The Plays the Thing

A couple of weeks passed, and soon auditions for the next musical began. West Side Story was a long time favorite of mine. I loved the music, the story of star-crossed lovers flying in the face of racial taboos. I wanted the part of Maria so bad and I knew I could be great at it. Tall, lanky, red-headed, fair skinned girl portraying a petite Puerto Rican –I was perfect for the part.

And auditioning for the part of Tony, was none other than Tim. Nothing much had happened since our bizarre camp fire encounter. Nothing at all except that I thought about him constantly. Then one day a few of us were standing around talking about who might play what role and very casually Tim said, “I hope you get to play Maria so I can kiss you.”

Whoa. I blushed like crazy and started sweating nervously from the palms of my hands to the soles of my feet and everywhere in between. It was the answer to my unspoken question. He had been thinking about me since that night. Oh, how the possibilities began to roll around in my head.

Tim was so cute. He had beautiful eyes that changed from green to brown depending on his clothing and a glorious head of soft, brown hair. (Stop snickering. It’s true.) I remember a couple who attended the church I grew up in. They were both young and attractive and they sat directly in front of the youth group. All through the service, the wife would run her fingers through the back of the guy’s hair. All of us teenagers would scowl and mock them behind their backs but secretly, I dreamed of the day that I could run my fingers through my own husband’s locks. Yeah, yeah, back to the story.

The auditions came and went and in true “High School Musical” form the results were posted on the chorus room door. We flocked to the spot like seagulls to a clam bake. The list was posted, as the original playbill, in order of appearance. Near the top of the list under “The Jets” there he was, Tony: Tim Sexton. And farther down the page, I breathed a great sigh of relief; under “The Sharks” -Maria: Amie Harrington. Yes! I knew I could make the late Natalie Wood proud –especially since I would be doing my own singing.

Rehearsals began and Tim and I were spending every afternoon together. He offered to give me a ride home after practice one day. We got into his little orange Volkswagen and had not even made it out of the school parking lot when he turned to me and said, “I feel like I should tell you that I’ve been to the dermatologist’s office. I have male-patterned baldness and will most likely lose my hair by the time I’m twenty-one.”

Come again?

Sparks

I’d visited the church of Mike and Tim several times and was getting to know them and some of their friends (all a year ahead of me in school) a lot better. My interactions with Tim up to that point had been few and far between. I knew from the year before that he’d been in a long-term relationship with a girl from another school and that she was popular, bubbly, and hilariously funny.

I also knew that he had dated a girl from our class with a, ahem, questionable reputation.
They had been co-leads in a school play and as the mini-me, high school version of Hollywood went, they were a stage romance that lasted right up to the curtain call. Take away the play and they had nothing in common. And it seemed she had far too much in “common” with far too many other guys.

So, ultimately I knew three things about Tim: he was a Christian and openly so, he had a few rough relationships behind him, and he had the voice of an angel. The first time I heard him sing, I told my mom that I wanted to bring him home, sit him on my dresser, and let him sing me to sleep every night.

In November of 1990, both Tim and I attended the birthday party of a mutual friend. There was lots of food, people, and a camp fire in the back yard for roasting marshmallows. That’s where a group of us had gathered until it began to rain very lightly. The girls in the group ran for the house, fear of wet hairspray driving them in like cattle. The guys were quick to follow. But for some reason, I didn’t move. I just sat there in the quiet, watching the flames dance and hearing the tiny “tssss” of rain drops hitting the hot coals. And there, sitting directly across from me was Tim.

We didn’t say a word. Just sat there staring at the fire, sneaking occasional glances at each other. I don’t know how much time passed but I think we would have sat there all night. It was as though something was drawing us into that moment and neither of us was willing to break the spell. Unfortunately, someone inside took note of our absence and yelled out the door, “What are you doing? It’s raining.”
As we rejoined the party there were several odd looks and questioning remarks, “What were you guys doing out there?” I couldn’t have answered that question to save my life. I never could explain what happened that night but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt –that’s where it all began.

Break Up Scene -Take Two

Shortly thereafter, I was asked out by another guy from our class. I wanted to go on the date, and although I still wasn’t sure what Johnny and I were classified as, I knew I had to talk to him first. We met in the chorus room one night after a school event so I could tell him in person.

“Why do you want to go out with him? He’s not your type and he’s a total jerk!”

