I was almost relieved to see the limousine pull up. Emily was ecstatic; the whole family seemed to think this was her wedding. She kissed both of her parents and Mrs. Cookson, too, before ducking into the car. I had a feeling she’d be kissing me, too, before the evening was over if I didn’t stay out of her way. The girl was wound up and ready for takeoff.
Marisol had climbed in the car first, always ready to escape, although in this case I was afraid it might be from the frying pan into the fire.
“Your mother’s crying!” Marisol informed Emily. As the limo pulled away we were treated to the sight of Mrs. Prine leaning on Mrs. Cookson’s shoulder, dissolved, while Mr. Prine captured it all on tape.
“I know. She always cries at stuff like this.”
“Stuff like what?” I asked. “Proms?”
Emily batted at me with her rose-encumbered hand.
“Don’t be such a cynic, John,” Brian said. “For some of us, tonight’s a big deal.” He reached for Emily’s paw and fondled it in his lap.
“Yeah, John, come on,” Marisol said. “You’re always such a cynic.” I could hardly believe she was willing, at this point, to joke. When she was sure the other two weren’t looking, she let her eyeballs roll back in their sockets. Maybe she would forgive me after all.
Chapter Twelve
Marisol only picked at the dinner, chicken stuffed with something green, and “wild rice,” which didn’t look any wilder than any other rice I’d ever seen. She refused the ice cream and asked for a second cup of coffee, which she drank with her back toward me, pretending to watch the dance floor.
The Darlington Yacht Club was supposed to have been transformed by the prom committee into The Love Boat, of all the asinine ideas. Fortunately their funding was limited, so the decorations consisted mostly of Mylar waves cut out and taped along the walls. Life preservers had been hung every few yards with the markered title “H.M.S. Darlington” curving around the top. Green and blue helium balloons were anchored to the middle of each table by a brick wrapped in blue tissue paper, and crepe paper “bon voyage” streamers hung from the rafters, as though we’d just taken off on our ocean crossing.
There were six people at our table, the four of us and some couple I’d never seen before who must have been such losers they had no friends to sit with. Or maybe it was just that they were so tight with each other they never bothered to get to know anybody else. I never imagined sixteen-year-olds could act so married. He opened her napkin for her and reminded her she was allergic to cream. She sampled his salad dressing, then asked the waiter to bring him a clean fork. They were so interested in each other’s eating habits, I expected one of them to cut up the other’s meat.
But now they were up dancing, and, of course, so were Brian and Emily, though I doubted whether Brian had ever moved to a beat in his life. He and Emily bumped their way through the rock dances, then settled happily into a holding pattern when the band turned slow and sappy. Sitting at the table, not even speaking to my so-called “date,” was making me feel like an idiot. Almost everybody was dancing; apparently that’s what you do at a prom. And we certainly weren’t invisible here at our corner table. Marisol had ignited a great deal of interest when we entered the place, and people were still turning around to check on her, as though they expected more of someone wrapped in black than just a stunning entrance.
The thing was, all the other girls were dressed, like Emily, in as little as possible. Most of them looked like they were wearing slips or handkerchiefs. I guess it was supposed to be a sexy look, but on some of them it really didn’t work, besides which they looked like clones.
So when Marisol walked in, looking like a tiny Hollywood starlet circa 1942, everybody swiveled to have a look. I didn’t mind at all. I felt proud to be with the one person there who had enough individuality to dress in her own style. Of course her proud escort was probably more puzzling to people than her dress; who would have expected Mr. Invisible to walk in with a showstopper?
Not that I was particularly with Marisol; she’d hardly directed a word to me since we got here. When she finished cup number two I managed to catch her eye. “You probably don’t want to dance, do you?”
“Not really. I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Me either, but … look around. There aren’t many professionals here.”
She shook her head, then turned her powerful gaze on me. “Why did you lie to me about your name?”
I groaned. I’d been waiting for this. “I didn’t mean to lie. It was the name I used on the zine, and I kind of wanted to be that person. I was tired of being plain old John. I didn’t think of it as a lie.”
“Well, it was,” she said.
“I guess. I’m sorry.”
“What’s wrong with the name John? It was good enough for Berryman?”
“How do you know? Maybe that’s why he killed himself.”
She didn’t smile. “Are you going to call me John now?” I asked.
She made a face. “Can’t. I think of you as Gio.”
“Good.”
She picked up her cup again and then remembered it was empty and clunked it back on the saucer. She was having a great time.
Suddenly she turned on me. “What did you say to your mother? In the letter. What did you say to her that was mean?” Well, that was a leap off The Love Boat.
“Come on, Marisol, I don’t feel like talking about that now.”
“Well, we better talk about something. The only thing we’ve got together is talking, Gio. You asked the wrong person if you wanted to dance.”
She had a point. If this prom wasn’t going to ruin our friendship, I’d better try to remember what had made us like each other to begin with. I took a deep breath.
“Well, I guess the worst thing I said was that I hated her. That’s how I ended it. It was the last thing I said.”
“That’s pretty harsh. Did you mean it?”
“Sort of. I don’t hate her all the time, just when I think about—”
“The no touching thing?”
