The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance: A Memoir (33 page)

Both Alison and Pri could tell I was getting nervous. So they took me on a walk, suggesting we explore the city one last time. With only an hour to go, we ended up in a jewelry store full of engagement rings. It was an awkward déjà vu. A year earlier, I’d picked out a ring for Hayes to buy me. Other than the hotel igloo, he’d never actually proposed, but he asked me to shop around and find the ring I wanted. I hated the whole process. Manhattan’s diamond district overwhelmed me. I felt like I was being asked to put a price on love, and everything seemed to be saying: the bigger the diamond, the more he loves me.

Only that all changed when I found
my ring
. It was vintage and it had a thin band. When I put it on my finger something unexpected happened to me. It lit up my entire hand and I transformed. I was invincible, I was priceless, I was worthy of being loved. I’d expected Hayes to buy me that ring and I thought it’d be grafted on my finger forever, like a permanent part of my hand. Instead, I was in Zanzibar, and my finger was empty.

I have a confession to make: Hayes was part of the reason I came to Africa in the first place. I lied when I said it was just me giving myself a dare. I wrote the e-mail to Matt after running into Hayes at the Halloween dance. It happened in October 2007. I wasn’t planning on going to the church dance that year since the previous dance had ended with my dirty cookie. But I was writing this book, and I figured I had to go, you know, for the sake of research.

Since I was going as a spy, I decided to dress like a celebrity incognito: an American Apparel hoodie, jeans, a fancy handbag, and dark glasses, the perfect outfit for a fly on the wall. Only the day before the dance I tried on the outfit and forgot all about my original intention.
There’s nothing spectacular about a celebrity incognito,
I thought.
I want to make a splash.

I closed my eyes and imagined the costume I truly wanted. That’s when I remembered, I’d once purchased a white-and-baby-blue vintage ball gown at a thrift store. I dug it out of my closet and tried it on. Looking into the mirror at the puffy skirt and white sequins embroidered on my chest I knew exactly who I wanted to be: Cinderella.

I spent the next day running around the city in search of the rest of the missing elements. I found a blond wig, a black ribbon choker, long satin gloves, and, at a drag queen shop in the West Village, I actually found glass slippers. When I put all of the ingredients together I was amazed by my ingenuity. Running out the door, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. In spite of everything, there was a hopeful sparkle in my eyes.

I arrived at the dance a little after ten. Not two minutes later, Hayes and his new girlfriend walked in. It was the last thing I expected. In the months since our breakup Hayes had graduated from BYU and accepted a finance job in New York (one he’d originally applied to so that he could be closer to me). Now he was dating a Mormon ballet dancer from Idaho who I’d never met, but whom Kevin, a frequent Facebook user, referred to as
the ugly version of me.

This was my first time seeing both of them. Hayes was wearing a Spider-Man costume and on his arm was his new girlfriend (who did look a lot like me, only she was dressed like a slutty leprechaun). Standing there dressed as Cinderella, waiting for my Prince Charming, I realized how terribly wrong my fairy tale had gone.

It felt like I was being hit by everything I couldn’t handle at once. Really it was more like I was deciding to let one thing represent everything—but either way I took it poorly. Before Hayes could spot me, I ran out the side door and escaped through the emergency exit.

In my haste to get away, I forgot one major logistical concern: the parade. Every year the Halloween Parade blocks all of Sixth Avenue. I got out of the subway and walked up the steps. The West Village had transformed. Police were everywhere, blue barricades blocked the sidewalks, and the crowd was so dense I could hardly breathe.

Determined to make it home, I walked directly into the chaos. Only I was going in the opposite direction of everyone else, which made it even worse. I bumped into zombies and goblins. An S and M guy with a decapitated bleeding head accidentally stepped on my skirt, causing it to rip all the way up to my knee. “Hey Cinderella,” a drunk man yelled at me. When I ignored him, he reached over and grabbed my butt.

