Grouper's Laws

by D. Philip Miller

  Once they were rid of Phyllis, they’d pick Flossie up at her house and go skinny-dipping in some pond Delores knew about. Blondie’d never done that before. He found the idea both exciting and scary. He was excited at the thought of watching two naked girls traipse around in the moonlight. At the same time, it made him nervous to think about two people seeing him naked who’d never seen him that way before. He didn’t expect any disparaging remarks, though. They were all at risk.

  Blondie was a little concerned that Purdy and Barnwell might show up, but Grouper told him not to worry.

  “Billies don’t go to proms,” he assured him. “They don’t like to dress up.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “What do you think?” Phyllis asked, posing for him in the entrance to her living room. She was wearing an old-fashioned satin gown with puff shoulders and a slight — and as far as Blondie could tell, unnecessary — décolletage. It was orange pink with lace around the sleeves and hem. Her face was radiant.

  What could he say? He thought it was the most ridiculous outfit he’d ever seen. But he couldn’t tell her that, not on her prom night.

  Phyllis’ father, a short, plump, balding fellow with a camera, smiled at Blondie and waited for his answer.

  “You look super,” Blondie said. He remembered what Grouper’d told him once: “With ugly girls, you always have to lie.”

  Phyllis beamed at him. For an instant, Blondie was happy for her — and he knew he should feel flattered she was so proud to be with him. But he didn’t want to carry his magnanimity too far. She was unattractive and she was his date.

  He reminded himself to be patient. Under the scheme he and Feller had concocted, three hours was the most he’d have to endure with Phyllis. Then, freedom and fun!

  Blondie suffered three flashbulbs in the face before old man Scarff put his camera away. Then Phyllis’ mother, a tall woman with a hatchet nose, gave Phyllis her good-bye.

  “My little girl …. a grown woman,” she gushed.

  When Blondie opened the car door for Phyllis, he caught Feller with his hand up Delores’ skirt. Blondie prayed Phyllis hadn’t seen that. She might want the same thing from him. Feller had been acting goofy ever since he’d picked him up at Delores’ house. He suspected Feller had dipped into old man Humphries’ liquor cabinet.

  Miss Darlington was collecting tickets at the gym door. A man about her age in a crew cut and glasses stood beside her. Miss Darlington introduced him as her date. He looked like someone who might treat her right. Blondie hoped so.

  “Oh my god, it’s beautiful,” Phyllis said when she stepped inside the gym.

  The walls were covered with huge sheets of butcher paper jam-packed with crayon trees and flowers. Here and there a rabbit or fawn peeked from the foliage. Real tulips in pots surrounded a portable platform. In the center was a large wooden rose. Two of its petals had been sculpted into seats.

  “Jesus Christ!” Feller exclaimed. “Look at that fucking flower!”

  “Paul, watch your language!” Phyllis scolded.

  “You know what it reminds me of, all pink and opened up …. ” Blondie heard Feller whisper to Delores.

  A half-pickled Feller. Just what he didn’t need. Blondie was depending on Feller to maintain some decorum. It would be impossible for him to handle the evening if Feller didn’t. On the other hand, Blondie wondered if he could make it through the evening sober himself. He remembered Dispatch’s vow to smuggle a pint into the dance “come hell or high water.”

  “Grain alcohol, too,” he’d bragged. “My brother brought some home from college.”

  Blondie didn’t see Dispatch anywhere. Anyway, he wasn’t sure how much he wanted to risk getting caught drinking. Another screw-up and he’d have to spend the summer with his folks.

  As Phyllis chattered away, Blondie canvassed the scene. He had to admit with all the decorations and all the kids dressed to the nines, the occasion seemed adult, almost elegant. Maybe they were growing up.

  Blondie spied Grouper dipping from a punch bowl. In a tux, he looked more like a killer whale than a grouper. He offered the drink to a tall girl beside him. She had bony shoulders and buck teeth. Blondie guessed she was his date. He saw Rudy Tilly, too. He appeared to be staring at him.

