by Barry Lyga
Speaking of Rachel...
Well, she's just beautiful.
Honestly, as boner-inducing as Michelle is, it's still Rachel I can't stop looking at. I've secretly lusted after Michelle almost as long as I've understood what a penis is for, so her appearance tonight is nothing new. But Rachel ... Rachel is a tomboy. Rachel is a buddy. Rachel is one of the guys.
Tonight, Rachel is a vision. Who knew?
She had her hair cut earlier today—it's too short for a pony-tail now, even the stubby one she usually has. Now it's swept up in back, short there, longer on top and in front, so that it hangs over her forehead and drapes casually to one side. Her dress is green—that much I knew before from the swatch she gave me. But it's got a subtle gold trim to it that almost makes it seem like the dress—and the body inside—are framed like a work of art. It's sleeveless and strapless, so her shoulders—strong, powerful, sprayed with a smattering of freckles—are bare, and some miracle of underwiring or internal scaffolding has actually blessed her with just the tiniest amount of cleavage. With Michelle across the table, it's sort of like a gully and the Grand Canyon, but to have the guts to wear that dress at all makes Rachel all the sexier in my eyes. It's form-fitting down to the waist, where it flares into a long tract of clingy green down the length of her legs. Complete opposite of her usual attire—focusing above the waist, hiding what's below. It's stunning, it's radical, it's beyond words.
It's fearless.
It's Rachel.
For the first time, I find myself thinking, This is my girlfriend. And the thought doesn't fill me with worry or with dread.
"...right, J?" Zik asks.
"Sorry, man. What did you say?" I snap out of it.
"I said, you're gonna put the Heat on ice, right?" Zik's leaning forward, eager.
"You've got as good a chance as I do of doing that."
"C'mon, J. It's gonna be you. Everyone's talking about it."
"They are?"
Michelle rolls her eyes and sighs, making every portion of her anatomy dance and jiggle. "God, Josh, even I know that! It's all anyone's talking about—Josh Mendel versus the Heat. You'd think it was something important."
Rachel and Zik light into her good-naturedly. Somehow, Michelle has managed to stick with us (and Zik, in particular) over the years, even though she's the farthest thing from a jock you could ever imagine.
"When Iron Man takes down the Heat, that's gonna put South Brook on the map," Zik says.
"I surrender!" Michelle waves her napkin delicately like it's a white flag. "Can we move on to another subject?"
"Are people really talking about it?" I ask Rachel.
She's confused, looking at me as though I just asked if she could dip her chicken cordon bleu into my iced tea for me. "Yeah, Josh. The whole school's buzzing about it. Don't you pay attention?"
Well, I always thought people were talking about me. Now I know. It's not the subject I thought it was, but it's something. Take that, Dr. Kennedy.
Despite the sudden ball of worry that's sitting in my gut, I actually enjoy dinner. It's fun being with Michelle and Zik and Rachel, cutting up, remembering the old days, the times before "Lucky thirteen"/"Oh, Bill." I barely taste the food, though, barely even see it, because I keep looking to my right. I just can't keep my eyes off Rachel.
"Do I have something stuck in my teeth?" She bares her teeth at me and grrs like a puppy for added effect.
"No."
"You just keep looking at me, that's all."
"I can't help myself. It's like there's nothing else in the room."
"Sweet talker."
"It's not ... I don't mean it as sweet talk. I literally can't help myself, Rache."
She strokes my jaw. "Well, I guess the dress is a hit, then, huh?"
"Grand slam."
"Nice to hear."
As dinner ends, Michelle and Rachel perform that time-honored ritual of scurrying off to the bathroom together. Zik offers me a breath mint from across the table.
"You're gonna smoke him, though, right?" he asks.
"What? Who?" I'm thinking of the way Rachel looked when she walked away, how the dress only seemed loose-fitting below the waist but when she moved it clung to every curve and line of her body.
"The Heat." Zik leans over the table. "The Heat, man! What's with you?"
"Sorry, Zik. Just thinking."
"C'mon. It's just us now. You feeling confident?"
