APRIL. I wasn't always this person. I didn't always have these hips. My cheekbones weren't always visible. My hair was sometimes greasy. My face was often broken out.
There were 9 diets. Atkins, Hydroxycut, South Beach, Anorexia, The Apple Diet, Nutrisystem, Bulimia, Weight Watchers and Cabbage Soup. And there were 4 facial cleansers. Apricot Scrub, Proactiv, Olay and Zenmed. And there were up-do's and down-do's, bobs and weaves, curlers and straighteners. It was brown and blonde and red and, for a little while, blue.
And, when you're an Unfortunate - that's what I like to call it when you're not pretty. When you're... ugly... When you're this Unfortunate person, you learn certain tricks in coping. You avoid mirrors. They're deadly. You get from class to class as fast as possible. Avoid the hallways. The hallways are where the mean kids look for bait. And you never, ever lust for boys. (Beat.) That last trick is always the hardest one to follow. Take Ian. Ian Galigher. With his bangs too long and his inability to be on time for class and his desire to always sit in the last row and that one time he shoved a kid for calling me fat. The one with his feet always on a cafeteria table. Ian was that guy. Pretty, but dumb. Tough, but gentle. Mean, but kind.
But when the spring fling was coming up and the girls were buying dresses and their fathers were renting limos and their mothers were taking pictures, I was date-less. Dress-less. Ticket-less. Unless I could get Ian to circle 'Yes' on my note. I suppose I should've known. I suppose I should've expected it. I suppose I should've seen it coming when Carol intercepted the note as I passed it from my desk to his in English Lit. And I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when she stood up and read, instead of the sonnet Mr. Warner had asked for, my note.
Ian. I'm sure you already have a date. I'm sure you already have plans. And if you don't, that makes sense too cause you're probably too cool for a school dance and all. But I really like your hair. And I really liked it when you called Billy a jackass for telling me I was fat. And I don't think you deserved to go to the Principal's last week for falling asleep in Warner's class. But I was wondering if you'd like to escort--
Jesus Christ. Escort. Like I was some fucking debutante. A roly-poly, potmarked debutante in Hackensack.
I was wondering if you'd like to escort me to the spring fling. Circle "Yes" or "No" and pass it back.
Red-faced and holding back tears, I was able to stay until the moment I heard Ian join the laughter. Mortified, I ran out. Burnt like toast. Fried like an egg. But cold. Like the waitress at the diner forgot about me. Left me there to be something someone doesn't want, something unappetizing, returned without receipt. That's how I felt. Like I took a bullet to the brain and my marbles kept bouncing around the room. But my body just kept on chugging, moving, avoiding the gap. I ran straight to the girl's room on the second floor, where I stood on the toilet bowl so the oh-so-concerned hall monitor that Mr. Warner had sicked on me would think I'd gone to another bathroom. That I'd called my mom to pick me up. That I was hiding in the library.
I was sick the next day. The spring fling was that night and I'd woken up with invisible hives. And an imaginary fever. And a self-induced cough. And a make-believe sniffle. And my mother's pity spared me the humiliation of going back and reading Elizabeth Barrett fucking Browning, when we first met and loved, I did not build upon the event with marble..., in front of 17 snickering teenagers.
(Beat.)
And then college came. And I jogged. And my peers were too busy to be mean. Or to care. And I learned how to use mascara. And the perfect shade of cover-up was always available for a pesky stress pimple. And Alan Buffett took me out for drinks and kissed me in the rain when I was a size 9. And Jeremy Reading told me I looked hot when I was a size 7. And Patrick Lendon got lucky when I was a size 5.
So, it wasn't very surprising when, at a coffee shop on Bleeker in a size 4 dress, a waitress handed me a note that said, I'm sorry I was such a douchebag back then. Can I buy you some coffee, April? Circle "Yes" or "No" and pass it back. This was the first time in an hour that I'd looked up from my book. It was Baudelaire. Beautiful. Exquisite. Far more appealing than a note on the back of a receipt for a corn muffin and a latte. I glanced around the room until she pointed to my right. Just a few tables away. Ian Galigher. He gave me a wave. A little one. Awkward, afraid. Did he have the right girl?
I circled "No". You have to understand, it wasn't a grudge. And it wasn't that I didn't believe his apology. Time had just... Passed. It does that. And things -- people -- change. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse and sometimes not at all.... And Ian -- he still had those bangs. And his feet were still on the table. And the date on his note was wrong. One day late. (Beat.) I didn't want to go backwards. I didn't want to hit rewind. So,
...instead of giving her back the note, or passing him my polite ThankYouButNo, I crumpled it up into my hand. I never got my note back. Why should he? I left a couple of bills on the table and grabbed my purse. I didn't run this time. No fried eggs, no burnt toast, no running or red cheeks. Just my heels, the floor, and all the time in the world.
As I opened my umbrella outside, I let the little ball of receipt paper fall to the floor. Crumpled on the sidewalk in a rainstorm, just where it belonged.
These are all amazing. My pleasure, ~
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