The action itself wasn’t all that violating, but once again, I let one thing represent everything. And in a crowd of demons (that’s not a judgment call, literally most of the people were dressed as demons), I thought about my eight-year struggle to be a Mormon in New York. Suddenly it was more overwhelming than ever. Like it all felt pointless because I’d never really win. And a little part of me, the part that believed I was fighting for something worth fighting for, was swallowed up in the crowd. I accepted reality.
This isn’t working
.

Later that night, with my costume dissembled and a comforter over my head, I decided to take my first serious non-Mormon action, one that I hoped would guarantee my break. I got out of bed and wrote my e-mail:

Five months later I was at a jewelry store in Zanzibar, looking at engagement rings.
I’m tired of waiting for someone to love me,
I decided.
If I’m going to have a ring on my finger, it’s because I bought one for myself.

I looked down at the display case of rings. There was one that immediately stood out. It was simple, a thin silver band and a small baby-blue stone.

“May I see that ring?” I asked the woman behind the counter.

As I slid it over my finger, the saleswoman explained that the stone was tanzanite, mined in Zanzibar, and it was supposed to bring luck.

Over the course of our three-hour flight into Lusaka to see Matt, I twisted it around and around my finger nervously.
No matter what happens, I still have me. No matter what happens, I still have me.

As we were landing I wrote the following entry in my journal:

Matt was waiting for us outside the airport. I only have that one picture of him from when we were dating. And so seeing him, standing there, it was strange. Suddenly he was real, no more or less attractive than anyone I’d dated, but still the person I wanted most in the whole wide world.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I answered, suddenly shy.

He gave me a hug. When he let go, I caught Alison and Pri watching us intently.

“Matt,” I said, “meet my girlfriends.”

 

Matt’s friend was having a birthday dinner at a bar not far from the airport. So we spent the next two hours sampling food and mingling with expats. The entire time, I wanted to talk to Matt. To ask him all about his life in Zambia and see if he was at all like I’d remembered him. Instead, I played it cool and purposefully avoided him. This continued during the drive back to Matt’s apartment. Alison and Pri struggled to make conversation, while I said a total of two things: “That’s a pretty building” and “Wow, they have a Subway sandwiches here.”

What’s wrong with me?
I cringed.
Why go out of your way? Travel halfway across the world so you can put your heart on the line, only to arrive and act like a deaf mute?

Matt carried our bags into his studio apartment. It was dire—the walls, ceiling, and floor were made of cement, the roof was crumbling, and to flush the toilet you had to use a bucket of water.

After changing into our pajamas and brushing our teeth, Alison and Pri crawled into Matt’s double bed, I took the single mattress, and Matt spread out on the floor.

We needed a good night’s sleep. In the morning Matt was going to drop us off at a bus station and we were going to take a ten-hour journey to Livingston to see one of the Seven Wonders of the World: Victoria Falls. I couldn’t sleep. The lights were out and I could hear Pri snoring, which somehow Alison seemed able to sleep through. I wanted to talk to Matt. I couldn’t have made the trip to Africa without my friends, but now all I wanted was a moment alone. With our trip to Livingston it’d be another three days before I saw Matt again. I couldn’t wait that long, I was already losing my nerve. I needed to know before it was too late:
Do you still like me?
And so, ever the puppet of impulse, I got out of bed and crawled across the floor.

“Are you awake?” I whispered.

He wasn’t.

“Matt?”

“Huh?”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. I just feel like we haven’t talked yet and I wanted to say hi before I left again.”

“Hi,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”

“I know. I’m sorry if I was acting weird all night,” I continued, “I guess I’m just nervous.”

“Yeah, how long has it been?”

“Almost two years.”

“Wow.” he turned his head and looked at me. It wasn’t much, but it was enough of a go-ahead. I scooted closer to him and rested my head on his shoulder. “How have you been?” I asked him.

“I’ve been good,” he said, “how about you?”

“Good. I’m not Mormon anymore.”

