BROKEN-HEARTED GIRL/ Beauty Reals

Darren Goodman (not his real name) broke up with me on a baseball field. It was as if a sprinkler turned on inside of me, and the culprit had long forgotten he’d left the water running-the tears just kept coming. No amount of sunshine, play, or episodes of Growing Pains could shut off its relentless valve. If not for the sudden distortion of my face into a thousand pixilated pieces, I'd suspect Darren Goodman had no way of knowing he’d broken my heart.  

His saying, "I'm going away to golf camp, so we can't be boyfriend and girlfriend," crushed me. While his obligatory kiss on the forehead broke me down even further. And after all of that, the night ended, and our walking off the field like a dutiful caregiver and pitiful patient annihilated me. It was an image better suited for a sad movie where one half of a couple dies, and the other is left alone. Only, it was the summer of 1986, and I held no words in my mouth, just the feeling I’d love him forever.

In the wake of my new identity as a broken-hearted girl, aches stemmed from places I'd later realized existed only in times of deep sadness. Those mysterious pains infiltrated my sleep and my wake. So much so my mother referred to me as lovesick and used the telephone as her bullhorn and my aunts as her eager audience. It seemed my pubescent crawl was the center of many of their sullied conversations. One after the other, they marveled at my breach of womanhood even though my mother had no idea Darren Goodman had trampled my heart or that I’d left parts of myself to rot on a baseball field on Lake Street. Not to mention, instead of picking up the pieces, I allowed my dignity to dissolve into a tear-filled puddle, which I wore on my face like a mound of tacky makeup I couldn't wait to wipe clean.

But as my heart crumbled, so had my suburban town of White Plains. Which had suddenly existed in a nightmare of crack addiction and an AIDS epidemic--boys in love with boys clinched in its feral fists. The pain was contagious, and I was not alone. So many nebulous concepts materializing before my eyes: a war on drugs, black-on-black crime, Madonna crying, papa don’t preach; we were a world in crisis. But as girls revel in love, we grieve our breakups in packs like savages taking no prisoners, wild cats on the hunt. 

Before that summer, the summer's past existed as long, hazy days warding off boys who no longer saw my friends and me as little girls. Friends who I once spent every waking hour with until they fell prey to the advances of said boys and lost themselves in a daze of manipulation. And because I'd chosen otherwise, our friendships crumbled. That said, it had been a while since I hung out with them until they'd invited me to a party that summer, a party I'd never forget.

At the start of the party, I watched from the sidelines as the one I'll call the "dancing boy" controlled the center of the dance floor. He displayed not a care in the world, agile and free. With the added enticement of fully glossed lips, he immediately enchanted me. And as the light bounced off his mouth, his cocoa-colored lollipops drew me closer. He had these deep brown eyes, which somehow descended upon me in that crowded room. His body, flushed and beaded with sweat, moved closer to me by the second. And though it had appeared a kind gesture for those girls to invite me to that party, I soon witnessed their giggling with anticipation that soon I might concede behaviors unfitting our age. It seemed they'd had high hopes the dancing boy would bury my "good girl" image and replace it with a "girl gone wild." Finding out theirs was not a gesture of support but instead a wish I'd degrade myself as they had done; I kept them on the periphery of my inner world.

Meanwhile, standing tall and leaning before me, the dancing boy tried to pull me onto the dance floor. I resisted as I waited for the girls to leave me alone at the party-- like I knew they would-- before I courageously seized the moment. The "dancing boy" wrapped his hands around my waist, pressing his mouth to my ear, and whispered, "just let go." Not that he'd have any way of knowing, but it was as if he'd been aware of the tear-filled puddle and my broken heart. I surrendered to his seduction, and for the rest of the night, I danced until my white t-shirt dripped with sweat, until my skin glistened with ripe sensuality, and I heard the faint sound of my beating heart back in its rightful place. 

The party ended, and he asked for my phone number. I gave it to him. Days later, we talked on the phone about his age, my age, his school, my school, his friends, and my friends. And yet, we discovered we had little in common outside a physical attraction. As it turned out, the dancing boy was a complete bore off the dance floor. Until, on a hot day, over cherry-flavored juice and sandwiches, I could no longer resist his cocoa-colored lips. I leaned in and stole a kiss to discover that despite being an annoying person off the dance floor, he was a champion kisser. Afterward, I begged him to teach me everything he knew about the sport.

Soon, I enjoyed a summer filled with new sensations. Like a divorcee learning a new language, I explored the world in a new light. After each kissing marathon in the park, the dancing boy walked me home, trying his damnedest to be my boyfriend. But I wanted no part of that. Never. After what happened with Darren Goodman, I had no interest in another boyfriend. I wanted nothing more than to write in the worn pages of my diary, now rippled with ink and tears, of how extreme heartache gave way to my newfound allure.

Come Labor Day, I said goodbye to the land of the grief-stricken and hello to the new me. Except that, when school started, I saw Darren Goodman at a basement party cuddled up with another girl, and my heart plummeted. But thankfully, it did not break. Not again. My summer kissing dancing boy had revealed a less malleable side of myself I may have otherwise overlooked. And though I never learned why Darren Goodman broke up with me, nor had I bothered to ask, I realized that heartbreak is personal. That said, I'd be remiss not to mention that as sophomores in high school, Darren and I rekindled our romance. I was much stronger by then. And though our love affair never resulted in a storybook ending, ours remains a relationship to behold. 

Over the years, he’d written many letters: I love you, w/my heart, and I knew he meant it. But I’ve never forgotten that night on the baseball field and how my summer as a broken-hearted girl conjured up something primitive inside me. The unforeseen friend to my good girl. Even now, I think perhaps I'd always known the secret of the allure; maybe having this power made me that much more vulnerable to rejection; perhaps I'd had more in common with those girls I’d long said goodbye to. Either way, having my heart broken by Darren Goodman challenged every bit of the girl I thought I was.