“I think the party is more about returning to school than saying goodbye to summer.”
“Just think, we’ll be in high school next year.” Amber scanned the area, her eyes landing on the huddle of neighborhood boys. “Should we say hello to our future classmates?”
“Amber, no,” I said, sinking my weight into a flimsy patio chair. Amber was my best friend, but utterly exhausting. She loved pestering boys. Brian always seemed part of that group, and I tried to avoid him even more in public than I did at home. “Let’s just go for a swim.”
“I’m not getting my hair wet.” She unwrapped her cover-up and slung it next to my chair. Her fuchsia bikini certainly made her look older than thirteen, which was always her goal.
“Why’d you wear a bathing suit if you’re not swimming?”
“Really, Della?” She yanked on my arm until I stood. Suddenly, we were standing next to Brian and his friends.
“Hey, guys,” Amber said, poking out her bony hip.
“How’s it going, girls?” asked Danny. He looked at me and smiled. Even then, he was the only boy in Brian’s clique who didn’t seem annoyed by my presence. Everyone else followed Brian’s orders.
“Hey,” Brian said. He spoke to Amber but looked at me.
Amber started talking with some of the other guys. I think they were more interested in the bikini than anything she said.
Brian yanked my elbow and pulled me a few steps back. “Can’t you just leave us alone?”
“I’m trying,” I said. “Amber wants to mingle.”
“You’re so fucking annoying,” he said. This time he was louder. Danny darted his eyes away, like he hadn’t heard.
“Brian!” I hated when he used those words.
“Not now,” Mom whisper-scolded. She appeared out of nowhere, standing behind us in that way mothers do. As usual, she arrived in time to witness my rebuttal without hearing Brian’s inciting remarks. “Time for games.”
She pushed us forward and made louder, cheerier announcements to the other kids at the pool. I didn’t much like being labeled a kid, and Brian liked it even less. Danny and some of the other neighborhood boys joined us, but Amber stayed back. Mom didn’t pressure her to participate.
Mom roped the younger children into a relay race. Then, she threw various items into the pool and offered a prize to whoever collected the most from the bottom. When it was time for our age category, we had another race. My team won, although it wasn’t because of me.
“Our last activity will be the Watermelon Wrestle,” Mom announced to the crowd.
Dad sat at a nearby picnic table slathering the fruit with petroleum jelly.
“Mom,” I said under my breath. “I don’t want to do this one.”
“Come on, Della,” she said. “Be a good sport.”
The Watermelon Wrestle was when a group of swimmers fought to get the slippery fruit out of the pool. Whoever successfully pulled the watermelon away from the other contestants won the prize. Year after year, people got too rough, and everyone left the competition winded.
I looked around the crowded pool. All the adults stood around, drinks in hand, watching. All the younger swimmers were pulled from the water for safety purposes. To everyone else, this was an entertaining tradition. I worried maybe I was being a whiny teenager about the whole thing, so I reluctantly entered the water.
I waded waist-deep in the pool. It wasn’t fair that Amber and other middle schoolers could stand on the sidelines and watch. As I looked up at them, I envied them. Amber’s face pitied me. It was humiliating to participate in something so juvenile.
Dad carried the watermelon to the edge of the pool. Mom stood beside him, lifting a whistle to her lips. “One, two, three… Go,” she shouted, tooting the whistle. Dad threw it into the water and the older boys pounced.
I waited, allowing them to fight for it. One person would get a hold on it, then their palms would slip, and the fruit would plop back into the water, signaling it was someone else’s turn to try.
“Come on, guys,” Mom cheered. “Come on, Della.”
I moved closer to the rumble, never actively trying to get involved. Water splashed at my chest and hair due to the boys’ chaos nearby. Danny and Brian locked arms, each with an equal grasp on the watermelon. They pulled back and forth, neither person giving up their hold. Between their conflicting pulls and the water beneath, something gave, and the watermelon leapt into the sky and splash-landed in front of me.
