An Inconvenient Puke

By mid-century, as many as 30 to 50 percent of the total species found on Earth will have vanished due to climate change.

This is just the second most alarming thing you'll read today.

***

We were supposed to be forever.

The whole menu: three children with alliterative names. A Goldendoodle with an Instagram account. Unscheduled sex. A progressive stance on marital gender norms but a tacit understanding that I am, and will always be, the Grill Master. A Peloton in plain view of dinner guests. Family beach photos in matching white linens that will find their way to damaged frames on TJ Maxx clearance shelves. All of it.

But that fantasy evaporated on May 5, 2005, just one month after I asked Mallory DeLuca to junior prom.

In retrospect, the mere fact that Mallory accepted my request is proof of God, seeing as she was the most beautiful, vivacious, self-assured woman in the 11th grade and I had cystic acne and wore jean shorts.

Maybe other guys were too intimidated to ask, or maybe she was just after the tax write-off. Whatever the case, the Mallory DeLuca was going to the prom with me---the guy with food in his braces---now was no time to ponder the roots of her awful decision.

The stakes were astronomical. A successful performance on prom night would not only mean that Mallory and I would die holding hands, but it would also allow for a personal re-brand entering senior year in hopes of getting my first ever invite to Brad's Bitchin' Beach Bash.

So, when May 5th rolled around after an eternity of anticipation and youthful optimism, I came correct---a shawl collar tuxedo with a fuchsia tie to match Mallory's dress, enough hair gel to hold together a David Foster marriage, and 6-to-8 squirts of Abercrombie Fierce to exterminate any stench from anxiety-fueled perspiration. Add a picturesque 72 degree New England evening and a good acne day into the equation, and I was officially ready to meet my destiny.

As Mallory emerged from her mom's Ford Taurus after arriving at the customary pre-dance photoshoot, time stood still. The light from the dipping sun danced off her mocha hair, which cascaded down her back and settled on her soft, poreless back. Two doves materialized from her Forever 21 clutch and ascended to the heavens, presumably to report a missing angel. My jaw would've shattered upon hitting the floor if it weren't for the retainer cemented into the bottom of my mouth.

The realization that I was in over my head sent a wave of suffocating anxiety over every fiber of my being. I took a deep breath and channeled my inner Vince Vaughn from Swingers:

"You're so money and you don't even know it," I mouthed to myself repeatedly until I started believing it.

It worked. Because that night, I became someone different, someone more, someone desirable to a deity like Mallory DeLuca.

The night was magical. Mallory and I bonded over our shared love of Dashboard Confessional and ABC's T.G.I.F. programming. I admitted that I didn't have Earth Science until fourth period but I took the long way to walk by her locker daily. She found the vulnerability endearing. We danced. My God, we danced. It'd be a damn shame if the Baha Men never found out who let the dogs out, because we certainly help put out the call.

Our performance on the dance floor was so captivating, Brad approached us during Stairway to Heaven and invited us to his post-prom bash at his dad's place. We both accepted without reservation, eager to hold onto this feeling. A fatal mistake.

Immediately upon arriving at Brad's dad's bachelor pad, we were handed a shot of brown liquor as a rite of passage. Mallory took it down like she moonlit at Coyote Ugly, but I was more hesitant. Up to that point, I'd only drank a half a beer in my life and remember thinking it tasted like a zipper and dumped the other half down the toilet. But now was no time to show weakness. I opened up the hatch and I polished it off like the man Mallory saw in me.

Mallory and I then strolled through the party, united, sipping a Poland Springs bottle of the ungodly devil juice I'd later learn was Captain Morgan's. My face got hot and my jokes got better. I began thinking about our future together. Will we apply to the same colleges? Is long-distance feasible? How many grandchildren will we have? The excitement made the floor spin.

The effects of hard alcohol can be delayed, a truism I learned as my carefree buzz morphed into a carnival tea-cup ride from hell. My tongue was thick. My stomach, revolting. How? I thought to myself. We only drank one bottle.

Just as I had made up my mind to sprint to the bathroom, I was doomed. Vomit ejected from my face like an alcoholic exorcism. Every inch of Brad's pool deck had been covered in semi-digested Cordon Bleu. Mallory began screaming as chunks ricocheted off the stone and landed on her bare feet. Jimmy Tisch, who was feet away and hadn't had a drink all night, actually vomited at the mere site of the calamity.

Mallory had vanished by the time I had become a human again. I would later learn that she called her aunt to pick her up because she didn't want her parents to see her covered in gut soup.

Mallory was cordial to me in the halls to close out our junior year. It was nice of her. No one is obligated to be nice to the person who ralphed on them. But the magic was gone. Turns out, a gallon of mouth diarrhea is capable of putting out a flame. I stopped taking the long way to her locker and by summer we had elected to become strangers, doomed to never speak again.

Sometimes, following my weakest impulses, I'll scroll through her Facebook page and imagine myself in place of the strong-jawed environmental law attorney she settled down with. I imagine him having no sense of humor and being the kind of guy who claps when the plane lands. I imagine the how their children---Kenzley, Kinzley, and Kendall---would take to a new step dad.

I imagine if she still thinks about me, and I'm comforted by the fact that I've become someone she cannot forget.

It's not love, but it's gotta count for something.