Oh, like, WOW! He’ll be Homecoming King and you’ll be Homecoming Queen!

I was almost 16 when the phone calls started. I don’t know why. I don’t recall handing out my phone number or asking him to call. He just did. Every single night at 9:00 P.M. Sharp. Regardless of where he was or what he was doing, he always called.

Sounds rather creepy when I type it out, but it was all rather sweet in reality.

I don’t remember a single thing we talked about. Just that the conversation didn’t seem forced or uncomfortable. After all, we were both nerds, technically. He was a Jock Nerd, so the Quiz Bowl and Math Bee stink didn’t stick to him as much as it did to me.

My parents allowed no dating until 16, so my first boyfriend was limited to his nightly phone calls and nothing more. Until October 14, 1988, when I was officially four days old enough to go out for dinner and a movie.

He came to my house in his father’s Suburban. He was a little bit older than me and already had his driver’s license, but his father didn’t trust him to drive his Suburban. Or maybe his father didn’t trust a teenage boy on his first date. Regardless, the doorbell rang and there he was.

My First Date.

His father drove us to Southern Hills Mall, way out on the other side of town. He dropped us off, and we shared an unabashedly romantic first date meal at Taco John’s in the food court.

No beans. Although I’ve never been one of those girls who chooses salad over a big juicy steak, it was my very first date and I was taking no risk of avoidable embarrassment.

He bought two tickets to “Cocktail”. You must know (if you haven’t already guessed) that I was quite the naive young lady at 16. Or 15 and 4 quarters, if you really want to be realistic. I’m sure you’ve all seen the movie, a Tom Cruise/Elisabeth Shue classic.

Put yourself in my movie theater seat, just for a moment. And be thankful that theaters are dark places where people can’t tell if you’re flaming beet red or just pleasantly rosy. I have a hard time watching that movie NOW, nearly 21 years later. And it’s not just because of the horrible acting and cheesy premise. It takes me right back to 1988 and Southern Hills Mall Cinema.

I don’t remember if it was between the “Kokomo” or the Tom Cruise/Gina Gershon romp to the beat of “All Shook Up”, but I managed to look over at my date, and I was even more disturbed by what I saw next to me that what I was seeing on the screen. My first date? Digging for gold. That’s right. DIGGING FOR GOLD. Um, excuse me? I may have had my eyes squeezed shut for most of this movie, but you REALLY think you can get away with such SERIOUS DIGGING? Dude! I can totally see you!

Well, after the disturbing movie and the disturbing revelation of my date’s bad habits, I was so ready to go home. I was torn between feelings of disgust and young love. For once, after all of our nightly hour-long phone conversations over the past month, I was rendered completely speechless.

It was a long ride home in that Suburban.

He walked me to the door, and I think he thought he should kiss me. But with the glare of the brightly illuminated front porch most likely hiding my parents’ watchful eyes from his view coupled with his waiting father in the Suburban, he opted for the handshake. The handshake! Now, I KNOW he didn’t wash his hands. And this was way back before the invention of hand sanitizer (By the way, thank you, Mr. Purell, wherever you are.) But I had no choice. He HAD taken me to Taco John’s AND a movie at the big theater.

I was creeped out.

He called on Saturday night and Sunday night, as I’d come to expect. But it was more difficult to visit with him with the knowledge that he was a Gold Digger.

On Monday at school, one of my most obnoxious classmates practically tackled me wanting all the inside scoop on my first date. You know the movie “Grease”? Patti Simcox ring a bell? Look it up. Astonishing resemblance, minus the poodle skirt, plus the acid-wash jeans.

“OOOOOH! Tell me EVERYTHING!!!!!!” she squealed.

I know my enthusiasm didn’t even approach the same galaxy where her enthusiasm resided, so I got this:

“You KNOW, that when YOU TWO are seniors, he is SO going to be Homecoming King, and that means YOU are SO going to be Homecoming QUEEN! That’s so AWESOME! OOOHHHHH!!!!!”

Really? Gold Digger over there is handsome, talented, smart, and all that. But he PICKS HIS NOSE.

He called Monday night, and I could tell he could sense my distraction. At some point in the conversation, he went for it:

“So, what’s the status of our relationship?” he asks me.

I think I dropped the phone. I recovered long enough to stammer something about having to erase all my math homework and start from scratch because I couldn’t turn it in with my handwriting in its present state, punctuated with a very curt “Goodbye!”.

I was such a chicken then. Granted, I was a child. But if only I could travel back in time as the person I am now, I would have been so much smoother than that. Come to think of it, that would make me a cougar then, too. Ew.

So that’s the story of my first Real Boyfriend. My first Real Date. And my first Breakup.

It’s kinda cute, really, don’t you think?

And about that Homecoming thing? Fast forward four years, and yes, he was up for Homecoming King. And her? Wouldn’t you know it? She was up for Homecoming Queen. They both lost. He probably couldn’t have cared less. Her? I still can see the raw expression on her face when they announced the winner. Her best laid plans for the past two or so years came crashing down as hard as her jaw.

Yes, that was me, watching from the audience. At least a tiny bone of security in my enormously insecure body, at peace with the fact that I didn’t sell out for a glittery plastic tiara.