined in. Then Benji.
It was a Super Senior love fest.
“Who’s
the new girl?” Dorf wanted to know.
“She’s hot.”
There
were supposed to be seven of them: Sam, Evyn, and Isabelle; Jono, Aidan, Benji,
and Dorf. All veterans. All choosing camp over Teen Tours or summer
jobs. Ashley was the surprise—which is
to say the shock—Isabelle brought from home.
Sam had heard about Ashley, obviously.
Everyone at camp shared stories from home and taped photos of their
friends on the cabin walls. But Ashley
looked nothing like Sam remembered. She
was all Goth and badass, black hair and biker boots. Who knew?
Sam had tried making conversation on the bus from Boston, but Ashley
wasn’t a big talker. She mostly listened
to music and stared out the window.
Which was fine with Sam, who mostly texted Charlie.
Now,
on the patch of grass between Boys’ Side and Girls’ Side, Isabelle made
introductions. Boys, this is Ashley. Ashley,
these are The Boys.
Dorf was already working his
moves, throwing an arm around Ashley, asking what she did for fun. Was there anyone Dorf didn’t hit on?
Sam had to laugh. The Boys were so
sweet and harmless, like puppies.
Everyone at camp loved those four.
There would be hookups this summer, for sure, and drama, too. But Sam wouldn’t miss being part of it. She had Charlie, and that’s all that
mattered.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
The Sequel That Wasn't, Part II
ASHLEY
Before
she left for camp, Ashley dyed her hair.
The label on the box did not lie: this was Blackest Black. Before, her
hair had been the color of whipped butter. Now, it was the color of tar.
Ashley’s
mother had freaked when she saw it. Why?
That’s what she wanted to know. Was this some act of rebellion? Some adolescent attempt to embarrass their
family?
Ashley felt compelled to give
her mother an answer. I needed a change, she said—the
understatement of the century.
Now,
she was stepping off the Greyhound bus with Isabelle, entering Camp Matokwa,
where she would live like Laura Ingalls Wilder for eight weeks. Isabelle hadn’t said much about Ashley’s
hair, except to mention her eyebrows, which were still blond. You might want to do something about those, Isabelle
said.
So
Ashley had bought a makeup pencil, a dark, waxy brown. It made the skin under her eyebrows itch. She felt like an imposter, a little girl
playing dress-up.
For
the past forty-three days, Ashley had been trying to forget. David said, “What happens at Sigma Chi stays
at Sigma Chi,” so that is what Ashley had been telling herself. David was Ashley’s brother, a sophomore at
Colgate. Her other brothers, Craig and
Jonathon, had gone there before him, and played hockey, and pledged Sigma Chi just
like their father. Before her visit,
Ashley had thought she would go to Colgate, too—carry on the Barnum family tradition. But
now she knew she wouldn’t. She would
never go back to that place.
Every
time she closed her eyes, there He was.
She was trying to forget, but she couldn’t. That night was lodged in Ashley’s memory like
a popcorn kernel stuck between her teeth.
She couldn’t shake it.
And
so, she ate.
Doritos
and Oreos and White Cheddar Bugles. Cookie
dough and Cool Whip and whole canisters of rainbow sprinkles. Food helped, while she was eating it. Food numbed her senses like a drug. But afterward, when her stomach was empty and
her mind was clear, she knew that she was only hurting herself. She’d done this shit when she was thirteen. Bingeing and barfing, the whole vicious
cycle. She’d gotten help and she’d stopped. Now, she was regressing. She was, in fact, acting like a baby.
Cut the crap, Ashley told herself. So why hadn’t she stopped? She, Ashley Joy Barnum, had always been
lucky. She had what every girl wanted:
she was pretty, she was well liked, and she was successful. Ashley’s life was a perfect, red, shiny
apple, plucked from the highest branch—but then you took a bite and discovered
the truth. The apple was brown, rotten to the core. You gagged, and you spit the whole thing out.
“Ash?” Isabelle said. “You okay?”
Ashley
had been so distracted that she hadn’t realized they were walking. Ashley, Isabelle, Sam, Evyn, and a whole
bunch of people she didn’t know, loaded with duffel bags and teddy bears and
sleepsacks, shlumping across the field like a herd of buffalo.
“I’m
fine,” Ashley said.
“You
sure?” Isabelle didn’t sound convinced.
Did
Ashley want to lie to her best friend?
