Pretty in Punxsutawney

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  I notice one of the orderlies is also searching through the crowd. He runs up to Nurse Dawn and starts waving his hands dramatically. I’m too far away to figure out what he’s telling her, but Dawn’s eyes land on me. As soon as she’s calmed the orderly down, she makes her way over to the foot of the stage where I am.

  “We may need to shut this down,” Nurse Dawn calls up to me over the music.

  “Oh no, what is it?” I stop playing my bass, instantly filled with regret for my recklessness. “Did someone break a lamp or a bone or somebody’s heart or something?”

  “No, it seems there’s a problem over in the arcade,” she says.

  “Is Rodney giving real tattoos?” I practically screech.

  “No, he’s doing fine,” Dawn says. “In fact, he gave me this.” She shows me a delicate hummingbird inked onto her inner wrist.

  She stops to smile at it a moment, and Anna hisses my name from center stage.

  I gesture for the band to keep playing without me and leap off the stage, landing neatly beside Dawn. “What’s the problem?”

  “There’s a rowdy group of boys hogging one of the arcade games, and we have a resident who’s pretty worked up. The nurses are dealing with her, but we can’t have our people getting upset.”

  “Please give me a chance to make this right,” I say. “Which game is it?” I already suspect the answer as I drop my bass and move toward the rec room doors.

  “Rampage,” Dawn calls. I’m sprinting toward the arcade when she adds, “But be careful, that elderly woman is freakishly strong!”

  On my way to the arcade, I see that Bogart and Bergman are embracing onscreen, and realize that Chuck was still in the rec room instead of coming in here to catch Casablanca, despite the fact Dawn had previously announced the movie was starting. This happens to be a Very Big Deal. I mean, he named his cat Humphrey after Bogart, for goodness’ sake. But there Chuck was when I left, standing and nodding as he watched Petra play the drums.

  When I get to the arcade, the place is packed with the same group that was at the house party with Colton the night I flex-kicked him. I spot Colton playing Rampage with Meemaw and Motko. The three of them are banging the buttons so hard, the whole machine is rocking.

  Colton yells at the screen, and Meemaw hits him in the arm. “Less crying. More punching.”

  Colton rubs the spot where she connected with his arm. “Ouch, you hit hard.”

  Motko laughs. “We’re not supposed to be actually punching each other, Meemaw.”

  Apparently, somebody else already intervened. I look around for Tom and finally find him playing Ms. Pac-Man. He doesn’t look up when I approach.

  “I heard your meemaw was giving the football team a hard time,” I say.

  “Yeah, they were hogging her game for a while.”

  “Glad you got them to let her play.”

  Tom looks up from his maze of dots and glances over to where Meemaw and Motko are high-fiving each other. “That was all her,” he says. “Nobody was gonna keep her away from Rampage. It’s her favorite game.”

  I laugh. “I know.”

  He gives me a strange look and goes back to playing Ms. Pac-Man. I belatedly realize I’m not supposed to know anything about Rampage or his meemaw, but I can certainly show him a thing or two about Ms. Pac-Man. I hit the two-player button.

  “You know you can’t just join in on these games, right?” he says. “They’re from the early eighties.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I laugh. “Practically need to wind them up with a crank.”

  “Kind of like that.” I can tell from his voice that something is bothering him, but in this version of today I don’t know him well enough to call him on it. Then again . . .

  “Are you mad at me or something?” I ask.

  “What makes you think that?” he says without looking up.

  “Because you’re acting like you’re mad at me.”

  “I’m not acting like anything, Andie. It’s not like the two of us are friends. What’re you getting at?”

  I sigh. “Nothing, I guess.” It appears the Pretty in Pink part of today is simply never going to happen. My Duckie is so close and yet still so far away.

  I can’t be sure, but I think Tom lets his Ms. Pac-Man die on purpose. When the game finishes running through the credits, he asks if I want to go first.

  I step up to the single controller. “Sorry, I forgot we can’t play at the same time either.”

