The Chronicles of Cass: When It Began, Pt. 2

This is part 2 of a three part series. You can find Part 1 and Part 3 at their respective links.

In the school gym on a Friday evening, standing against the wall at my first junior high dance, self-consciously avoiding eye contact with anyone. At least I wasn't alone; the boys and girls were all huddled on either side of the gym, with the dance floor occupied only by a mother and father who were chaperoning the dance and a pair of young teachers all looking on, bemused..

My crush on J continued unabated. I would describe myself as tongue-tied, but that implies that I had actually screwed up my courage and attempted to speak to her. But in fact I had not and likely would not have done so were it not for the events about to unfold.

As was usually the case, the dance floor was barren of souls, a yawning gap as perilous to the suddenly bravado-free inhabitants of the boys side, testosterone raging and the scent of copious amounts of pilfered Aqua Velva wafting through the air.

Eventually, one brave soul dared venture across the dating DMZ to ask the object of his affections to canoodle on the dance floor, who accepted said invitation. The logjam thus broken, the dance floor was soon full, the only exceptions being the socially-challenged sorts taking turns to study the inspection tags on the fire extinguishers for the umpteenth time like archaeologista inspecting newly-unearthed Dead Sea scrolls. 

This was where you would find me, needless to say, in between multiple visits to the lavatory, the result of the nervous consumption of multiple cups of punch. As I watched the goings-on on the dance floor, I felt equal measures of envy, fear, and a deep conviction that this was an alien world where I was an unwanted interloper, partly owing to being the new kid, partly to a decided lack of self-esteem and partly to being clueless in matters of the heart - even for a 12-year-old in the late 70s, and, if I am being completely honest, by choice. I watched the minute hand slowly tick away, trying to calculate the number of seconds until I could escape this hormone-drenched purgatory in which I found myself.

We had just passed the mid-point of the suburban bacchanal when it happened. As I nursed yet another cup of watery fruit punch, I was descended upon by a contingent from the in-group of my female classmates. One took my hand, while two others each grasped an arm and began to guide me onto the dance floor.

"Come on, L," said Cc, one of the friendliest girls, with a kind smile. "Someone is waiting for you." 

There in front of me in the middle of the dance floor, also smiling, stood J.

Unmitigated terror flooded my senses.

"No!" I said, digging in my heels in a desperate attempt to halt my progress. 

"It's OK, L," said Cc, still smiling. "She doesn't bite, honest!" 

I had broken into a cold sweat; I could feel my shirt already soaked through, and my breathing was shallow and labored. I didn't realize that I was having a panic attack; at the time all I knew was that I had to get out of there. Immediately.

J stood there, her smile slowly fading into a look of mortification.

Come on, L," she said beseechingly. "Please? It's just a dance."  

I managed to wrench my arms free and bolted for the back exit. My head was spinning, my breathing was shallow, and I was literally seeing spots. "Don't pass out," I said to myself. "You've already made enough of a fool of yourself." 

"Come back, L," I heard Cc's fading voice. I pushed open the back door and headed for the stairs to the basketball court downstairs. The door to the court was supposed to be locked, but I knew from helping my father move desks in the summer that it would open if you jiggled the lock in just the right way, which I proceeded to do. The door opened and I slipped through.

I quickly crossed the empty court, my footsteps echoing. I could feel the sweat puddled in my sneakers. I stopped; I thought I heard voices. After several moments I heard the voices of Cl and Ak, two of the other girls in my class, calling my name. 

"S***," I thought, looking around for somewhere, anywhere to disappear. Then I remembered - beneath the stage at the other end of the court were slots where the racks of folding chairs were kept when not in use. "The chairs are all being used upstairs, I thought, fingers crossing unconsciously. 

Kicking off my sneakers, I padded across the floor as quickly as possible. I reached the first slot and reached out for the latch. Thankfully, it opened. Saying a silent prayer, I crouched down and climbed inside, closing the door behind me and leaving it open just a crack as Cl and Ak entered.

"L? Are you here?" I heard Cl say.

"It's OK," Ak added. "If you're here, you can come out. No one will say anything, promise." 

I hesitated, calculating if I should open the door and talk to Cl and Ak.

I did not.

I could not.

I wish with all my might that I did. But I could not risk it. The only place I felt safe was alone, in the dark.

***

I eventually snuck back into the dance shortly after it had ended when I gambled most people had left. They had, thankfully. I collected my jacket and went outside looking for my mother, who had arranged to pick me up.

I spotted the car about a block away on the other side of the street. I went to the crosswalk, waited for the last car to pass, then crossed the street. Fr was seated in the front seat, smiling in anticipation.

"How was it?" my mother asked as I climbed into the backseat. "Did you have a good time?"

I nodded at her reflection in the rearview mirror, then looked out the window.

"It was good," I said.

"I'm glad," she said, smiling.

