One Mississippi

by Mark Childress

  “Look — it’s not my fault the precious seat belt is stuck!”

  “Why the hell did you buckle it in the first place?”

  We were skidding toward a collision. “Tim, one more word about the damn seat belt and I’m not gonna be the only one bleeding.”

  Doug returned with a pair of shears. He looked at Tim. “You want me to cut it, or you want to do it yourself?”

  Tim stepped back. He raised his hands in a posture of defeat. “You do it.”

  Doug knelt beside me. Snip, snip, in one second I was free. He said no charge, but I handed him five dollars. (I’d have given him a hundred if I had it.) Doug crammed the bills in his pocket and said, “Y’all go on now, have fun at your party.”

  “See there, everything turned out fine,” Dianne said. “Are you still bleeding?”

  I checked. “Not much.”

  Tim climbed back in the driver’s seat. “Okay, nobody fasten their seat belts, all right?” We rode in silence to the Holiday Inn. We could hear music throbbing from inside the building. Tim let his breath out slowly — like Dad when he was trying to keep from hitting us. “You ready now, Durwood?”

  “You guys go ahead. I’ll just sit here till I’m sure the bleeding’s really stopped, then I’ll come in.”

  Dianne said she would wait with me. I said sometimes it takes a while to stop all the way. “Y’all go on. I’ll be in soon.”

  “You think it might stop faster if we leave you alone?” Tim said.

  “Yeah.”

  He popped open his door. “Come on, girls.”

  “Okay, well . . . you hurry in, Daniel,” Dianne said.

  The minute they left, the pounding of my heart began to slow, the flow of blood easing. I stared up through the window at the stars poking through the haze over Jackson. It could have been worse, I kept telling myself. It could have happened in front of everybody, instead of just Tim and the girls and some gas-station guys.

  Maybe one day it would be funny, but not yet. It was still too humiliating. Also I’d seen a side of Tim I didn’t really want to see. No doubt we would go on being best friends, but I didn’t enjoy how ready he was to leave me strapped in his father’s backseat.

  The pulse of “Back Stabbers” vibrated the air in the lobby. I went to the men’s room to dab at the bloody crust on my nostril. By some miracle I had managed to lose all that blood without getting a drop on my Sky Blue tuxedo.

  The bathroom door banged open and there stood Larry McWhorter and Red Martin, star linebackers of the varsity team. Their bow ties were off, their faces flushed from dancing and probably drinking. Red hooted at the sight of me. “Jesus Gawd, would you look at ol’ Daniel Musk Ox?” he cried. “Howdy, Musk Ox! Where’d you get that tux at, Nigger Mart?”

  I tossed the bloody napkin in the trash. “Brant and Church.”

  “Nigger Mart!” Larry snickered. “Good one, Red! Hey, Musgrove, who’s your date tonight — Arnita Beecham?”

  “In his dreams,” Red said. “No, he’s already got a little wifey at home. Tim Cousins.”

  I combed my crew cut and pretended to ignore them. They took up positions at the urinals and jacked their feet apart in manly fashion.

  “Man,” Red said, “did you get a load of her titties in that goddamn dress?”

  “Mm, mm,” Larry said, “sweet li’l ol’ Hershey kisses.”

  I could have just slipped out the door, but with bullies it was important to show you were not intimidated. “I never noticed Arnita’s tits till she put on that dress,” I said, in the spirit of good fun between guys.

  “You wouldn’t notice tits on a bull,” Red said, “cause you got your head stuck up your ass, jackass.”

  Larry haw-hawed at that. I grinned in a good-natured way. “Jeez, Red, with your talent for repartee you oughta go on Johnny Carson!” I got out the door before he could work up an answer.

  Beside the double doors was a folding table manned by Coach Rainey and Mrs. Passworth, my algebra teacher. It was strange to see the coach in sport coat and necktie, even stranger to see Mrs. Passworth in a purplish satiny evening dress with pleats and bows and a generous view of her freckled bosom. “Well hello, Daniel, don’t we look handsome tonight!” she exclaimed. “Ticket?”

  “Tim Cousins has it. They already went in.”

  “Oh, right. He said you were having the most awful nosebleed! You poor thing, are you okay?” She put a kindly hand on my arm.

  “I’m fine. Can I go in?”