“Yeah. You know, what it’s done to me and everything. Made me so …” I couldn’t say it. I grimaced and clenched my fist in front of my chest.
“Yeah.” I knew she knew what I meant. “You put it where she won’t find it accidentally?”
“She won’t find it. She never goes into my room. It’s part of the hands-off policy.”
“Would you ever give it to her? I mean, I sometimes wonder, if I ever did meet my birth mother, would I show her any of the letters. I don’t know. Mainly they’re for me.”
“I probably won’t. Although, sometimes I really want her to know how I feel. I want to hurt her back.”
Marisol nodded and looked down at her empty cup. “I didn’t send you the poem to hurt you, Gio. Just to make sure you know.”
The poem. I had almost convinced myself it was just something random she wanted me to read and not a coded message.
“I wasn’t really sure what it meant,” I said.
“Then you’re still not listening,” she said, staring straight ahead at a couple of life preservers.
I didn’t say anything for a minute or two. The lights were turned even lower than before, which was good. I was glad not to be able to see everybody, or have them see me. Nothing like invisibility.
“I understand some of it,” I said quietly. “But why do you say you’re leaving me? And what’s the ‘initial mystery’ we’ve solved?”
She looked down at her lap. “Too hard to talk about it. I’m afraid you’ll misunderstand.” Her voice had gotten very quiet, as if it were running away from me too.
“I do misunderstand. I don’t know what’s so wrong!” At that moment it seemed as though nobody else was in the room. I just wanted to be with Marisol; I wanted her to want to be with me more than anybody else.
“Gio, my friend,” she said, smiling kind of sadly. “You win. Let’s dance.” She stood up and put out her hand.
At first I felt
frustrated that she was willing to dance only because it meant she wouldn’t have to talk to me about what was going on between us, but as I stood and followed her onto a corner of the dance floor, that feeling went away. I convinced myself a miracle had occurred: Marisol wanted to be with me the way I was suddenly willing to admit I wanted to be with her.
One of her hands was in mine, and the other reached up to lie peacefully on my shoulder as we began to rock each other slowly back and forth. I forgot immediately that I was at that ridiculous prom. I didn’t know where I was, just alone with Marisol, her head resting lightly against my chest, her hair tickling my chin, her body moving in sync with mine.
She moved the hand on my shoulder just a little, like a caress. That’s what it seemed like. It was so clear; she was touching me instead of saying anything in words. She was touching me. Ripples spread out from the spot her hand covered and ran all through my body, electrifying me.
“This is the ‘initial mystery,’ Gio,” she said softly. “Before we couldn’t allow anyone in. Now we can.”
There were so many wonderful feelings flooding through me, I thought I would burst. This was what people meant! This was what it felt like! I pulled Marisol close to me, put both arms around her, and buried my face in her hair.
I felt her stiffen and pull back, but I held on. “Wait a minute, Gio,” she said. “Come on.”
I kissed the top of her head and tried to get in a position to kiss her face, to work my way down to her lips, but she was pushing me now, shoving me away.
“Gio, for God’s sake. That’s not what I mean!”
Something was terribly wrong, but I couldn’t let her go. I think I knew I’d never hold her again once she got free. She stomped on my foot, her boot heel crushing three or four toes.
“Let me go!” she said, and I had to obey. I suppose there were lots of people watching us by that time, because Marisol was not being quiet.
“This is what I’m talking about! You don’t listen to me! We had a nice thing, a good feeling. We broke through something with each other, but you want to make it something it’s not!”
“I’m sorry. I thought …”
“You didn’t think! You’re a man!” she screamed, throwing at me the epithet she obviously thought was the worst insult in her vocabulary.
“What’s wrong, John?” Brian surfaced and put a hand on my shoulder while Emily lurked behind him.
“I shouldn’t be here. That’s what’s wrong,” Marisol said.
“Sure you should …” old Bri began.
“Brian, dear, I am a lesbian. Which your friend John knows, but doesn’t want to believe.”
“That’s not fair!” I yelled.
“I’m going now,” she said, heading for the exit. “You and your friends can sit here and debate whether or not I’m being fair. I really don’t care.”
I stood there with Brian, watching Marisol storm out the door.
“She doesn’t want to ride back in the limousine?” Emily asked, sounding terribly sad.
That was all it took; I ran out after Marisol. By the time I got to the doorway, she was half a block down the street, her dress hoisted in one hand, boots making good time.
“Marisol, wait a minute!” I yelled.
“Don’t follow me!” she hollered back.
“Of course I’m following you,” I said as I started running. “You don’t even know where you are!”
“I’ll figure it out!” She marched on, but slowed a little when I came up beside her. “Well, of course, you can catch me. I’m hobbled by this damn skirt, which I would never have been caught dead in except as a favor to you!”
“Look. I don’t know what’s going on. Could we just talk a minute?”
“You don’t know what’s going on? Where did you get the idea you could suddenly start mauling me?”
Hearing my tender advances referred to as a ‘mauling’ was more than my ego could bear just then. “What was all that ‘initial mystery’ shit? What was with your hand moving around on my neck? What am I supposed to think?”
