MY DAD'S A DREAMER, MY BOYFRIEND'S A PLANET, AND I'M LOST IN SPACE

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

            A gastric symphony explodes under my LES MIZ t-shirt. 

            Thankfully everyone's more interested in lab partners than stomach noises.

            The classroom screams "BIO"... except for the 25-year-old twinkie pinned to the wall. That screams "BIO-HAZARD."  Mr. Evans, who towers over a life sized human skeleton, says he's gonna eat that ancient twinkie the day he retires. 

            World's shortest retirement. 

            I pop up from my desk to join the other sixteen-year-old lemmings zombie-walking to a close encounter with frog kidneys and testes. 

            BAM!

            I’m staring at Brandon’s belly button. 

            No. He’s not wearing a crop top. 

            He’s tall and lanky with large hands. Basketball player? Nope. Beauty and the Beast rehearsal accompanist. 

            Yesterday when we were rehearsing “Be Our Guest” he made me miss my entrance. Well… he didn’t force me to miss it. 

            His face did. His face doesn't say "basketball" or "piano." 

            His face says: “kiss me.” 

            At least to me it does. 

            “Please, God! Strike that last thought from the record, and don’t make me look like an idiot,” I pray silently. 

            Brandon takes a step back. I do too, crushing my sandwich in the process and squirting strawberry jam all over my clean white Reeboks. 

            I hope he doesn't notice, but, of course, that's exactly where he stares. That's what I get for thinking impure thoughts. 

            I try to shift my focus from my strawberry shoe to a piece of scripture I used to win my 3rd Waterbury Scripture Memorization trophy: if there is anything excellent, anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

            God, does a high school crush count as praiseworthy? 

            “Hey, how’s it goin’?” Brandon asks casually. 

            “Vibin'." To avoid awkward silence, I quip, "Guess I'm having frog legs for lunch."          Shoulda just left it with the jammed shoe. 

            “You going to the game Friday?” Brandon asks awkwardly. 

            I hate football, but I say, “Not sure,” leaving him lots of room to invite me. 

            “Me either," he admits. 

            I guess, besides music, we both share a common disinterest in football. What now? My face turns the same shade as my jam. 

            He blurts, “How ‘bout Winter Formal?” 

            “Not sure,” I reply. 

            His face falls. He starts walking towards the lab tables 

            What were you thinking, Erika? I scold myself. He wasn't asking my opinion about Winter Formals. He was lowkey asking me to go with him to Winter Formal. 

            Why can't guys be more articulate? 

            I take a deep breath. “Hey Brandon,” I say loudly enough for him to hear, but not the rest of the English-speaking world. “Did you just ask me to Winter Formal?”

            All heads turn to me. 

            Excerpt his.

            His b-lines for a lab table.

            I scurry for shelter with my group, Rhon and Nette. 

            "Fu-sterbugit!" I mutter. They're used to these stupid random words I use to amuse myself. They're not meant to amuse others. Just give a quick double take and shake people out of boring conversations for a couple seconds. 

            Rhon and Nette (Rhonette for short) are horrified for me. Not because of the lame word (they're used to those,)  but because my piano guy's face is as white as his lab coat.

            I turn to Rhonette for comfort. 

            Comforting words would be nice right about now. But no sounds emerge from their gaping mouths. 

            Thanks guys. 

            I guess I'll have to self-comfort: 

            It's okay, Erika. He didn't hear you. 

            But everyone else did. 

            No big deal. Everyone thought you were joking around like usual. 

            You wish. 

            Breathe.

            You're not fifteen anymore.

            Breathe.

            You're beyond schoolgirl crushes.

            Think of something else. 

            Someone else. 

            I stare glassy eyed at Rhon. She would know what to say. Or at least what to do. She'd find a good reason to stretch so the guy's eyes go straight below her halter. A bare belly goes against dress code, but the male teachers would never report her and the female teachers are too envious of her perfectly flat stomach. 

            Stomach envy is not helping me feel better. 

            I casually glance at Brandon's backside. 

            I hear whispers and giggles that are not frog related. I quickly shift my gaze to the dead frog, its guts on full display... just like mine. 

