“Oh, hello, Marvin,” she said. “Come in!” He thanked her and stepped into the house. “What a nice suit,” she said. “Is the rumpled look back in?”
“At least for tonight,” Marvin said.
“Foofie will be down in a minute,” Mrs. Curie said. “She’s been upstairs all afternoon making herself beautiful.”
“I can imagine that would take some time,” Marvin said.
“Have a seat in the living room,” Mrs. Curie said. “I’ll go get her.”
Marvin sat down on the sofa, which was upholstered in an off-white fabric. He stared at the family photos above the mantelpiece while he waited. Most prominent were the photographs that showed Fatima from year to year as she was growing up, each with increasing layers of mechanical gear: a picture of her sitting on the floor one Christmas, thick glasses on her nose, a toy educational computer in her hands, and tiny gleaming braces on her teeth; one of her at her first dance recital, her brace-encumbered leg held proudly out from her side in a ballet pose; one of her performing at a piano concert, shortly after the time she must have received her first set of headgear; and a photo of her “roughing it” on a family camping trip, with fifteen different mobile phones, GPS trackers, and computer gadgets clipped on to her fishing vest.
“What do you think?” Fatima’s voice called from behind him.
Marvin turned and stood up. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t hear you coming.” Then he stopped, dumbfounded. The girl standing at the foot of the staircase resembled Fatima, but only in the most superficial way. Her dark eyes gleamed out from a clear face, unencumbered by glasses. Her hair was pulled up into an elegant twist on top of her head, free for once of the tangling constraints of her oversize headgear, which was nowhere to be found. Her wrist was decorated with only a slim gold ladies’ watch; no calculator, no mobile phone, no music player. And he could see why he hadn’t heard her coming: The silhouette of her pale-blue dress showed that she had taken off her noisy, clanking knee brace for the evening.
“Wow,” Marvin said.
“Thanks,” Fatima said, smiling shyly, her small braces sparkling.
“Where’s your knee brace?” he asked.
“Oh, I can take it off for one night,” she said, “just so long as we don’t get too ‘jiggy’ with our dance moves.” Then she squinted at him closely. “Why are you all wet? Did you sit on our couch like that?”
Marvin glanced at the damp outline of his body on the sofa’s upholstery. “No?” he said lamely.
“Is it raining outside?” she asked.
“My mom had to steam the wrinkles out of my suit.”
“Well, she missed the wrinkles!”
“It was more wrinkled before.”
“How could it possibly be more wrinkled? You look like a shar-pei!”
Just then, Mrs. Curie came into the hallway with a camera. “Picture time!”
“Oh, good,” Marvin muttered. “I was hoping to immortalize this moment.”
Marvin gingerly pinned the corsage his mom had made to Fatima’s dress, without incident. He heaved a sigh of relief—then yelped as Fatima plunged a hatpin into his chest.
“Watch it!” Marvin said.
“Sorry,” Fatima said, holding his boutonniere and squinting. “I can’t see very well right now.”
“I thought you were wearing contacts!” Marvin said.
“I don’t own contacts,” Fatima said, blushing slightly. “My parents never thought I was old enough to have them.” She approached him with the pin and boutonniere once again.
She got it on the fourth try.
Fatima’s stepmother arranged the two of them for the photo, placing Marvin’s soggy arm around Fatima’s shoulders.
“That better not leave a mark on my dress,” Fatima whispered to Marvin through smiling, clenched teeth as the camera flashed.
For the students of Butcherville Middle School, there was never a night as marvelous and mystical as their first Harvest Dance. Marvin knew he would remember this night forever. It was the night he discovered how long it took pants to dry while wearing them. The answer: longer than you’d like. Marvin had been walking with his hands in his pockets all the way from Fatima’s house, but had to take them out when he discovered they were getting wrinkly from the dampness. Though his socks and underwear had been dry when he put them on, they were now thoroughly soggy, too, from contact with the wet pants. Worst of all, the suit’s wrinkles persisted. Marvin hoped that the darkness of the dance floor would hide the magnitude of his disarray.