“My hand moving … ?” Marisol stood there in her majestic dress, little sailboats bobbing in the calm harbor behind her (love boats?), a full moon overhead proclaiming it one of those spring nights people write songs about. Only my girl was livid.
“You think I was leading you on? I’ve been telling you since Day One I’m a lesbian. Did you just choose not to believe it?”
“If you didn’t want me to think of you as my date, you shouldn’t have shown up looking like that!”
That stopped her. “Like what?”
“So … beautiful.” I didn’t even know I thought that until I said it.
I could tell Marisol wasn’t sure how mad a compliment should make her. She stared at my boutonniere for a minute before coming up with a response. “I was supposed to wear overalls and a T-shirt so you wouldn’t get confused?”
“I’m just saying, when you’re dressed like that it makes it hard to remember you’re not available. That’s all.”
She found where she’d mislaid her anger. “Available? And just what did this dress signal to you that I was available for?”
“That’s not what I meant …”
“Well, obviously it is! I have the crushed ribs to prove it!”
Why was she being so unreasonable? I tell her she’s beautiful, and she calls me a pig! All of a sudden I felt my own fuse ignite, burst into flame. I backed up, stuck my finger out at her like (I hate to admit it) a gun, and exploded. “Fuck you, Marisol. Just fuck you!”
For a minute she stood motionless, letting the attack strike her. Then her features tightened into a scowl and she struck back: a stinging slap across my face, and then, before I could move out of the way, another one to keep it company. She backed up.
“I can’t believe I ever thought we were friends,” she said. “You really fooled me, Gio.” I thought there might have been tears in her eyes, but she turned quickly and walked away while I was still testing my jaw for breakage.
I watched her walk away, first thinking: good riddance—who needs this abuse? And then after a minute thinking: She never really understood me anyway. Which rapidly changed to: I never understood her at all. And before long I was watching her small back disappear and thinking: There goes the only person who ever gave a damn about me.
By the time I caught up to her the tears were flowing. Mine anyway. She had more control over hers. (I tried to ignore them. It was so strange; I couldn’t remember the last time I cried about anything. Where did the damn things come from?)
As soon as Marisol heard me behind her she turned around and started screaming.
“You didn’t tell them I was gay! You didn’t tell me we were riding in that stupid car! You didn’t even tell me your name! You swore on J.D. Salinger you’d never lie to me, you shithead, and then you did. All along, you’ve been lying to me!”
“I’m sorry! I don’t mean to lie, especially to you.” I tried to take her hand because I felt like I could make her believe me if I could touch her, but she pulled away from me. Another person I couldn’t touch anymore.
“First you try to kiss me, then you tell me ‘fuck you, Marisol,’ which you know hurts me …”
“I only said it because you hurt me.”
“I never lied to you, Gio. If you were hurt it was be-cause you were pretending something that wasn’t there.”
“Something was there! Now you’re lying. We solved the ‘initial mystery’—that’s what you said!”
She stopped screaming and slid her fingers up under her bangs like she was massaging her brain. It was a good thing the yelling had stopped because several porch lights had flashed to attention in this affluent neighborhood, and I had the feeling a few index fingers might be warming up to punch 911.
“Yes, okay,” she said. “But I meant something else, not … what you think.”
“No?”
She took a deep breath and looked me in the eye. “No, not … lo
ve. Some kind of deep … connection …” She put her hand over her heart. “Which is confusing. And that’s why it has to be over now.”
“No! Marisol, I love you!” I said, needing so badly to get the words out into the world, even if nobody wanted to hear them.
“Oh, Jesus,” she said, and threw her head back to appeal to the moon for help. “Don’t love me, Gio. Don’t.”
“I can’t help it.”
She sighed. “Well, now we’re really screwed up, aren’t we?” She laughed a little bit then, so I did too, though nothing was funny.
She stared out into the harbor for a minute, while I looked helplessly at the back of her head. You could hear a couple of canine killers scratching and moaning at nearby doors, hoping for a chance to get free and dismember us, but it didn’t scare me nearly as much as thinking Marisol would never say she loved me. Finally she grabbed my arm firmly with both her hands, which, for some reason, hurt almost as much as the slaps across the face. “Walk me back to my car,” she said. “And let’s not say another word to-night.”
So I did, and we didn’t.
Chapter Thirteen
Brian came by at eight o’clock the next morning. He’d just left Emily at her house, but he was too pumped up to go home and sleep. In a funny way, I was glad to see him. I kind of wanted to talk to somebody about the whole thing, and since Marisol probably wasn’t speaking to me anymore, who else was there but Brian?
If I had a normal mother, I might have talked to her last night, since we arrived home about the same time, she from her dinner with Al, me from my aborted prom. Al was just pulling away when we drove up. All I said to Marisol before I got out was, “Can I call you?”
“Let’s sleep on it,” she said. “I’ll call you.”
Great. That was the end of that. So I walked in the door, and there was Mom halfway up the stairs already, looking awfully pleased with herself. “Aren’t you home early?” she asked me, taking off her shoes on the landing. The question seemed to show a certain lack of interest in the major events of my life.
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