"Yeah." And I am. Maybe that's just ego, or maybe it's earned. I don't know. But I feel pretty good about my chances against the Heat. "But, Zik, dude ... What's the big deal?"
"The big deal?" It's like I've announced I'm going to throw my cherished bat into the wood chipper. "Dude, were you listening before? This puts South Brook on the map!"
"So? We're graduating in a couple of weeks. What do you care?"
Zik pulls back like I slapped him. "J! J, man! It's our school. And it would get us attention in the second round. Don't you care about that? Don't you want to get drafted?"
"We're going to college, Zik. We're gonna play college ball. See what happens from there."
He stares at me and for a second, I think I see a flash of anger. "Well, yeah," he says, calming. "I just thought ... you know, it would be cool. To make that, like, a legacy, you know? Like our class's gift to the school—shut down Canterstown once and for all, make South Brook a stop on the scout's agenda..." He trails off. "Never mind, J. Just kick his ass when the time comes."
Michelle and Rachel come back to the table, not looking substantially different from when they left. Rachel leans in to kiss me and slips her tongue past my lips. We both taste minty fresh. Thanks, Zik.
"You boys ready to go?" Michelle unselfconsciously adjusts the front of her dress, causing her unencumbered breasts to bobble and collide. I tell myself that Rachel didn't see me look, but let's face it, I'm living in a dream world.
Fortunately, my girlfriend is forgiving. She hauls me out of the chair and kisses me again. "Let's go."
Prom is held at the Cantata Lounge, which is a big room at the local Hilton. The theme this year is "Over the Moon," so there are plenty of cut-out moons and stars all over the place, as well as a bunch of special decals of glowing stars pressed to the ceiling that light up when hit by the random sweep of a black light. I resist the urge to correct the positions of the constellations relative to the big papier-mâché moon.
Teachers are spread out like cops at a riot, smiling and nodding to us, but you know they're just waiting for—anticipating— disaster. Coach is, thankfully, absent.
Roland is in charge for the evening. He's in his glory, shuttling his bulk from one end of the lounge to the other, ordering teachers around, grinning like a fake uncle to students, pretending he's everyone's buddy, everyone's pal.
"Good to see you, Joshua," he booms to me, and claps a meaty hand on my shoulder.
"Sure, Roland."
He doesn't even bat an eye at the first name. "And you look lovely, Ms. Madison." He spasms in Rachel's direction and it takes me a second to realize that this was his version of a bow. His tie is patterned with moons and stars. Oh, so clever, Roland.
I'm not sure what I expected from prom. I guess I expected people to act slightly different from usual, but instead, it's like everyone's playing dress-up. The girls in particular seem like they're just pretending, preening and primped in their gowns. How often will they ever dress like this again? How many of them think this is what adulthood is like, despite the evidence they've seen over and over again throughout their lives? And the guys, in their tuxes, acting even less mature than usual, as if formalwear is a license for assholishness.
Rachel drags me out onto the dance floor as the DJ kicks off the first song of the evening.
I'm a terrible dancer. I'm coordinated enough to hit a baseball and run like hell on the base paths, but play some music and tell me to move and you get a statue. A statue that lurches from side to side. Fortunately, Rachel's not that much better with
the fast songs (maybe it's a ballplayer thing?), and she guides me pretty well through the slow songs.
I like the slow songs better anyway. I don't feel quite as conspicuous because I have someone to hold on to (although there's a part of me that wonders if everyone is watching me, wondering when I'm going to drag Rachel into a closet or something). The slow songs are relaxing, and Rachel keeps me calm and distracted with a steady stream of meaningless, warm whispers in my ear.
As we sway against each other on the dance floor, I whisper into her ear: "You look amazing tonight, Rachel."
"Aw. That's sweet."
"I'm serious. Michelle's showing off and that gets lots of attention, but you're the most beautiful person in this room tonight. I mean it. I've never seen a more beautiful—"
"Shh." She kisses me, quickly, before a teacher can object.
"That's very sweet, Josh. Now try to relax a little bit. Enjoy yourself."
