by Laura Preble
“Hey.” She gives me a squeeze and reaches for a crab puff. “Great food. Too bad you weren’t here to help set it up.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. I forgot something at home, then came right back. Bad timing. Anyway, you look amazing.” I can’t dwell on my failures at this point. I reach for some quiche-like tart thing and swallow it in one gulp. I realize I’m actually pretty hungry since I haven’t really eaten anywhere. “And Jon? Nice foil.”
“I’m trying to start a trend toward recycled fashion,” he says, flipping the hair out of his eyes.
“The movie’s going to start in a little while. Want to get a seat?” Amber asks. I check the rows of chairs set up under the screen, and notice that they’re starting to fill up. “Sure. It’s going to be a great movie, huh? Has Becca’s dad said anything about it?”
Elisa pops up between us. “Just that it’s scary, and that we’ll all probably be wetting our pants before it’s over.” She reaches over with both hands and grabs a few snacks in each. Naveen is with her, and she also stuffs his outstretched hands full of snacks.
“You must keep up your strength,” he says. “You scare easily.” She rewards him with a kiss on the nose and a crab puff in his mouth.
The music abruptly cuts off and Becca’s voice booms from the speakers. “Attention! Please take your seats for the world premiere of Melvin Gallagher’s epic horror film, The Drainpeople!”
Kids scream, hoot, holler, and scramble for the rows of seats set up so they have perfect access to the jumbo screen and speakers. It’s getting a bit chilly, so I see guys putting their coats (or fur jackets, or shredded denim, or long vampire capes) on their dates, and more than a few huddle together under one coat. Becca’s dad hired private security to patrol the perimeter, and I notice a few of them are also acting as the moral police, too, separating kids who seem to be getting a little too warm. I guess Melvin doesn’t want any babies named after him.
The lights dim, and an image resolves on the screen: a pair of wild eyes staring out from between two old, moldy plumbing pipes. Creepy electronic music fades in, and the wild eyes move, watching us as they peer from gaps in the plumbing.
There’s enough light for me to see where I’m going, plus enough of a crowd still standing behind the seating area that I can mingle and pretend like I’m watching the movie. As I slowly drift toward the exit, Naveen and Elisa grab me by either arm.
“Hey, we know you’re on your own tonight, so why don’t you come sit with us?” Naveen says, wrapping a tuxedo jacket over my shoulders. “And you look cold. Let’s find some hot chocolate and we’ll all go have a good scream together.”
“In fact,” Elisa adds as they walk me toward the seating area, “we were just talking about how dedicated you are, and how much you deserve a fun night out, and all you’ve been doing is working. I know you missed most of the first part of this thing, so come on and enjoy yourself!”
Drat. I had almost made a clean escape. How to thwart the well-meaning sympathy of friends who think I’m desperately single? What else? “Uh . . . tell me where you’re sitting. I need to use the bathroom.”
“Oh,” Elisa says, “we already have seats. I’ll go with you. Naveen, can you get the drinks?”
“Of course,” he answers, bending low and kissing her hand. She twitters and throws me a self-satisfied grin.
So now I’m on the hook for the bathroom visit. What do I do? Tell her I’m secretly a guy and need to use the other bathroom? What else could take me away for a moment . . . something important, something solitary . . . “Oh!” I stop short. “My phone’s buzzing. It’s probably my dad . . . he’s out of town, so I really should take this. He’s probably worried about me.”
Elisa cocks her head to the side, puzzled. “I don’t hear anything.”
“Super-silent vibration setting. Only dogs and I can hear it. ’Scuse me.” I duck past her, frantically fishing for my cell phone in the little bag, hoping I look important and hurried.
When I reach the actual exit, two shaved-head security goons stand guard. “Are you leaving, miss?” one asks in a rumbly, Mount Rushmore kind of voice.
“Uh . . . I need to go to my car for a minute. My dad is on the phone and needs . . . a car thing.”
Security Guard Two studies me suspiciously. “A car thing?”
“Look, don’t you have a hand stamp or something, like Disneyland? I’ll be right back, I promise.”
