One Mississippi

by Mark Childress

  “Come on, girls,” Tim said. “You’re just mad because Arnita won and she’s black.”

  “We’re not mad,” Debbie said furiously. “I just can’t imagine that many white people voting for her, that’s all.”

  “I bet they didn’t,” Dianne said. “Mrs. Passworth probably gave her extra votes so we’d end up with a black prom queen.”

  “Poor Red,” said Debbie. “He has to be in the pictures with her. Can you imagine?”

  Red Martin did look uncomfortable with Arnita on his arm and that silly crown on his head, while Bruce Davenport squatted before them snapping yearbook photos.

  Suddenly I wanted the whole stupid prom to be over. I wanted to be stretched out on the family room floor watching Sonny and Cher with Tim over the phone.

  The deejay was playing the Hollies’ “Long Cool Woman.” I said, “So, are you guys about ready to go?”

  Tim and Debbie stared as if I was speaking in tongues.

  “Go?” Tim said. “Are you joking?”

  Dianne said, “Gosh, Daniel, am I really making you that miserable?”

  “No, I just thought — I don’t want us to be the last ones to leave. Never mind. Wanna dance?”

  We went back to the floor. The deejay seemed to be playing four fast songs for every slow one.

  I felt a little sorry for Arnita, the discussions taking place all over the room. She didn’t seem to realize that the verdict was not unanimous. She floated through the crowd, cradling her roses, pausing every few feet to let herself be hugged.

  Eventually Coach Rainey got back up onstage to tell us good night, get the hell out of here, and drive careful going home. The lights came up, turning us into a bunch of blinking kids in rented clothes.

  We poured through the double doors to the lobby, the parking lot. Some of the boys were drunk — Randy Seavers, Doug Pine. Red Martin still wore his lopsided crown, and carried his tiny date, Margaret Lipset, in the crook of his arm like a football.

  The girls and Tim took turns warning me not to buckle up. Ha ha, I said. We joined the line of cars heading for the interstate, a flotilla of promgoers in our parents’ Buicks and Oldsmobiles, shooting out west, toward Minor.

  “Oh, don’t take us home yet, Timmy,” Debbie said, snuggling close. “I don’t want this night to ever end.”

  Dianne said, “Deb, it is getting close to midnight.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Debbie stretched her arms. “I’m not ready to turn back into a pumpkin yet.”

  The plan was for Tim to stop the car in the Jitney Jungle parking lot, we would kiss them and take them straight home. We wouldn’t have to kiss them very long. Mostly we were concerned about those braces. Tim said it would be like kissing a motorcycle, I said an Erector set. He turned that into a vulgar remark. As we took the Minor exit I was thinking how much easier it would be to kiss a pretty girl — like Cher, like Arnita Beecham — but I had to stop thinking that way or I’d never go through with it.

  I fought off the memory of my one and only kiss, outside the emergency room in Pigeon Creek, Alabama. The one that turned me off the whole idea of kissing. I would kiss Dianne tonight as an antidote to that. Dianne Frillinger was a nice girl with a great personality. We’d had fun dancing, she’d been sweet to me all night. If there’s one thing she deserved, it was a kiss on Prom Night. I could do that much. I knew I could.

  I thought, Here goes nothing, and folded my hand around hers. Her hand was clammy. When she smiled, her braces caught a glint of light from the street.

  Tim was telling some pointless story about Anne Marie Davis not dancing with Russell Briscoe as he steered the car into the parking lot.

  “Timmy, why are you bringing us here?” said Debbie. “The Jitney Jungle is closed.”

  Tim put the car in park but left the motor running. “I’ll show you why.” He took her face in his hands.

  That was my cue. Dianne’s eyes flickered up to the front seat then back to me, yes yes please kiss me now. I closed my eyes and moved my face forward until it touched hers. I kissed. It felt odd. I opened my eyes. I was kissing her nose. Her face was upturned, her eyes closed in anticipation. I kissed her nose again as if that was what I’d meant to do, then moved to her lips. They were dry and strangely cool. I pressed my mouth against hers. We stayed that way for a while, mouths pressed together.

  There had to be some part of it I was not doing right. This could not be all there was to it. I know you’re supposed to open your mouth, but I was afraid my tongue would touch metal. I held the kiss as long as I could without breathing or moving, then pulled back.

  Dianne opened her eyes. “Oh, Daniel, that was sooo nice. You’ve kissed girls before, huh?”

  I coughed. “Yeah. A few times.”

  “I thought so. That was my first time. I’ll never forget it.”