“Well, maybe I want to find that out for myself.” (stupid teenager)

--cue sad romance movie soundtrack—

“But I love you.”

And there it was. I suddenly felt like someone was sitting on my chest and I couldn’t get a good breath. We had never said it. Never even implied it that I could recall. We’d written to each other a hundred times and every letter ended the same way, “Always Your Friend.” Friend! Not “I love you,” not “Love ya,” not even just “Love.” And yet here he was saying it; and I knew I couldn’t say it back. I just stood there, trying to move air into my lungs.

He stood to his feet, grabbed me by the shoulders, and kissed me hard on the lips.

With that, I turned away and left the room. Tears streaming down my face and in a moment of bizarre irony, I grabbed the girlfriend who had employed me to fix her up with him many months prior and said, “I think you should go check on Johnny.”

I did not love him. But hurting him sucked. Of course, now, he too is married and were he to read this would likely be thinking thank God she left the room. Oh, and in retrospect, he was partly right. The other guy wasn’t a total jerk but he was definitely not my type.

So, Johnny and I parted ways but we didn’t completely lose contact, not for awhile. As a matter of fact, he will show up again later in the story.

Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire

Johnny was a unique guy. To this day, I hold an appreciation for his personality and character. He had a quirky humor and was known around the choral/drama circles as the guy who began sentences with, “I’m not gonna blow sand up your tails” and the like. But he was also a gentleman. I remember one occasion in particular when he had stopped by unexpectedly and my parents weren’t home. I invited him in but he refused to sit down until they returned. For like ten minutes he literally paced around the living room because he didn’t want them to think that he was too comfortable being there unsupervised.

He picked me up for the movies on the night of the big break up. As we headed to the theatre we chatted about our day. “How’s Mitch?” he asked. I took a deep breath. “Um, I broke up with him today. So…” I shrugged. “Really?” It was just one word but we both felt the weight of it. It was heavy with questions and possibilities but nothing more was said about it.

By the end of the night, a movie between two friends had taken on the feel of an official date and so it was not a great surprise when he kissed me goodnight. “I wondered if you would let me do that,” he said. I let him. But I was really beginning to wonder about this kissing thing. Maybe it was me who was lacking the skills to really pack a punch. It just didn’t seem like the kind of kiss I would want to spend the rest of my life with. But Johnny was a really sweet guy and he seemed to care about me so, we spent most of the summer together and then wrote to each other often when he headed off to college.

We would catch up on his weekend visits home and talk on the phone a lot. He had this habit of keeping me on the phone until very late at night and then refusing to hang up with me. He would say “I’m gonna let you go now.” And then just as I said “goodbye” he would restart the conversation and stall for another five minutes, and then another, and then another. It was sweetly annoying in a -dang, I really want to get off this phone but how can I hang up on him when he’s only doing it because he likes me- way.

During the week, I was enjoying my junior year of high school and making new friends. I’d met a couple of new guys in my chorus class and one of them invited me to their church. His name was Mike and his best friend’s name was Tim. I decided to take them up on the offer and made plans to join them for a Friday night youth gathering. Johnny called earlier that afternoon, having come home for the weekend, with apparently big plans for how we would spend it together.

When I explained that I had made other arrangements for the night, he didn’t take it very well. And for the life of me I couldn’t understand why he was so upset with me. I’d never thought of us as an exclusive item. We were just “hanging out,” right? Id-ee-ut.

What the Heck?

The taste of foot was still lingering in my mouth when he said, “Can I come see you?” And before I could grab it and stuff it back down my throat- “Sure.” With that, I had clenched the deal and re-enrolled myself in the “You Big Fat Idiot School of Dating.”

It was even worse than before. Not only did I hate him and his…his…breathing; I hated myself, too. I remember riding in the car and Mitch would reach over and lay his hand on my thigh and a voice in my head would be screaming “WHY MUST YOU TOUCH ME?!!!” Then another voice would reply “Well, idiot, maybe it’s because you are too co-dependent to be honest with him and break off a relationship that you clearly have no interest in.” oh. yeah.

He is married now and I’m sure could care less but I’ve occasionally wondered if I should send an apology card. “Roses are red, Violets are blue, I should’ve dumped you the first time the sound of your breathing made me shudder with waves of nausea but I didn’t because I was an idiot. Sorry ‘bout that.” Nah. But for the record, I do admit that I was wrong. Now, where was I?