  “No worries.” Tom watches me play and is increasingly impressed by my skills. As I clear board after board, he begins to cheer me on.

  “Guess I should’ve let you go first,” I say.

  “Oh, I’m not playing after this,” he says. “It would be too shaming. I’m just watching now to see how far you go.”

  We’re quiet for a few minutes while I gobble dots and cherries and blue ghosts like it’s my job. Finally, I ask again, “Did I do something different today? Something that upset you?”

  Tom leans his back against the machine. “I don’t know what you mean by different, Andie, but right now I’m wondering why you’re not over there playing a game with Colton.”

  “Why would I be playing with Colton?” I ask as I quickly slam the joystick back and forth, counting in my head before the ghosts change back from blue.

  “Well, I mean—” Tom runs a hand through his hair. “You seemed pretty into him this summer at the theater. And then you invited him to come here to the retirement home. I’m just wondering what your angle is, playing Ms. Pac-Man with me right now. Or should I say, schooling me at Ms. Pac-Man?”

  That’s what I did different; I invited Colton to Maya’s House. “But I invited everyone here tonight,” I say. “I’m the one who came up with the fliers and helped make them and hang them around the school. I’m the one who sent text messages and posts and invited everyone I ever talked to.”

  Tom looks over toward the rocking game of Rampage. “It’s just that I deal with his arrogant nonsense enough at the theater, now he’s with my favorite girl.”

  “You like Kaia?” I ask. This is new.

  “What are you talking about?” Tom gestures to the end of the row. “He’s Rampaging over there with my meemaw.”

  I laugh. “Of course your meemaw is your favorite girl.”

  “You’ve obviously had a huge crush on Colton all summer,” Tom says as my Ms. Pac-Man chomps a strawberry. “Are you picturing those dots as tiny Kaia heads?”

  “Colton was all wrong for me.” I shift away from my game so I can look Tom in the eye.

  This is it. Even if he never remembers this moment, I have to try.

  Over the sound of Ms. Pac-Man rolling over to die, I tell him, “Tom, I like you.”

  He laughs, but I don’t go back to playing my game and I don’t break eye contact. Finally, he says, “Well, you didn’t have to martyr poor Ms. Pac-Man just to make a point.”

  “I want you to believe me.” I look at him imploringly. “I really like you.”

  “I . . .” Tom’s expression fills me with hope. “Andie,” he says, “forgive me if I need a few days to process this.”

  “No!” I say, and he startles. “I need you to get this right now.”

  He looks at me for a moment, and I know him well enough to read his expression. He wants to believe me. But based on how I was treating him up until my epic time travel loop, he’s just not going to be convinced. A single day cannot undo a whole summer, but I’m so very close. One more day, I think. That’s all I need.

  I lean in closer, and the two of us just sort of hover there a moment, before he seems to wake up. “I’m working the closing shift at the theater tonight,” he says. “I should really get going.”

  And just like that, he turns to leave. “Tom?”

  He turns back, and I think of all the things I want to say to him right now. All the inside jokes we’ve shared that he’s forgotten. All the conversations. But it’s not fair to expect him to believe what he is to me. He has a righ
t to ask for more time. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say.

  “Yes.” He smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The lilt in his voice makes it clear that this is a “To be continued . . .” conversation. I just wish it wasn’t actually a “The End” that will morph directly into tomorrow’s “Once upon a time . . .”

  But as I watch him walk over to kiss his meemaw goodnight, and see Colton and Motko give him friendly slaps on the back, I wonder. I didn’t quite manage to win my Duckie, but the party has been a roaring success, with so many of the walls dividing the different cliques coming down. People who never spoke before are busy exchanging numbers and screen names. Not to mention all the new romances already starting.

  Everyone around me looks so happy and connected, I can’t help but think this could be it. I may have just fulfilled my calling.

  And a thin beam of hope says I might wake up free.

  chapter 21

  And it’s that sort of optimistic thinking that finally breaks me.

  I go to bed that night truly believing the anticipation building inside me means something. Like I’ve finally broken the curse. I envision myself waking up in my bed, wearing my pajamas. I will my vision to come true.