“Grab it, Della. Grab it,” Mom shouted. “Get it to the side.”
All the boys were still huddled around each other, unaware of where the fruit had landed. My fingers slid across the greasy shell. It was too heavy and slick to maneuver with one hand. I put both arms around it, hugged it to my body like I was carrying a load of warm laundry, and tiptoed toward the edge of the pool.
Within seconds, the boys were back. They jumped after me, Brian leading the pack. He pounced, landing directly on top of the watermelon and pushing me under the water. I was in no mood to fight. If he wanted the stupid fruit, he could have it. I let go, allowing it to pierce the surface of the water yet again.
“Calm down,” I said.
“Fucking loser,” Brian said, his volume so low only I could hear.
I splashed him, then lunged forward to grab the fruit again. I was more than happy to let him have the stupid watermelon, but if he wanted to make a big challenge about it, I would fight. He effortlessly pulled it from my arms, pushing me down in the process. I went under again, swallowing a gulp of chlorinated water.
By this point, the other boys in the pool had joined our struggle. I could feel their bony shins bump against my body as I flailed underwater. My head left the water, and I took an interrupted breath before I was pushed under again. I was such a scrawny thing; the boys didn’t even realize I was beneath them. They were after the fruit. After the prize. I could only get my arm above water, and it was lost in the thicket of adolescent limbs. Suddenly, I felt fingers graze my scalp. At least, it felt like fingers. Someone pulling me out? Instead, the fingers pushed. They pushed and held still, forcing my body deeper.
My heart pumped harder and I squirmed maddeningly. No one seemed to notice. I tried to fight against the strength of the hand, but there was still a barrier of bodies blocking me. The more I struggled, the weaker I became.
At last, the bodies moved away, no doubt chasing the watermelon. I heard the familiar sound of a splash underwater. Dad lifted me out of the pool as though I weighed nothing and dropped me on the cement. The hit made me cough, and a large gush of water came out of my mouth.
“My God, Della,” Dad said, his breath hurried. “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” I said. There was a storm of people around staring, but their happy smiles were gone. Even though all I wanted to do was cry, I was in middle school now. I would very much rather drown in a pool than cry in front of my neighbors.
“Poor thing,” Mom said, running behind me and blanketing me with a towel. “She’s so scrawny they couldn’t even see her under there.”
“You sure you’re okay?” Dad asked again. He whispered, as though he understood my reluctant dishonesty.
“I’m fine, Dad.”
He still looked worried. Even Mom did. I think everyone was worried a little, except for Brian. He stood under the pavilion. He’d grabbed a knife and was slicing open the fruit he’d won.
Seven
Now
I’m not involved with sports as much as I should be, but I do enjoy chaperoning other events. We have three major dances throughout the year: Winter Waltz, Spring Fling and Prom. Someone like Marge will attend all three. I am required to choose one, and this year it’s the Spring Fling. It’s not as formal as the other two dances. Instead of gowns, girls wear cocktail dresses. Still, most students have spent weeks coordinating their ensembles and deciding how to style their hair.
The Spirit Club decorated the auditorium, making the usually outdated gymnasium l
ook like a floral hideaway. Flowers made from tissue or cardstock are tacked to the walls and dangle from the ceiling. The aesthetic is impressive; I don’t think anyone would guess the room is a place where you typically run laps.
“Love the decorations,” I tell Marge. She’s the Spirit Club sponsor. Her navy dress clings to her hips and waist, and a sparkly overlay dangles over her shoulders. It looks like she’s even curled her hair with a wand. “You should dress up more often.”
“Thank you,” she says, pretending to curtsy. She looks me up and down, taking in my Hepburn-esque updo and black knee-length shift. “As usual, you’re a beauty.”
“Thanks,” I say, making sure my pearl earrings are securely fastened. I’m even wearing magenta lipstick; Danny says it brings out the green in my eyes.
Marge bites a strip of tape and dances on her tippy toes as she reattaches a tissue hibiscus to the wall. “Each year I think hosting will get easier,” she says. “But that’s never the case.”