No, she did not. But to tell Isabelle
the truth was to tell her about that night, and Ashley did not want to tell
anyone about that night. And so, Ashley
smiled. She willed her pretty lips skyward
and opened her blue eyes wide. She was
good at this.
“I’m sure.”
* * *
For the past
forty-three days, Ashley had been trying to follow Trish’s advice. Trish had
been the leader of the eating disorder group Ashley had attended when she was
thirteen. “Don’t eat your feelings,”
Trish would say, “write your
feelings.” Journaling was Trish’s thing. Whatever emotion Ashley was experiencing, Trish
told her to “identify it” and “journal it.”
Was she hungry? Angry? Lonely?
Tired? Putting her feelings on
paper, Trish said, would let some air out of Ashley’s “stress balloon.”
Trish was a
cheeseball, no doubt, but Ashley had liked going to Group. Trish had helped
her. But now, trying to “identify her
feelings” was like trying to read Sanskrit or decipher hieroglyphs on the walls
of an Egyptian cave.
Ashley felt like
she was going crazy, so this was what she had written in her journal. “I feel crazy.” (Followed by two pages of the
word “why” written in purple pen.)
Writing in her favorite color, Trish had said, would help the process.
So far, purple had
not helped the process.
The journal was
stuffed inside the massive canvas duffel that was now hanging from Ashley’s
shoulder, digging into her skin and bumping against her leg with each step. Whywhywhywhywhywhy?
Ashley
could feel Isabelle glancing at her.
Isabelle, her best friend since eighth grade. Isabelle, who had been begging her to come to
Camp Matokwa from the moment they met.
Ashley had agreed
in a rebellious moment. It was January 1st. Ashley had, just seconds before, hung up the
phone on her mother, who had called Isabelle’s house to ream Ashley out for
leaving the Davenports’ New Year’s Eve party early the night before. Ungrateful. Selfish. Rude. Those
were her mother’s words. Okay yes,
Ashley had left the party without saying goodbye or thank you. Okay yes, Ashley had realized that Roland and
Alicia Davenport were important clients of her father. But did her mother realize that she would have said goodbye and thank you if
she had not mistaken the coat closet for a bathroom and found her father and
Mrs. Davenport doing it against the wall?
Ashley had told her mother gently, but her mother had accused her of
lying. (Lying, despite the fact that
Ashley’s father had been caught in such positions before, by Ashley’s mother
herself.) So Ashley had hung up the
phone. She was sick of the drama. When Isabelle suggested she come to Maine
this summer, to get away from her parents, Ashley had agreed. Camp would be good for her, she thought. Camp would be an escape.
Ha!
The strap of the
duffel was ripping into her skin, the sun was burning her eyes. They seemed to be walking forever, like
prisoners on a chain gang.
Looking at
Isabelle now, joking, laughing, Ashley barely recognized her. She was chipper and ponytailed. She had a bounce in her step. Every so often she stopped to bump hips with
Sam or Evyn and do some complicated hand slap routine that ended in a
whoop. At school, Isabelle would never
act like this. She was serious and
studious, a quiet observer, the yin to Ashley’s yang. The peanut butter to Ashley’s jelly.
“Iz?”
Ashley said, reaching for Isabelle’s arm.
“Yeah?”
Ashley
could tell Isabelle—right here, right now, while the other girls marched on —she
could tell her about that night. But
what if Isabelle didn’t believe her? What if, like when Ashley told her mom about
Mrs. Davenport, Isabelle thought she was a liar? Or, worse, that she’d gotten what she asked
for? Ashley had, after all, gone to a
fraternity party at her own volition.
She’d worn heels. She’d drunk
beer. What happens at Sigma Chi stays at Sigma Chi. Her brother’s words
thrummed in Ashley’s ears.
“Nothing,”
Ashley said.
Isabelle
raised her eyebrows.
“Just thanks,”
Ashley said. “For bringing me here.”
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Why I Never Throw Anything Out
I had to transcribe this: a note given to me in eighth grade. I just found it in the bottom of a box. This is why I save everything.
Tasha, Tasha, I want you to know
that the feelings that I show
are not always true
like the times when I'm kind of mean to you
Don't think that I hate you, I'm never mad
and I'd NEVER make you sad
because you're great, not bad
There is no one I place above
it's only you that I love
you're one person I could never hate
on a 1-10 scale, 10 is what you rate
if boys were fish you'd be the bait
every guy wants to be your date
don't ever change because you're GREAT
You, I never intend to hate or mock
I don't mean to come to the door and knock, knock
I'm glad you said you don't hate me because
the love that I have for you is a lock
that could: never be broken!