Fr turned around, barely able to contain his excitement.

"Look what Dad gave me," he said, holding up his hand.

I turned from the window to see what he was holding up.

It was the onyx ring.

I was speechless.

"Where did you find that?" I said after a moment.

"I was looking through the jewelry box in their bedroom tonight and saw it. He said it used to belong to his Dad, then to Uncle W. So I asked him if I could have it and he said sure."

I didn't know what to say.

"So... what do you think?" he asked. "Isn't it great?"

I nodded after a moment.

"It's really something," I replied.

***

In the aftermath of my disastrous non-dance with J, I became the "weird new kid" - not shunned, but also not part of the inner circle (not that I was ever part of it previously). J, to her great credit, never held that moment against me, which the most popular girl in the class would likely have done in many instances. That may well have been the case in private by other class members, but for the most part I was simply left to my own devices. My friendship with D no doubt helped, much as my friendship with Tc at my previous grammar school stood me in good stead there.

That changed one brisk November day after the school day had ended. I had helped my father finish his custodian duties and was waiting for him to finish chatting with the principal. Mr. W was collecting the erasers to take them outside to  clean them; I volunteered to take care of it. He thanked me and handed them over.

I headed downstairs to the back entrance and was about to open the back door when I heard a noise under the stairwell. I glanced over... and saw D and J locked in an embrace and a passionate kiss. 

Before I could get outside, D looked over and saw me standing at the door, followed a moment later by J. A look of guilt shot across his face, while J shot me a look of... pity? Concern? Empathy seems the most fitting description.

I quickly went outside and started to vigorously clap the erasers in the gathering dusk. I tried to decide how, and what, I was feeling. I wasn't angry, or sad; in fact, after a minute or two of refection I realized that they made perfect sense together in every way. D was tall, athletic, charming, and at ease with himself - qualities which I had to acknowledge that I did not possess. 

I was coughing from the storm of chalk dust I had generated and realized I needed to get back inside. Eyes still watering from the dust, I held my breath as I opened the door, praying I would not see either D or J.

I did not. I went up to Mr. W's class, where he stood chatting with my father.

"Everything all right?" Mr. W asked. "You look like you a ghost."

"That's just the chalk dust, right?" said my father.

"Yeah, just the dust," I said.

"Ready to go?" my father asked. I nodded as we headed to my locker in the hallway to gather my coat and book bag... where D stood at his locker directly across from mine.

We carefully avoided eye contact as my father said hello to D and asked how his parents were doing. 

"They're fine, Mr. M," D said. "I'll tell them you were asking for them."

"Great," my father said. "Do you need a ride?"

"No," we both said simultaneously.

My father smiled, a bit puzzled.

"Well, that settles that, I guess. Have a good night, D."

"Thank you, Mr. M."

 We switched off the hall lights one by one as we made our way to the front entrance.

"How dusty were those erasers anyway?" my father asked. "Your eyes are still red."

***

"Not so hard," my mother said as I vigorously toweled my hair dry after washing and (for the first time) conditioning it.

"How come?" I asked.

"It's easier to work with when it's damp," she said. "You have fine hair, like mine. But you have a lot of it. Unlike your father."

"I just have a larger forehead," he called in from the living room, where he was folding laundry as he watched college football on TV.

It was a brisk Saturday in November, the weekend before Thanksgiving. I had asked my mother if we could try to style my hair. She smiled and said of course.

"Turn this way," she said, hands upon my shoulders. "Away from the mirror."

"Don't you want me to see?" I asked. I was mildly apprehensive.

"No, it's just that the light is better this way, her comb working through what was apparently a plethora of snarls.

"Your hair is so tangled," she said. "Don't you ever comb your hair after you shower?"

"I didn't know I was supposed to," I confessed. "I just run my hands through it."

"Well, you need to comb and brush it regularly," she said. "You have cowlicks everywhere... OK, that's the last one."

"Are you done yet?" I said.

"No," she said, mildly exasperated. "We still have to blow it dry."

"You do all of this every morning?" I asked, disbelieving.

"Yes," she said, nodding. "It's not easy being a woman."

"I guess not," I said. "It sure is a lot of work."

After what seemed to be an interminable period the whine of the hair dryer ceased.

"Almost there," she said, carefully manipulating what seemed like a single strand of hair at a time. "OK! Done. You can turn around now."

I took a deep breath and turned around to the mirror. And...

I looked the same.

My mother's smile faded slightly.

"Is something wrong? Don't you like it?"

I realized she had invested as much time in this sort-of-makeover as I had. I smiled.

"I like it a lot, Mom, thank you," I said. "It just took me by surprise."

Her expression brightened.

"That's good," She took a step back and regarded me for a moment.

"You're going to grow up to be a fine young man," she said, beaming.

Something shifted inside me. Bottomless sorrow overcame me as tears welled in my eyes.

Her smile faded.