  Debbie and Tim were really going at it, mouths open, as if trying to swallow each other. Dianne looked shyly at me: Should we try it like that? I hesitated. She patted my hand, consoling me, as if she were my mommy.

  I cleared my throat. “Hey you two, break it up! Jeez!”

  Debbie pulled away, laughing. Tim said, “Sorry. We got carried away.” He put the car in gear. The radio was playing “Nights in White Satin” and it all seemed suddenly romantic, the bad parts of this night adding up to one good part. I squeezed Dianne’s hand. She put her head on my shoulder.

  As we swung onto Dorothy Drive she untangled her fingers and moved over by the door.

  “What’s the matter?” I said — then I saw Mr. Frillinger outlined in the porch light. In his hands he twisted the banner from the garage door, like a rope he meant to wrap around somebody’s neck.

  “Oh God,” Debbie said, “he looks mad.”

  I felt a flash of reflex panic before remembering we hadn’t done anything wrong.

  “What time is it?” Dianne held her watch to the light. “It’s only a quarter to twelve!”

  Mr. Frillinger stalked to the car shouting, “Get out! Get out of the car!”

  “Daddy, what’s wrong?”

  “Get out and go in the house!”

  “Daddy?”

  “Deborah Ann! Do as I say!”

  “You better go,” I said. “We’ll see you at school.”

  The girls scrambled out of the car.

  Mr. Frillinger filled the driver’s window. “You boys know what time it is?”

  “Yes sir,” Tim said. “A quarter to twelve.”

  “You were s’posed to have them back here by eleven. Where the Sam Hill have you been?”

  While Tim had his attention I slipped out of the backseat, up front into shotgun position.

  “I’m sorry sir, but you told us midnight,” said Tim. “The prom’s just now gotten over. We brought ’em straight home.”

  I leaned over the seat. “He’s right, sir. You did say midnight.”

  “That’s the last time you take out my daughters, either one of you,” he said. “I’ve a good mind to call up your daddies.”

  “Go ahead,” Tim said, starting the car. “I think maybe you’re confused about what time you said.”

  “Don’t tell me I’m confused.” The man leaned close to the window. “Did you kiss them? Did you touch ’em?”

  “No sir, no way,” Tim said. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Frillinger, you’ve got yourself a couple of barking dogs there. I mean barking. I wouldn’t touch either one of ’em if you paid me. We took ’em to the prom out of sympathy, okay? No one is ever gonna want to kiss ’em. You’re safe.”

  The man’s mouth made an O. Tim gunned the car backward, slammed it in drive, and screeched off down the street.

  “My God, Tim, did you — I can’t believe you said that!”

  “Did you see his face? Did you see?” he howled. “That old bastard. ‘You kiss ’em? You touch ’em?’ Jeesus H. Christ!”

  “But I mean, one minute you’re like making out with her, then you tell her father she’s a —”

  “Dogwood, re
lax! It’s over. We don’t have to ask ’em out or even talk to ’em, ever ever again. He’s gonna call up our daddies! I don’t know who’s crazier, him or the mother.”

  “Yeah, I know, but . . . oh damn. Never mind.” I pictured Mr. Frillinger with his mouth open and I couldn’t help it — a snort, a giggle. In five seconds, we were helpless with laughter. We rode around, hooting, past the darkened school, onto Barnett Street, laughing all the way.

  Taillights ahead. Tim touched the brakes. “Is that a cop?” We weren’t drunk, but as hard as we were laughing we might seem that way to a cop.

  “No, Blindy, it’s a car and . . .” I squinted through the windshield. Barnett Street was raised above its sidewalks. The houses along here had deep lawns and long driveways. In the distance I made out — was it one person on a bicycle, or two people riding together? Cruising beside the bike, slowly weaving back and forth between the lanes, a jacked-up fastback sports car — GTO? Mustang? Cherry red, with yellow flame decals licking down the sides, around the fender.

  The car’s irregular motion made the bike wobble. The rider veered off the pavement and fell off the bike.

  The car hesitated a moment then roared off with a blast of exhaust.

  When we got there she was picking herself up, a brown girl in a green sweatshirt and khaki shorts, bent over, pulling on one of her shoes. Riding a bike in high heels! The second rider was actually her infamous white dress, now in dry-cleaner plastic, crumpled on the ground beside her. A tiara and a dozen red roses had spilled out on the grass.

  I stuck out my head. “Arnita? You okay?”

  She peered into our headlights. “Who is that?”