Tasha, Tasha, I want you to know
that the feelings that I show
are not always true
like the times when I'm kind of mean to you
Don't think that I hate you, I'm never mad
and I'd NEVER make you sad
because you're great, not bad
There is no one I place above
it's only you that I love
you're one person I could never hate
on a 1-10 scale, 10 is what you rate
if boys were fish you'd be the bait
every guy wants to be your date
don't ever change because you're GREAT
You, I never intend to hate or mock
I don't mean to come to the door and knock, knock
I'm glad you said you don't hate me because
the love that I have for you is a lock
that could: never be broken!
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
The Sequel That Wasn't
For a writer, there are few things more mortifying than having a book rejected. For me, that book is Lake Girls: the sort-of sequel to Perfect, Lush, and Bounce, that brings Isabelle, Ashley, Sam, and Evyn together at summer camp.
My ego may be bruised, but my literary spirit is not broken. So, for my readers who have been clamoring for a sequel, here is the first installment, book deal or no book deal:
My ego may be bruised, but my literary spirit is not broken. So, for my readers who have been clamoring for a sequel, here is the first installment, book deal or no book deal:
ISABELLE
Pulling
into camp, Isabelle saw everything through fresh eyes. There, at the entrance, was the Matokwa sign
with its cockeyed “M.” There was Uncle
Don in his khaki shorts and tube socks, fist pumping the air. There was the soccer field with its bald
patch that never, ever grew grass.
Already the drama counselors were dorking out, chorus-lining on the
theater deck.
Isabelle
felt Ashley’s fingers on her knee, squeezing, digging. Was she nervous? Excited?
For years, Isabelle had been begging her to come. Eight
weeks in Maine! No parents! Cute boys!
Every time, Ash would say no.
She wasn’t a “camp person.”
(Translation: Ashley Barnum couldn’t survive a day without a blow
dryer. To which Isabelle would say that no
one cared about hair at camp. You just
wore a baseball cap, and anyway, half the time your hair was wet—an argument that
got her nowhere.) But back in January, Ashley’s
dad had another affair, and she and her mom started fighting all the time. Ash practically lived at Isabelle’s house, which
was when Isabelle embarked on a full-court press. She brought out the Matokwa photo albums.
“Listen,”
Isabelle had said, as the two of them sipped hot chocolate in Isabelle’s
kitchen, “your parents are crazy now.
Imagine how much crazier they’ll be by June. Camp is the perfect escape. You’ll love it, I promise you. While they’re tearing each other’s hair out
you’ll be canoeing and bumper tubing and kissing boys in the woods.” Isabelle swept her hand over the photos, like
a QVC saleswoman. “This could be your summer.”
“I
couldn’t live with all those people,” Ashley said, and Isabelle had to
laugh. Ashley Barnum was captain of the
field hockey team, secretary of the student council, and homecoming queen—as a sophomore. You didn’t get those things just by being
beautiful. You had to be a people
person.
“You
don’t have to live with everyone,”
Isabelle said. “Just me, Sam, Evyn, and
Coop.”
Isabelle
was referring to her two closest camp friends, Evyn Linney and Samantha Gwynn, and
Meredith Cooper, the best counselor ever.
Coop wasn’t just Uncle Don’s niece, Isabelle explained to Ashley; she
was a legend in her own right. Inventor
of Smack the Rat. Winner of the
pie-eating contest at Carnival. The best
M.C. of a Matokwa talent show Isabelle had ever seen.
“Won’t
I be a fifth wheel?” Ashley said.
“Are
you kidding me?” Isabelle said. “They’ll
love you.”
Ashley was so
pretty, so high achieving, that you wanted to hate her, but you couldn’t. She was too nice to hate. It was one of life’s great paradoxes.
Isabelle
had tried to explain their relationship to Coop once. How she’d idolized Ashley all through
elementary school, and how, in eighth grade, when they finally became friends,
she felt so lucky. But the genesis of
their friendship was like a bad TV movie: Popular
Girl and Fringe Girl meet in eating disorder therapy group, barf together,
bond. Suddenly, there was a confidence
between them. Ashley Barnum had secrets no
one knew about but Isabelle. Ashley
Barnum threw up her lunch, Ashley Barnum took Ex-Lax, chink in the armor, chink
in the armor.
