The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance: A Memoir (17 page)

And do you know what the craziest part about all of this is? Amber’s popular. I’m dumbfounded by it. Not because I’m jealous or want to be popular myself, but because she’s insane. She raised her hand in church one Sunday and said that Katrina happened in New Orleans because sometimes God needs to “cleanse the world of sin.” It’s people like her that make damage control in the non-Mormon world a never-ending task.

Over the years there’ve been several occasions when I’ve wanted to stand up to Amber. Only, something happens to me when I am in her presence. I lose my ability to think; I’m afraid of her. And, even though we’ve known each other for years, Amber always pretends she’s forgotten my name. That alone throws me off course. In fact, the only time Amber acknowledged that she was aware of my existence was after I lost weight.

“Wow, you look fantastic!” She stopped me in the hallway. “Did you get gastric bypass surgery?”

“No, I lost weight naturally.”

“Really? I only ask because of your skin.” She pointed to the excess skin under my arm. “Doesn’t skin retract if you lose weight naturally?”

I thought of a million comebacks later that night, the “wit of the staircase” as the French call it. Like,
Doesn’t it strike you as odd that your best feature is pointing out the worst in others?
Or,
Amber, go fuck yourself.
But in the moment all I could think to say was, “It depends on how fast you lose it.”

I spent most Sundays brooding over Amber’s comments and wishing awful things on her. That is, until 2004, when Amber moved uptown. Her new apartment was outside of my ward boundaries. The next year, we’d see each other every few months at combined church activities, but other than that, my life was Amber-free—that is, until Brady moved to town.

After our brief Linger Longer encounter, I wanted another chance to interact with him, and so I joined his family home evening group. Traditionally Mormons reserve every Monday night for family time. They call this family home evening, or FHE. You don’t have to have a family to do it. There are several FHE groups for singles living in New York and each group has a fake mom and dad who coordinate the night’s events. I never go. Why? It’s totally boring and an offshoot of the singles ward. The evening begins with a prayer, then someone reads a
Chicken Soup for the Soul
-like cheesy devotional that they get too emotional to finish, followed by dessert and chatter.

As soon as I found out Brady was the “dad” of uptown FHE, I joined. There was only one problem: The “mom” opposite him was none other than Amber Cunningham.

For moral support I brought my younger sister Julia along with me. She was living with Tina and me for a few months while she was preparing to leave on her mission. When I told her about Brady and joining his FHE group she said: “I’d rather eat glass.”

 

In spite of her resistance, Julia’s a glutton for punishment. We headed to Amber Cunningham’s penthouse apartment the following Monday night. When we got there, the door was propped open, so we went inside, only to find the place was empty.

“Hello?” No one answered. “Hello?”

“Are you sure this is the right apartment?” Julia asked.

I looked around the room. A set of scriptures sat on the kitchen counter next to a plate of freshly baked brownies.

“A New Yorker wouldn’t be caught dead with scriptures,” I said, “or food made with trans fat.”

Not certain what to do, we both stood there fidgeting. “I have to go to the bathroom,” Julia said.

“That’s probably it.” I pointed to a door on our left.

“Don’t go anywhere without me,”
Julia said. I’m not sure if I mentioned this already, but in addition to being sarcastic, Julia’s incredibly shy and prone to social anxiety.

“I won’t.”

As soon as she shut the door, I walked into Amber’s living room. While I’d never actually lived in Utah, I’d spent enough time there to get a feel for it. Amber’s living room looked like a Utah Home Catalog.
Ughh.
I cringed. On one wall there was a painting of Jesus. While Catholics usually paint the Savior suffering, Mormon artists tend to depict Him as a rugged Idaho mountain man—the kind of Jesus you wouldn’t mind dating. In this particular picture he was healing a blonde child, because blondes were big in Jerusalem in 33 A.D.

I turned around. The other wall had a painting of a shepherd herding lambs.
Follow me,
it read.
No thank you,
I thought. Next to this there was a photo of the Salt Lake Temple. And then, last but not least, a picture of Amber’s family.

I got closer so that I could count them.
One, two, three, four, five . . . eleven children,
sitting sideways on a long tree branch, all wearing denim, smiling and straddling one another.
Families Can Be Together Forever,
it said.