I try to loosen up, but I can't help it. Looking around, I see the usual idiots and offenders. The geeks are off in a corner by themselves, the stoners keep slipping out and then slipping back in. The jocks—the ones who are supposed to be, on some level, my people—are huddled in groups, busting on everyone else.
The song ends and the DJ launches right into another fast one. Rachel and I pretend we can dance for a few minutes, but we both get tired of being bumped and jostled by assholes who can't even be bothered to pretend. We step outside for a breath of fresh air.
"Are you having a little bit of fun?" she asks.
I shrug. Her eyes cloud over.
"It's not you," I tell her in a hurry. "Trust me, it's not the company! It's just..." I shrug again. "It's just the usual. Them." I hook a thumb toward the door.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, we're supposed to be old enough to be on our own now," I tell her. "Look at how we celebrate. By dressing up like grownups and spinning out the fantasy that we're ready."
"It's just supposed to be fun," Rachel says.
"I don't know," I tell her. "Maybe I just don't know how to have fun anymore."
"Did you ever?"
—Xbox controller—
—so good at this one—
—hit the ball! Hit—
"Yeah. Yeah, once."
"What happened, gloomy guy?"
"I guess I grew up."
"The two don't have to cancel each other out."
—there, yes, THERE—
—God oh God oh God—
—stop teasing me, you naughty ... oh God yes—
"When you grow up, I guess different things are fun."
She narrows her eyes at me. "You can stop anytime now."
"Stop what?"
"Stop acting like you're wise beyond your years. Like you know something the rest of us don't. Maybe a few years ago you did. But not anymore. You're not ... You're not a freak, Josh. You're like one of those child prodigies, you know, the kids who are brilliant at computers or science or something?" She cocks her head at me and I nod, so she goes on, confident that she has my attention.
"They skip grades or they go to college when they're fourteen, but you know what happens to them eventually? You know what happens to every single one of them?"
I shake my head. What is she getting at?
"They grow up, Josh." She squeezes my arm and leans in close. "They grow up and then they're just like everyone else."
I digest what she's said, working it over in my mind. I get it—I really, truly do—it's just that I can't believe it. I can't believe that I'll ever be like everyone else, that I'll ever walk down the street and not flicker or anticipate the eyes boring into my skull from behind, or wait for her to come around a corner.
"I'm going inside," Rachel says. "I'm giving you five minutes to collect yourself and relax. And then I'm going to dance with someone else if you're not back in there. Got it?"
Jealousy stabs at me, but it's a dull knife. I need some time alone right now. Just to tamp down the sudden anger that's welled up inside, if nothing else. Rachel kisses me on the cheek and goes inside. I stand out there for maybe a minute and a half before I realize I'm being a complete fucking idiot. Just chill out, Josh! God! Not everything is the end of the world!
I wheel about and head back inside. Rachel is on the dance floor, fast-dancing with Michelle. Zik's gulping down sodas at the table, rehydrating. I sit down next to him.
"We've been replaced," I tell him.
"Yeah, well, I've known for years I'm pretty unnecessary," he jokes. And it's so untrue; Michelle worships the ground Zik walks on. The feeling's mutual, of course. Those two have been inseparable since grade school. I've never seen anything like it. Then again, why would I have?
I check my watch. "Only another hour or so to go."
He looks at me, surprised. "You sad to see it end?"
"It" means one thing to him and another to me. He just means the prom. But I can't help thinking about ... all of it. High school. Brookdale. It all ends for me soon, and Rachel ... Does Rachel go with it? I don't see how she can't. Unless I stay in state. Go to College Park or Lake Eliot College, neither of which is the best choice for math or baseball...
The girls—the ladies—join us at the table, Rachel hugging me and saying, "Glad you came back, big guy."
"Yeah, me, too. Next dance?"
She clutches her chest as if having a heart attack. "Oh, my God! Are you offering to dance?"
"I guess so."
We wait for the current song to end and then get up to take the dance floor. But the DJ just riffs some chords and then leans into the microphone.
"Hey, there, Bobcats! It's that time! Lemme introduce Assistant Principal Sperling!"