Oh that’s right, graduating summa cum laude from the YBFISD. I dragged things out for several more weeks all the while finding ways to avoid goodnight kisses at the end of dates and being aloof but friendly when we were together. It was during this time that I was portraying Rapunzel in our school’s performance of “Into the Woods.” And it was during this time that a girlfriend and fellow pseudo-thespian enlisted my help to express her feelings toward a certain guy, we’ll call him Johnny, in hopes that he would pursue a relationship with her. It’s a tricky situation when you are spending more time with a guy than your friend who is madly in love with him. And even though I truly did campaign on her behalf, he just wasn’t interested…in her.

About a week into summer vacation I got a phone call from Johnny asking if we could “hang out” sometime. Yes, technically I was still with Mitch but I saw no harm since Johnny and I were just friends. So, one Friday night, Johnny came to my house and we hung out in my driveway until well after 3 am. Oh, put your eyebrow down –nothing happened. We just talked. But it did start my wheels a-turnin’. What if? Being a complete yellow-bellied chicken had kept me from ending things once and for all with Mitch, but maybe, just maybe, I’d found a new motivation.

The next week, Mitch and I grabbed some lunch (we worked together at a business owned by his father), went back to his house to eat, and that’s when I broke the news. Broke like a piece of glass being dropped off a ten story building. A deafening shatter. It was ugly. He was hurt. In fact, he left me sitting there at the table and his mom had to drive me back to work. If she hated me for what I had just done, she never showed it. She was very understanding. Still, it was the longest three minute ride of my life.

I felt horrible and I felt relieved. The relieved part quickly and completely replaced the horrible part. That night, Johnny picked me up for a movie.

Heavy Breathing

By spring of my 10th grade year, something had changed. My eyes had been opened to the wide world of high school boys. Yes, Mitch was also a high school boy but he was the same high school boy I’d been dating for two years. These were different high school boys. Different and exciting. And what’s more, some of them actual took note of me. Different, exciting, and flattering. You see where this is going, don’t you?

I was not a cheerleader, not on drill team, and had no reputation, so it wasn’t like I could have my pick of the litter, but the attention I was getting stirred questions, doubts, and an awareness of discontentment that I hadn’t allowed myself to investigate before.

It was like sitting down at the theatre and popping in a mouthful of stale popcorn. It’s not very satisfying but you’re at the movies, it’s what you’re supposed to do, and everyone else is eating it. So, you just keep chewing the warmed-over fluff and disdainfully picking the husks out of your teeth. Then one day, you make a startling discovery; the candy counter. There are Junior Mints, Mike & Ike’s, Snow Caps -an endless supply of sweet, different, and exciting choices. And you wonder why on earth you’re still choking down popcorn.

I knew that my feelings had changed (by the way, no one was feeding us the “dating is practice for divorce" theory back then so don’t judge me too harshly) but I didn’t quite know how to end things. I really didn’t want to hurt him and in many ways I didn’t know who I was without him so, for the sake of personal security I did the only thing I could do –strung him along for months. Things went from bad to worse as my new found disinterest rapidly spiraled into total disgust. I let things go way too long. When I began to dread the smell of his Jeep Cherokee, or wanted to punch him in the head for saying stupid, made-up words like “wondabon,” or worse yet, could feel the angst gurgling in my stomach when he, God forbid, breathed too heavily, I knew I had really blown it.

I broke it off. Whew! And then four weeks later suffered one of those “absence makes the heart grow…” forgetful moments. I forgot all the reasons why I’d broken it off to begin with and found myself calling him and saying something that was true but horribly misguided. “I miss you.” Idiot. Even as the words escaped my lips I regretted them. I didn’t miss him. I missed a relationship. I missed having someone. I missed familiarity. But it was too late. I’d thrown the hook and he’d jumped back on the line without hesitation. What the heck do I do now?

It’s the Most Embarrassing Time of the Year

Despite my less than enthusiastic reaction, we made the transition from good friends to couple and for the next two years we were pretty much inseparable. I don’t remember one single argument between us; which might seem extraordinary except for the fact that I don’t remember much of anything from those two years. Honestly. I can pull up a snippet here and there but I can conjure up very few streaming video replays in my mind. I know that we kissed and I’m guessing we did it fairly often but I can only recall one specific incident –the most embarrassing one.