            I wish I could crawl under Nette's red plaid blanket, the one she wears to school every day over her pj's. She's not a “Look at me. Look how hot I am,” type.. More like a “You got me out of bed for THIS?!" type. 

            They're both extra. 

            I guess I'm kinda mid: leggings or jeans, cute T, maybe Dad's neon socks.. No perfect Rhon body or Nette cheekbones. A couple annoying, but well-hidden  zits. Thank you concealer creator.  But the competition's stiff since we're all in theater where guys are either gay or they're too absorbed with themselves for anyone besides mirrors to be attracted to them. 

            Brandon's not either. 

            He's NOT in theater.

            Also, NOT interested in me.

            Thanks to me.  

            At the end of bio I quickly gather my things. I can do this. I can press replay.  

            I just happen to "wander" towards Brandon. 

            He dashes out, forgetting to take off his lab coat.

            I sigh.  

            Act One was cringy. 

            But that is NOT how Act II is gonna go! 

_________

 

            I sit in front of the school under the famous graffiti-encased elm that holds decades-old carved initials, hearts, and nasty stuff. There are nice patches of grass, but they're all taken by larger groups, not easily stereotyped, but all sharing the same lunchtime pastime: comparing TikTok’s and YouTube videos. The easily identifiable groups are in their own special areas: band geeks in the band room, theater kids in the back hallway of the theater, D&D nerds in Mr. Guttentag's room, slackers off campus doing whatever they do. 

            And jocks? Who knows. PE's the only reason I ever see that side of the school.  

            I didn't ask for a journal on my Birthday. But I guess Steph thought I needed one so I'd stop dumping all my sixteen year old anxieties on top of her eighteen year old ones. 

            I open my virgin journal, not counting the typed warning I taped to the inside cover.

            Journal Rules:

            1) Don't depress me.  

            2) Don't let me get overwhelmed with all your blank pages

            3) DON'T LET MY PARENTS FIND YOU!! (If they do, please self-destruct.)

            In return, I promise to tell you all my secrets. 

 

            Dear Jam Brain, "What JUST HAPPENED?!" 

            Thoughts race out like they've just been handed a gallon of Red Bull.  “The Brandon Moment” took place just like ten minutes ago, so I scribble furiously and capture every horrifying detail while it's fresh. 

            I thank the journal for letting me vent (what choice does it have really?)

            But even after pages of therapy I'm still feeling anxious. It's like a constant state. 

            My anxieties (in no particular order) 

            1) Rhonette will turn against me (who'd want to be friends with someone who shouted out their romantic intentions in the middle of bio?) 

            2) never finding a guy (back to jr. high as fifth wheel) 

            3) someone will call me on my humor and ask "what's really going on?" 

            4) school safety (who doesn't have that?) 

            5) Steph will ask me deep questions about God 

            6) Dad won't ever find the time for me since he's so enamored with Steph 

            7) crying in public 

            8) accidentally dressing up as a bunny at a "come as you are" party (like I said, no particular order) 

            9) Mom (enough said) 

            10) Will anyone love me if they really "see me?"

            Maybe I should have tried for a rank order after all. This definitely doesn't belong in the number ten spot. 

            Rhon and Nette see me. Every day. The "Snap" me. The "Insta" Me. The "not-really-all-of-me" me. Mom sees the "Best In Show" Me, and Dad still sees the "little girl" me. Steph is too busy dealing with her own issues. I know you "see me," God. But can you give me a better peek back at you? 

            I return to my journal.

            Can you see me?

👀     

----------

            We're in the drama classroom rehearsing Beauty and the Beast's Tavern Scene. I'm Drunk Guy #3. As usual there aren't enough guys who auditioned, so us girls have to add stubble and testosterone.             

            But there’s actually a much more important drama going down right now during break. And there's no room for error. 

            Rhon, Netter and I have written a "script" for Operation Piano Man.

            The scene opens with Brandon behind the piano and the three of us next to it.

            Rhon casually asks, "You two going to Winter Formal?" 

            Nette brags, "Oh yeah. I'm going with Todd." 

            "Ooooh," I tease.

            Nette cuts me off, “He's just a friend." 

