Cindy and the Prom King

by Carol Culver

  thirty

  War is the only game in which it doesn’t pay to have the home-court advantage.

  Dick Motta

  When Toby went to Lily Langtry Gardens to pick up his grandfather on the day of the oral report, the nurse said Mr. Hatcher hadn’t slept well and wasn’t feeling good. Toby’s heart sank. He knew this would happen. He’d told Cindy not to count on the old man. He told her they should do a PowerPoint presentation like everyone else. But no, she wouldn’t listen to him. She said they’d get a better grade this way. She was some kind of optimist. A pushy optimist.

  For one thing, she didn’t know his grandfather. He’d heard she was an orphan herself, which must have its advantages. He’d also heard she was gay, but he wasn’t sure about that. She didn’t have a special butch girlfriend that he could see, but she did hang out with Scott Hardy, the president of the Gay-Lesbian club, so maybe it was true.

  Today he envied her her lack of family, because if it weren’t for his grandfather, he wouldn’t be here. His grandfather not only didn’t know who he was, but he refused to get dressed.

  “Gramps,” he said, sitting on the edge of the old man’s bed. “Get up. You’re coming to school with me today.”

  “School?” His bleary eyes looked past Toby to some place in the far distance. “Too late. Too late.”

  “No, it’s not too late. It’s early. I came early to get you.”

  “Got a bellyache. Can’t go to school today.”

  Toby nodded. He’d often used that one himself. These days it was his head that hurt. Ever since the night of the Welcome Dance he hadn’t had a drink. Was that why his hands were shaking and his head was pounding? At least he wasn’t retching.

  “Maybe after you have breakfast you’ll feel better,” Toby said.

  “Food’s no good. Can’t eat it.”

  “I brought you some coffee and a donut. That’ll make you feel better.” Toby looked over his shoulder to make sure a nurse wasn’t watching or she’d probably snatch it away and insist Gramps eat some kind of lumpy hot cereal and canned orange juice.

  Then Toby opened a white paper bag and set the coffee and the glazed Krispy Kreme donut on the metal tray in front of him. His grandfather’s eyes focused for the first time since Toby arrived. He took a big bite out of the donut and chewed noisily. Then he drank some of the Starbucks double latte to which Toby had liberally added cream and finally he looked Toby in the eye.

  “That’s good,” he said. “Who’re you and what do you want?”

  “I’m Toby, your grandson. I came to take you to school today. We talked about it. You said you’d come to my class,” Toby said with a note of desperation. “I’m Jonathan’s son, remember?”

  “Jonny’s boy? Where is he? Never comes to see me.”

  “He’s busy. He’s a doctor.” Too busy taking care of the sick to visit his own father. “You’re wearing your uniform and you’re gonna talk about the war. Everyone wants to hear about it.” At least that’s what Cindy thought. If she was wrong, he’d be humiliated. If she was right, he might get a good grade on this report.

  “What war?”

  Uh-oh. Maybe Toby should just cut class today. Cindy could manage by herself. She was a smart girl. For a lesbo she wasn’t bad looking. He could say he was sick. Sure, it might be suspicious, getting sick the day of the oral report, but it happens. It would be better than parading his grandfather in front of the class only to have him sit there staring off into space saying What war? That was no way to get an A or even a C. That was the path to mass pity and disgust from the class and a rock-bottom grade for the report.

  Toby decided to give it one more try. Then he’d phone in sick. He went to his grandfather’s closet and pulled out his uniform, stiff and clean with the medals still pinned to the jacket. Toby held it up and there seemed to be a vague light of recognition in the old man’s eyes. That was a good sign.

  He coaxed his grandfather out of bed with another donut and somehow, though it took about a half hour, Toby got his grandfather dressed except for his shoes. He had to ask the nurse for help to get his feet into the black dress shoes.

  “Where are you going?” she asked Toby as she combed his grandfather’s hair. “Some kind of veteran’s thing?”

