by Liz Czukas
“It’s not that easy.”
The bell rang, and our teacher was instantly at the board with a squeaky marker and a passion for radioactive isotopes.
Schroeder leaned close, his voice low enough to escape detection but loud enough to let his irritation be heard. “You’re overthinking it. Flip a coin or something. Heads you go with us, tails you still go with us.”
He was joking, obviously, but there was a certain logic to it. My father used to pull a similar trick when we were growing up. If we couldn’t decide between ice-cream flavors or something like that, he’d stick two small objects behind his back and make us pick a hand. I can still hear him saying, The penny is chocolate; the nickel is bubble gum. Pick one. The best part was, if you picked one and you got that awful pang of regret, you knew you actually wanted the other kind more. It was simple. Almost elegant.
I’d just make Troy heads and Ryan tails and flip for it. I’d know if I made the right decision as soon as I saw the result, wouldn’t I? I tapped my pen against my notebook, wondering if this was too simplistic.
Still . . . at least I’d know how I felt. And no one would have to know. I could do it right now. It didn’t have to be some huge Super Bowl coin toss, after all. Just a simple flick of my thumb and I could have this whole problem solved.
That’s it. I was doing it. I patted my pockets and came up empty. Shoot.
I leaned over to Schroeder and whispered, “Got a quarter?”
He tilted away from me first, checking his right pocket, then switched to check the left, knocking his head against mine. “Sorry!” he whispered. “You okay?”
I rubbed my temple, tempted to give him a sour look, but stifling the urge since he was doing me a favor. So I smiled and nodded instead. The muffled jingling of coins was unmistakable, and in a moment, he emerged with a few coins.
“No quarters,” he said. “But I can get you a game of skee-ball at Chuck E. Cheese.” He pointed to a gold token in his palm.
I laughed, pressing my fingers to my lips so I wouldn’t be too loud. “Why do you have a token for Chuck E. Cheese?”
He gave me a don’t-be-so-judgmental look. “It was my cousin’s birthday over the weekend.”
I took the token from his cupped hand, noticing how warm his skin was without being sweaty. A rare trait in a boy. “Thanks.”
“They don’t work in the vending machine, trust me,” he said softly, nudging a dime out of the pile with a fingertip.
“This is all I need, thanks. I’ll give it right back.”
He shot me a confused look, which melted the instant he saw me fit the coin against my bent thumb. “You can’t flip a coin over this,” he hissed.
“Why not?”
“Do you really think fate is going to guide you or something?”
“I don’t believe in fate. This is pure statistics.”
“So, what is it? Chuck E.’s head you come with us, tails you go with one of them?”
“Nope.” I waited until Mr. Lenier turned to write on the board again and flicked my thumb, sending the coin up.
Tokens are lighter than quarters, as it turns out, and the thing flew up in the air almost to the ceiling. I gasped as it clattered once—too loudly—against the edge of the lab desk before falling to points unknown.
Mr. Lenier turned around, looking for the source of the noise, but Schroeder and I kept our best poker faces on and he went back to his radioactive decay.
After a moment of watching Lenier’s back, I whispered, “Where’d it go?” and searched around the bottom of my stool. Schroeder did the same, twisting and tilting, and nearly knocking heads with me a couple more times. Finally, I caught a flash of something gold a few feet away, near the wall. “There.” I pointed.
“You are not seriously doing this,” he hissed.
“Why not?” I asked, leaning out as far as I could without leaving my seat. Damn, I still couldn’t see which side of the coin was up. “It’s as good as any other way of deciding.”
“This isn’t like picking which movie to see. These are human beings.”
“It’s not like they have to know about it. Besides, it’s just a dumb coin toss. It doesn’t actually control my fate.”
He narrowed his eyes. “All right then. What’s it say?”
8 In which I am thoroughly humiliated by someone who isn’t even there, and ponder the mysteries of alcohol procurement
HEADS
The major drawback of going to prom with Troy was the fact that I couldn’t go to Ally’s house to get ready with the rest of my friends. The logistics were too annoying. So it was just me and my brother, who, of course, had no idea about the intricacies of formal dance preparation. I might not be in this for the romance, but I was definitely going to live it up in the glamour department.