What?
I hadn’t expected to say this. I’d been trying to decide what I wanted for several months, but all of a sudden there it was, a decision.

“Since when?” He sounded surprised.

“Since . . . uh . . .” I couldn’t exactly say
since five seconds ago
so instead I choose a much more legitimate figure. “Three months.”

“What does that mean?”

“It just means I’m taking a break.”

“Can you do that?”

“I can do whatever I want to do.”

There was a silence.

“Do you drink now?” Matt asked me.

“No.” I shook my head.

“Have you smoked pot?”

“No.”

“What about sex?” he finished. “Have you had sex?”

The answer rested on the tip of my tongue. I’d been honest with my previous answers but now I was tempted to lie. And why not? I lied about going to South Africa with my imaginary girlfriends, and I lied about a three-month religious hiatus, why couldn’t I just do it again?

“No,” I said. “Not yet.”

This was met with more silence.

“But I’ve tried
some
things,” I quickly added. It was the opposite of convincing. I sounded like a middle-school boy bragging in the locker room.
Yeah, I did “ it,”
I was saying, praying no one asked me,
What?

“Matt”—I turned to face him—“I know part of the reason we didn’t work out was because I was Mormon, and not that that factored into my decision, but I thought I should let you know.”

He didn’t say anything at first.

“We don’t have to talk about it if you—”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupted. “It’s just kind of a big adjustment.”

“I know,” I said.

“And I don’t mean to sound presumptuous, but three months isn’t a very long time and I kind of feel like you’re still a Mormon.”

He was right. Completely and utterly right. But
this was
me trying not to be Mormon.
I have to do something drastic, I thought. I can’t let him call my bluff.

And so I did. Quickly, before I could chicken out, I slid my hand down Matt’s pants and wrapped my fingers around his penis. It was the only thing I could think of to prove my point. As though I were saying,
You think I’m still Mormon, eh? Would a Mormon be holding . . . a penis?

And then I kissed him. He kissed me back, tentatively at first, and then with more passion. Meanwhile, my hand just sat there, not moving, like I was using his penis as an armrest.
Fuck.
I considered my options.
Where do I go from here?
And look, it’s not like I have to tell you any of this, but I’m trying to be honest. So to be completely honest, touching a penis for the first time, it was thrilling, but it was also really weird. It’s not like it felt illegal, which is what I’d previously believed, instead it just felt like it wasn’t really mine to be holding, like maybe I was being disrespectful of Matt.

He must’ve sensed this internal debate, because he stopped kissing me, and said, “Elna, is this okay?”

Silence.

“Honestly? . . .
I have no idea what I’m doing.
”

I always know when I’ve made the wrong decision. I can feel it in the air.

“I can’t do this,” he said.

“No,” I insisted. “It’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t.” Matt took my hand off of his penis and moved it out of his pants. “This isn’t the exact analogy,” he began, “but it’s the only one I can think of: A sixteen-year-old girl may say that she’s ready to have sex, but you don’t want to be the one to show her how.”

“But I’m not sixteen,” I said. “I’m twenty-six.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean we’re not at very different places in our lives. And look, usually I’m very cavalier about these sorts of things, but I can’t do this. I know you well enough to know that it’d mean something to you. And I don’t want to be that guy.”

“Which guy?”

“The one that hurts your feelings.”

What do you think this is?
I wanted to say. But I was tired of trying to find the right angle to make the feeling I had in my heart for him fit. “Okay,” I said. “Just promise me one thing?”

“What?”

“That when we wake up in the morning things won’t be weird.”

“Of course,” he said.

“Good night.”

I crawled over him and got back into bed. Lying there on my back, I recapped the situation. The more I thought about it, the more I felt like a twelve-year-old girl, a twelve-year-old girl with a crush on her older brother’s college friend.
You’re really cute,
the college boy had just said,
and some day some boy will really like you. But right now you’re wearing Rainbow Bright pajamas and you have a training bra and braces. So please, go back to bed.