Authors: Ginger Voight
May 21, 1988
When I stepped onto the campus of Hermosa Vista High School for the first time in 1985, I would have laughed myself silly had someone told me that I would have not one, but two dates to my senior prom. I didn’t expect much to change between September of 1985 and May of 1988. I predicted that I’d still wear a two-digit dress size. I’d still have to fend off acne with diligence and dedication (and a medicine cabinet full of products.) I figured I would still have to polish the turd each and every morning to make it okay to leave the house.
We’d still live with the Fenns and I’d still have a best friend named Bryan Dixon.
And all those things were completely and irrefutably
true.
Granted, things were a little easier in 1988 than they had been in 1985. As an upperclassman, I no longer cared what the new crop of freshmen or sophomores thought about me. Most of that had to do with Bryan’s newfound confidence. He no longer questioned who he was or the kind of man he wanted to be. He had narrowed his sights on freedom, which was now only a stone’s throw away with graduation. He ruled at parties
, and I became queen by default since I was his undeclared “steady.”
We were connected at the hip, and he was determined to pull me up the social pecking order one way or another.
Our yearbook contained many photos of our exploits. By the homecoming game, Bryan was just as popular, and as in demand, as Dylan Fenn. By default, all the girls wanted him – and yet I hung on his arm as his exclusive interest.
It was the life I always dreamed about living. And had it not all been a big fat lie, it might have been the greatest year of my life. I knew it was destined to unravel, which it did around Halloween, 1987.
That was when Bryan met Max Greene at a boisterous Halloween party at Eleete. By Christmas, my best friend was in love for the first time in his life.
I couldn’t really blame him. Max was dream come true. He was an actor on a popular soap opera, one-half
of a reigning supercouple. He was blonde and beautiful, with dark, expressive eyes and a body without one spare inch of flesh. He also had the kind of intensity that made one flustered the minute he spared a random glance. It was his main claim to fame on the small screen, and Bryan was under his spell from their first dance.
Their affair heated up throughout the winter, leaving me mostly to my own devices. I was still invited to parties, but since I knew it was by default only, in hopes that the Great Bryan Dixon would accompany me, I generally stayed home. I kept my nose buried in my books as I worked hard preparing for my upcoming college career.
I had my own sights set on freedom, which included moving beyond the rigors of teen hell known as high school.
Dylan took pity on me most weekends, dragging me to see movies and a couple of concerts. They weren’t dates, necessarily; at least I never saw them as such. But pretty soon the scuttlebutt around school was that I was two-timing Bryan, the beloved king of the campus, with the
other
most popular boy in school. And since Bryan’s pat excuse to hang around with the popular actor was as his assistant, it seemed as though I wasn’t getting enough attention from my beloved, so I had moved on to someone else to feed my overweening ego.
Worse, Dylan experienced his own dip in popularity as a result, despite the fact he was a varsity letterman and held a spot on the school council.
We talked about it once, during a picnic at our old playground, sitting on the merry-go-round where my relationship with my then-best friend had turned to shit. “Everyone gets their day in the sun, I guess,” he sighed as he spun us around lazily with one foot on the ground.
“Not everyone,” I shrugged.
He chuckled. “Infamy counts,” he said. “The way I see it, you’re the most popular girl in our graduating class.”
I nearly laughed out loud. “That’s because they don’t know the real me.”
“Who is the real you?” he asked softly, and I arched an eyebrow at him.
“Are you asking for truth? Or is that a dare?”
His eyes were dark and deep. “Whichever one gets me an answer.”
I sighed.
“Seems like I’m always trying to be something for everyone. I don’t really know who I am supposed to be.”
He nodded as if he understood. He reached for my hand. “You know you’ve never had to be anything for me, right?”
I didn’t know how to take the comment, so I gave a small nod and pulled away.
He cleared his throat as if embarrassed, and quickly changed the topic. We didn’t speak of anything so serious again until Bryan ditched me the whole week of Spring Break, when he managed to escape with Max to a location shoot in Mexico.
As far as Bryan’s family and Max’s employers were concerned, Bryan was a volunteer assistant. Only I knew the truth of their relationship. And while I was happy for my friend, I had never felt lonelier in my whole life. I fell into a funk, which prompted Dylan to work overtime to cheer me up.
We spent much of that week in March in darkened theaters, which was fine by me. We didn’t have to talk, but we weren’t alone. The only time we did talk was when the theater was empty. Then we’d sit way in the back, hunched over our shared popcorn, passing a joint between us, and forgetting about the movie on screen entirely.
Finally Dylan asked the question I could tell he had been avoiding. “Is everything okay between you and Bryan?”
I nodded as I shoveled popcorn into my mouth. Bryan’s sexuality was still my secret to keep, under the guise of being his significant other. If I even hinted there was trouble in paradise, his carefully built house of cards would come tumbling down.
And it wasn’t as though I didn’t trust Dylan to keep the secret. I just knew I could never betray my best and dearest friend, even to another friend. Those secrets were best reserved for the Leftover Club, of which Dylan would never, ever be a member.
If Bryan had wanted Dylan to know the truth, he would have entrusted him with it.
Dylan, however, wasn’t convinced. “It’s just that you both used to be connected at the hip. Now he’s never around.”
I shrugged. “He’s got a job.”
Dylan nodded. “He’s lucky. Show business isn’t that easy to crack. But then again, what hasn’t come easily for The Great Bryan Dixon?” he added with a wry smile.
I sent him a sideways glance. Was that a hint of bitterness I heard? “Same could be said for the Great Dylan Fenn,” I pointed out.
He laughed. “Great,” he repeated. “Yeah.”