My hair took me three hours to set, but I was determined to have a full head of pin curls. The job was shoulder-breaking labor, and I almost decided to scrap the whole thing a few times. I couldn’t let my true date for the prom down, though—my gorgeous, frothy lavender dress. It was from the fifties or sixties—Lucille at Take Two hadn’t been completely sure—and it was a girly dream.
Layers of sheer material made the skirt flounce out, and the sweetheart bodice was crazy flattering. It fit perfectly—I so love the way vintage clothes are made for people who actually have some curves—I felt like a total bombshell. Maybe Brigitte was the name for me, after all. Or Marilyn. Ooh! That one was going on the list.
When at last I sailed down the stairs to show myself to Phil, I did my best Marilyn Monroe pout/head tilt and said in her trademark breathy voice, “Well? How do I look?”
Phil, already in his tux, and playing some video game that seemed to involve killing a lot of South American drug lords, barely glanced up. “Fine.”
Talk about a letdown. I collapsed from my Marilyn pose and sighed. “Great, thanks.”
“What?”
“I put a lot of work into this outfit. You could at least fake being interested.”
“But then you’d know I was faking.”
“I’d rather you fake it than give me ‘Fine.’”
With an exaggerated sigh, he paused his game and turned to look at me. “You’re wearing an old dress to prom?”
“It’s vintage!” I protested.
“Whatever. Look weird if you want to.”
I stepped up to the couch and grabbed one of the loose pillows from the end to swat him in the head.
“Hey! Watch it!” Phil was a brunette, like me—well beyond average brown, and into the chestnut range—but he treated his hair about the same as most guys I knew. In other words, what couldn’t be handled by shampoo could be handled by a hat. Even though he’d showered and applied some kind of product to it, I could make out the faint indentation in the back where his cap always rested.
“When are they supposed to get here?” I peeked through the living room window, but there was no sign of a limo. Phil and his friends were going all out with the prom stereotypes. They had a limo for the whole night, and I’d heard a rumor that one of the guys had a hotel room.
“Dunno. Soon.”
Such a helper, my brother.
A glint of sun at the end of the block pulled my attention to a car approaching, but the shape was way too boxy to be the limo, and after a second, I could tell it was my dad’s truck. “The prodigal father returneth,” I announced.
“All right, Pop.” Phil laughed. “What was the over-under on the clock?”
I grinned. Sometimes Phil and I made bets on when our dad would get home.
The big white van rolled into the driveway and lurched to a stop. LACOEUR CARPET AND FLOORING, the painted sign on the side read. WHERE THE HEART IS. Oh, how I hate that slogan. It’s a play on our last name, and it had been the slogan since my grandpa started the company, but when your only daughter just happens to have the first name Heart, you’d think a guy would have the decency not to doom her to an implied imprisonment in a carpet warehouse
.
Our dad got out and hitched up the back of his pants as he ambled toward the door.
“Five bucks says he doesn’t remember it’s prom tonight,” I said.
“You’re on.” Phil powered off the video game console and stood to wait with me.
“’Lo?” Dad called as he came in through the kitchen.
“Hey, Pops,” Phil hollered in return.
When he appeared in the doorway that led from the kitchen to the hall, I was struck suddenly by how big he was. A monster of a guy—six-three, somewhere in the neighborhood of 225 on the scale, though he seemed to carry it all in his shoulders. A lifetime of manual labor will do that to you, I guess. That and turn your knees into rusty hinges. He did a double take when he spotted me, and I was certain I’d bagged Phil’s five bucks.
“Look at you, sweetheart.” The fatigue slipped from his face and he smiled softly, blue eyes suddenly blurred through potential tears. “You’re so beautiful.”
“Dad.” I tried to dismiss the compliment, but inside I was filled to the brim with sudden warmth.
