by Tim Tharp
“I didn’t actually lie,” she says. “I just told her the school was sponsoring the events. I never said we were going.”
“That’s perfect,” I tell her. I am really authentically proud of her. “You’re my hero. I might have to get you to come over and set my mom straight on a few things sometime.”
She’s quiet for a second before she comes out with, “Maybe it’s time you stood up to your mom too.”
“What are you talking about? My mom doesn’t care if I stay out all night for the prom. She’d barely notice if I didn’t come back for a week.”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean you should talk to her about your dad. Have you even asked her what really happened between them?”
“I never had to. She was always way too glad to feed me her phony story about him being a big cheating louse.”
“Maybe you should ask him.”
“How am I going to do that? Take an elevator to the top of the Chase building and ask him? Oh, that’s right. He’s not really there.”
“Then, ask your mom where he is. It’s time you talked to him and found out his side of the story. I’d go with you.”
Okay, it’s great that Aimee’s getting more assertive, but she’s starting to bug me a little with it now.
“Jesus, Aimee, what’s all this interest in my dad?”
“It’s just that, you know, I lost my dad before I could say everything I wanted to say to him.”
“Look, I’m glad you stood up to your mom. That was great. But that doesn’t mean you can fix my parental quagmire for me.”
“It might help if we could just talk to him, though.”
“No, I know what’ll help. A big fat party.” I roll over and grab my pants from the back of the chair. “I say, bring on the prom. All solutions will be found in the land of the all-night buzz.”
Chapter 50
My bow tie, cummerbund, and red breast-pocket handkerchief are perfectly Dino-rific. Aimee’s mom opens the door, her fabulous she-mullet glinting in the TV glow. “Don’t you look like the sophisticated gentleman,” she says, then turns and yells, “Aimee, your date’s here.”
Aimee doesn’t come out immediately, so there I am, stuck in the living room trading awkward glances with Mom and Randy-the-Walrus.
Then Aimee appears in the hall, and it strikes me that she postponed her grand entrance on purpose for dramatic effect. You have to know she stood in front of the mirror for about a month fixing everything just right, but Aimee’s Aimee—fancy really isn’t her specialty.
Of course, she has the lipstick again and even some eye shadow this time. On top of that—and I mean on top of that literally—she’s done her hair up, and it’s tilting just slightly off-kilter—the Leaning Tower of Pisa–style. Her dress is this vague yellow color that doesn’t go too well with her skin tone. The faux silkiness of it actually does give her hips a sexy, slinky touch, but the cleavage is pretty nonexistent.
The whole ensemble has this effect on me like I just want to grab her and hold on to her, pet her, and tell her she’s the most beautiful sight in the entire galaxy. Don’t worry about any wisecracks from the likes of Jason Doyle, I want to tell her. But she wouldn’t have the slightest idea why wisecracks would be in order in the first place.
We do the boutonniere and corsage exchange, and Mom takes a couple of photos with one of those little yellow disposable cameras, and then we’re on our way. Now, I know everybody else is going to fancy restaurants like The Mantel or Nikz at the Top, but Aimee and I aren’t everybody else.
“So,” she says. “What’s the surprise? Where are we going for dinner?”
“Just wait. You’ll see.”
About ten minutes later, the radio-tower lights come into view, and she’s like, “Wait, are we going to Marvin’s Diner?”
“You are correct,” I proclaim, all game-show-hosty. “Give the lady a new refrigerator and a ceramic greyhound!”
“Aren’t we kind of overdressed?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s the sentimental history of the place—the scene of our first date.”
“I thought the party at the lake was our first date.”
“I mean our first sit-down-and-eat date.”
“All we had was chili fries.”
“What’s the matter? Don’t you like the idea?
“No, it’s not that.”
“I mean, this place is, like, special. It’s our place.”
“Really? Our place?”
“Of course.”
“It’s perfect, then,” she says, smiling.
At Marvin’s, I’m sort of expecting the staff to really get a kick out of us coming in all decked out in our prom gear, but the guy behind the front counter—who may or may not be Marvin—gives us this look like we must be crazy.
“We’re going to the prom,” I tell him, “and we could think of no more splendid establishment than Marvin’s for our special occasion.”
“Really?” the guy says flatly. He looks at Aimee. “And you went along with this?”
“Sure,” she says. “It’s our place.”
The guy cocks his head to the side. “Okay. Try not to get chili on your dress.”
We take our favorite booth and when the waitress comes over, she’s a little more into the spirit of things. “Don’t you two look sweet,” she says. “We’ll have to get you something special. How about the chicken-fried steak?”
“Can we get it with chili fries?”
“You can get it with anything you want, sugar.”
After we order and the waitress has disappeared into the back, I pull a small package from my pocket. It’s wrapped in red and green paper and tied off with a bright red ribbon. Okay, so it’s leftover Christmas wrapping, but it still looks nice.
“Here.” I hand the package to Aimee. “I just wanted to get you a little something for tonight.”
Her eyes light up and she sort of pets the box. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I know. I just wanted to.”