  “I’m taking him to school with me so he can tell the class about the Second World War,” Toby said.

  “Oh, like show and tell?”

  “Right.”

  Just then his grandfather straightened his shoulders as if he’d been told to stand at attention, and gave the nurse a sharp salute. “Gonna tell them about Corregidor and Leyte. About how we fought the Japs. I was there when MacArthur told ’em, ‘I shall return.’ Me too. I shall return,” he told her.

  Toby exchanged a glance with the nurse. She nodded and helped his grandfather out to Toby’s car. In the rearview mirror he could see her standing in front of the redbrick building watching them as they drove away, her hand at her forehead in an unmistakable salute.

  His head cleared a little. He smiled to himself. This might turn out okay after all.

  thirty-one

  Music is your own experience… If you don’t live it, it won’t come out of your horn.

  —Charlie Parker

  “We’ll need several more music acts for the all-school concert,” Henderson told the jazz band. “Besides Sam and his quartet, we have Joanie doing a guitar solo. How about a piano piece?”

  When Eric’s arm shot up, Henderson sighed but he was ready for him. “Eric, you’re already playing ‘Autumn Leaves,’ that’s all we can reasonably ask of you, considering …” He didn’t say considering what, but everyone knew Eric had a fragile ego as well as plenty of other problems. Especially knowing Michelle had once again turned him down for the homecoming dance. Not only that, he hadn’t been nominated for homecoming king again this year, though he’d vigorously campaigned for it with posters, stickers and homemade cookies.

  “Let’s see some spirit here,” Henderson begged. “Look, a new music room is on the list of upgrades for next year. We’ve got to show the administration we need it. We deserve it just as much as we need a new stadium with a retractable roof. Show ’em how we love our music.”

  “I could play a swing piece,” Marco said from the back of the room. All heads swiveled in his direction. He hadn’t shown up to jazz band for two weeks. Now he was volunteering to do a solo? “It’s my favorite music, your piano player Teddy Wilson, or maybe Jess Stacy, you know?”

  Henderson looked around the room. “See that? How does that make you feel? A European import is going to play our great American music for us. Okay, Marco, you’re on.”

  “The problem… the problem… I have mostly played in trio and quartet at home,” Marco said. “I play, how to say, accompaniment, some improviso … But I need somebody to play with me. Songs like ‘Somebody Loves Me,’ ‘Sometimes I’m Happy’ or ‘If I Could Be with You,’ something like those, very much favorites in my country.”

  “Songs like those,” Henderson said, his eyes wide, a smile on his face for a change. “That shouldn’t be hard. All we need is someone to play Benny’s clarinet parts for you.” Henderson looked around the room. Cindy held her breath. She wasn’t the only clarinet. Why didn’t Marco say he wanted her? Because he didn’t want her?

  Benny Goodman? She couldn’t play like Benny Goodman. Only Benny Goodman could do that.

  “Don’t look at me, Mr. Henderson,” Sam said. “I’m used to sticking to the score. Not much of an improviser.” His mouth was turned down in a way that suggested playing jazz was beneath his standards.

  Cindy dared to glance over at Marco, who was looking directly at her. Why? If he wanted her to be his accompanist, why didn’t he say so?

  “Cindy,” Henderson said. “How about you?”

  Cindy felt her face flush and her hands shake. She thought about saying she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t learn the music in time. Then she heard herself say “Sure, why not?” as if someone els
e had spoken the words and she’d just moved her lips like a puppet. Who did she think she was, the second coming of Benny Goodman himself?

  “Good enough,” Henderson said. “Get your horn and meet Marco in the piano room. Remember, it’s a music room. If I don’t hear music coming out of it, I’m coming in.” The band members chuckled. There were a few ribald comments, which Cindy pretended she didn’t hear as she grabbed her clarinet and scurried out of the room before they noticed how red her face was. Scott gave her a thumbs-up as she passed by his section.