As they walked up the driveway to school, Marvin and Fatima could feel the thumping of the bass and see flashing lights through the high windows of the cafetorium. Cars passed on their way to drop off kids at the school entrance. Marvin paid the other students little mind, focused as he was on his wet, chafing clothes. But just then, a horn honked behind them.
Marvin and Fatima turned to see the Uptons’ large black car pulling up beside them. “Hey, hot stuff,” Little Stevie said as he climbed out of the car. “What are you doing with my loser cousin? How much did he pay you to be his date? Oh wait, he can’t pay you. He’s poor.”
“Not all of us have to buy our friends, Stevie,” Fatima said.
A look of shock spread across Stevie’s face as he recognized her, but it quickly turned to amusement. “Hey! It’s nerd-bot! You look good without that lobster trap on your face.” Fatima blushed.
Amber Bluestone followed Stevie out of the car. “Oh, Stevie,” she said, “I’m sure that horrid girl doesn’t want your pity. It’s your cousin who deserves our pity. Can’t you see he’s distressed?” She looked at Marvin with false sympathy in her eyes. “Why the long face, sweetie? Is it your crappy suit?”
Marvin felt too defeated to come up with a smart response.
“Enough hobnobbing with the peasants,” Stevie said, taking Amber by the arm. “Our coronation awaits.”
Stevie and Amber cut past the line of students waiting to check in at the door, tossing a wink and a smile to the chaperones and entering immediately. After a few more minutes, Marvin and Fatima found themselves at the front of the line, where their librarian, Mrs. Goudy, was collecting tickets.
“Oh, hello, Marvin. Hello, Fatima,” she said, smiling. She checked their names off a list in front of her. “Do you have your tickets?”
“Not exactly,” Marvin said. “I sort of lost them.”
“You what?” Fatima said, turning on Marvin. “After all my reminders? You do know we need tickets to get in, right?”
“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” Marvin said. “Right, Mrs. Goudy?”
“Ohhhhh,” Mrs. Goudy said, the smile leaving her face. “I’m sorry, Marvin. We can’t let you in without a ticket.”
“But I bought the tickets from you,” Marvin said. “In person. And our names are on the list.”
“Marvin, Marvin, Marvin,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “I would love to let you in. But don’t you know that the rule of law is the only thing that separates man from beast? That distinguishes us from the Elephant Vampires of the world? Unless you have two dollars per person, I can’t let you through.”
Marvin eyed the line that was piling up behind them. “All right, well, I think I have enough.” He began to dig in his pants pockets, pulling out handfuls of mixed coins and dumping them out on the table.
“Oh, thank you, Marvin,” Mrs. Goudy said. “We needed more change.”
“I have a five right here—” Fatima tried to cut in.
“No, it’s all right,” Marvin said. “I’ve got it.”
The line continued to grow behind them, as did the angry murmurs. Marvin fished the last stray pennies out of his pocket and plunked them on the tabletop. “There,” he said. “Four dollars. You don’t have to count it.”
“Rule of law, Marvin, rule of law,” Mrs. Goudy said as she stacked the coins in small piles. She tallied them all, then paused. “I’m sorry, Marvin. That’s only three ninety-eight.”
�
��That’s disappointing,” Marvin said. Fatima hid her face in her hand.
Marvin turned his pocket inside out and saw that there was a tiny hole in the bottom.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “I think some of the coins may have fallen down into my shoe.” He pulled off his right shoe and began to peel the wet sock off his foot.
Mrs. Goudy held up her hand. “Three ninety-eight will be fine,” she said.
The mirrored disco ball splashed spinning droplets of light onto the dance floor, where a few brave souls were hopping in time to the music—a lively pop number. Others milled around and talked, while a number of shy students clustered in gender-segregated groups at either end of the cafetorium and eyed the opposite sex suspiciously. Chaperones—teachers and parents—mingled throughout the room, mostly ignoring the kids and chatting with one another. A long table covered with white linen and laded with hors d’oeuvres sat against the far wall; its centerpiece was a four-foot-tall sculpture of Mr. Piggly Winks, carved entirely out of Pork Loaf by Byron Potluck himself. Just overhead, pink and white streamers twisted lazily through the air, while far above, the ceiling’s beams and rafters were lost in shadow.