Roland blinks into the bright light and accepts a microphone from the DJ. "Good evening!" he booms, trying to sound cheerful, but instead causing an obscene whine of feedback that makes everyone yell out. "Good evening!" he says again, this time with the mike farther from his mouth, which is good because for a second there it looked like a turkey drumstick he was about to eat.
"Is everyone having a great time?" he asks with the sort of enthusiasm adults think is infectious.
I can't bring myself to applaud the Spermling. My peers have no such reservations, and the Cantata Lounge reverberates with the stomping, clapping, and whistling of three hundred seniors. Michelle and Rachel clap politely—Zik gets obnoxious and bangs the table with his palms, but I forgive him. Again, you can't ever really escape your DNA.
"Thank you," says Roland, holding up a hand for quiet, as if the applause is somehow for him and not just coincidental to him. "Thank you. Quiet down, please. Settle down, seniors."
When he's got the quiet he asked for, he goes on: "Now the moment you've all been waiting for: the announcement of our prom king and queen!"
There's some more applause, even though it's a foregone conclusion.
Roland drags it out, pretending we can't possibly know: "The prom king and queen ... for the senior class ... as voted on by the entire senior class...
"Are...
"Isaac Lorenz and Michelle Jurgens!"
No kidding.
Holding hands, Zik and Michelle thread through the tables to the dance floor, where Roland and Maggie Sanchez (the sen ior prom committee chairperson) drape sashes over them and put cheesy crowns festooned with bulbous moon ornaments on their heads. I notice that Roland moves to put the sash over Michelle but Maggie blocks him and gets there first. Good thing for Roland—he just avoided a hell of a lawsuit.
I hold hands with Rachel at the table and watch as Zik and Michelle glide onto the dance floor together. The DJ starts up a slow number and they move sweetly and softly together. Michelle actually looks a little surprised, though I don't see how that's possible. No one could have voted for anyone but these two for king and queen ... even if Maggie wasn't a good friend of Michelle's.
After a minute or so, Roland's tired of staring at Michelle and wants to be the center of attention again. Back at the
mike, he announces, "Now it's time for the unveiling of our runner-up prom king and queen!"
"What," I mutter to Rachel, "in case the king and queen can't meet their obligations for the next forty-five minutes?" She giggles.
"Our runner-up king and queen are...
"Joshua Mendel and Rachel Madison!"
The applause for us isn't nearly as thunderous as that for Zik and Michelle. And no wonder—we're not the South Brook dream couple. If anything, we're the South Brook nightmare couple, the star softball pitcher and her freak boyfriend, the kid who fucked a teacher in seventh grade and has kept his head down ever since, the kid who beats the shit out of anyone who looks at him cross-eyed. Beauty and the Bestial.
Someone's pulling me up from my seat, and I realize with a shock that it's Rachel. Up by the DJ, Roland is ho-ho-ho-ing like an evil Santa Claus, waving us on. "Come on, Josh! Dance with the young lady!"
I know that, technically, eyesight is weightless. But right now there are more than three hundred pairs of eyes on me, and I can feel the pressure of every single one, adding to the pull of gravity on me, combining masses to become a crushing weight. I lurch along behind Rachel, even more feral than usual, crippled by the gaze of the entire senior class and the certain knowledge of what they're thinking, that they can't believe it, that the applause is just polite and perfunctory, what the hell is he doing with her, how can she be with him—
Roland slips a sash that says "Prom Prince" over my shoulders. He's grinning and huffing and puffing with exertion and I figure a good, sudden shout would send him right into cardiac arrest at this point.
And then I've got a cheesy crown on my head, like Zik's only not quite as ornamented. Rachel's beaming as she comes to me, arms wide, and I make myself smile for her sake, even though the eyes have become hot now, igniting the air around me. I can barely breathe.
I take her in my arms and the world goes away. It's just her and me. I lean into her, needing her strength and her solidness to hold me up under the force of a million gravities. She whispers, "Hey, surprise, Prom Prince," and kisses the shell of my ear lightly as we start to sway. The lights leave nowhere to hide, and I shuffle my feet clumsily, managing to avoid stepping on hers.
