Through a series of fortuitous events, I found myself, last month, attending the BEA—Book Expo America, which is one of the largest book events for publishers and authors in the nation. It is a four-day event, but I was only able to attend two days—and the second day, after a discussion with one of the people responsible for my attendance, I discovered book signings. I’ve never been to one before, and I have only vague notions about what a book signing is. I supposed that one shows up, the author signs the book, one says something trivial but sincere about the author’s work, then one departs.
Once I learned that books were given out free (I was very, very broke), I decided to try it. I headed to the section (basement floor, in the back) and selected a line at random. It was a longer line, which probably meant that the author was a good one. I kept an ear out for who the author was, and I didn’t have to wait long. “Is this the line for Sarah Dessen?” “Sarah Dessen?” “Sarah Dessen personalizes.” “Sarah Dessen is so nice.”
The line’s length caused the passersby to cut through rather than trek around, and the patient fan in front of me commented on her inconvenient placing, and I responded that she was almost near the massive column, which would then surely stop the interruptions of traffic. And it did, but only until she was past the pole (the line was moving quickly now). Then just a few more feet, and we were inside the official line, beset with blue dividers. A few feet more, and a man told us that if we didn’t get a book, Sarah Dessen would be upstairs at 1 p.m. signing more. We were restless now, peering down the line, trying to count the remaining books and the people in front of us. I still didn’t know exactly who Sarah Dessen was, but I was positive that if I’d waited 45 minutes to get her book and they ran out, then I would be severely disappointed. We were closer now, and I told my fellow fan that it looked like we’d be getting books.
The books were a bright pink, and the Sarah Dessen fans clutched their copies to their chests and sighed as they walked past us. I even saw a few damp faces. Was she that fabulous? I thought. She’s inducing tears.
We inched nearer, and I tried to lean to the left and snap a picture—as proof. Sarah Dessen didn’t make it into the picture.
I was even closer now, but the fans in front of me hid her while they gushed words of praise and thanks.
Then I was there, in front of her, and I held up my camera like an adoring fan and asked if I could take her picture. And Sarah Dessen said, sure, let me make sure to smile, and she sat up straight and folded her hands and smiled, while I held the camera up with a shaking fingers and snapped the picture.
I thanked her, told her I loved her work, and I was off, clutching my own pink book to my chest.
My life often feels like a large unevenly mixed bowl of Awkward. For example, I went all the way to school and sat down in class with my zipper unzipped. This is a paranoia of mine, yet when it happens, I generally deal with it calmly, except when someone else points it out. Then I experience panic, and thoughts of How did THAT happen? And Am I really that much of a freak??
I try to write about Awkward as little as possible, because it is really painful, at this point in my life, to relive those moments over and over again, and I'd really rather just forget them. Leaving them unwritten and floating around in my cranium to be eventually forgotten works really well for me, thanks.
Except, today, I had one of those moments that I wrote down as soon as it happened, because it was completely ridiculous, and, for once, instead of declaring myself a freak, I decided that I didn't really care what anybody thought, and I just wanted to read my pink, autographed Sarah Dessen book despite the fact that all my coworkers were reading Faulkner and Cummings, and whatever else really, really smart people read. Then I realized that I didn't care because I never cared, and I really should work on the attitude, because I tend to be condescending and pretentious. And yes, I read books that make me think, too, okay?
Now, without further ado, what I wrote at 2:37 p.m.:
I am growing out my eyebrows. I am wearing eyeglasses. I am on the verge of an emotional hurricane. I don't have half the mental capacity of the other tutors. I have the social capacity of a worm.
(I had noticed the tutor sitting next to had his head on his arms. In the world of Sarah Desser, striking up a conversation with someone else, male or female, means great conversations and insightful epiphanies about oneself. Unfortunately, Sarah Desser's characters actually can think on their feet and say the perfect thing that leads to those great conversations. I, in contrast, only know how to interact with others on a very basic level and am practically nil in ability to think on my feet. This wasn't always the case; I think I used to be witty. I'm not sure.)
Me: You okay? Him: *Silence* ... Yeah. Just been reading for the past four days straight. *Gestures to a mammoth book of poetry in front of him. Lets me look at the author's name. Have never heard of him. Have nothing to say.* Me: ... Do you have a class this summer? Him: Do I have a class? *His eyes betray confusion. And ... what is that, repulsion? Ouch* Me: Are you taking a class? Him: Oh. No. *Silence. We're in Brooklyn, but if it had been a place where crickets lived, we would have definitely heard some. Loud ones. The show-off ones who play basketball and get all the Friday night dates.* Me: Is it for anything in particular? Him: *Eyebrows show more confusion. Disgust, is it? Wow, anger, too? My goodness, I'm making an idiot of myself. I'm in self-destruct mode now. This is not good on any level. Abort. ABORT.* Oh this? *He gestures toward the Goliath* No. I just like it. But I can't read it for four hours straight. Me: *I make some sort of murmuring sound. I think it was meant to sound sympathetic. My eyes dart back to my Spanish homework. My head quickly follows. I have nothing to say. There is more silence. Then he gets up and leaves.*
Thus, when I make cryptic comments about how I think people perceive me, I TOTALLY HAVE EVIDENCE TO BACK IT UP.