  “I’m sure you were just nervous,” she said. “Go right in, have a wonderful time!”

  A blast of warm air and music blew through the doors with a herd of chattering girls. I straightened my shoulders and walked into the prom.

  My first instinct was I was in the wrong place, who were all these people? My classmates had been transformed — the girls glowy and fancy in their formals, hair piled to unnatural heights or teased and sprayed into clouds of curls. The boys looked handsome and grave in their tuxes. The spatter of light from the huge disco ball made everyone glamorous. To my relief I spotted several bright pastel tuxes — Mike Patterson wore a creamy yellow one, Greg Ptacek a Sophisticated Squire in Lime Green.

  Crepe paper twirled with glitter-painted stars in the streams of colored light. The room was crowded, warm, thrilling, like I imagined a glamorous nightclub might be. A disc jockey was spinning records beside the dance floor jammed with couples swaying to Seals and Crofts, “We May Never Pass This Way Again.” A sprinkling of teachers stood by, ready to break up any sexy dancing.

  “There you are!” Dianne seized my arm. “How’s your nose?”

  “Fine. Cool decorations, huh?”

  “Listen, if you need it, I’ve got another — thing in my purse. Just in case.”

  It was too dark for her to see me blush. “Thanks. I’m okay now. Where’s Debbie and Tim?”

  “Dancing! You wanna dance?”

  The past two Saturdays I had watched American Bandstand and imitated those kids, the cool sweep of the arm and the juking thing with the feet. Janie came in and caught me in the act, and laughed so hard I had to quit. Now Dianne tugged me by the hand to the dance floor.

  It was jammed, everybody shuffling in place. In that crowd no one looked significantly more ridiculous than anyone else. You can do this, I told myself. You can. I tapped my feet, snapped my fingers, grinned at Dianne. The beat was easy to follow. I found myself almost enjoying it. You can get through this, try not to think how spastic you look.

  The lights made a shine on Dianne’s face. She’d taken off her glasses, so her eyes looked naked and puffy, but they were nice eyes, the eyes of a girl having fun on her first date with me. A lot of steel in her smile. I gave her a smile in return. This was not so bad.

  We did three fast dances in a row. I pulled her off the floor when the deejay put on “So Very Hard to Go” by Tower of Power, a slow dance any way you cut it.

  “That was great!” she cried. “Let’s go get some punch!” She was so excited that everything came out a little scream. She kept squeezing my arm as if to make sure I was real. We pushed through the crowd to a table laden with punch bowls and cookies, cocktail weenies, chips and dip. Dianne squealed and hugged everybody, how gorgeous how fabulous oh my gosh Brenda that dress is out of this world! We were in full prom mode, all right, we were here and doing the total Prom Thing. Dianne spotted Debbie at the end of the table. They ran into each other’s arms shrieking as if they hadn’t seen each other in months.

  Tim tossed me a pig in a blanket. “How’s your nose?”

  “Never better.”

  “I saw you dancing. You been taking lessons at Arthur Murray, don’t deny it.”

  “It wasn’t as hideous as I thought it would be,” I said. “Oh and thanks for telling Passworth all about my nosebleed, she’s notifying all ticket holders as they come through the door. I’d hate it if everybody didn’t find out immediately.”

  “I had to tell her, Skippy. I had to give her the ti
cket for you to get in.”

  “I’ll do the same for you sometime.”

  He ignored my sarcasm. “Did you get a load of that?”

  I followed his outstretched finger to an incredible vision: Arnita Beecham in a glimmering white gown, a very thin, stretchy, translucent, revealing gown. The lights behind Arnita outlined her figure in that dress in a very particular way. All the boys were gathering on this side of the ballroom to take advantage of the effect.

  The dress was a white goblet containing the upsweep of Arnita’s long legs and tiny waist, swelling outward to her bosom and naked shoulders. The midi skirts and prim white blouses of Studious Arnita had vanished, along with the eyeglasses, the vocabulary words, and the opinions. In their place stood this astonishing lovely strapless creature — star-glamorous, like Diana Ross or Leslie Uggams. A rim of light outlined the gleaming sheaf of hair curved around her face. She wore long spiky fake eyelashes, gold lipstick, a gorgeous wide smile.

  “Good God,” I said. “She is beautiful.”

