We Were Promised Spotlights

by Lindsay Sproul

  “This will be great for both of your careers,” Veronica continued. “You’ll be on the cover, and of course, there will be a significant center spread.”

  I looked at my empty notebook again. I didn’t have a career. I was seventeen. I couldn’t even bring myself to write a coherent essay on Gulliver’s Travels, and I was still failing math.

  It was strange, the amount of planning that went into his life. I wasn’t sure I wanted this man—my father, the movie star—to come to Hopuonk. I wanted to go to him instead. I wanted to start fresh.

  All week at school, no one had talked about anything except Johnny Moon. Bridget Murphy, who usually didn’t feel entitled enough to talk to me, came up to me in the hallway and bombarded me with questions about him, none of which I could answer. A few freshmen asked for my autograph. Susan still hadn’t spoken to me, but I saw her staring during study hall. It felt like it had always felt—everyone’s eyes on me—only more.

  No one mentioned my gayness. Johnny Moon was bigger than my gayness.

  “They’ll send wardrobe people out the day before,” Veronica said. “You can keep the clothes afterward!”

  “Wow,” I said. “Cool.”

  After we hung up, I felt deflated, which made no sense, because this was literally every girl’s dream, wasn’t it?

  I also felt like a fraud. I felt both like I deserved a father and also like I didn’t deserve for a big magazine to interview me, because I was bad at school and I wasn’t even nice, like Susan and Brad.

  I stood to get a beer from the fridge, and went outside to sit on the stoop in the freezing cold. I thought of Heather’s face on New Year’s Eve, just after she popped up out of the ocean.

  I realized that when Sandra handed me the phone, I’d wished it had been Heather calling.

  The Crown

  The day after Veronica Michaels called me, I was lying in bed, watching Stephanie Tanner dart around the plastic castle in her fish tank. Sandra knocked on the door lightly before appearing.

  “Susan’s downstairs,” she said.

  I woke up with a cold, and I’d been sleeping the whole morning. I dreamed about Heather. We were playing this nationally televised game where we had to get across the ocean in a tiny green rowboat and all we had to eat were Froot Loops.

  Heather, though she’d been distantly friendly lately, was mostly avoiding me. I guess I knew too much now. She’d even switched some of her shifts at Emmylou’s so we didn’t work together.

  My bedroom used to make me feel trapped, but now it was comforting. The ceiling slanted down, creating the same familiar shadows every afternoon. Susan and I painted the walls sky blue when we were twelve, intending to sponge-paint clouds to make it look like the sky, but we never got around to doing the clouds. The blue came out too bright, so I covered the walls with posters and collages that Susan and Heather made me in middle school—magazine cutouts of models, clothing we wanted, the words Friends and Beauty and Gossip shellacked over photos of us at the beach or the mall. Dust motes swirled around in the dim light of my knockoff Tiffany lamp, which sat dutifully on my vanity, next to my prom-queen crown.

  I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and told Sandra to send Susan up.

  There she was in my doorway, looking smaller than she used to. Her eyes were red, and she was wearing a baggy sweatshirt with NANTUCKET across the boobs. Her hands were shaking. Mascara was caked under her eyes, like maybe she’d been crying.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Taylor,” she said, “I’m pregnant.”

  Stephanie Tanner rushed behind her little plastic castle.

  “What?”

  “Yep,” she said, running her forefinger down my door frame.

  “Shut the door,” I said. I made space for her on my bed, like I’d been doing for practically my whole life. “I have a cold, though, so sit at your own risk.”

  When we were kids and Susan got the chicken pox, I watched her from the bus stop, standing in the picture window in her bedroom, wearing a white nightgown. She looked like a Victorian ghost. Immediately after school, I rushed over to get the chicken pox from her. All week, while we stayed home from school, we pretended to be Victorian orphans with the measles. “I’m cold,” I said over and over, and she answered, “My mother is coming one day.” We even made Cream of Wheat and pretended it was orphan porridge, and that it was the only food we’d had in weeks.

  That was back at the beginning of my obsession with being anyone other than myself—a pirate, an orphan with the possibility of different parents, of living in another time. Now that I actually had a famous father, it felt uncomfortable—not at all as I’d imagined it as a child.

  Susan sat down, blew air from her cheeks. She didn’t necessarily look unhappy, but she definitely looked scared. She smelled like Salems and strawberry lip gloss, not like herself.

  “It’s Brad’s,” she said. “Obviously.” There was no hint of anger in her voice, no resentment. She was probably a little bit proud.

  A few months ago, this would have sent me down a spiral. Now I felt surprisingly solid. Even though it was strange, and maybe even a little bit shitty, I had a way out now.

  “How pregnant?” This was a stupid question, but it was the only thing I could think of to say.

  “I mean, there’s a baby in there,” she said. And then, “God. I missed this room.”

  She looked around, squinting at one of the collages she made—the one she gave me at my fourteenth birthday party at the pizza place in the mall. We got in a food fight with my cake, and the manager made us mop everything up, then kicked us out.

  “I thought you’d never come here again,” I said.

