Beginner's Luck

by Laura Pedersen

  My dad shakes hands with Craig, gives him that don't you dare sleep with my daughter tight smile, and then asks what his plans are. Craig responds with the typical spiel that most college-bound teenagers have perfected by the time they're seniors in high school in order to get adults off their backs in a hurry. He's been accepted at the University of Michigan, will try out for the lacrosse team, and major in biology to become a horticulturist or possibly a genetic engineer.

  However, my dad knows that Craig was on the football team with Eric and that on its own is enough of a credential for my date to be offered a beer and welcomed into the Palmer Clan. My dad is probably thinking that if Craig and I get married he'll have enough players for regular weekend games of touch football in the backyard.

  From the way my mother hastily yanks off her reading glasses I can tell she's startled that I'm wearing a black dress. But then, she's also shocked that I'm going to the prom in the first place, and with a normal-looking boy. She insists on taking a photo; however the balloon caption over her head says that before showing it to anyone she'll find a way to retouch the color of my dress to a more ladylike peach or lavender. And I notice she glances at my slightly enhanced chest the way women scrutinize good hair-coloring jobs, with an expression that says, Does she or doesn't she?

  Next we drive to Craig's. Stationed on the front lawn is an entire country full of relatives toting camcorders and arranging Minoltas on top of tripods and taking wide-angle disposable cameras out of the plastic wrapping. They're loitering in the shrubbery like a busload of tourists looking for bears at Yellowstone National Park. As we pull up, a column rushes the car and I suddenly know what it's like to be a famous person stalked by what Ottavio calls paparazzi.

  "What the heck, Craig, I thought it was just going to be your mom and dad showing me baby pictures of you naked in the bathtub. Why didn't you tell me all these people were lying in wait for us?"

  "I was afraid you wouldn't come. I'm an only child. My life has to be heavily documented. It's the law."

  “I’ll say.”

  "And besides, it's a small town. They all want to get a good look at you— the girl who needs to be home-schooled for mental health reasons and shows up on the evening news dressed as if she's a heading off to fight in the Crusades. They want to see for themselves if you're demented or else a religious fanatic. And of course my aunts and uncles are concerned about the genetic makeup of the next generation."

  Just then the heel of my left sandal sinks down through the grass and into the mud and I fall to my knees as I step out of the car. Damn, there wasn't anything in Funny Face about squishy front lawns—just perfectly manicured country estates, beautiful bridges in Paris, and winding marble staircases. As my hands reach out to break my fall about twenty flashbulbs go off. Good. Maybe they'll decide that's why I have to wear armor, to keep from injuring myself. And I'll be able to tell Mr. Bernard that I managed to make at least one grand entrance.

  After the massive photo interrogation it feels as if it should already be time to go home for the night. Not a chance. In fact, as we climb back into the car I catch Craig's cousin giving him a lascivious wink. It's not as if I don't have an older brother. I know what that means.

  Upon seeing me enter the gymnasium in a dress and makeup and on the arm of a handsome boy, Gwen pretends to faint and fall backward into her boyfriend's arms while Jane shouts, "Ohmigod! Buy stock in Revlon!"

  The prom starts out stupid and boring, and for the first hour everyone stands around not knowing exactly what to do. You can tell the other jock girls by the tan lines left from baseball cap visors, short-sleeved uniforms, and calf-length sweat socks. And also by the way they keep checking their hair to see if it's falling apart, their borrowed jewelry to see if it's falling off, and their nylon slips to see if they're falling down.

  A group of tall, gangly girls from the basketball team stands anchored near the far wall, basically afraid to take a step without their sneakers, wristbands, and Ace bandages wrapped firmly around their extremities. The cheerleaders and student council girls—no strangers to formal dress— purposefully sashay back and forth across the gymnasium floor, making their breasts bounce and the skirts of their dresses flounce as they work the room and check out what everyone else is wearing.