  “Unbelievable,” said Tim.

  “She’s amazing. There ought to be a law against that dress.”

  “Apparently she’s got an aunt that works in some store in New Orleans.”

  I turned on him. “You were such an asshole to me before. Do you realize that?”

  He shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Try ‘I’m sorry.’”

  “I’m sorry, okay?” He didn’t mean it. “Jesus, Dullwood, you’re weird tonight! First all that sneezing, and all the bleeding, and buckling in, and now you’re all — what happened, did you get drunk off that one Champale?”

  “Aw, forget it.” I pushed his hand away.

  Mrs. Passworth came through handing out ballots and tiny pencils like the ones at the Putt-Putt. I nominated myself for Best Personality (Boy), so I’d be sure to get one vote. I put Dianne down for Best Personality (Girl) so I could tell her I did. Cutest Couple was easy — Tim and Debbie. I looked around for King of the Prom and settled on Greg Ptacek since he had the pizzazz to wear Lime Green.

  Tonight the plain girls were much prettier than normal, and the pretty girls were beautiful, but there was only one Queen: Arnita Beecham, hands down, nobody even close. Tim tried to see my ballot but I said, “Secret ballot.” He asked who I put for King. I said Greg Ptacek. He rolled his eyes. Greg was a brain/geek like us and didn’t stand a chance.

  Mrs. Passworth came through collecting pencils and ballots.

  “Did y’all put Lisa Simmons for Queen?” Debbie said.

  “Secret ballot,” I said.

  “Y’all! Lisa needs our votes!”

  Her sister said, “Debbie, they can vote for whoever they want.”

  “Well, Daniel probably voted for Arnita just to make me mad! Look at her! She looks like a, like some kind of prostitute!”

  “Oh come on,” said Dianne. “She looks pretty.”

  Her sister looked horrified. “Pretty? I bet she’s not wearing any underwear!”

  “You can say that again,” Tim said. “Have you ever seen anybody who looked less like their normal selves?”

  “Oh Tim, you didn’t vote for her too? Y’all! You’re gonna make Lisa lose! After all her hard work!”

  I glanced at Lisa Simmons, laughing in the arms of Randy Felts. She was too much the springy little cheerleader to be Queen of the Prom. The Queen should be someone who makes your jaw drop. Like Arnita Beecham. Nobody could stop looking at her. I wondered if her fabulous new self was a statement on behalf of the few other black girls who had dared to come to the prom in their Simplicity-pattern homemade ball gowns. They hung out at the back of the room with their boyfriends, who had puffed-up Afros and dark sport coats, not tuxes. Arnita was all over the room, dancing with black boys and some white boys too. She enjoyed the stir her dress was creating. I’d never seen a black girl acting sexy and proud like that, not keeping her eyes down, not staying within her group. It was shocking, a bit revolutionary. I found myself hoping she’d win.

  Dianne dragged me back to the dance floor. We bobbed through “Jungle Boogie” and “Crocodile Rock” and “Midnight Train to Georgia” (whoo whoo!). I was surprised to find I enjoyed dancing. Nothing to it, just bop around and act goofy. I was so glad to have escaped the backseat of that Buick, I would have danced the whole night had not the deejay put on Maureen McGovern singing “The Morning After.”

  “More punch?” I proposed.

  Dianne followed me off with a wistful glance at the couples slumping into each other’s arms.

  I didn’t want any part of a slow dance. Tim and I had worked up a plan to kiss the girls at the end of the evening — I’d even practiced on my forearm — but wrapping my arms around Dianne Frillinger in public was more than I could ask of myself.

  I found Tim lurking at the punch bowl.

  “This song makes me think of Shelley Winters trying to swim through a porthole,” he said.

  “Swim, Shelley, swim!” I said. “Swim sideways! Come on, you can make it!”

  Tim’s sharp little laugh. “Look, she’s teaching the whales to sing!”

  “You boys are so awful!” Dianne said. The song was over and Coach Rainey was helping Mrs. Passworth onto the stage.

  “Okay now,” the coach boomed over the PA, “all you kids shut the hell up and pay attention!”

  Mrs. Passworth shot him a look for the profanity. “Good evening boys and girls,” she said — the mike howled — “or should I say ladies and gentlemen! On behalf of the faculty of Minor High, I welcome you all to the Night of a Thousand and One Stars! Isn’t this just a magical evening!”