I embarrass myself. Maybe if I start doing Sodoku or crossword puzzles, my mind will be able to think better in situations like the above. Eventually I might post these: thoughts on the book expo, social security, and miscellaneous. No holding your breath, please. I don't want to be responsible for anyone fainting.
I stepped out into a night filled with moisture—the trees dripping leftover rain drops and the cement still sucking up the last shallow pools from the deluge that had hit Brooklyn only hours before. There was a sparkling kitchen left behind me, the result of the silent work that I and a friend completed after dessert for … let’s say a lot ... of children and adults. He’d been generous enough to help me clean up my mistake, a shattered champagne flute leftover from dinner. We crawled on our knees with wet paper towels, trying to catch every glistening minuscule shard. After we finish, and I wash the last of the dishes, I ask him if there’s anything else to do, and he says, no, this is it. Thanks. And I grab the 9 by 13 pan that held the recipe that didn’t cook right and I head out into the night—the ghost of a night, with dampness clinging to every surface and shadows that I discover are actually people hovering on stoops, enjoying the warmth. I swing the pan, thinking:
I like to try to think I’m perfect. That I never mess up, and that my whole life is striving to do and say the best thing possible in any given situation. That’s why I fail so utterly. I continually backtrack on things I’ve said, because on second thought, it sounds as though I’ve just insulted you and your mother, and all I really wanted to do was say that I utterly adore you. I also agonize over every single decision, trying to make sure if this or that one is the right one, while all that happens is me making a last-minute decision as I stand there full of angst, only to regret it three days later. Must I go through every single day developing stomach ulcers?
Then I drop the pan, and it clangs onto the sidewalk, shattering my reverie. It has effectively humbled me, a sharp reminder of how small I am, and to accent the point, someone guffaws. I swoop down and pick it up, paying more attention to it, even though I still dangle it from only two fingers. When I get home, I place it in the sink, although I've already scrubbed it clean only moments before.
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She met Gabriel yesterday, and she’s already sure that they’re going to get married. One day he’ll notice her, and then on a beautiful spring day three months later, they’re be wed in a canoe on the lake that his parents own. They’ll have exotic drinks and exotic animals, like peacocks, at the reception, and they’ll dance to “At Last” by Etta James and her mother will cry while her father gets drunk, and there will be a happily ever after.
She’s known Robert for about a year now, and while he never drops a hint that he might even be remotely interested, she can’t help but stare into his blue eyes while he talks to her, imagining that if she could, she’d swim in his irises forever. She’s tried all sorts of things to get his attention, including batting her eyelids at him, sighing dramatically when he says hi, and agreeing with everything he says, but he still doesn’t seem to notice. She has try harder now to get him in a conversation, and when she finally does, she finds it harder to get lost in his eyes, because he never looks at her anymore. But she’s sure that he’s just going through a phase. After all, he’s only just out of college, and he needs time to grow up.
When she joined the Volunteer Group at school, she never expected the student leader, Matthew, to be so adorable. He had the easy confidence of a surfer, the wit of a politician, and the conviction of a missionary, not to mention the good looks and body of a model. She’s always there, at every meeting and special event, but he is so focused on the job at hand that he never gives her more than a quick smile, but she finds that smile so promising, she’s sure they will be married in three years. Of course, they’ll elope, because neither of them have much money, and they might have to live in a cockroach-infested apartment for the first two years, but their love will carry them through and eventually life will get better.
Benjamin works as a waiter at a cute little restaurant she discovered one day with her friends. She flirted and he flirted back, at by the end of the meal, she (and all her friends) was sure that he thought she was the one. She’d decided on the colors (deep green), flowers (ivy and roses), and location (a resort in New England in December) when she was leaving a tip, and although she waited outside for an hour for him to come running out, declaring his love for her, he never showed. She realized that the restaurant had gotten busy after they left, so she was sure that he was thinking of her, even though he didn’t have the time to show her. She thinks she’ll give him a chance every week. Eventually, he’ll find the time, declare his love for her, and together they’ll open a little café in the middle of town.
Bruce is her supervisor at work, and she finds him positively dreamy. He wears collared striped shirts with ironed slacks, and his hair is always arranged just so. Everyone says he’s gay, but she thinks they’re just jealous of how gorgeous he is. She thinks of every possible question to ask him, and he’s always accommodating and smiling. Granted, he’s a little bit older, but she finds mature men alluring. They’ll be married on a yacht on the Hudson, and then board a plane to Paris, where they’ll eat croissants and kiss at the top of the Eiffel Tower.
Her friends tell her that the reason she’s still alone is that she hasn’t met the right guy yet, and when she does, she’ll know. She eagerly agrees and keeps an eye out for him, but the problem is that she believes they’re all the right guy, they just don’t know it yet. As she emotionally invests herself in each of them, she eagerly gives chunks of her heart away--pieces she'll never get back.
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I'm really hating Blogger right now. Why is it so difficult to post? Must there be an error note that pops up when I try to publish? Why can't I get fonts to be consistent in style and size? GAH.