Very gingerly, she chips at the paper as if maybe she doesn’t want to tear it so she can save it for a souvenir. Finally, she slides the paper off, removes the lid from the box, and stares inside.
“It’s a flask,” she says.
“Yes, it is. It’s just like mine.”
She sets the box down. “I love it.”
“And you’ll notice it’s already full too.”
Everything’s perfect. We doctor our drinks, Dean Martin croons from the jukebox, and the chicken-fried steaks and chili fries couldn’t be better. The waitress even sets a candle on our table for romantic effect. If Aimee had any qualms about Marvin’s before, I don’t see how she could have any left by the time we leave for the prom.
The next stop is Remington Park, where the prom is being held. Yes, it’s a horse-racing track, but they also have this really swank facility with a super-cool banquet room. The building itself looks like a palace, all lit up with a golden glow, banners waving from the rooftop. Also, they have this great entryway with a big red awning that makes you feel like you’re walking into the Oscars or something. Very upscale.
Inside, the banquet room brims with padded chairs and tables with white tablecloths, row after row of them on five different tiers. Along one side, huge windows—a wall of glass really—face out on the track, which is lit up for our viewing pleasure. Of course, there’s no horse racing tonight, but it’s a magnificent scene with the way the light shines on the brown track and glitters across the two ponds on the north side of the infield.
I have to hand it to the planning committee—this is a great locale, but the decorations are just what the Puttin’ on the Ritz theme led me to expect—cheesy cutouts of top hats and canes and tiaras, along with some glittery stars and moon slivers. They’re truly awful in the most glorious way. Yes, we’re puttin’ on the ritz, all right. Here we are, the kings and queens of lame. It’s our night!
Aimee and I arrive a little late since I got lost a co
uple of times on the way over, but luckily Cassidy saved us a seat at her table. It’s the least she could do after shooting down my limo idea. Ricky’s at a table clear across the room surrounded by Bethany and Tara’s friends. What he has to talk about with these people, I couldn’t begin to guess. From the look of his awkward, two-sizes-too-tight smile, I’d say he doesn’t have much of an idea either.
The punch mixes perfectly with Aimee’s Grey Goose but doesn’t really cut it with my whisky, so I have to sneak in straight shots whenever I get the chance, which I don’t mind, except this is supposed to be our special night. Couldn’t they have some 7UP around somewhere?
Also, I thought we should have live music, but they hired a DJ instead. This idiot thinks he’s smooth too. Hat on sideways. Wrap-around sunglasses. I mean, dude, we’re inside and it’s night. What do you need sunglasses for? His patter is a born-and-bred white Okie’s version of West Coast hip and his song selection is the same as what the radio projectile-vomits day in and day out. But that’s all right. I brought my secret weapon—The Essential Dean Martin. I’m just waiting for the right time to slip it into the mix.
Despite the hideous music, the dance floor’s packed, and after a while of me entertaining our table with a few of my comic stories, Cassidy and Marcus squeeze their way into the crowd. Now, believe me, Marcus has this completely smooth look—immaculate white tux with black shirt and tie—but he’s a little bit of a whooping crane on the dance floor, long stiff legs and a goofy back-and-forth head bob. Cassidy, on the other hand—you might think she’d jiggle too much, but no—she moves like liquid grace.
I know I’m here with Aimee—and I’m glad to be with her—but how can you not stare at Cassidy? She’s wearing this gorgeous turquoise gown that hugs every opulent curve. The turquoise sets her eyes off so that they glow like blue diamonds, and her perfect skin gleams like polished milk. Whereas Aimee has to keep tugging at the straps on her dress to keep them on her shoulders, Cassidy’s gown has no straps. Her magnificent cleavage does the job all on its own like some awesome miracle of anatomical engineering.
“She’s a good dancer,” Aimee says.
“What?”
“Cassidy. She’s a good dancer.”
“Oh yeah, I guess she is. I hadn’t noticed.”
When the song ends, Cassidy heads back to the table, pulling Marcus along by the hand. “Why aren’t you out there dancing?” she asks me.
“You know I hate this kind of music.”
“So what? I hate it too. But aren’t you the one who always says, ‘Embrace the weird’? Just get out there and have some fun.”
She has a point. I’m not one of these people who worries about the hipness quotient of my music. I just like what I like. Besides, I’m a great dancer.
“Come on.” I grab Aimee’s hand as another terrible song cranks up. “I really hate this song. We’ll have a blast!”
But my hand tug meets with unexpected resistance. “I don’t know,” she says. “I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Hey, with my moves, I can make anyone look good.”
“Maybe later.” She holds up her cup as if to say, It’ll take a few more drinks to get me out there.
From the other side, Cassidy grabs my arm. “You don’t mind if I borrow him for this dance, then, do you?”
“Uh, sure,” Aimee says. “No, that’d be great.”
On the dance floor, it’s a little awkward at first. Cassidy and I have never danced as just friends. “So.” She raises her voice to compete with the music. “Aimee looks nice.”
“Yeah.”
“You look pretty good yourself.”
“You look amazing.”
She smiles and glances away.
It feels comfortable now. No use trying to hide the fact that there’s still a spark between us.