  Then Tammy walked in the door and everyone else disappeared. She was wearing a white silk gown that tapered to her waist, then fell straight to the floor. Her dark hair was pulled high atop her head in tight curls. A thin gold necklace ringed her neck. She was more than a queen tonight. She was an empress.

  When he finally was able to take his eyes from her otherworldly aura, he wanted to ram his head into the gym’s concrete wall. Holding her arm, squiring her around with the smug smile of someone who’d just leaped two social classes in one bound, was Harold Slusher! Blondie couldn’t believe it. Harold Slusher. Sure, he was junior class president, but what a geek! He had a flat top, acne, and thick glasses. That added up to zero.

  As soon as Tammy saw Phyllis, she dragged Harold over to where she and Blondie were standing with Feller and Delores.

  “You look luscious,” Tammy said to Phyllis. Tammy gave Blondie a warm smile. Was because she was pleased to see him or because he’d performed the saintly sacrifice of inviting Phyllis to the prom?

  “Say hi to them, Harold,” Tammy said.

  “Hi,” Harold said disinterestedly.

  The lights dimmed and the band began to play. Blondie felt the tune pass through him like a knife. It was “The Way You Look Tonight” — his and Tammy’s song, even if she didn’t know it.

  Blondie watched as Harold led Tammy out onto the floor. Agony of agonies. His true love not only was dancing with someone else to their song, she was dancing with a geek.

  “Why’d Tammy come with him?” Blondie asked Phyllis.

  “What’s wrong with Harold?”

  “He’s a nerd.”

  “Well, I think he’s nice … ” That figured. ” … besides, he was the only one who asked her.”

  “The only one who …?” More anguish. Blondie contemplated the wall again. With a good running start, he could knock himself unconscious. Then he could quit thinking the obvious: if Tammy’d accepted an invitation from Harold, she would surely have accepted one from him.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?” Phyllis asked Blondie as the song drew to a close.

  Blondie’d never thought about that prospect. When he’d contemplated the prom at all, which he’d tried to avoid doing, he’d seen it as little more than a blur from eight o’clock to eleven when Delores was scheduled to get sick.

  Phyllis tugged Blondie onto the floor and placed his arms around her. Blondie gazed forlornly over her shoulder at Tammy and Harold as they danced. It was an outrage against nature. He and Tammy belonged together.

  “Isn’t it something?” Phyllis said. “Everyone thinks Tammy’s so popular and just one boy asked her to the prom.”

  “Well, how many asked you?” Blondie snapped.

  “Two — plus you, of course.”

  Two others? That was preposterous. Who else could be so demented?

  “Jerry Caldane was one,” Phyllis said.

  Shakes did like Phyllis. Grouper’s words came back to him: “One man’s dog is another man’s queen.” And, tonight, Shakes was at home alone and Blondie was taking his dream girl to the prom — and hating every minute.

  “Who else?” Blondie demanded.

  “That’s my secret.” She gave him a coy look.

  He wanted to get away from her worse than ever. His first break came when Feller announced he had to take a leak. Blondie immediately discovered the same urge.

  “Are you having fun?” Feller asked impishly as they walked away from their dates.

  “I’d rather spend the evening with a proctologist.”

  Dispatch called to them from the refreshment table where he stood with Meryl. She watched the two of them approach with unveiled dista
ste. In her tight-fitting lavender gown, she looked like a linebacker in drag. If she was pregnant, it didn’t show.

  “Pour yourselves some ginger ale,” Dispatch said when they reached him.

  “We already have to pee,” Feller whispered to him.

  “Do as I say.” Dispatch winked.

  Blondie and Feller poured some Canada Dry into plastic cups and headed for the bathroom. Dispatch followed behind, with a mischievous look on his face.

  The restroom was crowded with formally attired and serious-looking young men preening and combing their hair or holding their members daintily over the urinals.

  Dispatch shoved Blondie and Feller into a stall and shut the door. The three of them crowded around the toilet while Dispatch removed a small silver flask from his inside pocket.

  “One hundred and ninety proof,” he said to Blondie. “It’ll make Phyllis look like a princess.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “If you drink enough, it’ll make you blind.”