“Sorry, miss. No reentry once you’ve exited the event.” They both stand, arms crossed, little black communication buds in their ears, the Geek Gestapo.
“Fine.” I brush past them, and say, sarcastically, “Have a nice night.”
My blood pressure is skyrocketing due to the run-in with Dumb and Dumber, and I rush toward the Volvo, hoping my lungs hold out. They’re not made for track-and-field events, after all.
Euphoria squeaks as I yank open the car door. “You startled me! I thought you’d given up on this back-and-forth ridiculousness.” She bleeps and checks her time display. “You were actually in there for nearly forty-five minutes!”
“Great,” I mutter, starting the engine. According to the dashboard display, it’s 8:35. Pulling away from the curb, I imagine what Fletcher must be thinking: How can any girl spend that much time in the bathroom?
I get back to the hotel, take another parking ticket, listen to more of Euphoria’s disapproval, find a spot even farther away than last time, and dash for the hotel’s Dumpster, my home away from home. Luckily, the piece of wood is still jammed in the doorway, so I slip in unnoticed.
I dodge into the bathroom, hoping that I don’t look as bad as I feel. Surprisingly, my hair is holding up pretty well, but my makeup needs a touch-up, which is not surprising considering I’ve done the equivalent of a semester’s worth of gym class in one night. I spritz on more perfume, too, to camouflage any Dumpster residue, and go on the hunt for my date.
The ballroom is now crammed full of kids, although I don’t think it’s as full as Geek Prom, which makes me secretly happy. Bass-thumping music bounces off the Mardi Gras masks strung around the room, and I imagine them bouncing in time to the music, doing a bodiless boogie. I check my watch: almost nine. The movie will be over at about ten, so I figure I’m safe till about 9:45, then I have to get out of here. All the more reason to find Fletcher fast.
“Can I have your attention?” The music stops, and an officious female voice booms through the hall. “It’s that time, everybody. Time to announce your choice for prom king and queen!” Somewhat enthusiastic applause works its way around the group. I have a feeling most people would rather keep dancing. “Could the nominees please come forward?” I try to find the source of the voice: It’s Samantha Singer, student government puppet extraordinaire, and by her side, my neighbor, Briley.
Well, at least I’ve found Fletcher. He and Carl trot up onto the stage like fine show dogs, and stand with three other worthy contenders for the title of Most Popular Guy. Five equally fabulous girls line the other side of the stage, and all but one are blond. Is there some conspiracy going on here?
Under the scattering of multicolored diamond lights swirling like confetti from a huge disco ball in the ceiling, the crowd takes on a magical appearance of people watching a virtual parade. I guess that makes Fletcher a Macy’s parade float. “And the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” Briley says breathlessly. “Your prom queen and her king are . . . Delilah Merryweather and Jeff Suaros!” Applause fills the ballroom, spiced with some hoots and hollers as Delilah and Jeff are crowned and take the dance floor in a show of graceful royalty. Fletcher dashes off the stage like his pants are on fire and makes a beeline for me.
“Where’ve you been?” He flicks at the sleeve of my green gown. “And what’s this? Where’s the blue dress?”
“Oh, this old thing?” I laugh as musically as I can. “Well, I had a mishap with the blue dress. There was this cleaning lady in the bathroom, and she had a vat full of bleach, and I just happened to
slip in the heels, and then—” As I speak, Fletcher turns in response to a tap on his shoulder. Samantha is standing there, perfect in a sleek white gown that shows off her gorgeous tan.
“Hi there, Fletcher. Shelby.” My name is more an afterthought, like something nasty that’s left in your mouth after eating a rich dessert. “Fletcher, I was wondering: Could I impose on you and your . . . date . . . for a moment? I need someone to dance with to get a picture for yearbook, and Jeff is obviously busy.” She gestures demurely to where Jeff is dancing politely with Delilah beneath their ponderous rhinestone crowns.
“Uh—” He looks to me to see if I approve or if I will send a heat-seeking missile his way. I smile my most compassionate, understanding smile, and nod. Relief floods his face, and he smiles back, takes Samantha’s hand, and walks her to the dance floor, all the while watching me.