“Let me help you,” I say.
“Are you being polite, or really offering?” she asks. She dons the familiar look we all get when we’ve bitten off more than we can chew.
“I’m actually offering.” I grab a roll of tape from a table in front of her. “Just tell me what to do.”
“Thanks, Dell,” she says, instructing me to reattach the flowers that are dangling too low against the far wall.
By the time I’ve finished, the place looks perfect. Just in time for the hordes of students arriving, as though they timed their entrance accordingly. The guys aren’t wearing formal suits like they would for Prom, but jackets in a variety of pastel shades: mint and salmon and daisy.
The girls’ dresses are equally colorful, making the entire lot look like a scene from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. It’s always nice to see them on nights like this. I’m used to students, especially my female ones, being bogged down in insecurity. Even on the days they arrive to class with highlighter across their cheeks and an intentional wave in their hair. Tonight, they’ve left the house feeling beautiful. Feeling confident.
The colorful outfits aren’t the only reason I enjoy chaperoning Spring Fling; it’s also a more laidback event compared to other school functions. We don’t crown kings or queens. We don’t dole out awards. Students just have fun. There’s no competition.
“Where’s that handsome husband of yours?” Pam asks. She walks up behind me balancing a plate of food in her hand. She’s wearing a red maxi dress, and her hair hangs down her back. It’s always up at school.
“Relaxing for a change.” I sip my punch. “This isn’t really his cup of tea.”
“I understand,” she says, raising her voice over the blaring music. “My ex never came to stuff like this.”
Pam and her husband divorced last year after he got slapped with a DUI. She hardly mentions him at school; I think she feels odd offering advice to people when she knows her own personal life is chaotic. I think it makes her more relatable, knowing she’s gone through heartache and made it to the other side. It gives her words weight.
“What time will the dance end?” I ask. I can’t remember from last year.
“Nine o’clock, I think,” she says. “Gives us plenty of time to clean up before going home.”
Another throng of students enters from the outside. This time I recognize several: Melanie and Ben. And Zoey. Her dress is white with sheer sleeves stopping at her elbows.
“What’s Zoey Peterson doing here?” I ask Pam.
She tilts her head to get a better listen as I repeat the question. Having heard me, she nods. “I know. Bowles said he wasn’t going to make her miss the dance.”
“But she’s suspended until Monday. That should cover school functions.”
“I guess Bowles wanted to give her a pass.” Pam shrugs and pops a miniature hot dog in her mouth.
I shake my head. Bowles, who has skipped tonight’s event, sending another administrator in his place, has a wobbly backbone. Five years ago, when I first started, he at least followed through with discipline. I didn’t think we should send the message that carrying a knife to school was a minor fault.
“Oh dear,” Pam says, staring at her phone. “The babysitter is calling already. Pray for me.”
She walks away, leaving me alone. I watch the students as they transition from confident to insecure again, working up the courage to ask someone to dance. If it’s a friend, it’s easy. Those are the ones who walk up to a person, laugh and start dancing. The hesitant ones, those are the students with real feelings involved. Melanie wraps her arms around the neck of a boy I’ve never met. They sway from one foot to the next in that awkward way teenagers do. Watching them makes me smile.
I wouldn’t go back to high school for anything, even if the Brian stuff hadn’t happened. I resented my teachers and the overall uncertainty I had within myself. The one thing I do miss, with intensity at times, is the newness of life. The electricity of a new person’s hand dancing at your back. That thumping of your heart before a first kiss. The excitement in your gut. The flutter.
When you’re older, the newness is gone forever. I love Danny, and he loves me. Our relationship is mature and stable and passionate. But the one thing it is not, and never will be again, is new. Every moment is tried, every sensation is familiar. I’d rather experience a predictable life with him than the thrill of a stranger, which is why we’re married. But sometimes I think of that flutter, acknowledge it would be nice to feel it again.
“Want to help me replenish the snack table?” Marge asks when she walks past.