  When she got to the music room Marco was already playing some riffs on the piano. She thought about telling him he was so good he didn’t need anyone else (which was true, he sounded great), but she didn’t. If he didn’t object to playing with her, she’d be an idiot to turn him down.

  Marco turned as she came in but kept playing softly as he talked. “I was hoping you would agree to play with me,” he said. “You know more about American swing than I do.”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “I heard American swing is more popular in Europe than here. Here the kids think it’s old-fashioned.” She opened the case and assembled her instrument. She chose a new reed and put it into her mouth to moisten it.

  “But you are different,” he said. “You know the melodies, I think. They’re part of your inheritance, is that the right word?”

  “Heritage. Yes, maybe it is. My father taught them to me, this is his clarinet he left me. But don’t make me sing the words.”

  “As you like. Just the tune. I think Benny Goodman didn’t know words either, yes?”

  With that he segued into a fast-paced version of “Sometimes I’m Happy” and Cindy wondered if she’d ever been so happy herself. Alone in the music room with the sexiest man alive, the window open to the soft afternoon breeze and the most romantic swing music in the air. What more could a girl want?

  She blew a few tentative notes, trying not to squeak. A poorly played clarinet can sound shrill and painful to the ears. Her stepsisters used to walk around holding their ears and turning up the radio when her father was teaching her to play. Now they’d slam the door and refuse to let her practice at home.

  She soon found the key Marco was playing in and followed him with the melody. After a few false starts she tuned in to the rhythm. Marco’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Then he looked up and sent her a smile that said, Look how we make beautiful music together. Her heart skipped a few beats but she kept playing.

  The encouragement must have gone to her head because a minute later she stumbled and her tempo fell behind, but Marco slowed to let her catch up. They locked glances and Cindy felt a connection, like a cord stretched taut between them, something she’d never felt with anyone before.

  She wondered if he felt the same at all. Or if he’d felt this so many times over with his accompanists or with girls in general that it no longer meant much. It didn’t matter. It was happening now. And it was happening to her. No one else. Just her.

  Cindy picked up the tempo and the volume to match Marco. They played around with the tune for several minutes, then she got brave and did a few ad-lib runs of her own. Some worked, others didn’t, but Marco held it together. Just as if they’d been playing like this all their lives.

  “We’re good together,” he said with a grin when they finally stopped playing. “I love that music. I want to play you some clarinet soloists I have on CD. Artie Shaw and Woody Herman and Benny Goodman at Carnegie Hall. I learned from them better than anyone how to really swing.”

  Cindy gripped her clarinet tight in her hand. “I’d love to hear them,” she said, feeling dazed by the music, the man and the possibilities of making more and better music. With Marco.

  “You and I will listen together and play together and you will see, you will feel, you know, naturale.”

  Naturale? So that’s what you called this feeling. This breathless, heady, dizzy feeling. Naturale.

  “Come here,” he said, moving to one side of the piano bench. “I want you to see what I’m doing.”

  She sat next to him, so close his hip pressed against hers. “This is how I lead into the arpeggio.”

  His beautiful, strong fingers caressed the keys while she watched. When he reached for the high notes his elbow brushed against her breast. She couldn’t breathe. All the air had been sucked from her lungs. Even though she thought she might die of asphyxiation, she wished the song would never end. But it did. He rested his hands on the keys.

  “We must do this again,” he said with a sideways glance out of his dark eyes. Then he put his arm around her shoulders. He looked deep into her eyes and she felt a shiver go up her spine. He leaned toward her. She closed her eyes. She’d never been kissed before. She never expected to be kissed by someone in the music room, and yet something told her it was going to happen now.

  Or it would have happened if the door hadn’t opened and Eric hadn’t burst in. “Okay, you guys,” he said with a knowing smirk as Cindy stumbled to her feet. “Time’s up. Henderson wants to know what you’re doing in here. What’ll you give me not to tell him?”

  Marco watched Cindy grab her clarinet and hurry out of the room. He sat staring into space for a long time.