When his face is enveloped in fuzzy blond Samantha hair, I bolt for the back door. If I hurry, I can still get back before the movie’s over.
“What time is it?” I pant as I yank open the car door one more time.
“Well, hello, stranger. At the tone, the time will be 10:13 exactly.” Euphoria emits an obnoxious bleep that hurts my ears.
“Crap! I’m late!” I rev up the Volvo engine, dig through my purse for the remaining twenty dollars, and maneuver through the parking lot toward the little kiosk. Once again I am behind someone who cannot drive; the bumper stickers on the Toyota in front of me read, “Stop and Smell the Roses” and “One Day at a Time.” Judging by how long it takes the person to get the money out, I’d say they are living the life their bumper wants them to have.
We finally get on the road, and I’m desperate—not only will Fletcher be wondering where the hell I went, but so will the Queen Geeks. “Euphoria, I’m gonna speed it up. I need to get back to the drive-in.” I push my foot to the pedal, and feel the Volvo accelerate like a beast released from its cage. Okay, well, it’s more like an old hound dog whose leash gets a little slack, but either way, we speed up.
“Shelby, I think this is a good time to tell you—”
“Not now, Euphoria! I’m trying to concentrate!” I peer at the freeway, trying to gauge the traffic ahead to see if I need an alternate route.
“But, Shelby, I really do think—”
“Can it! Can’t you see I’m doing something important?” Irritating robot. I only brought her along so I wouldn’t be totally alone, but I’m thinking now that alone would have been a good thing.
“But—”
“Don’t make me pull this car over!” I yell. Just then the red-and-blue lights of a police car, accompanied by the heart-stopping shriek of a siren, causes me to launch into a panic attack.
I do, in fact, pull the car over. Like I have a choice.
Arrest and jail time seem imminent. I wonder if juvenile hall gets the Sci-Fi Channel? Or any channel, other than professional wrestling? “What am I going to do?” I whimper, turning in my seat to look at Euphoria for guidance.
She’s turned herself off. No lights, no sounds, just a big lump of metal in a caftan and a pillbox hat. I’m sure that won’t look suspicious.
I hear the crunch of boots on gravel, and will myself to disappear, but I don’t. A tap on the window startles me, even though I expect it. Rolling down the window, I try my best to age quickly.
“Good evening, Officer,” I say sweetly. “Nice night for a drive, huh?”
“License and registration.” He clearly has no sense of humor. I make a show of digging in the glove compartment, rooting through papers and such, throwing things onto the floor of the car.
“I’m so sorry,” I say pathetically, “but our car was just broken into yesterday, and I think they took all the paperwork, and they took my purse, which had my license in it. I’m waiting for a replacement right now.” I keep riffling through the papers, trying to avoid eye contact. “I just got my license, too, that’s the shame of it. Stolen barely a month after I get it. That’s not right, huh? Criminals these days. They have no respect for anything.”
“Miss, could you step out—” He stops cold, his focus on the passenger seat. “Uh . . . what is that?”
“Oh, that?” I gesture to Euphoria. “That’s Aunt Effie. I’m transporting her to the hospital. She’s had a stroke or something. See how she’s unresponsive?”
“Hello,” Euphoria bleeps, causing both myself and the cop to jump. “Nice to meet you, Officer Rodriguez.”
The policeman looks confused for a minute, then realizes his name is stitched on his uniform. “Right. Could you please step out—”
My teacher once told me that teenagers’ brains don’t fully develop until their twenties or so, and the last thing to get fully baked is the common sense part of the brain. I do something at that moment that I can only explain as the result of under-cooking.
I turn on the car, peel out onto the freeway, and speed away like somebody out of an action movie. The cop is so dazed that he just stands there for a minute, his ticket pad in hand. At least, I think that’s what’s going on. It’s hard to tell from so far away.
“Yee-hah!” Euphoria screeches. “We’re takin’ these pineapples to Hawaii and no one is gonna stop us!”
“What does that mean?” I swerve in and out of lanes, dodge slow vehicles, pass fast vehicles. I glance every second or so into the rearview mirror to see if I’m being pursued, but I see nothing.