I felt a pain in my chest, and just like that, picture after picture piled up. The room got smaller, I felt crowded and overwhelmed.

Go. Now. Get Julia. Run, and never look back. And I don’t know why I get this way, but sometimes I feel like I am being tied by invisible ropes and that I need to flail my arms just to prove my freedom. But then there’s this feeling of impending doom because I know deep down that this is where I come from.

It is inevitable that I will be at a store some day, see a painting of Idaho Jesus, and think,
Well isn’t that nice
. I’ll hang it in my entry-way and smile as I step back and check to see if it is straight.

“Hey.”

I jumped. It was just Julia.

“Should we leave?” I asked her.

“I guess so . . .”

Just then we heard a giggle coming from behind a door at the end of the hall.

“Did you hear that?”

“Yeah.” I started walking toward the sound.

“
Don’t go in there
,” Julia whispered, as if we were in a horror film.

“Relax.” I stopped in front of the door and looked through the crack. It was pitch-black inside the room. “Hello,” I said. “We’re here for FHE.” When no one answered, I placed my hand on the doorknob tentatively and pushed it forward.

The lights flipped on just as I did this. “Surprise!”

Ten people between the ages twenty-five and thirty were crowded onto Amber’s bed. I must’ve looked shocked because they were laughing hysterically.

“We totally got you!” Amber said.

“Huh?”

“The doorman said someone was coming up,” Jonah, one of the guys, explained, “and we thought it’d be funny if we hid in the bedroom.”

He was right, they thought it was hilarious. One girl had tears streaming down her face as if boys and girls sitting on the same bed is terribly risqué. I was about to do what I usually do in these situations—wonder:
What’s wrong with me?
But then I looked at Julia, and her face was all the confirmation I needed:
Are these people retarded?

It took about five minutes for the group to stop laughing. Once they did, I introduced myself. “I’m Elna, and this is my sister Julia.” Maybe it was the fact that Julia’s beautiful, and I was suddenly thin, but we didn’t get a very warm response from any of the women.

“Aren’t you in a different FHE group?” one girl accused.

“Yes,” I explained, “I’m supposed to go to downtown FHE.”

“Oh, so why are you here?” Amber asked.

“I work around the corner,” I lied, “and this FHE is closer.”

Just then, I heard someone walk up behind me. I turned; it was Brady—the real reason.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” he said.

Brady. Brady. Oh, Brady. . . .
I hadn’t seen him since the Linger Longer and I have an overactive imagination, so sometimes I remember things much better than they really are. This was not the case with Brady Owens. He was tall, he was dark, and he was handsome.

“What’re you doing in Amber’s bed?” he asked.

“One of Jonah’s pranks,” Amber explained. The group collectively made a face that said,
You know Jonah
. Brady smiled back,
Oh, yes, we all know Jonah.
There was more laughter and backslapping and recapping. But it didn’t matter, Brady wasn’t paying attention—he was looking directly at me.

“Hey,” he said, “we met at the Linger Longer, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Elena?”

“No, her name’s Elna.” Amber walked directly through us and linked her arm with Brady’s. “She goes to the downtown ward, but she has to come to our FHE. Any who . . . shall we get this thing started,
Dad
?”

For FHE, Brady and Amber decided to give a lesson on talents. You know,
Don’t Hide Your Candle Under a Bushel, But Set It on a Hill for the Whole World to See Because a Candle on a Hill Can Be Seen for Miles and Miles, and There’s No Such Thing as Wind
. Amber stood at the front of the group. “Tell us what your talent is,” she instructed, “and share it with us!”

I froze, as usual. When they ask, “Say your name and an adjective,” inevitably I blurt out, “Eager Elna,” and spend the rest of the night wondering why I gave myself a dildo nickname. But if my propensity to embarrass myself is a problem, it’s nothing compared to what happens to Julia. I still remember her fifth birthday. We went to a Mexican restaurant, and when a bunch of waiters started to sing “Cumpleaños Feliz
,
” Julia was so embarrassed she slid under the table and refused to come out for the rest of the meal.

I’m so sorry,
I mouthed to her.

