by Denise Dietz
“I’ll call Uncle Sam. He’ll talk to you and—”
“Samuel Curtis may give you expensive presents, young lady, but . . .” Carolyn Anne took a deep breath. “Go to your room and don’t come down until I say you can.”
Later, Samantha said, “You were a big help, Delly-Dog. Why didn’t you stick by me?”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything. Mom says she’s sorry she didn’t attend college. She says Daddy always wanted to go but couldn’t afford it.”
“I think Mom married Daddy so she wouldn’t have to go to college.”
“Get real, Sami. Would you marry to avoid school?”
“Maybe. It all depends. I’d marry Drew Florentino.”
“But you said Drew’s stuck on himself and—”
“He is. I was only kidding.”
“No, you weren’t. Drew ditched you, right?”
“Maybe we broke up because I wouldn’t go all the way. Maybe I told him I wanted to wait until my sister found somebody. Maybe he thought that was stupid.”
“It is stupid.”
“A promise is a promise, Delly. I’m gonna stay a virgin till you fall in love.”
Delly wanted to hug her twin. Sami was into gratification, not self-sacrifice, and refusing Drew Florentino must have been a huge sacrifice. Delly had never met him. Sami had never brought him home because, she said, Mom would ground her for life.
Samantha tossed her mane of thick, palomino hair. “I’ll call Uncle Sam, reverse the charges.”
Samuel did talk to Carolyn Ann, but couldn’t change her mind. “Enjoy high school,” he told his namesake, “and worry about college later.”
During their senior year, Samantha played Kim in Bye, Bye, Birdie, Eliza in My Fair Lady, and Emily in Our Town. Delly was cast as “chorus” in the first two and as “townsperson” in the last one, even though, writing her Anissa-letters, she starred in them all.
I guess I will be Delilah Old before I get a leading role, she thought. But she was wrong.
“I’m finally going to star in a school production, Uncle Sam,” Delly said over the phone. “And with Jules Perry. Jules is a guard on the basketball team, president of the senior class, editor of the school yearbook, and he picked me to write the senior play with him and gave me the best part, just because we did that English assignment on Chaucer together. He even asked me to the prom. I must be dreaming. Pinch me, Uncle Sam.”
“I can’t reach you from Chicago, sweetheart. Right now, this very minute, I’m writing a check for your prom dress.”
Samantha suggested they shop together.
“No, thanks, I vant to be alone,” Delly said, mimicking Garbo. She selected a pastel-green strapless gown in an empire style. It hid her chunky waist and hips, exposed her creamy shoulders, and gave her small breasts additional cleavage. The color even turned her eyes a darker green. She thought about cutting her hair, but Sami had once said that boys liked long hair, so she simply brushed the red-brown strands till they were static-crisp.
I look pretty, she thought, wishing Mom hadn’t flown to Chicago. An emergency. Nana had caught pneumonia. Gosh, Mom would have kittens if she could see Sami’s dress.
As usual, Samantha had chosen to be daringly different. Her gown was an orange marmalade taffeta sheath. Tiny ruffles flared at the bottom. A built-in bra pushed her breasts up, almost, but not quite above the fitted bodice. The gown wasn’t cheap, and didn’t look cheap, but Samantha Gold shimmered like a fiery sun in the midst of the other girls’ pastel-cloud dresses.
Through the magic of lighting and crepe paper, the old gym enhanced the theme OVER THE RAINBOW.
Jules looked handsome in a black tux with red silk lining. Despite his grace on the basketball court, he was an awkward dancer and preferred to mingle with his friends at the punch bowl. Delly dismissed the nagging notion that Jules had invited her so he could be near Sami.
Sami’s date, Neely McIntyre, another guard on the basketball team, wore a dark blue tux with a light blue ruffled shirt. Neely’s real name was Cornelius, which he hated. Some kids called him Corny, but not to his face.
Neely’s a fabulous dancer, thought Delly, switching partners with Sami.
“I’m pretty,” Delly whispered, gazing at her reflection in the restroom mirror. “How far should I let Jules go tonight? A French kiss? First base? Second base?”
