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 ass**le. 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 g*y.”
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 g*y.”
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