“Sure,” I say, following her across the room. We exit the gymnasium and enter the quiet hallway. The roaring party clashes against the quiet halls. The change is almost eerie.
“I’ve stored the food in Mr. Walsh’s room,” she says, taking the lanyard off her neck and picking the appropriate key.
As she’s about to press the latch, we hear a clatter from the other end of the hall. The empty corridors make the sound echo. Teenage giggling follows. We stop, startled, and look in the direction from where the sound came. Because the door around the corner is locked, the hallway leads to a dead end.
“Come on out,” Marge yells. “We know someone is back there.”
Darcy and Adam step around the corner. Darcy puts her hands behind her back, and even from several feet away I can tell she’s smiling. She’s wearing a slinky purple dress with a slit that stops mid-thigh.
“What are you two doing in the halls?” Marge shouts, her voice thundering down the hollow corridor.
“We were just visiting my locker,” Adam yells. His tall frame hovers over Darcy. He’s more cautious than she is; he wouldn’t want any misbehavior to interfere with athletics.
“Yeah, Ms. Helton,” Darcy adds. She sounds noticeably less concerned. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”
The way she says it makes me think they were precisely doing something wrong. Darcy moves her hands forward, showing she’s not holding anything. Adam’s hands are also bare. Maybe they’re just roaming the halls because they know they’re not supposed to.
“All right,” Marge shouts. “This is your warning. Get back in the gym and do not leave.”
They shuffle back into the crowded gymnasium, Darcy’s giggle trailing.
Marge unlocks Mr. Walsh’s classroom door and looks back at me. Her stern look drops, and she laughs. “Kids, huh? No telling what they were doing back there.”
“Who knows,” I say, eyeing the platters of croissants and pinwheels. My stomach rumbles, and I decide I might need a second serving once we return to the dance. “Let’s get the food in there and keep a better eye on the doors.”
“Yeah,” Marge says. “I’ll radio one of the security guys and tell them to patrol the halls, make sure no one else has slipped away.”
When we re-enter the dance, the music is louder, and the air stuffier. I check my watch. Students won’t stay much longer. They’ll be off to whatever after-part
y has been orchestrated, because no teenager is going to call it a night at 9 p.m., especially when they’re wearing an expensive dress and makeup.
Across the room, I see Melanie is still gooey-eyeing the tall boy from earlier. She looks weak in the knees going on head over heels. Even when it comes to romance, Melanie is an overachiever. Maybe a fling would help her not be so highly strung about academics.
That’s how I felt when Danny re-entered my life, like the load I’d been carrying was suddenly lifted. Before him, every person in my path was someone I had to keep at a distance; Danny already knew my darkest secrets and biggest regrets. I could finally breathe again.
I lightened Danny’s load, too. When we reconnected, he was halfway through medical school. His parents were starting to develop health problems of their own. He needed an excuse to be happy as much as I did. We no longer carried the hardships of life alone. Thanks to Brian, we’d both already experienced our share.
At the food table, I see Ben covering his plate with the replenished appetizers. Beside him stands Zoey, holding a plastic cup. Her white dress catches my eye in the sea of colors. A third student, Darcy, is standing with them. Her mouth is moving fast, and her hand is swooshing in the air. Zoey’s arms are crossed, and she’s listening intently to whatever Darcy has to say. I wonder what they’re talking about and why, although it’s hard to be certain from across a crowded room, Zoey looks so irritated.
Another minute passes, and Darcy’s on the dance floor. Adam stands in front of her, wrapping his arms around her neck. Ben remains by the food table, stuffing his face. Zoey, standing beside him, keeps staring in Darcy’s direction. Her eyes leave Darcy and land on me. When she sees I’m watching her, she smiles and waves. As though someone slid a finger down the back of her dress and pushed a button. Brian used to do that; he could change his demeanor in a split second. I see parts of him in her, and it’s startling. I wave back.
What I Know: An utterly compelling psychological thriller full of suspense Page 4