“I was worried I wouldn’t make it in time to see you before the dance,” Dad said.
I got a poke in the back from Phil. I owed him five bucks, after all. “We’re still here.”
“You guys look great.” Dad approached with his arms extended, but hesitated before touching me. “It okay for me to hug you, or am I gonna wrinkle you?”
I laughed and stepped into his embrace. “It’s okay, Daddy.” My father was many things—perpetually late, nearly always tired when he arrived, and a proud blue-collar guy who liked beer and NASCAR and was totally mystified by Broadway—but I never had to wonder if he loved us.
“So, you’re all set for tonight?”
“We’re good, Pop.” Phil clapped him on the shoulder.
“You sure? You need money or anything?”
“Well, if you’re offering . . .” Phil put on a fake bashful smile and held out his hand.
“You.” Dad rolled his eyes and knocked it away. “I’m more worried about my little girl getting home safe.”
“I’ll be fine, Dad. Everybody’s spending the night at Neel’s, remember? I can get a ride home from someone in the morning.” I didn’t know what the after-prom plans were for Phil and his friends, but as long as they didn’t involve crossing any international borders, I was pretty sure I’d make it to Neel’s house without any trouble. If I knew my brother at all, there would be a party and beer involved. It would be easy to slip away after the official prom part was over and hitch a ride with one of my friends straight from the dance. No problem.
“I almost forgot. Colleen stopped by today. She wanted me to give you guys something. I think I left it in the truck. Hang on.” As our father lumbered toward the back door again, Phil and I exchanged wary glances. Our aunt Colleen had long seen herself as the substitute mom we never asked for after our own left. She was one of those women who referred to herself as “forty-five and fabulous” and swore up and down that we could ask her anything—“And I mean anything.” Well-meaning, but inevitably embarrassing, the idea that she’d prepared something special for Phil and me on prom night was nothing short of terrifying.
Luckily, at that moment, a strange bleating version of “Look Away, Dixieland” caught our attention from down the street. It repeated, getting louder. I stepped back to peek through the living room windows. The limo had arrived, and the horn was most definitely of the novelty variety.
“Hallelujah. Let’s get out of here before Dad finds Colleen’s care packages,” I said, grabbing Phil by the wrist.
“Right in front of you.” Phil put on some speed, grabbing the clear corsage box for his girlfriend from the front hall, yanking open the front door, and pulling me by the wrist down the three steps to the sidewalk before the limo was even stopped in front of the house. “Our ride’s here, Dad!” he hollered, as if our father would somehow miss the merrily caroling stretch SUV limo cruising to a halt at our curb.
“Just a sec!” Dad emerged from the truck once again, this time brandishing two small cellophane bags. The kind you get when you go to a kid’s birthday party when you’re little. These particular ones were clear pink and decorated with hearts.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered.
“If we break for the car, he’ll never catch us. His knees can’t take it.” Phil looked at the limo with a calculating eye.
The black limo finally came to a stop with a loud AAAOOOOGAH! blast from the horn. Oh good, I thought, novelty with options. Phil’s friend Doug burst up through the sunroof, howling his own version of the horn. “Let’s get this party started!” he bellowed.
Phil made some kind of wolf howl of his own, and for the first time, butterflies flapped their wings in my stomach. I was about to go to prom with a bunch of jocks and their girlfriends. This was not my crowd. This wasn’t even my species. What had I gotten myself into?
The back door opened, and I caught a glimpse of brightly colored dresses and a whole lot of legs before my view was completely obscured by Troy, hauling himself from the depths of the backseat.
“What’s up, you guys?” He grinned, his face pink. “Heart, you look really pretty.”
“Thanks.”
“Here.” My dad’s big hand thrust into view, holding out the treat bag. “From Colleen.”
“Dad . . . ,” I protested weakly. “Can you put it in the house for me?”
“She said you’d need this stuff.”
“Firecrackers and whiskey?” Phil said hopefully, taking the little Baggie and shaking it.