  She leaned back, letting her arm touch mine. I’d been waiting for this to happen for months, but now I was too sick or too different to feel anything.

  “I haven’t told Brad yet,” she said.

  We both stared at the popcorn ceiling. It looked like the top of a frosted cake.

  “When are you going to tell him? You have to tell him, Susan.”

  She settled into my pillows, which were covered in moist tissues. Then she extracted a Salem from the front pocket of her sweatshirt and lit it with a crooked match. When the flame went out, a delicate strand of smoke twisted toward the ceiling.

  “I know this is bad,” she said, holding up the cigarette but meaning all of it. Everything.

  I sneezed.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but maybe . . .” I didn’t finish. I wouldn’t keep the baby, but this was Susan.

  “My mother says it’s a blessing,” Susan said.

  Well, she would, I thought. I already felt like the ground had dropped away, and I was afraid for Susan. I don’t know if I was surprised, though.

  “That was some prom speech,” Susan said, exhaling smoke through her nose like a dragon.

  “God, what a mess,” I said. I pulled my legs to my chest. “I hoped you’d get queen,” I said. “You deserved it.”

  Even as I said this, I realized that it wasn’t true—it should have been Heather. It always should have been Heather.

  Susan shrugged.

  “They can’t have a pregnant prom queen,” she said.

  “Well, they have a gay one.”

  We sat there for a while, both of us considering apologizing, I guess—me, for kissing her, for touching her, for always having what she wanted, and her for touching me back and then ignoring me. But for me, apologizing would have meant being sorry for existing, and I just wasn’t.

  “I’m sorry I was such a bitch,” she finally said. “It just freaked me out when we, you know.” She couldn’t bring herself to put words to what we’d done. And then she said, “I really love him.”

  “I know you do.”

  “He’d rather have you. I know that,” she said, “and I shouldn’t have blamed you for it.”
/>   “No,” I said. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “God,” she said.

  “God,” I said.

  “Can I sleep over?” she asked.

  I honestly didn’t want her to. My chest felt heavy, my nose plugged-up, and I wanted the freedom to be gross by myself. Heather popped into my mind again, the smell of Clinique Happy, the way it felt lying next to her.

  “Yeah,” I said to Susan. “Of course you can.”

  “Is everything going to be okay?” she asked me.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I took the cigarette out of her hands and threw it out the open window. This time, I told her the truth. “I’ve never known the answer to that, Susan.”

  Then I got back in bed beside her, pulling the covers over us like I’d done so many times before.

  “I bet the baby will have your eyelashes.”

  Susan gestured toward my vanity, at the prom crown. The homecoming crown was long gone, probably buried under Susan’s bed.

  “It’s nice,” she said. This crown was a step up—it was plastic instead of cardboard. In the middle were little blue and red rhinestones.

  “I guess I’m a fuckup,” I said. I wanted to go back to the night of prom, when Heather had let me hold her hand in my car. I should have kissed her, but then again, look where that got me with Susan.

  “Well,” she said. “At least you’re still pretty.”

  “I wish . . .”

  I wanted to tell Susan how distant Johnny Moon felt, how none of it was going the way I’d imagined it would. Then I realized that I never had discussed those kinds of things with Susan—around her, they were only thoughts.

  “I don’t even know what I wish,” I said.

  “I can’t believe your dad is a movie star,” she said. “When is he coming to Hopuonk?” I’d been waiting for this, and I wondered if it was the real reason she came over. I didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Next week,” I said. “He can only come on the two days he isn’t shooting.”

  “What is he like?” Susan asked.

  I paused, still looking at the ceiling. “He’s like a stranger,” I said finally. “He’s like a unicorn.” As I heard Sandra’s words come out of my mouth, I wondered how much I was a part of her, how much of me came from being her daughter.

  “You’re so lucky,” she said.

  For the first time, I realized that Susan didn’t respond to things I actually said. She had conversations with herself—she only wanted comfort, praise, and attention. And whatever it was that I had. I felt sorry for her.

  “Susan,” I said, turning to face her. “Tell me how it happened. It’ll make you feel better. That’s why you came here, isn’t it?”

  “Okay,” she said. “You’re right.”

  She told me the whole story. It was prom night. What a cliché.

  They’d been sitting on Brad’s bed. Susan was crying about her dad, her mascara running down her cheeks. A painting gone wrong. She was hugging one of his pillows. They started talking about me and my speech. She told him that I kissed her. She left out the rest.

  “We started kissing, and he was sweet,” Susan said. When Susan started unhooking her bra, Brad said, “Wait.”

  This is when he got up and started pulling candles out of his desk, the candles that had probably been meant for me. He lined the windowsills with them. He covered every surface with them. Then he walked around the room with a match, carefully touching the flame to every wick.

  Next, there was the music. The music that was meant for me too. A Dave Matthews Band CD.

  She thought having sex with Brad would be better than when she lost her virginity to Scottie at one of his parties two years ago, she explained, and better than when she had sex with lots of the other boys in our grade too.

  This time, there were candles.

