by Bromberg, K
Amy looked at me, eyes wide. “Oh! Sam!” She started jumping up and down in those spiked high heels, boobs bouncing hypnotically. I could stare at those all day. “We did it! We did it.”
Ross cut us off. “Don’t get too excited,” he said, “you two are squaring off first.”
Her face went slack and based on the way my muscles felt, mine must have, too. We both came to a dead halt, her hands frozen on my forearms. I just stared at him, horrified, unable to look at her eyes. “What?” we both said in unison.
“It’s you two against each other. Only one of you is going to Nationals.”
Now I turned, a magnet pulling me to her face. Ross disappeared, probably off to feed the gossip mill and tell them about what he’d found. My mouth went dry.
My body froze.
“Oh, Sam,” she said, her eyes filling with tears.
I could handle anything but this. Not Amy crying. “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” I said, my voice feeling like it came from an echo chamber. All I could do was reach for her and pull her into my arms. She smelled so sweet, and her body was so lush.
She said something muffled into my chest, and her face wiggled against my shoulder. She pulled back. “I don’t know what to do.”
My Dad’s voice echoed inside my head. ‘You come home a winner. You come home a winner.’ What if that meant something other than what my dad thought?
I could mindfuck her right now, and it would be easy. She wanted me, she invited me to prom, I wanted her back and I wanted all of this just as much as she did.
I pulled her away from me, hands on her shoulders. Everything turned into a pinpoint. My hands on her, the soft swell of her body, my tight legs, stomach in knots, the air between us was like its own little atmosphere of excitement, and confusion, and wanting.
“You’re going in there, and I’m going in there, and we’re going to do our best. Nobody’s pulling any punches, nobody’s holding back. Do you hear me?”
Relief. That’s what showed in her eyes. Relief. “Yes,” she whispered.
I pulled back and got on my neutral debate face, which wasn’t all that different from my regular face. I extended my hand, she took it, smiling, wiping her tears away with the other.
“May the best man win.”
“Woman!” she interjected.
“May the best debater win.”
So help me God.
Amy
We walked like we were part of a funeral procession, our hands clasped, Sam taking the lead. The pairing sheet was taped in front of the cafeteria, and I felt people clapping me on the back, heard my name said a thousand times, saw my coach’s face as he spoke to me, animated and joyful, and then concerned and intense.
What grounded me was the feel of Sam’s hand in mine, and then he slowly, finger by finger, inch of skin by inch, let go, leaving me floating in a soup of overwhelm. He faded off into the crowd, one last look at me with a sad smile.
I had to beat Sam.
Sam.
What did this mean? What would this do? Would he hate me if I won? Would I hate him if he won?
He was so laid back and mellow in some ways, but I’d faced him before in a debate. He was sharp. Not in that weaselly way that Joe Ross could be, but sharp like a hunter, who could sit for days fully camouflaged and utterly silent, waiting for that one perfect moment to pounce and win.
That was Sam’s style. I’d seen it over the years and learned to adapt. My own strategy against him was to match it, stay calm and cool, not aggressive, and absolutely use no sarcasm. Smile, fake as much confidence as I could, and meet him, mature mind to mature mind, with analysis, facts and the superior argument.
I was on the affirmative, and that was my stronger case. I knew that Sam was weaker in the negative. It made me sick to my stomach that I was thinking about him this way.
Who won in this scenario? It felt Pyrrhic.
It felt impossible.
For the first time in all my years of debating, in all my years of speech, even, I thought about throwing a debate.
A keening rose up inside me as my coach opened his portfolio and went over some key salient points in my case.
Debaters filed out and I knew what they were doing. These final runoffs were open to anyone who could get a seat, as long as they were quiet during the debate. Half the girls from my team were going to come in and watch, I knew. A few of them had an inkling that I was interested in Sam, and some of them simply wanted to watch him.
When I got to the door he was already in there, head down, reading over his papers. He looked up and gave me a closed mouth, tight smile and a nod. I returned it.
I had to debate the one guy in the whole wide world who made my soul sing, and if I didn’t give it my all, I’d let myself down.
Even if it meant I had to lose Sam, being true to myself would, ironically, have to be the ultimate sacrifice.
Sam
From the minute her opening words were out of her mouth, “Resolved: when in conflict, the rights of the majority ought to supersede those of the minority,” I knew it was over.
Over.
Her opening case was brilliant, my cross examination was perfect, my opening case was outstanding, and it was like volleying a ball back and forth, to and fro, as if we were performers in a play, unscripted like an improv. Something sparkled between us.
There was a high to it, the way you get when you’re on a sports team, like you’re playing basketball, and everyone’s smooth, and the passes are perfect, and the dribble, and the motion, and the jump, and the release – it all just flows.
That’s how it was with me and Amy. The words were perfect, the intensity was high, the analysis, the intellect, the give and take, the back and forth, was all lockstep. Dead on.
She was in the affirmative and had her case down cold, and because I was in the negative and had my case down cold, what it came down to was the stronger argument. She was more confident on the affirmative, and I was less confident on the neg, no matter how hard I tried.
Because we were equals, it was going to come down to a loss for me.
I tried.