I rip along the route, now familiar, and finally park the car on a dark street a block from the drive-in. I cover the rear license plate with a tree branch snapped from a pine (subtle!), and use a paper napkin soaked with water to cover the front plate. “Thanks for covering for me,” I mutter to Euphoria as I dash toward the fence of the drive-in. I can’t get in the regular way (no hand stamp, remember?) so I will most likely have to go over the fence.
I can tell from the thump of music that the movie is over. I find a spot around the back of the perimeter where a few boxes are stacked, and so I climb up to check out the scene. No guards here . . . I guess nobody would be stupid enough to jump over the fence of a free event.
Wow! Hundreds of kids are dancing on the wooden floor, a light show plays madly across the screen in flashes of red, magenta, blue, gold; in general, everyone is having a fantastic time. I grab the wooden fence, breaking a couple of fingernails along the way, and heave myself up and over, where I unceremoniously land on a stack of empty cardboard boxes, rip my dress to the thigh, and break a heel.
I limp toward the festivities, realizing, of course, that everyone is going to know that this has not been a normal night for me. At least no one knows my plan.
The snack table, which is pretty picked over, beckons me. The caterers seem to have abandoned it. The only things left are disposable plates and cups; a few isolated, lonely munchies; and three gallon jugs of water, one of which I instantly grab and chug.
In a corner near the snack table, two shadows tangle: one is lumpy with an oversized foot, and the other has a rat’s nest beehive hairdo. Just as I’m trying to figure out who it is, somebody charges over and knocks a near-empty table on end, scattering paper plates and cheese puffs.
“This is how you repay me for my kindness? You kiss the ashtray lady?” Thea screeches as she grabs one of the shadowy figures and hauls him into the light. Melvin stands sheepishly, shrugging his shoulders. Behind him, Maggie the Honeymoon Reject lady who runs the theater dabs at her lipstick and grins.
“Honey, don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Maggie croaks. “It is a drive-in, after all. Groping is always on the menu.”
Thea narrows her eyes and focuses on Melvin. “I trusted you.”
“Oh, honey, don’t take it so hard,” Melvin says, shaking his head. “It’s just business.”
Thea grabs one of the jugs of water from the table, dumps it all over Melvin’s head, and says, “And so is this.” She stomps off, leaving Melvin dripping and Maggie laughing hysterically.
“How’d you like the movie?” Becca as
ks from behind me. I whirl around mid-chug, and she’s standing there, arms folded righteously across her chest.
“Uh,” I say poetically as I wipe the water from my lips.
Now Amber sidles up to me. “What did you think of the graveyard scene?”
“Well, I thought it was very effective,” I say, bluffing.
“Ah-ha! There was no graveyard scene!” Elisa stabs her finger into my chest.
Evie pops up next, looking hip in tight black pants and a beaded raspberry camisole. “We’re about to switch on the virtual Geek Prom cams,” she says. “We’re really glad you made it in time to check that part out, at least.”
The music fades out; the lights on the screen dim. Six giant-sized video screens come to life all around the dance floor, and one by one, static clears and faces appear. The kids on the dance floor jump, hoot, and send up a deafening cheer that could probably have been heard around the world even without satellite equipment.
From one of the screens, a dark-haired Asian girl in combat fatigues says, “Greetings from Tokyo! We’re here to dance the night away with our Geek friends in the U.S.!” Music explodes from the screen, and a mass of bodies floods the Japanese dance floor. A red-haired girl with freckles and skin the color of milk comes to the front of the next screen, and in a thick Scottish accent, says “Hello from Glasgow! We’re in the Highlands and ready to party!” Kids, mostly redheads, whirl into view. On screen three, a blonde who sounds a lot like Evie waves and says, “Hi, Evie! Jillian here, from Sydney! Greetings from Down Under!” More teenagers flood that screen, too; combined with our own group, it looks like thousands are dancing in infinite perspectives. It’s like seeing a series of mirrors reflecting each others’ images: From our own wooden dance floor to dance floors all around the world, to wherever else in the universe people might decide to dance in cool clothes and comfortable shoes, we’re all one mighty Geek nation.