Her reflection nodded.
“Have you seen your sister?” Neely asked, after Delly emerged from the bathroom.
He looked angry, and Neely angry wasn’t a pretty sight. She swallowed and said, “I thought Sami was with you.”
“She was, but I had to take a whiz and now I can’t find her.”
“Where’s Jules?”
“I don’t know. Do you think they’re together?”
Neely and Delly checked the dance floor, then the parking lot. Jules’s Corvette was missing.
“Maybe Sami felt sick and Jules drove her home,” Delly suggested.
“I’ll bet they went on ahead to Artie Ruben’s party, a joke on us. C’mon, Delly. My car ain’t no ’Vette but it runs good.”
Artie Ruben’s finished basement overflowed with cast-off furniture, folding chairs, and kids. The ceilings and walls were covered with the same crepe paper used at the gym; Artie had been on the decorating committee. Bottles of beer and empty glasses had already left wet stains on table tops. An entire wall of stereo equipment blasted out Simon and Garfunkle’s “Bridge Over Troubled Waters.” Delly’s stomach hurt from the thundering of too much bass and the fact that Sami and Jules did not appear in the crowded basement. Or the small cubicle with furnace and water heater. Or the laundry room.
“What the hell,” said Neely. “Let’s have some fun. Want to dance?”
Wish I could leave, Delly thought later. She had phoned the house twice but no one answered. Maybe Sami really was sick. Maybe she’d passed out.
I don’t like this party. My corsage fell off and got trampled. Neely will think I’m a baby if I ask him to take me home. What if Sami and Jules got into an accident on the way to the party? Should I call the police? The hospitals? The house again?
“Here, Delly, try this,” Neely said, handing her a glass filled with a light amber liquid. He had removed his tux jacket and unbuttoned his shirt to the waist. “Tastes like iced tea.”
“It’s strong.”
“That’s the idea. How do you feel?”
“Fine.”
“You should get a rush soon. Here, drink mine. How do you feel?”
“I think I got a rush,” she said, eager to please him.
Leading her into the laundry room, he seated her on top of the washing machine. I’ll let him do what I planned to let Jules do, she thought. Neely looked a little like Warren Beatty and he danced better than Jules and he’d scored more during basketball season.
She felt Neely’s hands work the zipper at the back of her gown. He fondled her breasts. That feels sort of good, she thought, suddenly dizzy from the drinks and the touch of his fingers on her nipples.
He eased her down so that her head hung over one side of the machine. Uncomfortable, she struggled to rise.
“Don’t move, this’ll only take a minute,” Neely mumbled, unzipping his fly.
Rolling sideways, Delly slid off the washer and zipped up her dress.
Neely said, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. That’s as far as I go. Touching my, you know, first base.”
“I haven’t heard it called first base since P.S. 41.”
“I don’t care if you make fun of me,” Delly said—a big fat lie.
“Goddamn tease.”
“I want to go home. I don’t feel good.”
“Aw, Delly.” Neely looked confused. How come the ball didn’t fall through the hoop? “Oh, I get it. You ain’t on the pill, right? Look, you can go down on me.” He grabbed a clean undershirt from a folded pile of laundry. “I’ll come in this, not your mouth, I promise.”
“You�
��re disgusting, Neely McIntyre.”
“Your sister don’t think I’m disgusting.”
“You’re a big fat liar!”
“Am I? The only reason I took Samantha to the prom was because she promised she’d blow me afterwards.”
“The only reason? You’ve been dating for weeks.”
“Yeah, but we broke up. Samantha wanted to get married.”
“Now I know you’re lying. We’re both enrolled at Hofstra College.”
“Listen, Delly, your sister thought I was real good. If you ain’t on the pill I’ll pull out before—”
“No. Take me home.”
“Take yourself home. You’re a charity case, you fat bitch. Jules felt sorry for you. He said so, and—”
“Your fly’s open, Cornelius.” Delly fled from the laundry room, ran across the basement, found a door, and stumbled outside. Leaning against a red Chevy, she began to cry.
“Delly, what’s the matter?” Artie Ruben approached from the direction of the vibrating party room.