  “That might do it,” Blondie said. “Fill it up.”

  Dispatch poured a small amount into each of their glasses.

  Blondie couldn’t taste the alcohol. He didn’t see how it could help if he couldn’t even detect it. He experienced a sudden rush of mellow haziness and reassessed.

  “Good stuff,” Blondie complimented Dispatch. “I feel better already.”

  “I feel better already,” Feller mimicked in a high-pitched voice.

  They began to giggle.

  Heavy shoes thudded outside the stall door.

  “What’s this, six legs in a stall?” a familiar voice exclaimed.

  Was it Farber? If so, they’d been had. He’d have to go to New York with his family. Worse, he’d probably have to repeat his whole senior year with the upcoming teen mutants — and the Bear, Mrs. Buckley, Purdy, Phyllis. His mind seized up.

  “Looks pretty strange to me,” the voice continued. “You guys aren’t up to something unnatural, are you?”

  A teacher wouldn’t say that. Blondie looked at Feller who looked at Dispatch who cracked open the stall door.

  Grouper stood before them, grinning.

  “Asshole,” Dispatch said.

  Feller invited Grouper into the stall. It was a mistake. They could barely move. Nonetheless, they managed to kill the remainder of the flask.

  Blondie asked Grouper about his date.

  “I’ve already forgotten her name. She’s the daughter of a friend of my dad’s. He was adamant that I come tonight. He said it was important I learn the social graces.”

  “I got some news,” Dispatch announced.

  “What’s that?” Feller asked.

  “Mountain joined the army.”

  What? When? He couldn’t do that, Blondie thought. He was their protection.

  “A couple weeks ago,” Dispatch went on. “He said he was tired of the whole bullshit Fenton scene. He’s going to Fort Bragg for basic training. He’s going to be a paratrooper.”

  “Not good,” Feller said, sharing Blondie’s concern.

  Grouper belched and said, “My friends, let us never forget this sacred moment. I anoint you all into the Sacred Order of the Commode.”

  “Hear, hear,” Blondie added with more volume than he intended. The grain alcohol was short-circuiting his brain.

  “You’re primed,” Feller said to Blondie.

  “Where were you?” Phyllis said when Blondie returned. “I hope you weren’t smoking.”

  “Not smoking. Better than that,” Blondie replied merrily.

  “You’ve been drinking!” Her eyes opened wide in horror. She put her nose up to his mouth. “I don’t smell anything.”

  “Get your face away from me,” Blondie thundered.

  “That wasn’t nice,” Phyllis snapped.

  Things weren’t going too badly, Blondie thought. Phyllis was already pissed at him. That should make his getaway easier.

  The lights came back on full bore, searing his eyeballs. When Blondie regained his sight, Miss Spalding was on the stage with a piece of paper in her hands. She walked over to a microphone.

  “My dear students and fellow faculty members,” she simpered. “Tonight is the last dance for our graduating seniors …. ”

  There was a chorus of whoops and cheers. Blondie couldn’t tell who was cheering harder — the seniors or the juniors.

  “Soon, they’ll be headed off to college or to jobs, to take their place in responsible adult society and make us all proud …. ”

  “Who wrote that drivel?” Feller bellowed, creating a small stir.

  “But they’ll always remember the girl or guy of their dreams,” Spalding continued.

  Blondie again remembered Shakes’ story of Miss Spalding’s motorcycle accident. Always before, he’d imagined she’d landed on her face. Tonight, he was sure it had been her cranium.

  “We, the remaining students and faculty, dedicate this song to all of you as we crown our King and Queen of Spring.”

  The lights dimmed again and a spotlight flooded the stage. The band began to massacre “Stardust” and several girls started to sob. Ethel Philbin materialized inside the circle of light, wearing a stunning blue gown and carrying a bouquet of roses, tears flowing down her cheeks. She composed herself and marched regally toward the dais.

  “Isn’t she beautiful …. ” washed back and forth across the gym, along with “such courage” and “how can she stand to do it?”