            Rhon and I give her a wary look. 

            "Could be more..." Nette grins slyly. "We'll see." 

            He’s gay. But Brandon doesn’t need to know that. 

            Rhon delivers the line the whole scene hinges on: "How 'bout you, Erika? You going?" 

            I "play" the fine line between disappointed and pathetic, "I don't think so. No one's asked me yet." 

            They exit stage left. 

            Now it's just Brandon and I alone onstage. 

            Time for his "line."

            C'mon! Say it!

            I wait. 

            And wait. 

            Finally… Brandon, man of many notes but few words, says the words I've waited for since my public service announcement. "Wanna go to – “ 

            WHAM!

            The doors burst open and in flies MOM, big smile on her face, huge homemade cake in her hands!!! 

            The room goes silent. I mean, here’s the last person anyone would want to see… a suspected "CABARET KILLER!" 

            … but she is holding a cake and, judging from everyone’s wide eyes, they’d prefer devouring actual cake to pretend beer in a prop mug.

            What the - ?! It’s not even my Birthday! 

            While everyone's distracted, Mom whispers to me, "C'mon! We're late." 

            Operation Piano Man: Aborted. 

            OPM 2.0: Rebooting.

            As I'm being yanked out the door.

​

CHAPTER TWO

 

            Me and six other frilly dressed bow tie adorned prize ponies sit in a row of especially uncomfortable tan metal chairs. I gotta get out of this Scripture Bee quicky so I can try to salvage Operation Piano Man. I decide to get eliminated by misunderstanding. I mean, the disciples didn't understand much of anything Jesus said, even though he gave them the entire answer key. I decide that "misunderstanding" is, in fact, a very Biblical way of going down. 

            "Ms. Erika Mallory," the bald moderator motions for me to stand. 

            I do. 

            "Please recite John Chapter 1." 

            I follow instructions, reciting, "That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes… 

            "I'm sorry Ms. Mallory, that was from First John. I asked for John Chapter 1." 

            "Is there a difference?" I ask innocently. 

            Mom, “deer in the headlights,” is now “deer smashed against the headlights.” 

            So God doesn't smite me or send a bolt of lightning to "take me out" on the way home, I know Plan C had better involve Him. 

------------- 

            Over chat Rhonette and I devise a plan to recover from the Piano Man debacle. Plan B was working. We were TWO WORDS AWAY from Winter bliss before mom crashed the curtain down!  

            I hug my Daddy Pig pillow, the only Pig left. Mom donated Peppa to our church Adopt-a-Family saying that I was becoming "too mean." (Probably true.) Steph tore Mummy apart for a craft project. I ditched George myself. 

            PING!

            I check my texts.

            R; U gonna let him kiss you at formal 

            M: first date

             Rhon: So? 

            M: wanna get to know him better 

            Nette: 'besties,' huh? fantasize about having a best friend 

            Rhon: HA! 

            I don't respond. 'Cause that's kinda what I do fantasize about. 

            Being someone's Number One. 

            Nette: Check out this video!

            She gives Rhon and I time to view the link. The guy's lips are so close they look like they're about to kiss the disgusting thing. 

            M: Ewww!

            Rhon: Salamander Man.

            Nette: No Reticulated Salamander Man. 

            Rhon: TMI

            Nette: Thats what he called the thing HA!

            Rhon: 🤣😂

            M: Least he believes in something.

            The texts stop for a moment. 

            That shut them up.

            Enough with guys. 

            I stand up, pretend I'm on the free throw line and toss Daddy towards the mini basketball hoop on my closet door. 

            She shoots! 

            The crowd goes WILD! 

            Misses.

            The Pigs are not great athletes. 

            And neither am I. 

            As the poster of Caitlin Clark reminds me daily. 

            I decide to mix it up a bit in the chat since they're going off on their own guy issues. 

            M: how bout that caitlin clark 

            Nette: who 

            Rhon: FUSTERBUGUT! 

            M: ha ha! 

            Rhon: random   

            I actually wanted to be a professional basketball player for about a month. But Dad was a lousy couch and I was an even lousier player. 