“What?” Troy was watching the whole exchange with unfocused eyes, and it occurred to me that he might have been drinking. I wasn’t surprised, per se, but it did seem a little early for bleary-eyed confusion. The sun was still up, for heaven’s sake.
“Oh, wait—I have a corsage for you, Heart.” He looked back toward the limo, as if wondering how the flowers had escaped him.
“Never mind. We gotta get going.” Phil tossed the bag from Colleen to Dad without another glance. “I don’t need this, Pop.”
Our dad was at a loss, holding Phil’s care package. I didn’t have the heart to make him take mine back, too. Colleen might be a real pain sometimes, but she was family, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, even if she’d never find out about it. Unfortunately, I had no convenient place to stash my goodie bag. My small beaded clutch purse was just big enough for my phone, the vintage cigarette case I used as a wallet, and my lip gloss. Apparently, designers from the past didn’t realize cell phones would be taking up prime purse real estate. Imagine.
“Aren’t I supposed to take pictures or something?” Dad patted his pockets, like he expected to find a camera miraculously waiting in one of them. A tape measure was a much more likely candidate.
“We’re doing that at Tara’s house.” Phil’s girlfriend was our last scheduled pickup for the night.
“Oh. Okay.” Dad tucked his thumbs through his belt loops and shrugged. “I guess you should go then.”
I darted in to give him another quick hug. “We’ll show you pictures tomorrow.”
“Have fun tonight, sweetheart.” He gave me a rough kiss on the temple. “Call me if you need me to come get you or anything.”
I rolled my eyes but patted him on the shoulder. “Dad, I won’t get into trouble, okay?”
“Let’s go!” a female voice called from inside.
Phil thwacked me in the back with his hand. “Come on, Heart.”
Wiggling my fingers at my dad, I followed Phil into the depths of the limo.
What followed could have been filmed by National Geographic for a special on the Mating Rituals of the American Jock. A bunch of guttural grunting, high fives, and ass slapping from the males in the car, squealing and giggling from the girls accompanied by some flirtatious adjusting of their brightly colored dresses, which might as well have been exotic feathers on birds. Someone passed Phil a flask before the doo
r was even closed, which he passed to me as Troy wedged himself into a seat.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Who cares?” One of the girls, Randi, laughed.
I sniffed at the neck of the flask and tried not to wince when my eyes started watering.
“Bottoms up!” Troy grinned.
I pressed it against my lips and tipped it back, but didn’t let any of the liquid into my mouth. Still, my tongue burned when I licked my lips afterward. I grimaced for effect and passed the flask to Troy.
“Take it easy, lightweight,” Phil said. He knew I didn’t run with a drinking crowd. Not up to the level of Phil and his friends, anyway. Of course, there are probably Russians in rehab who couldn’t outdrink Phil and his friends. At least with the limo, I knew I wasn’t going to get the call to come pick my brother up at some godforsaken hour of the night because he was too drunk to drive. Not that I’d had to do that a few dozen times or anything.
“I’m fine,” I told him.
Troy took a pull from the neck and passed it on before handing me an oddly geometric plastic box with a corsage inside. It was made up of several orange flowers with black ribbons—our school colors—and a small plastic charm dangling from the middle of the bow, like something you’d see on a kid’s birthday cake. I flipped the white disk over to see a snarling tiger’s face.
“Cool, huh?” Troy asked. “I didn’t know they had mascot stuff.”
I smiled weakly. “Me either.” A tiger? He got me a plastic tiger to put around my wrist? I hated to be ungrateful, but come on. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Go Tigers, right?” He beamed. He actually beamed. It was adorably clueless.
I slipped it over my wrist, sneaking a look at the other girls’ flowers. I was the only one with a school-spirit-themed monstrosity. I pressed my lips together to stifle a laugh. Maybe that was the risk a girl took going to prom with a big oaf like Troy. At least he was a lovable oaf.
The limo took a right turn, sending us all wobbling in our seats. As I shifted to regain my balance, my little cellophane treat bag from Aunt Colleen fell to the floor.