  An assemblage of a dozen guys looking like penguins huddled around a plate of fresh fish crouches in the far corner with dollar bills in their hands playing a marathon game of liar's poker. Another cluster of tuxedoed teens has converted one of the collapsible round dinner tables into a surface for playing penny hockey. They've removed the red polyester tablecloth laid with black place settings and made the commemorative mugs with the date of the prom etched on the front into obstacles while employing their thumbs and pinkies as goalposts. More guys drift over, as they always do when any kind of game is in progress, whether it's dodgeball or duck duck goose.

  Trying to work his way into the throng, unsuccessfully, is Brandt, skinny as ever and easily mistaken for a barbershop pole in his white tux, blue shirt, and red satin cummerbund and bow tie. No boutonniere, though. Apparently he hasn't found a date. Poor Brandt. Always on the outside looking in. And now the whole town aware that his mother might be indicted for fraud.

  The band is a bunch of middle-aged white guys in light blue tuxedos with wide lapels playing icky ballads that you hear on the soundtracks of romantic comedies. Couples start sneaking out to the parking lot to either get drunk or make out or a little of both. Craig and I wait to get our picture taken in front of a fake-looking white arbor with hanging green plastic ivy that resembles tree snakes.

  Gwen and her date Richard stand in line behind us. When Sheryl Shaeffer walks in, absolutely stunning in a shimmery emerald gown, upswept hair, and heavy makeup of Oscar-night caliber, Gwen nudges me. "Pregnant," she loudly whispers.

  "No!" Craig and I say in unison.

  Gwen points at the man handing her a glass of punch. And this is a man. I doubt he ever had a pimple in his life, or if he did have a brush with adolescence, it in no way overlapped with our high school careers.

  Jane and her on-again, off-again wrestling captain boyfriend, Nolan "Bruno" Murphy, join us in the photo line. "Are you talking about Sheryl?" Jane asks excitedly. "I just wrung it out of Brandt—shotgun wedding right after graduation."

  "He's going to marry her?" Craig blurts out. I can't tell if it's the idea of marriage in general or the idea of marrying Sheryl that's grossing him out.

  "No way!" exclaims Gwen. Gwen had not been trumped in gossip since Miss Heffley, our third-grade teacher, had a nervous breakdown and the principal lied and told us it was a family emergency. However Jane's aunt worked at the sanitarium in Cleveland where they sent Miss Heffley to recover from us and she dutifully reported the true story. Gwen is innately competitive when it comes to defending her gossipmongering tiara, and so she adds, "My father says that Sheryl and Brandt's mother will probably go to jail soon."

  "But it was only eight hundred dollars," says Bruno.

  "Several of her customers were found to have money missing from their accounts at the brokerage firm," Gwen says quietly, as if from the other side of the room Sheryl might be reading her lips.

  All five of them look to me since they assume that I should know the most about the case from having sprung the trap that eventually blew her in. But after that day Officer Rich came to the house he never discussed the case again except to say that it was confidential and that witnesses and a jury were involved. And that I was too young to testify in court, anyway.

  "Don't look at me," I say. "Somehow Officer Rich made sure that I got my eight hundred bucks back." I tap the front of my gown as if I'm wearing jeans and there's a wad of cash in the pocket. Then it's our turn to be photographed.

  After dinner the band finally cranks out some songs that people can rock to, like "Run Around" by Blues Traveler, and of course Craig requests Chum-bawamba's "Tubthumping," and so we all run out on the dance floor, even the chaperones. The girl
s who have batting averages or keep hockey sticks in their lockers kick off their heels and hike up their skirts. The throbbing bass line causes the bleachers to shudder and balloons come unfastened and drift across the dance floor like big bouquets of red and black soap bubbles. I get knocked down ... But l get up again ... You're never gonna keep me down. The chorus pounds away.

  Then the band plays old favorites like Chubby Checker and Michael Jackson's "Thriller" and a Beach Boys medley including "Surfin' USA ind "Help Me, Rhonda."

  In the girls' bathroom Jane informs me that Brandt told her that I look more beautiful than the Queen of Naboo.

  "Nay-Who?" I ask.

  "You know, in Star Wars. It's the highest compliment he can pay to an earthling. You should be flattered.”