It was Christmas of ’89 and my Dad had gone hog wild with the decorations. He had “decked the halls” all the way to my bedroom which was strung with lights and had two atrocious, three-foot tall, Christmas candles anchoring each side of the bed. I assume that Mitch and I had gone into the sacred chamber of my bedroom to view the spectacle and what can I say? The mesmerizing glow of ginormous, plastic tapers was all too beguiling. We commenced to making out on my bed.

The next thing I remember was my Mom’s voice. “Amie? Are you home?” It was a sympathetic ruse. She knew that I was home. I knew that she knew that I was home. And she knew that I knew that she knew that I was home. I can assure you that the humiliation of the moment did more to inflame my cheeks with red heat than the making out session had accomplished. “Time for Mitch to go home.” He made a quick exit. Mom went back to sleep. I tossed and turned in my bed dreading the next morning’s confrontation.

“I could hardly tell if there were one or two people out there!” Mom scolded. To this day, I think that had more to do with her grogginess than our unbridled passion. Remember, I was a good girl. But I accepted my fate and endured the long lecture without dying from embarrassment…

that is, right up until my Dad decided to offer his own sage advice. “Just remember young lady, upper persuasion leads to lower invasion.” Gasp and cringe. Did my Dad just say “lower invasion?” ugh. I wanted to disappear from existence. Like Lily Tomlin in the Incredible Shrinking Woman, to just shrink into oblivion.

Somehow I survived. But aside from this and a few other highlights, the relationship is a blur until things started going south. I remember that stage vividly. Like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Kissing Cousins

You remember the goon’s cousin that I mentioned earlier? Well, his name was Mitch*. He entered the scene when his family began visiting our church. Mitch was our first up-close encounter with a real life nerd. It wasn’t just that he was nerdy in appearance; he really was smarter than the rest of us. But aside from having an unusual love for science and a somewhat disproportionate shnauz, he was a great guy with one glaring flaw…he was completely infatuated with my sister.

In sharp contrast to my classic goody-two-shoes routine was my sister, the rebel without a cause. She was your typical school-ditching, club-hopping, sneaking-out-of-the-window-on- the-weekends, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants, party girl. And this crisp seemed, khaki pants, tucked in polo shirt, loafers with argyle sock wearing honor student couldn’t have been farther from her type.

Week after week he would show up at our house with a date proposal and week after week he got shot down cold. Soon, a new ritual began forming. Mitch would ask her out for some activity, she would offer her usual heartless rejection, and he would casually turn to me and say, “Well, do you want to go with me?” I had no expectations and nothing to lose so I accepted and fell naturally into place as the good friend.

This hanging out phase continued for about a year even though both Mitch and I dated other people (the cheating, rumor spreading, kiss-killer for example). As our friendship grew, he became less the nerd and more the really funny guy with a dry wit and sarcastic sense of humor that I enjoyed even though I didn’t always get it. (I had yet to tap into my natural gifting in this area.) It was during this time I began to notice that my friend role, which included meeting and gauging his new dates, was becoming more and more difficult. They were all annoying, stupid, flighty, and none of them were…well…me.

You can imagine my elation when he informed me that he and the last ditz, er, uh, date had parted ways and he wanted me to take her place. We were at Stone Mountain Park, GA. The most romantic spot in the world if hundreds of under-aged, over-boozed, hormone-crazed teenagers making out on beach towels; coming up for air just long enough to pipe out a sluggish and slurred rendition of Charlie Daniels’ “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” is what you consider romantic.

My response? Silence. Complete and utterly awkward silence. Thinking back, it’s hard to pinpoint the reason for my hesitation. Fear and nervousness? An express desire NOT to look like one of the aforementioned “get a room” losers? The fact that I had built the moment up in my mind to such a degree than it was impossible for reality to meet my expectations? Yeah, it was probably one or all of those.



*Name has been changed to protect the innocent –me. I don’t want to be sued for slander.

Famous Last Words

I’d gotten off to a rocky start but I was undeterred. I had long since outgrown those sixth grade days of weeding through the yearbook, searching for potential suitors, while listening mournfully to the Air Supply Greatest Hits album. “I’m all out of love, I’m so lost without you.” They just don’t write songs like that anymore.