“I want to go home.”
“I’ll drive you home. That’s my car you’re crying on.”
“Can’t drive, it’s your party.”
“Nobody’ll miss me.”
Artie pulled her into the circle of his arms, lifted her gown, cupped her buttocks, and ran his first finger beneath her panty girdle’s elastic.
“Stop it, Artie,” she protested. “That tickles.”
As he continued exploring, he laughed, and Delly, still a tad woozy, thought she heard the echo of his laughter, which sounded like the Oz Munchkins. Then she was consumed by a shameful sensation that blocked out all sound. Her legs felt weak, her nipples felt taut, and her heart slammed against her chest.
“Give me a kiss, beautiful,” Artie said, licking her earlobe then the inside of her ear.
Beautiful? Artie was so nice. It would be easy to fall in love with him. She leaned into his tongue, which had practically reached her tympanic membrane. Her legs began to buckle, so she disconnected her ear from his tongue and gave him a French kiss, which was kind of germy when you thought about it, and who wanted to think about it?
He opened the Chevy’s door, guided her inside, and fumbled at her dress until her bodice fell down about her waist. Then, easing her across the back seat, he tugged at her panty girdle.
“I’m think I’m sort of drunk,” she cried.
“Don’t puke in my car, Delly. It’s brand new, a graduation present.”
She wished he’d say something a little more romantic.
“Are you ready?” he shouted.
“Don’t yell, Artie, you’re making my head spin.”
“Sorry,” he said, unzipping his fly.
After Artie drove her home and said he’d call, she entered the house and checked the bedroom she shared with her sister.
Empty.
Shedding her rumpled prom dress, she filled the tub with steamy water and pink bubble bath. Southern Comfort perched on the sink. “I don’t feel any different,” she told the cat. “A little sore. Okay, a lot sore. It took ten minutes. First base, second base, third base, home plate. Big deal.”
Naked, she sat at her desk and began to compose a letter to Anissa.
Tonight I went to the prom with the most popular boy in school, got sort of drunk, and did it and screw
She hesitated, then crumpled the piece of stationary. She wanted to keep “it” a secret, and anyway she had a feeling her pen-pal days were over. Why write to Anissa when she had Artie? Why spend her time on a long-distance girlfriend when she’d finally found a boyfriend?
With that last thought, she curled up on her bed and fell asleep.
An insistent telephone woke her. Sunlight streamed through her bedroom window. She smelled her mother’s roses as she stumbled down the hallway, reached for the phone’s extension, and remembered the seemingly innocent ring-a-ling four years ago. The day her daddy died. The day the music died. Was Mom dead? Nana? Sami?
She said hello, listened, and made the Western Union operator repeat the message twice.
“Do you want the telegram delivered, Miss?”
“D-liver D-letter D-sooner D-better,” Delly chanted. “D my name is Ugly Duckling and my sister’s name is Dirt. We come from the devil and in our baskets we carry diarrhea.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, I want it delivered. I’ll paste it inside my scrapbook, next to Sami’s collection of Robert Wagner movie magazine pictures.”
After the operator hung up, Delly struck a cheerleader’s pose. “If I could sleep with Robert Wagner just once, I’d never ask for anything again,” she said, her voice accurately mimicking Sami’s. “I’ve already slept with Drew Florentino and Neely McIntyre, Mom, because I thought you’d want me to be nice to them.”
An hour later Delly stared down at the beige-yellow piece of paper. Slowly, she traced the black print with her index finger. There were ten words, no more, no less. Sami had developed a sudden sense of frugality. The telegram read: GO TO COLLEGE FOR BOTH OF US. ELOPED WITH JULES.
Chapter Three
Horse sense is what keeps horses from betting on what people will do.
Delly’s daddy had said that, just before he lost the biggest gamble of his life by pitting his camera against a sniper’s gun.
On the other hand, Artie Ruben won fifteen dollars by screwing Samantha Gold’s dumpy sister. How could he prove it? Easy. Several kids listened to his are-you-ready and her sharp, pain-filled cry, and the news spread faster than an epidemic of teenage mononucleosis.