I spin her, then we pull together, then step apart and pull back again, moving together as smoothly as ever. Only once do I get a little too rambunctious and accidentally collide with Derrick Ransom.
He’s like, “Watch where you’re going, Sutter,” and I’m, “Hey, it’s just this dance floor. It’s way too small to contain my fabulous moves.”
“Yeah, right.”
The song ends and a slow one starts up.
“You want to dance one more?” Cassidy says.
“Sure. One more sounds good.”
It’s been a while since I held her like this. There’s so much to hold on to. The warmth of her is nearly overwhelming. Her perfume smells like she looks—blue and white and golden. This is not the time to raise a stiffy, but the song’s only halfway through, and my defenses are weakening.
“I hope Aimee doesn’t mind us slow dancing,” she says.
“What’s there to mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I might mind if it was me.”
“How about Marcus. You think he’s all right with it?”
“He’d better be.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“So how are you and Aimee doing?” Her lips are right next to my ear now.
“We’re good.”
“You’re treating her all right, aren’t you?”
“Sir Galahad has nothing on me in the chivalry department.”
She laughs and her breath is warm against my neck. “I noticed her pull out a flask and spice up her punch. You’re not turning her into a lush, are you?”
I pull back and look her in the face. “What is this? Did you want to dance or give me a lecture about Aimee?”
She leans her cheek against mine. “Dance,” she says.
When the song’s over, she pats my cheek and we head back to the table. Seems like Marcus hasn’t even been paying attention to us. He’s deep in conversation with Darius Carter and Jimmy McManus. Aimee’s sitting off to the side with the kind of strained expression on her face that people get when they’re trying to look like they don’t mind being left alone in the middle of a crowd.
I kiss her on the cheek and ask how her flask is holding out.
“I still have a little left.”
“A little?” I take a sip of her punch. “Wow. That’s one high-octane libation.” I take another sip. “But not bad. Not bad at all.”
The prom swirls around us. It’s a spectacular stage in the life of the buzz, the stage when you feel connected to everybody and everything. The memories I have with these people are too many to count. So many buddies with so many funny stories to go along with them. Sometimes I can just picture their faces and it cracks me up.
And then there are the ex-girlfriends. They look incredible, every one of them. Next to Cassidy, Shawnie is probably the most beautiful, the way her red gown goes with her black hair and deep tan and glittering eyes. It’s good to see her so happy. I was a little worried when I found out she’d started dating Jeremy Holtz, but they actually seem good together. I wouldn’t have expected Jeremy to even care about coming to the prom, but here he is, and I’ve never seen him smile so much.
These are my people. We’re all dressed up and celebrating our common bond—youth. That’s what the prom is—St. Patrick’s Day for the young. Only we’re not toasting shamrocks or chasing snakes out of Ireland. We’re toasting the chlorophyll rising in our bodies, catching the energy from the universe. Nobody’s ever been young like we are right at this moment. We’re the Faster-than-the-Speed-of-Light Generation.
Finally, another slow song plays, and this time Aimee doesn’t resist. She practically melts into my chest as we sway to the music. It’s so different having her in my arms compared to Cassidy. Cassidy brings something beautiful to me from the outside. Aimee brings something beautiful up from the depths of my insides.
“I can’t dance like Cassidy,” she says.
“Yeah, but you dance like Aimee. And that’s perfect.”
Chapter 51
Finally, that part of the prom arrives that I don’t have any use for—crowning the king and queen. We’re all kings and queens to my way of thinking. Why wo
uld you want to wreck the togetherness of the situation by holding two people above the rest?
To avoid the whole creepy deal, I take Aimee for a walk. The building is a cool place to check out, especially for a horse lover like she is. Pictures of racehorses and jockeys’ colors decorate the walls, and a really awesome horse statue stands in the foyer. There are also clubs and restaurants and a casino, all closed for now, but you can feel the ghosts of the gamblers haunting the corridors. I’ve been to the races a couple of times and explain to Aimee how the betting works.
“I’d probably lose all my money,” she says.
“That’s all right. It’s just part of the cost of coming out here. I mean, I don’t know a thing about horses myself, but that doesn’t matter either. I just pick the ones with the most pathetic-sounding names—like Fat Cat or Snickerdoodle-dandy—and bet on them. I figure they could use the support, you know?”
“What if there was a horse named Cassidy?”
“What do you mean? Cassidy’s not a pathetic name.”
“But would you bet on it?”
“Why would you ask a question like that?”
“It’s just, you know, I saw the way you were slow dancing with her.”
“Hey, she asked me to dance, not the other way around. And you said it was all right.”
“But you should’ve known it wouldn’t really be all right.”
Uh-oh. Here it is—we’ve finally reached the you-should-have-read-my-mind stage.
“How am I supposed to know that?” I ask. “You have to tell me these things. ESP isn’t one of my many talents, you know.”
We walk outside where the moon and the big lights shine on the precisely landscaped grounds. Neither one of us says anything for a while. Finally, I break the silence. “Look, I’m here with you. Cassidy’s with Marcus. She and I are just good friends. What do I have to do to get you to have a little faith in the Sutterman?”