“So what do you want to do?” Marvin asked.
“I’m glad you asked,” Fatima said, pulling a folded-up piece of paper from her purse and handing it to Marvin. “Here’s the itinerary.”
Marvin unfolded the page and scanned it. It was a minute-by-minute schedule of the entire evening.
“Why don’t you read that and tell me where we stand,” she said. “I can’t see anything without my glasses. You’ll also, possibly, have to tell me where things are situated and who people are. But we can get to that later.”
“According to this, we’re already behind schedule,” Marvin said. “We should be well into the early up-tempo dancing by now.” He tucked the list into his pocket.
“Good,” Fatima said. “Have you practiced your dance moves?”
“I thought I’d just squirm around a little. How does that sound to you?”
“Fine. Fine,” she said, scanning the room with squinty eyes. “If I remember correctly, it goes up-tempo dancing, followed by exhilaration and slight breathlessness, then picture-taking, salty snacks, punch, schmoozing with likely voters, bathroom break, more up-tempo dancing, more exhilaration, slight sweating, I trip on the hem of my dress, you catch me gallantly, our eyes meet, we glimpse a possible future together, you moisten your lips, I smile slightly, the music slows, hearts flutter—”
“This is a gruesome blow-by-blow,” Marvin interrupted. “Where are you going with this?”
“Well, what’s on the list after ‘hearts flutter’?” Fatima asked.
“Um—” Marvin said, pulling out the list and looking closely at it again. “My damp suit sort of smeared the ink,” he said. “I guess we’ll have to improvise.”
Fatima sighed. “If you continue to behave like this, we don’t have a chance of being voted king and queen and beating your smug little cousin.”
“Behaving how?” he said. “Behaving wetly?”
“Let’s just dance,” she said.
They went out on the floor, dancing and squirming to a number of songs, before stopping to have their picture taken by the professional photographer. They sampled the various hors d’oeuvres, all of which were made with Pork Loaf, including pigs in blankets, Pork Loaf pâté on crackers, Pork Loaf fondue, and even edible flowers made from sculpted Pork Loaf fondant. Since they were still running behind schedule, Fatima decided they should combine agenda items, so she and Marvin sipped on their grape Pork Punch while they were schmoozing with their fellow voters.
“Who’s that?” Fatima whispered to Marvin.
“That’s Eugene Peters,” Marvin said.
“You mean Pee-Pee Peters?” Fatima said, wrinkling her nose. “Back in third grade, he was wetter than you are now.”
“I didn’t need to know that,” Marvin said.
“I just mean we have to concentrate our lobbying efforts on the power players and social connectors,” Fatima explained. “Who’s that?”
“That’s a folding chair,” Marvin said. “I think we can skip that one.”
“How about him?” Fatima asked, squinting.
“That’s Brett Rollingsford,” Marvin said.
“Perfect!” she said. “Take me over there.”
Marvin grabbed her elbow and steered her around people and furniture until they reached Brett, a tall, blond-haired soccer player who was chatting with several good-looking girls. He glanced up in some surprise at Marvin and Fatima.
“Hi, Brett!” Fatima said, smiling cheerfully.
“Uh, hi—” Brett said, clearly not recognizing her.
“It’s me, Fatima! Fatima Curie.”
“Um—”
“I’m the one who complains all the time in social studies class!”
“Oh!” he said. “Right. Hi.”
“As you know, I’ve been nominated for Harvest Queen this year.”
“Really?” Brett said. “Who nominated you?”
“Oh—admirers,” she said. “Anyway, I sure hope I can count on your vote tonight.”
“Why should I vote for you?” Brett asked.
“I think we can all agree that a Harvest Queen should have both beauty and brains,” Fatima said.
“Hunh,” Brett said noncommittally. “Never thought of that.”
“Well, you’re thinking now, Brett,” she said, “and that’s what counts.”
He glanced over at Marvin. “And who’s the wet mop?”