  “Brad was so wrapped up with the candles, with making me feel better, that he forgot the condom. After we were done, he told me he loved me,” Susan said, propping herself on my pillow. “I know he was lying, but I said it back anyway. I tried to convince myself he really did love me.”

  I blew my nose.

  “What makes you think he didn’t mean it?” I asked her.

  She ignored my question, saying instead, “I’m not even sure if the actual experience of being with him lives up to what I imagined. I think I made it too big in my head, too special. Everything he did was right, but it somehow felt weird.”

  I reached over and took her hand in mine, squeezing it. There was a lot I wished I could say—that I felt the exact same way about Johnny Moon, that I was afraid meeting him would ruin the image of him in my mind, that I understood how she felt—but we just weren’t the kind of friends who shared those feelings anymore.

  Maybe we never were.

  The Father

  As it turned out, Brad did tell Susan about the herpes. He was taking suppressants. He didn’t kiss her unless it was safe. So far, nothing seemed to be happening to Susan, except that she was pregnant.

  He told me this on the phone. When Sandra called me down into the kitchen to take the phone, she seemed surprised that he was calling.

  I looked at her and shrugged, then shooed her out of the room.

  “Meet me at Damen’s Point,” he said when I answered. “It’s important. I have something to give you.”

  I didn’t want anything from him. He’d already given me herpes.

  “I’m right in the middle of doing my homework,” I lied, and I’m sure he knew I was lying, because I didn’t do my homework.

  “Just meet me there, Taylor,” he said desperately. “Please. Ten minutes.”

  When he showed up, Stinky Lewis was with him. The dog kept spinning in circles, full of nervous energy. He rolled over for us, even though we didn’t have any treats. After that, he presented each of his paws.

  “I need you to take him,” Brad said, instead of hello.

  Susan’s pregnancy was public knowledge now, so there was no need to discuss it. Everyone at school was talking about it, and Susan acted like it was this amazing thing, like it was exactly what she wanted.

  When I saw her, she smiled curtly, but she never slept over again. I was there when it was still an accident, and she needed to erase me.

  Johnny Moon was coming soon, to do the shoot, and the atmosphere in Hopuonk was exactly as I imagined it had been the first time he came—the time when I was made.

  “What do you mean, take him?” I asked Brad.

  “I’m going to be a dad,” Brad said. “I won’t have the time.” His plaid shirt was buttoned all the way up, and he wouldn’t really look at me.

  We sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the waves break and watching Stinky Lewis.

  “I’ve only ever had a fish,” I said. “I can’t take care of a dog.”

  “Taylor, just take him with you. I won’t be able to stand seeing him around.”

  The news of my move was part of the gossip too. As usual, I didn’t have to tell anyone what was going on in my life. They already knew. Worst of all, Johnny Moon didn’t know I planned on moving to California. Panic welled inside me.

  Brad’s jaw was set. It seemed like this had been Susan’s idea. Even if it wasn’t, Brad could probably feel that it was what she wanted.

  Stinky Lewis sat at our feet, his ears forward, eager. He wagged his tail twice, then once just halfway, like he was losing confidence.

  “Brad, I’m sorry,” I said, “for everything.”

  When we stood on the prom stage together—him with his court sash and me with the crown—he wasn’t expecting my explosion. He stood there politely, then backed away. I didn’t blame him. At the time, I was so focused on Susan that I didn’t pay much attention to anyone else, but I realize now that he must have felt exposed somehow too.

  Brad picked
up a gray stone from the ground and threw it at the brackish river. Even though we were all the way on the dock, it reached the water. It always amazed me how easily boys could throw things, and how far.

  “You hurt me,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry I told you that everyone hates you.”

  “It’s true.”

  He didn’t argue.

  “You’ll be a good dad,” I said. “I know you will be.”

  “I think it’s what I’m supposed to do,” he said. He looked out at the water instead of at me when he said, “Right after Susan told me she was pregnant, Heather gave me a blow job.”

  That stung, for several reasons. I thought of Susan stretched out in my bed, telling me the story of sleeping with Brad and getting pregnant, going through tissue after tissue. She seemed so small, and she thought of Heather as a friend. Knowing about Heather and Brad would have undone her. And Heather said she liked me, but she wouldn’t kiss me. I understood, and I respected her more for not doing it, but Brad got to kiss all the pretty girls.

  He picked up another stone and ran it through his fingers. He didn’t throw this one.

  “I’m a bad person, aren’t I?” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “Lots of people would run,” I said. “I mean, from the whole baby thing. One blow job isn’t the end of the world. Just don’t tell Susan.”

  “I thought about running,” he admitted. “But I don’t want to. I want to do this.” He sounded like he was trying very hard to convince himself.

  Stinky Lewis barked and clawed at my sneakers.

  “He likes you,” Brad said. “That’s my cue.”

  There were tears in his eyes that he clearly didn’t want me to see, and I didn’t want to see them either. I looked instead at the river, a hungry, grabbing thing.

  When he got up to leave—he left his blanket—Stinky Lewis whined. I held him back on his leash. Stinky Lewis raised his ears again, wagged his tail, and then sat down.

  Brad turned around, his hand on the door of his Datsun.