I did.
But at the end when we shook hands, I knew. I just knew. Her eyes were confused, brilliant and alive, but perplexed because our emotional connection had deepened enough that she could read me. It made my pants tighten. My free hand twisted to a fist. My jaw clenched. An impulse to pull her into my arms and kiss her almost overrode the sense of polite decency that was expected of us.
“Want to wait together?” she said.
Something inside me gave way. I knew it was over. I knew that I was fourth or fifth, which to my father meant that I might as well have been 1,117th. He would consider me dog shit.
I considered myself a king.
My fingers played a mindless beat against my leg, my other hand twisted with Amy’s. She was so alive and trying to cover it up. I didn’t want that. Nobody wants to see an angel clip their wings. Nobody wants to take away someone else’s drive.
Nobody except my dad, that is.
Amy stood there, holding my hand, looking at me as if she were chronicling my entire life with those brown eyes. She hadn’t needed to push me down in order to rise above me. All she’d needed was to be my equal and then to do better.
I have to admit, as a guy, and a fairly competitive one, it crushed me. I won’t lie. Losing a game of mini golf on a date was one thing, but losing a full ride and knowing what I had to go home to was a whole other situation.
Was I perfect? No. Was I mature? Not really. And so, when I leaned down and took that ever-so-sweet kiss, I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. Why did everything have to happen at once?
My mind raced as our lips touched, as I tasted her pleasure and her energy. It gave me fuel for my soul at the same time that a fire was tamping out inside. How could so many good things happen and one horrible thing cancel it all out?
I would go home to a father who would come as close as humanly possib
le to killing me. Not with his hands, but with his mouth. How could I take so much enjoyment from one person’s mouth, Amy’s pure connection, and yet, experience so much pain from another’s?
“Get a room,” growled a familiar voice.
Amy pushed me back, turning. Her turn to wipe her mouth. “Joe,” she whimpered.
“It’s final ceremonies,” he said, looking at both of us and then just shaking his head, turning away.
I knew what they were going to say. Amy wanted to hold my hand walking back, and I knew I should, but the part of me that wanted to be a dick was starting to emerge.
The part that needed to go and sit with headphones on, blast music and drum along, and drown out the world, was starting to assert itself. I wished I had time.
I had to break contact from her, nod and pretend everything was going to be okay, even as a knot formed in my stomach and my skin buzzed at the thought of going home.
My phone rang. I ignored it. I knew it was my dad, calling to find out. If he really cared he’d be here, right? Right? What he cared about was the surface, not the depth.
Amy could be deep.
I just didn’t give a fuck about anything anymore. I wanted it all to go away. All of it.
Mr. Feehan whispered something about what I thought the final rankings would be, and I turned to him and said, “I think I lost.”
“Everyone thinks that,” he said back, bright blue eyes twinkling, bags under his eyes a swollen pink. I know he was trying to make me feel better, but it just added to the cacophony.
The final ceremonies dragged on, the Lincoln-Douglas results toward the end.
Talia Sheridan’s name was first, Mike Zendo was second, and when they went to announce number three my team looked at me expectantly, everybody holding their breath, the freshmen with their fingers crossed. So much energy erroneously focused on me because I knew, God dammit I knew.
When the coach who gave the announcements said “Amy Smithson” I stood up and walked out, scores of eyes on me. Including Amy’s.
Dick move? Hell, yeah.
Then again, I am my father’s son.
Amy
2 months later
I stared at my prom dress. It was perfect. Peach with a slight copper undertone to it that set off the occasional topaz flecks in my brown eyes.
Princess perfect.
Tonight, I was supposed to be a princess and Sam was supposed to be my prince. I knew I was supposed to be jaded and hard-edged and not talk about fairy tales as if they were real.
I was supposed to be all Gossip Girl, and smooth, and edgy. But really, even smart, above-that-crap girls should be allowed to be a damn princess on prom night.
I was supposed to put that dress on. I was supposed to have someone come to my house with a corsage, drive up in a limo with a group of friends all paired off for the night, either with boyfriends and girlfriends, or just going as buddies.
Tonight, I was supposed to dance in Sam’s arms, marvel at how handsome he looked in the tux, stare into those eyes, feel his arms around me, sense the comfort.
Tonight, I was supposed to sneak off to a hotel that everyone knew we would get, that our parents would turn a blind eye to as long as we didn’t drink and drive.
Tonight, I was supposed to lose my virginity in a glory of cliché.
Instead, here I was, sitting in my bedroom, staring at the dress. The dress my mom helped me pick out long before I had a prom date, when I was hopeful and optimistic that I’d have fun going stag with my friends and maybe get to be that perfect princess.
The shoeless dress. The boring dress.
I never went out and bought anything to go with it. No jewelry, no shoes, no matching nail polish, or perfect earrings, nothing. Because I hadn’t seen Sam since the day he walked out of the auditorium when they announced my name. Hadn’t heard from him.
Nothing.
Not a single word.
My friends tried to convince me to go to prom. Erin showed up at the last minute, pulling me along, literally yanking on my arm and trying to convince me that I could still go stag.
“You’re crazy,” she said.