It was time for the talent show. Someone did the Mormon rap, a popular number at church talent shows. These are the actual lyrics: “Hey brothers and sisters, Listen to me, I’m talking to you religiously, My Mormon Rap will make you see, That I’m as funky as Donny and Marie. Mormon, Mormon Rap, Do the Mo-mo-mo-mo- mormon Rap. I’m a fine young man, I’m living clean, Don’t smoke, Don’t drink, If you know what I mean. Don’t touch Soda Pop if it has caffeine, You might say I’m a good little Sunbeam. I didn’t even date, Until I turned sixteen, I don’t even know the meaning of the word obscene. Flipp’n, fetch’n, scruddle-dee-me, jimminy cricket, and fiddledy-dee!”

Afterward a double-jointed guy crawled through his linked hands, and then Amber impersonated a velociraptor from
Jurassic Park
because that’s a talent that every untalented person does, and p.s. you know she’s been doing this since junior high. Amber finished with a bow and then,
crap
, it was Julia’s turn.

“I don’t have anything to share,” she said quietly.

“Oh, come on,” Amber insisted, “everyone is talented at
something. . . .

It was subtle, but the way Amber was looking Julia up and down, I could tell that she was trying to make her feel small, worthless. Amber’d been giving me this same look for years. And while I’d never spoken up on my own behalf, I jumped at a chance to defend Julia.

“She doesn’t have to go if she doesn’t want to,” I said.

“She can speak for herself,” Amber said. “Don’t be shy. Talents get bigger when you share them.”

“Leave her alone. . . .”

“I can sing,” Julia interrupted.

We both stopped and looked at her.

“I can sing,” she repeated. Which is true, Julia has an incredible voice. It’s rich and sultry and every time it comes out of her, you wonder if she’s momentarily possessed by Billie Holiday. Except for one problem: Julia lacks stage presence. She’ll knock a melody out of the park, and then look at the crowd defensively:
I do not want attention. If you even remotely clap or acknowledge me, I’ ll kill you.

Julia began, “Summertime, and the living is easy.” The room went completely silent. “Fish are jumping and the cotton is high. . . .” Her voice was as haunting as ever.
Go Julia.
I was proud of her.

As soon as she finished, Julia made her usual “that didn’t happen” face, and slumped back in her chair. Several of us, Brady included, cheered.

“Thanks,” Amber said. “That was, um,
nice
.” Julia had clearly violated the unspoken rule:
You’re not supposed to share a real talent, this isn’t a recital.
I watched Julia take Amber’s words in, her shoulders slouching even farther than before. I wanted to punch Amber in the mouth.

“Elna?” Amber said. It was my turn.

“I can juggle,” I blurted out, followed by the thought,
Why! Why do I consistently lie?
I can’t juggle,
I do not know how to juggle.
I mean I sort of know how, but not well.

“Cool,” Brady interjected. “Did you learn as a kid?”

“No, I took a clowning elective in college,” I said, the truth this time. “We did a lot of juggling.”

“Let’s see,” Amber said.

“Oh, I haven’t juggled in years.”

“When did you finish college?” Brady asked.

“Last May,” I squeaked, “but I don’t have any balls. . . . I mean,
ha, ha
.”

Naturally this made everyone uncomfortable. They avoided eye contact with one another—
Don’t think dirty, don’t think dirty.

Amber stood up and walked over to the fruit basket that was resting on her mantel. She carefully selected three tangerines.

“Here you go.” She placed them in my lap. “Juggle.”

“Okay, fine.”

While Amber sat back in her seat, I picked up the tangerines. I held two in one hand, and one in the other.
How hard can this be?
I thought.
You’ve done it before; access your inner clown.

One, two, three, one, two, three,
I mouthed to myself, each time I intended to throw the tangerines, but hesitated.
One, two, three, one, two, three
. . .

One, two
. . .

Just then, I heard something I wasn’t supposed to hear: Under her breath Amber said to the girl next to her, “You should really know how to juggle before you volunteer it as a talent.”

It was an out-of-body experience. Without thinking, without even aiming, I threw the single tangerine in my right hand across the room. It hit Amber directly between her eyes. I could not have targeted it better had I tried.