Not
that Isabelle should talk. She had
flaws, too. Who didn’t? For starters, Isabelle wasn’t the best
sister. There was the time she had taken
a pair of scissors to April’s favorite mohair sweater and sliced the arms clean
off. She had done this for revenge, pure
and simple, after April had taken a pair of Isabelle’s earrings without asking
and dropped one down the drain. Had the violation
of the mohair sweater been justified?
Possibly, but still, April was her little
sister.
When
her mother had first started dating Jim, Isabelle had behaved horribly. She had accused her mother of desecrating her
father’s memory. She had told Jim to go
to hell. As soon as the words left her
mouth, Isabelle regretted them. She
thought, I am the worst daughter ever. I
don’t even want my own mother to be happy.
Over time, Isabelle discovered that Jim was actually a good guy; he was
good for her mom. But those first few
months had not been Isabelle’s finest.
There was the time
last summer when Isabelle had slutted it out, sneaking into the woods with
Benji Steiner and dry humping him against a tree while the rest of the senior
campers roasted marshmallows. For the
last two weeks of camp Isabelle had ignored Benji completely for no other
reason than that she was embarrassed by how much she’d enjoyed their time
together.
She once stole a copy
of Forever from the library. She avoided green vegetables. She hardly ever flossed. She still cried for her father every few weeks,
even though he had been dead for five years.
And then there was this: the sad fact that while she loved Ashley so, so
much, she recently—only recently—wished they had never met.
No,
Isabelle wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but at least she could admit it. At least she wasn’t pretending to be someone
she wasn’t.
If
Isabelle were to be very honest right now she would have to admit that inviting
Ashley to camp might have been a mistake.
Saturday, December 7, 2013
Mortification Survival Guide
These five easy steps will come in handy when you are, say,
riding your 10-speed through the school parking lot and the cute boy you have a
crush on waves to you and you crash into a school bus (true story):
1) BREATHE. Before
you say or do anything that will mortify you further, oxygenate. Take a moment. Regroup.
2) LAUGH. A little
self-deprecation goes a long way. If you
can’t laugh at yourself, smile. The
simple act of smiling will make you look better and feel better in the face of humiliation. (This is not your mother talking; this is
a scientific fact).
3) QUOTE SOMEONE AWESOME.
“I am not having a day of power.”
-Anne Lamott . “Jump into my nightmare; the water’s warm.” -Jerry Maguire
4) OWN IT. Yes, you
are the girl who rode your bike into a school bus.
5) MOVE ON. No one
act defines your life. In the words of
the late, great F. Scott Fitzgerald, “Never confuse a
single defeat with a final defeat.” Some day, this
singular, mortifying moment may jumpstart a great cocktail party conversation—or
even a best-selling Y.A. novel.
P.S. The 5 Steps to
Surviving Mortification also apply nicely to parenthood. When you go to pick up your daughter from
school and she is, say, on all fours under the snack table, barking like a dog
while the other nice little children are sitting in a circle (true story),
breathe. Smile. Say, “Yup, that’s my girl.” Give her a hug. Take her out for ice cream (or a dog biscuit). This is the good stuff, people.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Prize-winning Challenge
Be the first person to match each mortifying moment
with the correct character, and I will send you a Perfect, Lush, or Bounce t-shirt.
Mortifying moment:
1)
“I am left in the dust, still holding a brown
bag with my name on it. I would feel
like a loser right now if anyone in the cafeteria were looking at me. But no one is.”
2)
“My tongue feels like sandpaper. Suddenly, my Saturday night feels just as
casual and meaningless as all the other grist for the rumor mill.”
3)
“I am painfully aware that I am wearing
a reflector vest and a bike helmet. And
everyone else arrived in cars.”
4)
“I was on speaker phone, listening to my friends
talk about how they didn’t want to talk to me.”
5)
“Staggering through the woods like a rabid bear,
unzipping my jeans and squatting, before I even find a tree. Making noises that no human being should
make.”
Characters:
A)
Isabelle (Perfect)
B)
Sam (Lush)
C)
Evyn (Bounce)
D)
Josie (For
Keeps)
E)
Lexi (My
Life in Black and White)
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