I was puzzled. Didn’t he know how blessed he was to be who he was? “Things haven’t always come so easily for Bryan,” I told him. “He’s got his challenges, just like everyone else. It wasn’t that long ago he was a dork like me.”
Dylan laughed. “You’re not a dork, Roni.”
“Geek?”
I supplied with a smile.
“Not even a dweeb
,” he grinned.
I laughed
.
“Don’t believe the rumors,” I said. “I’m still the queen geek, reigning over all the leftovers.”
He scooped another handful of popcorn.
“So what, exactly, is a leftover?”
“You’d never understand,” I told him again. It was my pat answer whenever he questioned me about it.
“Try me,” he challenged.
I sighed. “A leftover is the person who is literally left over, chosen at last when everyone else has had their
chance at bat.”
He glanced at the screen, some mindless rom-com we chose simply because we didn’t want to fight any crowds with the new blockbuster release. “That’s funny,” he said.
“What’s funny?” I asked.
“What you call a leftover, everyone else calls a soul mate.” My eyes met his, so he went on. “Being picked first is no trick. Everyone wants something shiny and new. But where do you go when the varnish rubs off? Some people spend their whole lives searching through pile for someone who is so awesome, so amazing, just so that they
don’t
have to look anymore. Nothing else fits because nothing else is supposed to. So the one who is ‘left over,’ is the one who ultimately wins the prize.”
I chuckled humorlessly. “Imagine how much time we’d all save if people just saw what was i
n front of them in the first freaking place.”
He searched my face in the darkness. Finally he said, “
Imagine.” He took my hand in his. “Promise me something, Roni.”
I looked into his eyes. “What?” I said softly.
“Don’t settle for anyone who doesn’t see you for the amazing woman you are.”
I chortled.
“Woman. Right.”
“Right,” he repeated.
I shook my head. “I really don’t know who you see when you look at me.”
Dylan looked at me as though he might say something, but seemed to reconsider as he looked away. “Someone I hope that Bryan sees,” he mumbled. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’m not going to get hurt,” I promised. “I’d never give my heart away to someone who would hurt me.”
He nodded. He knew.
But then, everything fell apart by the end of the Mexico shoot. Max and Bryan were caught by one of the makeup girls, which had freaked the young actor out so badly that he quickly put the brakes on their relationship the minute they returned to California. He called Bryan less and less, and by May, they were officially dissolved.
Max couldn’t risk his job by outing himself. In 1988, that was career suicide.
Bryan was devastated. He stayed at my house more than he did his own, simply because I knew what he was going through. There were some nights he didn’t even leave for the night, and would sneak out the next morning.
Dylan caught us once, but said
nothing. And of course I could say nothing to him, to assure him it wasn’t what it looked like.
By April, Bryan was sure he wouldn’t go to his prom. He
was quite over high school. If he couldn’t go with Max, or any other boy who suited his fancy, it seemed like a lie to go at all. If it weren’t for Charlie, he might have abandoned the idea altogether. It was her dream to go, and the only dates we could guarantee in those days were with each other.
So he agreed to go as long as we were his dates.
You can imagine my surprise when Dylan decided he wanted to tag along with. He decided to go stag, to hang out with his friends, and – since Bryan had been a mainstay at our house for months – that meant the Leftovers.
B
y May, I was buying a dress (no taffeta) and preparing for my prom, to be escorted by the two most popular boys in school.
Go figure.
Dylan’s father had gone all out in his absentee guilt. He rented a limo, which Dylan generously provided for all of us. He had also reserved a suite at a nearby hotel for any celebrations to be had after the prom ended. I was a nervous wreck by then, wondering what that could mean to be in a hotel with Dylan Fenn. I needed every single one of my posse to convince me to agree, and both Bryan and Charlie seemed hell-bent to do exactly that.
Sadly, by prom, Charlie had come down with walking pneumonia and couldn’t even go.
I sat between Dylan and Bryan as we approached the campus, wearing a corsage from both of them on either wrist. Dylan provided the booze and Bryan provided the herb, so we were in high spirits by the time we stumbled out of it, holding onto each other for balance.
Our graduating class didn’t know what to think about our arrangement. By all accounts, Dylan and Bryan were competing against each other for the title of most important student on campus, up to and including Prom King.
After my scandalous behavior in the early part of senior year, I didn’t make it to the ballot. This was fine by me. I wouldn’t know what to do with that kind of attention anyway.
I got to watch from the sidelines, a Leftover till the day I die.
I danced with both Bryan and Dylan, although the slow dances with Dylan were painfully uncomfortable. His hand was warm and firm on my back as he pressed me against his body. My head swam with unfulfilled fantasies that exploded instantly in my fevered brain at his soft touch. I could almost feel his kiss, much like the one he had taken with such authority in an abandoned parking lot by the Pacific Ocean. His nimble fingers danced across my bare skin, like when he unzipped my dress in his bedroom. His eyes were dark and unreadable, reflecting my own desires back at me whenever I dared to glance up at him.
When they played Foreigner’s ’85 hit, “
I Want to Know What Love Is
,” I had to tag out of Dylan’s close embrace and rush to Bryan’s waiting arms. My best friend was working through issues of his own. He held me tight, pining over the man who had stolen his heart and dropped him cold. To outsiders, though, it appeared we had made our choices.
It was probably romantic as all get-out to anyone who didn’t know what the hell was really going on.
Bryan won Prom King, and Tiffany McGill won Prom Queen. They looked beautiful, and the stunning cheerleader who once chased after (and caught) Dylan Fenn gazed dreamily at the handsome, beautiful boy that no other girl in our senior class (except me) could claim.