  "I think frightened is the word we should be looking at." But while joking about poor Brandt I realize it's unfair not to take into account the fact that he offered to turn in his own mother in order to clear my name.

  As the keyboard player hammers out the first few bars of Meatloaf's "Bat Out of Hell," Brandt asks me to dance. He confidently leads me to the center of the dance floor, and I'm shocked to discover that he's in possession of some incredibly skillful footwork. At least it's much more elaborate than the rest of ours. A few girls agree to dance with him, especially if they're bored because their boyfriends are out getting stoned in the parking lot and they don't want to stand around or dance with other girls. But most of the time Brandt stays out on the middle of the floor alone, eyes closed, feet tapping time, body swaying to the music, in his own Branch Universe.

  Finally, it's the end of the night, and after the King and Queen are crowned the band announces the theme song, "Nothing Ever Changes" by Donna Lewis, and everyone dances with their date, no matter how much they might be hating that person by now. The lights dim and overhead a mirrored globe momentarily transforms the gymnasium into a planetarium, with bursts of flame spangling our hair and faces like shooting stars.

  Some of the girls get weepy, more from drinking rum and turning in circles than from nostalgia. Couples that have previously agreed upon post-prom heavy-duty sexual encounters and arranged motel rooms are revving up their engines on the dance floor, seriously sucking each other's faces and running their hands up and down each other's butts in time to the music. Craig and I dance close, and my date also begins some dance-floor foreplay with his hands and mouth.

  "I'm not sleeping with you after the prom," I say as we continue to turn at right angles with metronome regularity and flecks of light dapple our eyebrows. "So if that's what you're planning, then you may as well take me home."

  "Jeez, Hallie, who said anything about sleeping together?"

  "I saw your cousin giving you that wink."

  "Well, at least I've got to let him think that I might get lucky."

  "And you'd better not go around telling your football pals I'm easy, or I'll make up something about you that will be even more embarrassing."

  Craig takes my hand, looks directly in my eyes, and says, "Hallie, I really care about you, for one thing. And I know that you didn't want to go to this dumb prom in the first place, and so I really appreciate it. Number three, I'd never try to take advantage of you. And four, I'd never tell anyone anything about us, even if we did sleep together. I mean, if all I cared about was sleeping with someone I would have stayed with Sheryl."

  "Then why did she break up with you?" I finally ask.

  "I broke up with her," says Craig. "She wanted to talk about television shows and movie stars the entire time. And when it rained, all she worried about was getting her hair wet... She wasn't much fun."

  I consider this significant piece of new information—a veritable hidden joker in the deck.

  "Like you are," he adds.

  "Oh," I say. "Well, I'm still not going to sleep with you," I quickly remind him.

  "That's fine."

  "At least not tonight," I say.

  "I wasn't planning on it, honest."

  The lead singer croons: Nothing ever changes, nothing ever changes. And all I can think is, what's the point of going to school for fifteen years if nothing ever changes? What if we all have acne for the next thirty years? And A-cup bras? I imagine that most of the kids in the gym, myself included, are sincerely hoping that a lot of things change, and soon.

  Chapter 60

  Final Round ♠

  Following the main event Craig and I drive to Cleveland with several other couples. It's a tradition to go club-hopping on the waterfront since most of the bars stay open until three in the morning, and after they close, the alcoholics, insomniacs, and over-served revelers simply drift out of doors and continue partying from the trunks of their cars.

  It's a warm dry night, and some kids decide to drive the four hours all the way to Niagara Falls. However, no matter which plan you choose, you have to stick with at least a dozen other promgoers in order to avoid looking incredibly foolish in your formal dress clothes. A lot of people in the bars think we're arriving from a wedding reception and ask who is the bride and groom, and we take turns volunteering and getting free drinks.

  We finally arrive back at about six in the morning, after a short stop at the local park to lie on top of the hill and watch the sunrise, another apres prom tradition. Dew glazes the grass and the air smells loamy from surrounding farms that stretch toward an endless horizon.