  This statement would have provoked jeers and catcalls in Thursday assembly, but here we were in formal clothes in a crepe-papered ballroom with nice twinkly lights, and the evening was somehow magical, even if it was corny. We applauded in spite of ourselves.

  “We’ll get back to dancing in a minute, but first a big thanks to the junior girls for these fantastic decorations! Didn’t they do a great job? Let’s hear a big round of applause!”

  The junior girls clapped the loudest for themselves. Coach Rainey bent down to rummage in a box of bouquets and tiaras.

  “And now without further ado,” Mrs. Passworth said, “let’s meet our Royal Court!” From her hand fluttered a long piece of paper. “Okay, I had to add these up myself, bear with me — you see, boys and girls, math can come in handy —” Scattered boos. “Anyway, first off for Best Personality, Boy, come on up here when I call your name, the winner is . . . Jeff Wilcox! Congratulations Jeff!”

  Jeff was a football player with all the personality of a loaf of Sunbeam bread. Mrs. Passworth hung a medal around his neck. Jeff clenched his fists together and raised them like a victorious boxer.

  “Next, the girl voted Best Personality, let’s hear a big hand for — Lisa Simmons!”

  A violent shriek. Lisa jumped up and down, screaming and crying as if she’d just become Miss America. Her friends had to help her onto the stage, she was crying so hard.

  “Oh that’s awful!” Debbie cried. “That means she won’t be Queen.”

  “Arnita Beecham,” I said smugly.

  “Shut up!”

  “Now we have Cutest Couple — and let me say this vote was nearly unanimous — come on up here, Molly Manning and Gary Brantley!”

  Another shriek. Molly tore through the crowd, jumped onstage, and hugged Lisa. They cried, hanging on to each other. Gary shuffled his feet as if this whole thing would be too stupid, except Jeff Wilcox was up there too. They poked at each other, exchanging sheepish grins.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” Passworth exclaimed. “Now here we go — ladies and gentlemen, this year’s King of the Prom — Red Martin!”

  Oh my God. Who would vote for that big dumb bully? A lot of people, apparently, from the rousing cheer that went up. Okay, so he did pick up three fumbles for touchdowns in the Warren Central game. He was MVP, for God’s sake, why did he get to be Prom King too? He w
as still a junior! Wasn’t the King supposed to be a senior? Why did the same two or three people always have to win everything?

  Red tilted down his big head to receive his sash and gold-plated crown. He pumped his fist in the air to show that being crowned King feels just like scoring a winning touchdown.

  “And now — okay Red, settle down — allow me the pleasure of presenting your Queen. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss —”

  I didn’t even hear her name for the shout that went up. Arnita Beecham threw her hands in the air and strode across the room with a huge smile of victory. She seemed to see fine without her glasses — she walked a straight line toward that tiara.

  The opening cheer quickly died away to a hush of amazement. My God, she won! A black girl is Queen of the Prom!

  Dianne and Debbie looked stunned. Of course Arnita had gotten the black vote — the kids on that side were going crazy, bellowing their delight into the general hush. I could see that lots of white boys had voted for her too. The white-boy vote put her over the top. All the white boys took one look at Arnita in that dress and couldn’t help writing her name in the blank. We had voted for that dress and how naked she looked in it.

  But nobody had imagined she would actually win, except Arnita.

  She hopped onstage for her sash and tiara, a dozen red roses, hugs and squeals from Molly and Lisa, cheers from the back of the room. She took the mike from Mrs. Passworth. “Oh my God! Y’all! This is truly the most amazing thing. Do you know what you’ve done? An incredible thing. I’ll never forget it, as long as I live. Thank you so much. Thank you!” She performed a little curtsy, steadying the crown with her hand.

  Debbie Frillinger rolled her eyes. “I guess people just wanted to show how liberal they are. I bet you think that’s great, huh Daniel?”

  “Oh come on, she looks fantastic.”

  “For pity’s sake, it’s not a beauty contest!” Debbie snapped.

  “Yes it is! That’s what it is. What else could it be?”

  “Don’t you think effort ought to count for something?” said Dianne. “Or school spirit? Lisa Simmons worked her heart out! She worked harder than anybody!”