Fashion & My First Boyfriend

I spend a year struggling over what to wear on my first day of high school. Do I want to be part of the preppy crowd, the metalheads, or go plain and commit to a lifestyle choice later on? During this year of agonizing over first-day fashions, JAMS Originals shorts become the epitome of cool. With bright colors, oversized flowers, and ‘just chill’ vacation vibes, JAMS are the only sane choice for any American teenager.

I explain to Nikki that I need a pair to ‘fit in.’ This ploy usually works like a charm on Nikki, who takes ‘fitting in’ very seriously. However, JAMS $50 price tag causes her to become less concerned about my social-climbing status.

“Wear one of those pretty dresses we bought you last week,” Nikki offers.

“A dress? Can we sew ‘kick me’ on the back and get it over with?” I ask.

“I’m not buying you $50 shorts. Forget it,” she states.

“You don’t understand. Everyone will have them. I will be the only girl who looks like a dork,” I whine.

“You don’t understand about bills and how hard I work to make sure you have food on the table,” she counters.

‘I’ve never seen you work hard. You lay in bed all day. How is that working? When was the last time you even had a job? How much does pot cost? Could you not break the law for one week so your only kid can have board shorts and not start her high school career being a spaz because your fat ass has to get high all the time?’ Is what I want to say.

Instead, I return to my room and pray. I hit my knees and decide to give my heavenly Father a chance to show me He cares.

“Dear God, I need JAMS shorts. I might as well die if I don’t wear these on the first day of school. As you know, the first day of high school will determine the rest of my life. Either I will be loved forever or cast-off to Château d’If (The Count of Monte Cristo prison). You can put a pair in my dresser while I’m here praying, and I promise I will never tell anyone that you interfered in daily life. It’s fine. Just quickly throw a new pair in there (with or without tags), and my life will still be worth living. I would really appreciate this, especially since you chose to make my back crooked and have me grow up without a father.”

I turn to look at my dresser. I’m terrified to open a drawer because I’m 14 years old and should be beyond believing that God will show up as Santa Claus or David Copperfield.

I put my hands on the drawer, pulls and bow my head. I assure God again that if he does this, I won’t tell a soul.

I keep the drawer closed a little while longer to give God ample time to swipe a pair from Lord & Taylor and put them in my dresser.

I pull the drawer open, and nothing.

At first, I’m furious with God, and then I admonish myself for not giving Him at least 24 hours to complete this complicated task.

I meet a boy over the summer who’s already in high school. Trent is tall and looks exactly like Patrick Dempsey in the movie ‘Can’t Buy Me, Love.’ Trent, and his best friend Justin, are a daily fixture at our apartment pool. Justin sports a pair of white shorts and an Adonis figure. I go to the pool every day just to watch Justin climb in and out of that chlorinated H₂O. I was reverse Judge Reinhold and Phoebe Cates from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. I find out later that ‘Justin & the White Shorts’ are a phenom every girl in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex has heard of, but only a few have seen up close.

My friends thought Trent was interested in me, but I paid him no attention. I wasn’t playing hard to get; I had accepted many years ago that no one would date or marry me because of my deformed figure. There’s no way a 16-year-old boy who looks like a hot mop and drives a car will glance in my direction.

Turns out Trent did like me. We talk for hours both on the phone and on the front lawn of my apartment. We rub against each other (fully dressed) until timed sprinklers set off to cool us down.

Trent treats me special, and because of that, I feel unseen.

He treats me like a queen, and I treat him like shit.

I’m terrified to be nice to him. I have it in my head that if I let down my guard and I‘m as sweet to him as he is to me, he will realize I’m nothing.

I’m so ashamed. I’m ashamed of my mother and her large frame, I’m ashamed of not having the right clothes to wear, and I’m ashamed of how messy and disorganized my mom keeps our home.

One bright summer day, Trent knocks on my door with another boy his age standing close by.

“This is Wess. He’s my friend from Colorado I told you about. I wanted him to meet you,” Trent’s puppy dog eyes and goofy grin exclaim.

“I told you to always call before coming over,” I say and then slam the door in Trent’s adorable face.

To this day, I cringe at how poorly I treated this young man. I was so embarrassed about my life and anyone being a witness to the horror behind that apartment door that I pushed him away.

Dishes piled up in the sink, Doritos bags strewn across my mom’s bedroom floor, and piles of papers everywhere. I work overtime to present a girl that does not represent the shambles I live in. How dare Trent show up at my door and pull back the covers. I resent him for attempting to expose me.

Trent calls and asks if he and Wess can come over.

“No,” I reply and hang up.

I was mean. Junkyard dog, Leroy Brown mean.

It took a couple of days for me to cool down, but eventually, I meet Wess, who is so not impressed with me. Trent and I resume our summer love apartment lawn make-outs as I search for floral fabric and a seamstress throughout the complex.

Days before school begins, Trent tells me he’s moving and presents me with a pair of red floral JAMS. Since he will be attending a rival high school from mine, he says we can take turns sitting with each other’s friends once football starts.