  Back at Nuthatch Lane, Mr. Gil is out front directing parking. He has carefully organized several rows of Roman candles to demarcate the driveway and expertly waves two heavy-duty flashlights as cars pull up. In his Day-Glo orange windbreaker and with a strip of silver reflective tape on the back of each pant leg, Mr. Gil looks prepared for a shipwreck. Apparently he isn't taking any chances with the designated-driver thing.

  Inside, Mr. Bernard is cuff-link-deep in tamales, guacamole, black bean salsa, breakfast burritos, and his very own Alamo orange juice. A large tan and red woven sombrero sits in the middle of the buffet table, blue and yellow tortilla chips bursting from its brim. In the background a Mexican flute and recorder band plays with psychotic abandon.

  Ms. Olivia and Ottavio are merrily overseeing the buffet table while Mr. Bernard buses clean plates and trays of food back and forth to the kitchen. Someone has found a brightly colored poncho for Rocky to wear, and he stands next to Ms. Olivia gaily serving the punch. Above their heads dangle red and green plastic chili pepper lights that Mr. Bernard has strung along the curtain rods.

  About fifty kids manage to locate the house, including my brother Eric and his girlfriend, Emily, all looking sleepy and worse for the wear. Cummerbunds and boutonnieres have vanished; even some of the boys' socks and shoes are missing in action. The flat black silken ends of disassembled bow ties dangle from their pockets like the tails of kites.

  The girls are no longer wearing silk scarves around their necks or have bobby pins or butterfly clips holding up their hair, or hosiery and high heels on their tired feet. It's all dropped away like the petals on their corsages. Their foundation makeup has slowly worn off or been absorbed by the shoulders of their boyfriends' tuxedos, and traces of mascara and lipstick can be found an inch lower and slightly to the left of where it had been applied twelve hours before. The bonfires of orange zinnias that Mr. Bernard has arranged on tabletops only serve to make faces appear paler and cause tired eyes to squint.

  I notice Ms. Olivia whispering to Ottavio and subtly motioning toward the grass stains on the back of Jane's pale yellow gown. That gets the big smile from Ottavio, the one he usually reserves for fresh tiramisu and winning at pinochle.

  The soon-to-be graduates appear to get a second wind after generous helpings of Mr. Bernard's huevos rancheros and vaya con Dios spicy tomato juice. He isn't holding back on the Tabasco sauce either, so there's a lot of coughing and sputtering and running to the kitchen for chunks of ice and glasses of cold water.

  Also, it hasn't hurt attendance that Mr. Gil made such a detailed map of how to locate the event. In fact
, there are about ten or twelve kids who didn't attend the prom, a few of them I don't even recognize from school.

  By ten o'clock, the last of the crew has either gone home or fallen asleep in their cars. Craig and I start clearing up, but Mr. Bernard tells us we look so wiped out that we should go and rest before we frighten the paperboy when he arrives to collect.

  "You can sleep in my bed with me if you want," I say to Craig.

  "Are you sure?" Craig glances toward the kitchen, where Mr. Gil and Mr. Bernard are emptying the ice from the punch bowl and we can hear the cubes crashing into the sink.

  "Why not? The Stocktons don't care." Ms. Olivia and Mr. Bernard both have boyfriends bunking with them, so I highly doubt they'll object to me following suit.

  "That'd be fun. I mean, I've never gone to sleep with a woman before."

  "Okay. But it would just be sleeping together, you know, I mean, you'd just better not try anything." Though I realize that with my exams now over I did have a promise to make good on, as per Ms. Olivia's suggestion.

  We go upstairs to my room, but it feels funny taking off my clothes in front of Craig, so I grab my T-shirt and go down the hall to the bathroom. When I come back his tuxedo is neatly laid out over the back of Mr. Bernard's antique balloon-back rocking chair and he's already in the bed, on the side closest to the wall. I climb in beside him, and he places his arm around my shoulder and asks, "I can kiss you, can't I?"

  "Sure, I mean, we can go to third base, but like, after that, you have to stop. I don't want to end up in a big fight about this."

  "Of course. After third base I'll stop. You won't have to say another word."

  "You can go take a shower or something if you have to," I suggest.