it was his graduation party. him. the only him there had ever been. at his mother and step-father’s home in lansdale, pennsylvania. and we played volley-ball near the pool. him and his family and a few assorted friends and me. who would never be his lover or girlfriend or partner, but i was still trying, i think. the giving up hadn’t quite yet taken hold. kisses, after all, are the opposite of ‘no.’ even past tense kisses. i was the “quasi-girlfriend,” the not-exactly, the friend, the object of fear and dancing and arms-length distance and conversation, speculation, and affection. the special one.

i was on his team. grateful to be paired in any way with him. and the ball came and went and we hit it or not and there was cheering and commentary from the crowd in the pool and laughing and conversation in the early summer sun and grass underfoot and the ball came and went and came and went and came far and slightly wide and there i was diving for it, diving headfirst into the grass, hands clasped to hit that volley-ball somewhere maybe hopefully in the direction of the other team, but i landed funny, of course, and sat there on the grass, dazed, casting about for my glasses. and he had to tell me. he actually had to tell me, “dear, your top . . .”

the bikini top had flown off. or perhaps it was a one-piece and the upper end was hanging around at my waist. and i hadn’t even noticed. but his whole family and all of his friends must have and him, him, him—he, himself, had to tell me. i was mortified. i was only seventeen and still quite unaccustomed to walking around nude at a party.

i was shocked and horrified. i snapped my top back on, immediately. i couldn’t believe i had been sitting there, trying to find my glasses, but completely unaware that my breasts were exposed for the whole world to see. i felt quite stupid. this was not the way i had intended to be naked before him. i clambered to my feet, afraid to look up, to see who had seen me. i was afraid to look at him, though goodness knows, he had brought the situation to my attention as gently as possible. he had even called me “dear.” to the best of my knowledge, that never happened before or since. i clung to that and to the small prayer that his parents hadn’t seen my unconscious display. i lost my taste for the game (no surprise, there), and headed inside the house to hide among those who hadn’t seen my naked breasts. (which, themselves, were nothing to be ashamed of. the only shame, i suppose, was in showing them. but considerable shame that was at the time. considerable, massive, mega-gothic-shame.)

i find it kind of ironic, now, that the memory that most immediately comes to mind, when i hear the phrase “most embarrassing moment” is something that for all i know might not have been the biggest embarrassment of my life, but, rather, came from a time when embarrassment meant much, much more to me. i wouldn’t be surprised if most people’s “most embarrassing moments” are somehow still set in high school or junior high, even if many decades have passed between themselves and that time. it just really sucks to fuck up in high school. the repercussions seem ridiculously huge. mortification is of the epic variety.

i’m proud to day that i’m now quite comfortable showing my breasts in public, so there doesn’t seem to have been any permanent damage from the volleyball incident.