            I went into drama for a reason. Besides my girl Caitlin, I guess my walls scream: "Theater Kid." Jeremy Jordan makes eyes at me from every wall. 

            Sometimes it keeps me up.

            M: WAIT! I got a great idea

            Rhon: what

            Nette: ??? 

            M: Tell you at school. gtg

__________

            Rhonette think the scavenger hunt's a great idea... until I tell them that all the clues are scriptural. 

            That's why I'm currently taping up the clues all around school without any lookouts. 

            Now I feel like a creeper. 

            Is this the right approach? 

            Or will this send Brandon behind the piano for good?

            I feel like it's God's plan.

            But what if it's not? What if it's just my own guilt playing itself out in the school hallways?

            Belle's Father (from B & B) passes me in the hall and I hand him the first clue. He reads aloud: "Dear Brandon, 'Whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst.' " He looks at me with the confusion of a father whose daughter is about to marry a beast, "Wha -?!" 

            "After school Brandon's gonna ask you for a clue and you're gonna hand him this," I explain. "Got it?" 

            "I... I guess." he stammers. "But what does - "

            "We'll do a Q&A later," I promise. 

            I dash to the fountain next to our rehearsal room and tape the next clue under the basin. It would be more fun planting clues with Rhonette, but the only part that really matters is Brandon's reactions. Will it take him 'til the last clue to get the idea and re-ask me to formal?

             Unlike my sister, I am never late to class, so I don't get to finish planting all the clues during the passing periods. Thankfully Dent lets us out a couple minutes before the bell rings.

            I dash to the orchestra pit and plant the final clue behind the trumpet player's music stand.

            I couldn't find a verse in the Bible about Winter Formals so this verse is the best I can do. Hope he gets it. I rush back to the back hall where everyone's busy snacking and gossiping. I look around eagerly. 

            BRANDON'S NOT HERE!! 

            Trying not to sound desperate, I offhandedly ask another musician who probably knows him, "Hey, have you seen Brandon?" 

            "Oh, he's at a Kaddish. He probably won't be here till around four." 

            "Darn!" Then I console myself. No problem. That may still give us enough time if we start right away. 

            C'mon Brandon! 

            When Brandon finally shows up at 4:05, I don't waste any time in telling him about the scavenger hunt. He seems interested. 

            YES!

            Then I open my big mouth, "I didn't know you play Quidditch!"     

            "Huh?" he asks as if I'd just used one of my random words.

            "Ya know, like Harry Potter – Quidditch. Someone said you were at a Quidditch Game." "You mean Kaddish? Like the Jewish Kaddish I just attended after my Bubbe died?" Awkward. 

            "Oh. I'm sorry," I apologize. "You're J… J…. Jewish?" I stammer. 

            My mind races to figure out a way to destroy all the clues taped up all over the school.

            Why did I not check this out before?  He's gonna hate me! What can I possibly say out loud that my bright red face is not already broadcasting. 

            "Uh... um... I'm sorry. I'm sorry for your loss," I say

            "And my loss," I mumble under my breath. I start to turn away.

            Brandon pulls a slip of paper from his pocket. "The Trumpet player gave me this," he announces.. "Said you taped it behind his music stand."

            OH MY GOSH! He found the last clue! I'm done for! Now he's never gonna forgive me for my clueless comment and the Christian Treasure I concocted without knowing enough about him. 

            Can you say desperate?

            It's okay, I tell myself. He obviously isn't the one for you if every time you make an attempt, it just backfires in your face or squirts jelly on your shoe. 

            Brandon reads the words on the slip.

            I think about slinking away, but that would be even more awkward. Plus there's nowhere to slink to since I'm up against a wall which ironically has a poster for Winter Formal plastered right behind me. So I stand there and get ready to take it - like any drunken tavern guy would. 

            "Dear Brandon, Praise him with trumpet sound; praise him with lute and harp! Praise him with tambourine and dance."

            "I... thought it was a cool... uh..." I feel like my face is about to fall off.

            "One of my favorite psalms," he says.

            "WHA - ?!" 

            My eyes widen. I forgot I had some Old Testament clues thrown in there too. 

            I finally recover, "Mine too."