  What was this strange excitement he felt? This girl Cindy was not his type. She was tall and a little awkward. She had beautiful hair, but normally he required more than that to be attracted to someone. She was long-legged and skittish like a colt. Yet he’d almost kissed her. Had wanted to kiss her. He still did. He would have if that imbecile hadn’t barged in.

  Maybe it was the music. Yes, that must be it. They made beautiful music together. With some practice it would get even better. Most girls pretended to like the music he liked. She truly liked it and she could make it. They could make it together.

  thirty-two

  Costumes and scenery alone will not attract audiences.

  —Anna Held

  Cindy had been worried about spending the whole day with Scott and his friends. How would she fit in? Why were they doing this for her? But they’d treated her like she was a doll to be dressed up. One of the guys gave her a pedicure and a manicure; another did her hair, then decided she needed her eyebrows waxed and her face exfoliated.

  For once she was on the other side of the day-spa experience and it wasn’t all that bad. For once she had some empathy for those vain women she’d looked down her nose at. It was fun to be pampered. She’d have a different perspective when she went back to work.

  It was a heady experience she wasn’t likely to have again, so after a few nervous moments when the guys looked her over and discussed her hair and skin as if she weren’t there, she started to relax and go with the flow. After all, what choice did she have? She wasn’t about to run out on them.

  But now that she was actually at the country club with all the girls who could afford a real day spa as well as the price of an authentic rented costume, she felt a wave of panic. Who would she hang out with? Who would she dance with? Who would talk to her except for Scott?

  “Don’t look like that,” Scott said.

  “How do I look?”

  “Like you want to run away.”

  “Who, me?” She wished her voice were more steady. Ditto her hands as well as her stomach. She would never run out on Scott, not after all he’d done for her. But if he wasn’t there …

  Maybe that’s why he was there, to keep an eye on her. No, he was getting a kick out of the costumes, the atmosphere, the music and the camaraderie of his friends. Cindy’s eyes popped at the sexy outfits most of the girls were wearing, like the tiny form-fitting white nurse’s uniform, the S & M girl with the lime-colored bob wig and a whip in her hand. It made her Marie Antoinette costume, low-cut as it was, look positively tame.

  All the while Scott was observing the other guys. “How do you like the vintage Superman with the long flowing red cape over red trunks?” he muttered. “I bet he spent plenty on that.”

  “I like your cape better,” Ci
ndy assured him. “You made it. It’s real.”

  “Yeah, but will anyone appreciate it?” he asked.

  “I will.”

  He grinned at her and straightened her sleeve. “You look great. Remember to smile.”

  “On my way to the gallows?”

  “You’re in your garden, you don’t have a clue you’re going to lose your head.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” she said, tugging on her neckline, which seemed to be slipping dangerously.

  “Leave it,” Scott ordered. “You’ll be the belle of the ball, as they say. Your prince will be dazzled.”

  Cindy shot him a quick look. Did he know about her crush on Marco? Or was he just guessing?

  thirty-three

  Love is like pi, natural, irrational, and very important.

  —Lisa Hoffman

  Cindy gasped when she looked in the mirror in the bathroom of the Bella Vista Country Club, where the homecoming dance was being held. Who was that creature that stared back at her? The one with her small breasts half falling out of the satin bodice, the big sleeves, the tiny waist, the brown curls and the long-lashed eyes behind the gold mask and the pink cheeks.

  She was exhausted after hours of dress fittings, and the full spa treatment. Almost as exhausted as she would have been had she worked at the spa today making other women feel pampered. She’d reminded Brie and Lauren of their promise to work for her, but they said they’d never meant this Saturday.

  After all, they needed all day to get ready for the dance themselves. But they’d be sure to do it another Saturday.

  Cindy thought she’d run out of excuses to give Irina until she came up with an imaginary root canal. Tomorrow she’d have to appear in the morning with a swollen jaw and a bill from a dentist, but she’d worry about that later. Right now she was worried that no one would dance with her except Scott.