  When I wake up the next morning, I’m so blind with excitement that it takes me a few moments to connect the dots and figure out where I am.

  On the couch. With my face stuck to the pink leather. In the poufy, polka-dot, scratchy dress. With the Pretty in Pink DVD menu playing on the television.

  I stand up and just stare at the screen, vaguely aware my hands are rolling in and out of fists. I twist my neck from side to side until it cracks, and then I weave my fingers together and stretch my palms out in front of me until my elbows lock and all my knuckles pop.

  Then . . . I completely lose it.

  Flinging my fist out, I punch over the table lamp. It bounces instead of smashing, which I find even more infuriating.

  The music coming from the television feels like it’s eating a hole in my brain, so I hit eject on the player and snap the disc in two. Then four. Next, I wrestle with it for a few minutes before finally flinging the pieces so I don’t end up slicing my hands open on the broken disk’s sharp edges.

  Reaching down, I pick up my blanket and try to rip it in half. My face turns hot as I pull and twist, but evidently the fuzzy material is much stronger than it appears. After marveling for a split second at how sturdy something so lightweight can be, I’m reduced to screaming in frustration.

  Both of my parents come running into the room.

  I pound the back of the pink couch with both of my fists. “Czyre and Tammy have never met and fallen in love,” I wail at them. “And Petra doesn’t realize that she and Chuck truly belong together.”

  Dad leans over to Mom and whispers, “What movie were you two watching last night?”

  I go on. “There’s a stupid picture of Kaia stuffing her face that’s absolutely devastating, and Anna will never know how nice the cheerleaders are and that they didn’t prank her.”

  “We were watching Pretty in Pink,” Mom says to Dad. “I don’t know what movie she’s talking about.” She tilts her head at me like a dog listening to a high-pitched noise.

  “Everybody has problems.” I raise my voice. “They’re all just drowning in the same stupid stuff, and I can’t fix anything.”

  Mom tries putting an arm over my shoulder, but I shrug it off. Looking back and forth between my parents, I yell at them, “I am never going to graduate high school!”

  Dad starts laughing at this. “Okay, sweetie, you’re clearly having some sort of episode due to the stress of changing schools. You’ve always gotten good grades. I’m pretty sure graduating isn’t going to be a problem.”

  “I’m not going to school today,” I say. “No way. Everything will be undone. It’ll be like nobody ever danced together at the retirement home.” I try to climb back underneath the blanket, but Mom pulls it off me.

  “I need to stop pushing the stupid boulder up the hill!” I say. “There’s no point in any of it.”

  I drop onto the couch and cover my face with both hands, but I can feel the two of them having a nonverbal conversation. And it’s probably some version of “I’m not talking to her, you talk to her.”

  Dad must lose the argument, because he’s the one who finally sits down beside me on the couch.

  “I know starting over at a new school is difficult, Andie,” he says. “But trust me, you’ve got this. We wouldn’t have moved you here if we weren’t positive you can handle it.”

  “It’s all in the attitude,” Mom says brightly as she sits down on the other side of me. “Today can be a good day or an awful day. It’s all up to you.”

  I nod as if I’m agreeing with her. Then announce, “Yeah. It’s going to be awful.”

  When Colton arrives, I’m still wearing the pink polka-dotted number, and my parents are watching me nervously as I argue with myself while pacing back and forth.

  Mom lets him in and gestures in my direction. “Andie’s all set to go . . . I think.”

  “You know something, Colton?” I snap, and he looks at me expectantly. Like I’m about to say something flirty. “You can be a real jerk.”

  He flinches like I’ve slapped him, and Mom moves into the room. “I’m sorry,” she says. “My daughter isn’t feeling all that well this morning.”

  “I’m fine, Mom, really.” I poke Colton in the chest. “But this guy here. He’s only concerned with everybody liking him.”

  Colton looks vaguely afraid of me. “Um, we’d better get going,” he says. “Unless you’d rather wait for the bus?”

