The Story of Us: Part III (aka “The Dock of Shame”)

Chris was gone – and I didn’t care.

Or, at least, that’s what I tried to tell myself.

It shouldn’t have mattered. He wasn’t my boyfriend or anything. There were other boys to subtly stare at during journalism – and even better, other boys to hold hands with on the way to the mall during a half day when I was late leaving school and didn’t want to walk over alone to meet my friends. (Scandalously, the guy with was in our Tolo photos with his date.)

It didn’t feel natural – not like it did on that February night.

But I needed to move on.

Chris was gone …

… or so I thought.

Six weeks later, I walked into the gym, and there he was, stretching against the wall as if he had never left.

I was floored – absolutely speechless.

Turns out his transfer to another local school didn’t work out, and he was back to run the mile, reclaim his place on The Clover Leaves’ staff – and ask me to prom.

Or would he? Had he changed his mind during our time apart? Out of sight, out of mind?

I decided to play it cool – be friendly, but not needy. I didn’t want him thinking his departure had affected me on any level.

But on a rainy afternoon not long after Chris’ return, I looked up from my stereotyping editorial to see him standing next to my desk.

He cleared his throat …

... opened his mouth …

... and the fire alarm went off.

Maybe it was the gods’ attempt to warn us of what was to come, but as soon as the fire drill was over, he nervously asked, and I nervously accepted.

I was going to prom.

With Chris.

Oh God.

But I didn’t have time to ponder the possibility of being likely the only freshman on the boat, because there was far, far more awkwardness to come.

Like how we would be getting there – or more specifically, how mortified I was that my mom was going to be driving me to the prom. I wasn’t exactly surprised, but it also wasn’t the ultra-sophisticated, Sweet Valley High-style scenario I had dreamt of, where Todd whisked Elizabeth away in a black limo.

But there was no reasoning with my mom, so I sought out a way to make the situation slightly more bearable. Melynda, a junior from our journalism class, and her friend Shanna, an annoying girl from P.E. who liked to watch Chris run – and not in admiration of his mile time, either – were going stag, and we decided that they would come to my house first and we would all ride together.

Then there was the touchy issue of finances. My mom was willing to pay for my dress and loan me her a solitaire-diamond necklace, but prom tickets were $35, and when you’re in high school, that’s a lot of money. You couldn’t really even make that on a Friday night babysitting. Chris had asked me to be his date, but how exactly was he interpreting the word date?

Well, one thing you should know about Chris is that back then, sports were his first love. So it should have come as no surprise whatsoever that he bought his prom ticket, a new baseball glove … and had no money left.

He didn’t actually tell me that I was on the hook for the ticket; more like danced around the issue entirely. I finally enlisted my sister, who also had P.E. at the same time, to ask him – and even though I had no clue about prom protocol, I wasn’t pleased when she reported back about his trip to The Sports Authority.

I’d never offered to pay for his Tolo ticket – but it was only $5. Still, had I set a precedent?

And more importantly, where the hell was I going to come up with $35?

Unfortunately, I was raised in a family where money was earned. I normally didn't mind working for extra money (case in point: my lucrative little venture the summer of '95, when my mom hired me to mow the lawn every weekend and even paid me the time I mulched one of her patio rugs), but this was different.

My mom said she would give me the money – if I dug her a mini-ditch for a pole for her new clothesline.

It was a big.freakin.hole.

Well, never let it be said that I lack initiative, because after school, out to the backyard I went, shovel in hand. And I think it was about 15 years before I came back in the house. I'm not sure if I am a) weak; b) extremely slow, no thanks to my frequent stopping to rewind/fast forward on my Walkman; c) naive to think a huge hole would take less than an hour to dig; or d) all of the above, but seriously, dinner was ready and I was still out there, digging away.

By the time I was done, I was ready to beat my mom with the shovel if she commented one more time about the smell of “summer fresh” sheets. Well, if I'd had any energy left.

Luckily, the blisters healed by prom night, and there we were on the night of June 6, 1997, headed to downtown Tacoma to board the Argosy Cruise – one nervous freshman in a forest-green satin dress and black sandals with a heel high enough to not look like a little kid but low enough that I could still walk, and two extras from a Cyndi Lauper video. I’m not sure what issue of Seventeen Prom those two read, but I am betting it was one from before I could do long division.

At least I wouldn’t be competing with them for Chris’ attention.

If he ever arrived, that is.

My mom and my godmother hung around just long enough to annoy me, but fortunately not long enough to meet Chris, like they were hoping to.

Where was he?

The question was weighing on me – and not doing much for my mood, especially since I refused to wear a coat and early June nights in Washington aren’t exactly cause to turn on the air conditioning.

Oh no. I had NOT put on an extremely uncomfortable strapless bra and dug that hole to get stood up.

By the time Chris sauntered down the gangplank with a friend and his date (who apparently drove them there in his truck with no license after a fine-dining experience at Denny’s, which I found out about later), the boat was close to departing – and, knowing how anal I am about, well, everything, he should have known that he was dead man walking.

A hot dead man walking, in a black tuxedo with a green cummerbund that matched my dress, but a dead man walking, no less.

I told him that he looked nice … and he didn’t reply. I don’t know if he was nervous, or he didn’t hear me, but I was furious, and the evening went downhill from there.

He brought me a beautiful corsage – but it was the wrong color.

We had discussed white – and this was red, and therefore didn’t match the white boutonniere I had, in a panic, sent my mom out to get that morning. Never mind that both matched the “Sea of Roses” decor nicely.

He brought me a plate of food – but it had too many strawberries on it. I like my cantaloupe.

He was cordial as ever, chatting with everyone in our group – but he talked to Shanna and Melynda a little too much for my personal preference. And in fairness to him, I’m sure he would say that I used the group setting to avoid being alone with him. I had no problem with someone sitting between us. What can I say; I was fourteen.

We took the requisite pictures, and shared one slow dance, but things were getting rockier with each passing hour – and it wasn’t just the current on Puget Sound.

It all came to a head when he finally got me alone for a moment.

We sat down and he leaned in close.

Was he about to … ?!?

“I was wondering,” he said in a low voice, “if you wanted to have a serious relationship?”

WHAT?!?!

I was panicked enough at the idea of a kiss, and now he wanted to actually DATE me?!

So I said the first logical thing that came to mind.

“With Dean Cain.”

True? Yes.

Bitchy? Absolutely.

Chris recoiled.

I stood up and fled to the bathroom.

And that was that.

When the boat docked, I walked out into the chilly darkness alone, pissed off … and stumbled going up the gangplank.

An older woman steadied me, warning me to, “be careful, dear.”

Talk about adding insult to injury.

As the car pulled out of the parking lot, I heard myself trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice as I answered my mom’s questions. It was a lot of fun. Of course we danced. Yes, Chris looked handsome.

Chris.

What had I done?

The entire ride home – and for the rest of the night – our conversation replayed in my mind like a No. 1 song that you hate but can’t escape every time you turn on the radio. I felt that my answer was totally justified, given that he had put me on the spot. The entire debacle was his fault.

But at the same time, I knew that I was lying to myself.

Regardless, it was over. So over.

And I’d never have to see him again.

Until Monday, that is …

To be continued …