Delly wanted to die. But first she wanted revenge. She had read Mario Puzo’s The Godfather. Her godfather, Samuel Curtis, was Jewish rather than Italian. However, he had enough money to hire an assassin. Did she really want to see Artie assassinated? You bet! Would jail be worth killing him herself? Yes! But it might upset Mom.
It was smarter to bide her time until she could make Artie an offer he couldn’t refuse. Revenge, she decided, tasted sweeter than dessert.
So she dieted. With Sami gone, Delly found it easy to follow a balanced food program. She cultivated a golden tan, cut her hair just below her shoulder blades, and brushed the thick strands three hundred strokes every night. And she began to lather daily with an expensive, lemon-scented soap.
She hated exercise but loved to swim, so she added pool laps to her summer regime, trimming inches of “baby fat” from her thighs and rib cage.
After weeks of procrastination, she visited Sami, who was sallow with early morning nausea. Sami’s palomino mane looked brittle and her large breasts sagged.
The sisters made awkward small talk. Then Sami said, “You look terrible, Dell, thin as a stick.”
“I know. Pregnancy must be fun, Sami. You don’t have to worry about what you eat. Can . . . may I borrow your prom dress?”
“Are you kidding? I’m two inches taller.”
“One and a half. I’ll cut the ruffles off the bottom. The dress can’t possibly fit you and after childbirth they say your figure changes. There’s a pool club party next week and I don’t have a thing to wear.”
Samantha’s eyes sparked. “Might as well have fun while you can, Delly-Dog. Don’t you start college soon? Study, study, study. Do you honestly believe you’ll star in college plays? Without me, you might not even be cast.”
“You’re probably right, but it doesn’t matter. Mom and I reached a compromise. I’m attending college part time, at night. During the day I’ll commute to the city and take acting lessons. I don’t have your natural talent for pretending, Sami, but I can learn. Gee, you look upset. Settle down. It’s not good for Jules Junior. Or is it Neely Junior? Now you look pale. Was it something I said?”
August arrived. Hurricane Celia swept across the Gulf Coast and New York commiserated with rainy days. At long last, the weather cleared, settling into the somnolence of late summer. The pool would close after Labor Day, so Delly took advantage of the few remaining afternoons of sunshi
ne. Her arms cut through the turquoise-tinted water while the lifeguard, on a break, nibbled at her toes like a piranha.
Her one-piece bathing suit had looked conservative in the department store. With a deep slit down the front, its shimmering white material became almost transparent when wet. Delly escaped from the lifeguard, toweled her body, moisturized her face, wriggled onto a cushioned chaise lounge, then twisted her hair into a knot and covered it with a Mets baseball cap.
A shadow hid the sun and somebody said, “Delly Gold? Is that you?”
“Artie Ruben. Hi.”
“You look great.”
“Thanks.” Delly studied her prom-night lover from beneath her cap’s visor. Inside his tight stretchy bathing trunks, his you-know was practically saluting her. Grinning wickedly, she turned sideways so that her suit’s front slit revealed more than it concealed.
Artie hunkered down. “I meant to call, Delly, honest, but I worked all summer at a camp in Pennsylvania and I just got back. Did anybody say, I mean, did the kids say anything about—”
“Your graduation party? Gosh, there was so much excitement after my sister’s elopement I sort of lost track. Did you leave for camp right away?” At his nod, she said, “I did hear one thing.”
“What? What did you hear?”
“Neely McIntyre gave Micki Bloch a few drinks before he practically carried her into the laundry room. Someone said Neely promised not to come in her mouth. Micki was almost comatose, but she gagged and threw up on Neely. His tux was ruined.”
“Yeah. Poor Neely.” Artie mopped his brow with his wrist. “You sure look great, Delly.”
“Did I look so un-great before?”
“No. Just different. You’ve lost—”
“My suntan lotion. There it is, near your foot.” Scooping up the bottle, she slathered lotion between her thighs.
“I really had a good time,” said Artie, watching her hands. “I think about it a lot. Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Have a good time at my party.”
“Artie, I was upset. I cried.”
“Yeah, but later, inside the car.”