  “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I snap at him. “No crazy redhead in a wild pink polka-dot dress interfering with your flirting game. Leading girls on to feed your own ego.”

  “Um, okay then . . .” He gives my mom a look that is a clear cry for help.

  “Let’s just go,” I snap, and head for the door.

  Mom calls out a good-bye, but this time she doesn’t try to take our photograph together.

  Colton tries to ditch me just inside the front door to the school, and I call after him, “You don’t even deserve that cool job at the movie theater!” The crowded hallway of students turns to see who the yelling redhead in polka dots could be.

  “Get a good look, everyone,” I call out in my crazy-person voice. “I’m the new girl, Andie! And I’m going to be here forever.”

  As I walk down the hallway, my dress rustles with laughter as my ballet flats whisper the truth over and over. Nothing matters. Nothing matters. Nothing matters.

  I run into Czyre and pull the Sharpie from his hand. “Hey there, George.” He gives me a startled look and I call out, “Does everyone here know George?”

  He asks, “Have we met?”

  I snap the lid from the Sharpie and grab his face, trying to draw a mustache on him. He fights me off, so I drop the Sharpie and announce, “George here is the one who’s been drawing those powerful cartoons and posting them anonymously around the school.”

  I walk away before I can witness the fallout, but catch someone excitedly saying, “Czyre! I had no idea!”

  I open the door to the gym and call out to the cheerleaders, “You know, you should really be proud of the charity work you do.” They’re all frozen, staring at me in their cheerleading skirts. I add, “You don’t need to hide what nice people you are after hours.”

  I’m going through the motions of my day as if in a fog. Yesterday was all about spreading as much happiness as possible. And now today’s about throwing truth bombs.

  I tell Motko, “Go and visit your grandfather. You don’t know how much longer he’ll be around!” Kapow . . . truth bomb.

  I tell the guy in my science class, “You’re so afraid of rejection, you reject everyone before they get the chance to reject you.” Kapow . . . truth bomb.

  “Suzie talks about you behind your back. And you talk about her behind h
ers. How about you two talk to each other instead of about each other?” Kapow . . . truth bomb.

  “You need to stop thinking only of yourself. Your best friend is having a hard time right now and you haven’t even noticed.” Kapow . . . truth bomb.

  “Everyone can tell that you’re high. Everyone. And you might want to consider keeping what brain cells you have left.” Kapow . . . truth bomb.

  “Stop obsessing over whether he likes you. Do you like you is the more important question.” Kapow . . . truth bomb.

  By the time I reach Mr. Demers’ English class I’m getting lots of dirty looks, and I suddenly get the feeling I should be watching out for villagers with pitchforks.

  When the topic of Sisyphus comes up, I calmly raise my hand and answer the question about repetitive situations before Mr. Demers finishes asking it.

  When Tom repeats his classic comment that Sisyphus should just stop doing that, I’m ready for him.

  Which basically means I explode. Jumping onto my chair, I scream at him, “Maybe Sisyphus just can’t stop.” I hop from my chair to my desk, and the legs squeak in protest. I say, “Maybe the rock won’t stop rolling down the hill no matter what Sisyphus does, and maybe, just maybe, he has no choice but to keep pushing the stupid thing back up.”

  I look down at the blanket of shocked faces staring up at me.

  “Maybe we’re all simply doing the best that we can with situations that don’t make any sense to us.” I step down from my desk to my chair, then to the floor. “Our boulders might be all different shapes and sizes, but I think we all know the effort of pushing something heavy. And the pain of risking hope that this time, maybe, when we reach the top”—I feel tears forming in my eyes—“things just might be finally different. Better, even.”

  As I slide back into my seat, my puffy pink polka-dot skirt claws at my legs, reminding me how ridiculous I just looked.

  “Wow,” Mr. Demers says, and starts a long, slow clap. He doesn’t seem upset when nobody else joins in. “That passion was fantastic . . . Andie, is it?”

  I nod, and then lay my head down on the desk I was just standing on.