  After Ethel seated herself beside the empty chair, Miss Spalding said, “Our King can’t be here with us tonight …. ” Her voice began to crack. “He’s sitting on a much more impressive throne next to the grandest king of all ….”

  Ethel went to pieces and started bawling. Several of her princesses helped her to the ladies’ room.

  “What a travesty,” Feller said.

  He was right. Only Fenton High could have pulled it off.

  “Don’t you two have any sensitivity?” Phyllis snapped at Blondie.

  “I didn’t say it.”

  “He’s your friend.”

  “Yeah. You should stick up for me,” Feller said.

  “You’re drunker than I am,” Blondie said.

  “You’re drunk?” Phyllis asked Blondie.

  “Just kidding. What reason would I have to get drunk?”

  Blondie looked at her through foggy eyes and smiled. Behind her, he noticed Rudy and Mary Cherry. Again, Rudy seemed to be watching him.

  The band began playing “Stranger on the Shore.” Blondie looked up at the colored balls of light spinning overhead — and nearly fell over.

  “I thought you were a nice boy,” Phyllis said to him.

  “I am.”

  “You’re smashed,” she said in disgust.

  “But I am nice.”

  She glared at him, hands on hips.

  “Come on, let’s dance,” he said, taking her in his arms.

  She hesitated for a second, then said, “Well, all right ….” and gave him a hopeful smile.

  Blondie began gliding back and forth with her to the music. For a moment, with the alcohol coursing through his brain, he almost forgot it was Phyllis. He tried to imagine she was Tammy, but she was too bony for that. Still trying to work himself into a friendlier mood, Blondie lowered his hand on her back. It brushed against a ball of fabric.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “That’s my bustle.”

  “Your what?”

  “My bustle. Didn’t you notice it at my house?”

  Phyllis seemed disappointed when he admitted he hadn’t.

  “It’s just for decoration,” she explained. “Women used to wear them in ante-bellum days — before the Civil War.”

  “You’re wearing a dress from before the Civil War?”

  “Honestly, Blondie, you’re acting so stupid.”

  “How’s it stay on?”

  “It just snaps on.�
�

  “Yeah?”

  Curious, Blondie flicked the bustle with the back of his hand. It fell off on the floor.

  “What’d you do?” Phyllis cried.

  “I think I knocked your bustle off.”

  Phyllis looked stricken.

  “Watch out!” Blondie heard someone yell, then he heard a thud.

  A girl in a yellow organdy gown lay sprawled on the floor. A couple guys snickered. The fallen girl began to cry.

  “What the hell is this?” her date asked, picking up the wayward bundle of cloth.

  “It’s her bustle,” Blondie pointed at Phyllis.

  “Well, put it back on your butt where it belongs,” the young man growled at Phyllis, shoving it at her. She looked at it in shock, unmoving. Blondie took the offending garment.

  “This is the worst night of my life,” she hissed, turning her back on him.

  “Don’t you want your bustle?” Blondie held it toward her.

  “Go away.”

  “You need a ride home.”

  “I’ll get one,” she said, biting off each word.

  This wasn’t the way Blondie had planned it. He felt badly that he’d embarrassed her. But, on the positive side, it was just ten-thirty.

  Blondie drifted through the crowd until he found Feller dancing with Delores in erotic embrace. He tapped him on the shoulder.

  “We’re in luck. We can leave now.”

  “I’m beginning to enjoy myself,” Feller said.

  “Look, if you want to rut, let’s go somewhere else.”

  “Am I being obvious?” Feller asked.

  “Does Davey Crockett wear a coonskin cap?”

  “What’s that in your hand?”

  “A bustle.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind. Let’s go.”

  On the way out, Blondie spied Mrs. Buckley. She was wearing a brown dress with a ring of feathers around her collar. With her fat rump, she looked like a wild turkey. Blondie walked over to her and handed her the bustle.

  “Mrs. Buckley, I’d like you to have this. Someday, when you’re old and gray, remember me by it.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a bustle,” he said authoritatively.

  “That’s the last thing I need.”