Marvin shifted uncomfortably. “I’m Marvin Watson. I’m her date, I guess.”
Brett eyed Marvin’s wrinkled suit for a long moment before turning to leave. “Hate to tell you this, sweetie, but that limp rag on your arm is holding you back.” He walked off with the other girls, who giggled and whispered as they went.
Fatima watched them, openmouthed, as they walked away.
“That’s enough of the campaign trail for me,” Marvin said. “I think I could use some more punch.”
“What? You can’t leave,” Fatima said, turning to face him. “You’re part of this ticket!”
“I don’t know how much more abuse I can take in a single night,” Marvin said. “And you don’t need me. You heard what he said—I’m just dragging you down.” He stared at his wrinkly sleeves and sighed. “I wouldn’t have even come in the first place—heaven knows I did everything I could to get out of it—but I knew this meant a lot to you. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“Well, you’re doing a really lousy job of it!” she said.
“Look, this isn’t my world,” Marvin said. “And it’s not yours, either. You may be able to take off the glasses and headgear, but underneath, you’re still you—and they know it.”
“Oh yeah?” Fatima shouted angrily. “Well, tonight I’m not me! I’m better than me! And I’m going to win that crown, with or without your help!” She turned and stormed off. Marvin watched as she started to introduce herself to another potential voter.
“You’re talking to a potted plant!” Marvin called to her.
“I knew that!” she said, flushing, and walked across the room, out of his sight.
Marvin, not sure where to turn, decided to visit the bathroom to gather his wits. After he had finished and washed up, he ran his hands underneath the hot-air dryer. It then occurred to him that hot air could dry more than just hands, and he began drying his suit. First one sleeve, then the other. Next the left pant leg, then the right. Eventually, he was shaking and wiggling his entire body beneath the warm jet of air like some wrinkly limbo dancer. He finally turned around completely to dry the seat of his pants, and discovered that someone had been waiting to use the dryer.
It was Lee. He stared stonily at Marvin, who was shaking his butt underneath the hot air.
“What happened?” Lee asked. “Did you fall in?”
“I—my suit—there were these—” Marvin stammered. “It’s a l
ong story.”
Lee walked up and wiped his hands dry on Marvin’s lapel. “You might need another minute under there now,” Lee said, then walked out the door.
“Lee, wait!” Marvin yelled, running after him.
He caught up to Lee in the hallway and ran in front of him to stop him from walking away. “Lee, I’m sorry,” Marvin said.
“Do you even know what you’re apologizing for, Marvin?” Lee asked.
“I’m sorry … that you’re mad at me?” Marvin responded lamely. Lee just rolled his eyes. “Well, what’s it going to take?” Marvin asked. “How long is this going to go on? Do you think you’ll get over it tonight? I don’t have anyone to hang out with here.”
“Sorry I’m ruining your plans,” Lee said. “What happened to your date?”
“Fatima?” Marvin said. “She’s too busy climbing the social ladder to hang out with the likes of us.”
“What us?” Lee said. “I only see me and you here. You proved that when you were willing to blow me up to get back at your cousin.” Lee stepped around Marvin and walked back toward the cafetorium.
Marvin watched him go. “You smell better!” he shouted.
Marvin stood alone in the hallway, recounting the evening’s misfortunes. Fatima had abandoned him in pursuit of fame. Lee wanted nothing to do with him. And most of the school thought of him as a laughingstock. Even the moths would no longer be on speaking terms with him when he returned home. Here he was, only weeks into the school year, left friendless and alone.
Marvin felt a chill go through his bones.
It was then that he realized his underwear was still slightly damp.
As he went back to dry his underwear, Marvin muttered to himself, “This night could not possibly get any lousier.” He brushed aside a large, hanging cobweb on his way into the bathroom.
“That kid is mentally unstable,” Abraham said as he hauled boxes out of Marvin’s room and into the moths’ old attic space. “Like all children.” He hadn’t stopped ranting since Marvin had stormed out. “The very idea that one of us is the Elephant Vampire. Preposterous! Sickening! Bigoted!”
Marvin and the Moths Page 14