We’d been best friends since kindergarten. She was going with her boyfriend, Jonathan, captain of the football team and a guy who looked just enough like Tom Brady to make you wonder if he wasn’t his bastard child. Her dress was slutty—her word, no judgment from me—in a really good way.
They’d have fun, I knew. It was easier to be immobile and immutable than to let the tiniest crack of hope seep in and make me think that maybe—just maybe—I should go.
Mom was almost inconsolable. She couldn’t believe that her little girl wouldn’t go to prom. “There are so many other boys you could ask,” she said.
No, Mom, I thought, there aren’t.
Making it to Nationals meant that in a few weeks, after graduation, I’d be on a plane to some Southern state I didn’t care about to compete in an event that had no real impact on my future. It wouldn’t get me more money for school. It was just a feather in my cap.
A very expensive feather in my cap. It cost me a guy I could have loved.
Who am I fooling?
A guy I already loved a little.
I wondered what he was doing. Was he hanging out with his buddies? He went to a different school and I knew that their prom night wasn’t the same, so to him this was nothing, just a throwaway night.
Like I was a throwaway girl.
Why did he walk out of that auditorium and never say a word to me again? I got his cell phone number from Joe Ross and texted him. Just once.
He never replied.
I can understand being mad at me. I could understand being embarrassed, pissed, or frustrated, but the silent treatment, being able to push aside what we had? It was so unlike the Sam I thought I knew.
Instead, I sat here on my bed, phone turned off, staring at a bunch of peach cloth. I stood up and pulled the dress out of the closet, then threw it on the bed like a blanket. It was perfect for a perfect night that never would happen.
The doorbell rang and I ignored it. Evan hollered up, “Liam’s here!”
Liam? I’d known Liam McCarthy since we were babies. He was popular. His parents had divorced years ago. He lived with his mom over in the same school district that Joe and Sam went to, but his dad lived next door, still in the house, so he was over here constantly.
He bounded up the stairs, all blonde and tan and godlike. My friends all wanted to date him. Half of them wanted to fuck him. But to me he was like a brother.
Except I hadn’t seen him much this past year and now he looked nothing like my brother.
“Sam never called?” Liam was a straight shooter. He was dressed in soccer shorts, a v-neck short-sleeve shirt made of the same lightweight material, and he smelled faintly of a mixture of Old Spice, Polo and oranges.
My head swam for a moment as he stretched his long legs out, easing onto the bed beside me, a serious look on his face.
Blond, curly hair peppered the tanned skin that stretched out for miles, my eyes trying so hard not to drift up the black, silky shorts that covered his middle. His shirt was the same color and his eyes were a bluish-green, like looking at the ocean as it met the sand dunes in Truro, on Cape Cod, just after a storm.
My pulse needed a minute to recover. My heart was still stuck on Sam.
My body, though, knew exactly what it wanted—and recovering wasn’t it.
“Nope.”
“Asshole.” He sat on the bed next to my dress and fingered the hemline.
“Yup.” They were in the fledgling band that Trevor Connor and Joe Ross had put together this year. They had a weird name I couldn’t remember. That meant Liam saw Sam regularly, and my heart soared—not just from Liam’s hot skin so tantalizing on my bed, either.
“Did you talk to him about me?” I tried to keep the hope out of my voice, but failed miserably.
Uncertain how to answer, Liam seemed to struggle with his words. This
was not his normal state; the guy was confidence itself on legs.
“Sure. Told him he was crazy to give up a chance of tapping you. Fresh virgin meat.” A predatory smile made my knees go weak and a wet warmth spread up my body.
Pressing my hands over my heart, I said, “Like words from Shakespeare.”
“I aim to please.”
My laughter came out like normal, at first, and then settled into a strange braying sound of half sobs and half giggle. Liam looked at me with alarm and sat up, his body impossibly big and beautiful, right in front of me where Sam should be.
“Amy?”
Waving my hands in front of my face like I was swatting a bee, I said, “I’m fine! I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m pretending to be fine! I’m pretending to be fine!”
“That makes two of us.” His face fell, and in his pain I could see the man he would become. It was jarring.
Yet I knew why he winced. “Charlotte, huh?”
He leaned back, folded his hands under his head, and sighed. I swallowed, hard, as the soft cloth of his shirt rode up at the waist, showing a thickening of those golden curls right where it would lead down to a place that made my blood quicken.
“I miss her,” he huffed, not quite convinced he should tell me.
“I can imagine,” I squeaked, feeling like an adulteress to the memory of Sam. How stupid! This was Liam. The guy who launched spitballs in my hair on the bus. The one I took baths with when we were kids. The dude who kissed my cheek at our first co-ed party when we played Truth or Dare.
And also? I owed no allegiance to Sam or my imagined reality with him.
Go away, Sam. Get outta my head.
“Why’d you break up with her?”
He sat up fast, like a wrestler doing quick sit ups, his flat stomach muscled in ways that made me want to reach out and touch him for the pure joy of touching a body that could do that.
“Because.” His voice went cold.
“Gotcha. I’ll shut up about it.”
He stood quickly and walked over to my prom dress. “You would look good in this. Why don’t you go?”