"What's wrong?" she asked, confused. 

I burst into tears, unable to stanch their flow from a place inside myself that I hadn't known existed.

She regarded me with a slight half-smile. My father came in from the living room. If anything, he looked even more befuddled than she did.

C and F came down the stairs, stopping halfway.

Sobs racked my body. My shoulders shook uncontrollably.

"Try to control your breathing," my father said, simply to have something to say. He called to C. "Go in the kitchen and get a lunch bag."

"A lunch bag?" asked F.

"Would you just do what I ask without turning it into 20 questions?" he snapped. "We need a lunch bag!"

F stood frozen, afraid to move.

"I'll get it," said my father, his expression shifting from concern to annoyance to, momentarily, contrition.

Before he could move I bolted for the stairs, barely able to see or to breathe.

"It's OK, L," C said quietly, touching my shoulder as I passed her on the stairs.

I somehow made it to my room, staggering the last few steps to my bed.

I awoke to darkness. I was in the exact same position as I'd been when I collapsed on my bed. Two hours had passed. I felt as if my insides had been hollowed out.

I lay there for ten minutes, not stirring until I felt my stomach rumble. I hadn't eaten since noon. I weighed the cost of the shame-filled walk downstairs versus my increasing hunger. Hunger, inevitably won out.

I padded down the stairs as quietly as possible, doing my best to avoid the creaking sections.

"Here he comes," I heard F whisper as I entered the kitchen to the sound of chairs shifting.

To a person they all regarded me with an uneasy mixture of relief, concern, and, I suppose, a tinge of fear. Would he lose it again? Is whatever "it" is contagious?

No one spoke for several moments. Then my father cleared his throat. 

"Boston College won," he said, carefully looking past my shoulder.

I digested this information for a moment.

"Oh," I said.

A moment passed.

"Um, who were they playing again?"

The mood in the room relaxed almost imperceptibly.

"U Mass," said F.

"It was 34-7," added my father.

"Wow," I said. "I guess it was a blowout."

Another moment passed. My mother spoke.

"I... we... didn't know if you would be hungry," she said. 

"I can put a plate in the over for you if you want. But it's OK if you aren't," she quickly added.

I recognized my part in this unspoken process.

"Yeah," I said. "That would be good. Thank you, Mom."

"OK," she said, standing quickly. "I'll take care of that now."

My father quickly retreated to his desk in the living room hall to review the bills he had paid earlier in the afternoon. F opened the cellar door, followed by C and our cat Sebastian, where they would continue their ongoing air hockey match.

"Here you go," said my mother, putting a plate in front of me.

"Thanks Mom," I said.

"You're welcome," she said. "If you need - "

I looked up at her. She hesitated.

"If you need more, just let me know."

"I will," I said, my appetite gone again." I will."

***

The days and weeks passed by, and before long the holiday season, and school vacation, was upon us. It was two days until Christmas. For once I had fallen asleep relatively quickly, instead of the usual 2-3 hours it would take me to drift off into a fitful sleep, punctuated with multiple interruptions, after which each would take an hour or two to fall back asleep. If I got 4-5 hours I considered it a good night.

This night, however, was different. I fell asleep right away and didn't wake up once. Perhaps that explains what happened next.

I didn't, and still don't, typically remember my dreams. But, again, this night was different. I was back in the school gym, the scene of my recent humiliation, attending another dance, this one in formal wear - essentially a prom setting.

This time no one had to drag me to the dance floor. Instead, I strode confidently to where J stood, smiling, I was aware we were being watched by everyone, but other than J everyone was a shimmering abstraction (a condition associated with lucid dreaming, I've since learned).

Neither J nor myself spoke as I approached. I held out my hand, which she accepted as the strains of "Three Times a Lady," a ballad from the Commodores, swelled. 

Our lips neared as our bodies pressed against one another... including our breasts.

We were both girls. 

I sat bolt upright in bed, panicked, my breathing shallow. I was terrified. I had no words to express what I was feeling.

The overhead light flickered on.

"Are you all right?" 

It was my younger brother F, standing in the doorway between our bedrooms.

"Yeah," I said. "I"m OK. Sorry - I didn't mean to wake you up."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "You don't look OK."

"No, I'm fine," I said. My hands were still shaking.

 "Was it a bad dream?" he said.

"Something like that," I said.

"If you want, we can go downstairs and watch TV," he said.

I glanced at the alarm clock. It was 4:45 AM.

"No, that's OK," I told him. "But thank you, F."

"Sure," he said. "The good thing about those kinds of dreams is they never come true." 

I felt a pang I did not understand.

"Right," I said. "Thanks again."

"See you," he said, and turned the light off. Darkness returned.

I spent the remaining pre-dawn hours drifting in and out of semi-consciousness, struggling mightily to stay awake. 

Not because I was didn't want to end up in the same dream.

But because I did.

***

You can find Part 3 here.