But that was the past; I was now part of a great generation of young women who knew the profound truth that “love is a battlefield.” And I had tasted the empowerment of punk rock prostitutes who could scare off the vilest of pimps by the mere rhythmic shaking of their bosoms. Never mind that I had no bosom to speak of.

Love was out there. Unfortunately, so were silly but deeply felt crushes which never resulted in relationships. I was the one that guys would flirt with when their actual girlfriends weren’t around. Not because I was a tramp. On the contrary, I was a “good girl.” But I was the fun girl. In retrospect, their steady girlfriends had one thing in common; they were ultra-prissy-pants. The type with perfectly painted finger nails, hair curled and Aqua-netted just so. I was girly enough with my pink floral sweaters and oh yes, pink Converse tennis shoes but I was also a bit of a tom-boy. I didn’t mind if my hair got tousled or if I got thrown fully clothed into the swimming pool. I was approachable; a friendly flirtation when it was convenient.

There was one guy in particular. His sister was a good friend even though she was a year or two older than me. He and I were the same age. He began dating a girl in our youth group and they continued that relationship off and on for years. But when I would spend the night with his sister, he and I would stay up all night watching stupid Monty Python movies together; laughing and laughing. We would sit cuddled up on the couch and talk about everything under the sun and my heart would flutter at how perfect it all seemed. I had every reason to believe that he would dump his well-endowed steady and declare me as his true love. Ah, but the next morning we would head to church, walk into the youth room and I was suddenly invisible. He was a jerk. I was nice. Nice, forgiving, and stupid which meant this cycle was repeated time and again.

What those guys saw as a little innocent flirting behind their girlfriend’s back wreaked havoc on my tender and naïve emotions. Not to mention giving me more than my share of dirty looks and threats to have my butt kicked. Luckily, no one was willing to risk their Lee press-on nails for the likes of me.

Even so, I plodded on believing that a serious, long-term relationship would come my way because that was what teenagers of my time were expected to have. I just didn’t know it would come looking for my sister first.

The Worst of Firsts

I went on my first date when I was 13 and in the seventh grade. It seems so very young to me now especially considering that my date was a senior in high school. Before you start sending scornful letters to my parents, it wasn’t all that scandalous. We were in church youth group together and our destination was a Christian school, band-boosters bon-fire. Oh yeah, wild and crazy kids we were. And you should also know that I literally begged my poor parents to death, even to the point of enlisting my Art teacher to debate on my behalf. I coerced him into offering the ever so logical “if she’s proven herself to be trustworthy and it’s a safe group environment, holding her back may only spur future rebellion” argument. Shameful manipulation.

It is at this point, looking back, that I wish my mom had said, “Amie, this isn’t about us not trusting you. It’s about the fact that you are an idiot and have no idea what a complete waste of time and energy this will be.” Admittedly, I would have still followed with a string of pretty, pretty, pretty, pleases and been just as determined as ever because as stated, I was an idiot.

The big date proved uneventful unless you count the butterflies in my stomach and the uneasiness of being eyed by a bunch of snotty Christian school girls I’d never met before. But it did lead to future dates and eventually to that monumental milestone known as the first kiss.

You dream about it. Envision it. Your eyes lock and he tilts your chin into position while his other hand softly clasps the back of your neck. You lean into each other and then…WAKE UP because that ain’t the way it happened. I never pictured it taking place in the back seat of a car with the goon’s cousin (who will come up again in the story) gaping at us in the rearview mirror like some ten cent peep show. If the guy who bequeathed to me this memory ever happens to read this –no offense. But seriously, I could’ve been licked by a cow and remembered it more fondly than that.

So, the unspectacular first date led to the unpleasant first kiss which led to a few other firsts in my life: the first time of being cheated on by a boyfriend, the first time of spending an insane amount of money on said cheating boyfriend for Christmas, and topping the list…the first and only time said cheating, ex-boyfriend spread rumors that I was pregnant and had been excommunicated from my home church.

How a guy whose kiss repulsed me could imagine that we had done more than that was beyond me. Even so, I had made my way into the grand and troubled world of teenage relationships by picking a real winner. Surely, it could only get better from here.

BOOK MARK

This post marks the official beginning of the story! Scroll up from here to read the entries in the correct order. Thanks for your willingness to waste time on my silly stories. =)

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