            We stand there awkwardly for a few moments.

            Not knowing what else to say, I bumble, "Do those words... uh... conjure up any images?"

            He looks confused. 

            He glances at the strip again. His eyes light. 

            He grins, "You just asked me to Winter Formal, didn't you?"

            "Uh... uh... yeah?" I say tentatively. "But to be fair, I think you asked me first."

            "I'd love to go with you!" he declares.

            THANK YOU GOD!!  

            Now please don't let anyone find the other clues before I remove them. 

___________

 

            I somehow manage to hear Mom's voice over her FOX News blaring from the living room flat screen. "Dinnertime!" 

            Thankfully Dad doesn't blast his CNN too. Mom and Dad definitely did not meet at a political rally. 

            Unless they were throwing rocks at each other. 

            In a house with a Red State/Blue State Civil War always bubbling just beneath the surface, how do I stay purple? 

            On my way to dinner I pass by Dad's office. He's talking on the phone. 

            "But that's exactly when I'm going running with Erika..." he argues.

            I eavesdrop. 

            Who wouldn't? 

            "Holyland? You sure you want to meet me at Holyland USA?" Dad questions. 

            "Why can't you just reveal my calling to me now?" 

            His calling? Is he on the phone with Verizon? 

            "Okay, okay, okay! I'll go, he concedes. "But what about Erika?" 

            "What's she going do while you're giving me my calling?" 

            It's silent. 

            "Hello? Hello? Hello?!!" 

            Can you hear me now? I'm tempted to add. Instead, I peek into his office and say as sincerely as I can, "It's okay Dad. We can go running another day." 

            He starts to answer. 

            PING!

            I get a text from Nette: 

            N: Yep your moms Cabaret Killer 

            "Sorry Dad, gotta go!" I say as I race from his office. 

            M: what? 

            Nette: Yep ringleader 

            M: why didn't you tell me 😡

            Nette: just did 

            So, it's confirmed. The rumor that Peach had spread everywhere but on her sandwich.

            I storm to the Kitchen to confront Mom. 

            Steph's poking around in the fridge. "Congratulations, Mom!" I chastise. "You killed Cabaret. Because of you I'm "Third Fork From the Left” and “Drunk Tavern Guy." 

            Mom stands there, unsure of how to respond.

            "And what did you get from all that effort?!" I press. "Besides forcing me to play a kitchen utensil and an alcoholic."

            "I... I..." she tries to explain, but I'm not gonna give her that space.

            I continue, "You basically guaranteed that I'll never get another good role in my entire high school career!" 

            "I didn't tell her she had to do Beauty and the Beast." Mom defends.  "I suggested West Side Story - "      

            "The one about rape and murder?" I interrupt.

            "There's other classics too," she continues. "You know like Oklahoma or Guys and Dolls. Shows with real moral values -" 

            "Like the suicide in Oklahoma?"

            "Uh... uh..." she stammers

            I continue, "Or did you want us to do Guys and Dolls where the gambler intentionally gets a woman drunk so he could sleep with her?"

            I can tell Mom's exasperated. She can't argue musical theater with me and she knows it.    Then Stephanie sabotages me from left field by holding her phone in my face. There's a picture of a scantily clad Kit Kat girl with my own face pasted on. 

            "So you'd be comfortable wearing this in front of a bunch of middle aged, divorced men?" she provokes. 

            I cringe. 

            She's right. 

            I look like a tramp. 

            Is this really the way I want to be seen?

            Stephanie hands Mom the win. 

            On the way out I mutter one last B&B barb, "So I guess Stockholm Syndrome is appropriate then?" 

            Steph chuckles. 

            Mom looks totally confused. 

            And I'm feeling... crappy. 

            I sprint upstairs three steps at a time and slam my door. As I catch my breath I think to myself: Maybe B&B's not so bad after all. I still get to be with Brandon every day.

            I plop on my bed and am greeted by Daddy Pig. I pick him up and stare at his pudgy face.

            "Dad, what do you think of me dating a Jewish guy?"

            Rather than waiting for the answer, I call downstairs.

            "DAD, I'M READY TO RUN!"