I doubt I will be dating Trent on October 21st when our respective teams play each other. I fantasize about being in the epicenter of a group of senior boys who will playfully fight over which one should be allowed to drape a monogrammed blanket over my perfectly tanned, mini-skirt-wearing legs. But Trent has just purchased my ticket to ‘the cool kids’ group, so I assure him we can share bleachers come October.

The first day of school was a bust. I wear my red floral JAMS and a white t-shirt, but Madison McCombs walks in wearing the most lovely dress you’ve ever seen. A dress!

Here, I thought a dress would scream, ‘I’m a fuckin’ dork who’s mom dresses her,’ but Madison looks like the epitome of Seventeen Magazine. She looks feminine and cool in a side cinched, cadet blue t-shirt dress.

“That’s what I should’ve worn,” I accidentally say out loud in science class.

“What?” the dofus next to me asks.

“Ask that girl where she got her dress,” I instruct the dofus.

“No,” he replies.

“I’ll kick your ass,” always the lady.

“Ask her where she got her dress,” my lab partner instructs another kid.

“Her mom made it,” comes back through the grapevine.

The irony.

Trent and I talk daily, and although we don’t see each other as much thanks to his move across town, he still takes me out every Saturday night. One night he says we’re going out with another couple. Oh boy, here’s my moment to shine.

The other girl is a junior, and by the sound of her name, Whitney, I can tell she is perfect and cool.

There are two things in style in the fall of 1986, sweater dresses and silver loafers. Although no one would dare to wear the two together. Until me.

I convince Nikki of the sweater dress, but the silver loafers are a bridge and $20 too far. The night of my date, I adorn my legs with turquoise blue tights and slide on my argyle, silver threaded maroon and turquoise blue sweater dress. I look like a Christmas ornament, and my face beams. I begin to put on a pair of shoes and soon discover I have nothing that compliments my fantastical attire. I enter my mom’s room and throw myself on the floor. It’s 5 pm, and Trent’s picking me up at 6.

My stepdad caves and rushes me to Northpark Mall. Silver shoebox in hand, I return home at 5:50.

An hour later, Trent, Whitney, Sam, and I finally arrive at our destination. A park.

Whitney steps out in jeans and a T-shirt, as does Sam, as does Trent.

When it’s my turn to exit the car, the first thing that catches everyone’s eye is how my sparkly silver shoes will come in handy on our dark path ahead. Then they take in the hue of blue wrapped around my calves. By the time my fuzzy sweater dress appears, Whitney does her best not to laugh in my direction.

“I love your dress,” she states.

“This old thing,” I reply.

October 21st arrives, and I’m determined to nail my outfit for the big rival football game. A Letterman jacket, white T, and jeans should do the trick. It’s an outfit that has worked for fifty years. Impossible to screw up, and I don’t fumble this ball. What I do misgauge is my ability to become popular as a freshman in a new school. My newest challenge is how to keep Trent from coming over to my side of the stands and discover he’s dating a loser who’s not hanging out with the cool kids.

Thanks to binoculars, I’m able to see Trent in a sea of crimson and gray. He’s surrounded by beautiful girls and boys alike. I’m sitting with band rejects. The popular crowd is a grandstand and a hundred thousand dollars away.

I see Trent heading my way. I rush towards the snack bar (neutral territory) to cut him off at the pass.

“There she is,” he beams.

“Let’s go to your side,” I blurt out.

“Okay. Do you want something to drink? You look cold. Are you okay?” Trent asks, concerned.

“You’re really handsome,” I say, contemplating how I accidentally wound up with this amazing boyfriend.

Trent pulls me in close for a hug. Time stands still while the sounds of cheers and helmets hitting helmets layers on top of the view of a flashing scoreboard and the smell of hot cocoa. It’s perfect. He’s perfect. He’s going to leave me for something better.

He deserves better.

Why does he like me? He doesn’t really see me, or he would run.

We approach Trent’s side, and the group couldn’t be nicer. Trent’s teased for bringing over a freshman, but it’s obvious to everyone that I’m his girlfriend. The brighter I shine in the Woodrow Wildcat stands, the more I dread the social annihilation waiting for me on the Hillcrest Panthers’ side.

“Want to sit over there the second half?” Trent asks.

“I’m okay,” I say brightly.

Trent’s friends insist on visiting the Hillcrest side to say “hey” to Josh, Brad, Anthony, and Leigh, so I break up with Trent and leave the game.

Looking back, it was the only choice I had.

Years later, during my “blackout” stage of drinking, I purposely show up in Trent’s section at Landry’s Seafood in Dallas’s West End.

I go home with him.

I don’t remember anything.

I do remember trash-talking him all over town afterward for no good reason.

The next time I see Trent, I’m four months sober, standing by my newly acquired British boyfriend outside of a discount tire store.

He refuses to look at me, much less say, “hello.” Apparently, my trashing him all over town got back to him.

When Trent does make eye contact, there’s an aura of disgust and contempt all over his face, and I finally feel seen by him.