  “Daniel Musgrove,” I said, “and Tim Cousins. You need help?”

  “No, no I’m fine.” Arnita gathered the dress.

  Tim leaned over from the driver’s side. “Someone bothering you, Arnita?”

  “That damn Red,” she said, “he’s just too drunk.”

  “Red Martin?”

  “Yeah, he’s the King, y’know, the big bad Kang, thinks the Queen just automatically belongs to him for the night.”

  Tim said, “What are you doing out here?”

  “Riding home from Charlene’s, man, she’s having a biiiig party!” She took a deep breath. “I went with Tommy Johnson but he got mad at Red and took off. I hope to God I didn’t mess up this dress. It’s not mine. I gotta give it back to my aunt.”

  “Arnita, where are your glasses?”

  “I . . . I don’t know, I think I lost ’em. It’s okay, I can see.”

  “Why don’t you let us give you a ride?”

  “No, y’all, thanks, I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m glad you won,” I said. “I voted for you.”

  “Oh, aren’t you sweet.” She had no idea who I was. She climbed on the bike and wound the dress around herself to keep from tangling it in the wheels. “Thanks, y’all, I’m just gonna go home now.”

  “Aw come on, Arnita,” Tim said, “you’ve had a little bit to drink. Let us throw that bike in the trunk and drive you home. It’s late. You coulda got hurt.”

  “My house is just over the bridge,” she said, pushing off with her foot. “I’ll be fine.”

  Tim coasted along beside her. “Let us ride along with you to make sure.”

  “No, I’ll be fine.” Her voice took on an edge. “Thank y’all so much. Good night!”

  “Come on, Tim, she says she’s okay.”

  He pulled a few feet ahead. “I don’t like it.” He kept one eye on the rearview. “Red’s an asshole, he was drunk, and he might come back. God knows what he was trying to pull.”

  When he said “pull,” he turned around in his seat to look at her. His hand slipped off the wheel. The Buick drifted wide to the left. Another car coming —

  I grabbed the wheel, jerked it right just as Tim slammed on the brakes. A mild little flonk! from the back of the car — as if Arnita had slapped the trunk with her hand.

  “Shit!” Tim yelped.

  I turned. I didn’t see her.

  “Where is she?”

  I looked down. The grass sloped to the sidewalk, where Arnita lay sprawled on her back, her arms flung out, the dress wrapped around her like a flag.

  “Arnita?” My voice sounded small. “You okay?”

  Her head rested against the edge of the sidewalk. She looked up at the dark sky.

  “Oh God,” Tim said, “oh my God.” He tromped the gas, throwing me back in my seat. We flew away faster than the speed of light.

  4

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? She’s hurt! Turn around and go back!”

  Tim tromped the accelerator. “Shit shit shit!”

  “Tim! We gotta go back and help her!”

  “We can’t do that,” he said in a strangled voice.

  “Well you can’t just leave her there, are you crazy? She’s hurt!” The big Buick flew over the railroad tracks — I swear all four wheels left the ground. “Tim, I mean it, we have to go back!”

  He turned, his eyes cold and gleaming — the eyes of somebody I didn’t recognize. “Would you shut your damn mouth?”

  “All right — stop the car. Let me out!”

  “We’re going to get help, okay?” he yelled. “We’re gonna get her some help. I’m thinking! Would you shut up and let me think?”

  “It was an accident, an accident! It is not our fault, please turn around and go back.”

  “You jerked the wheel!” he cried. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  “Stop the car. Stop it now!”

  After everything that happened, “Nights in White Satin” was still playing on the radio — or was it playing again? The guy was reciting the portentous spoken-word part, “breathe deep the colors of the night” or whatever it was. I kept seeing Arnita with the dress wrapped around her. Her head resting against the concrete edge. The rear wheel of the bicycle lazily spinning.

  Tim said, “Okay. We’ll find a phone and call somebody.”

  “Good. Good idea. Where’s a phone?” We zoomed past Buddy’s Bait and the Gibson’s Discount. I pointed to a phone booth glowing at the edge of the road by the Pic-N-Pay. “Who do we call, the police, the hospital, what?”

  The Buick’s tires crunched on gravel. “Nights in White Satin” was rising to its pounding conclusion. He switched off the engine.

  “I’ll do it,” he said. “You’re hysterical. Stay in the car.”

  “Would you hurry!” I cried.

  He walked around the back of his father’s car and squatted by the bumper to check for damage.

  I ran to the phone booth, picked up the receiver, and dialed 0. It rang twice. I heard Tim running behind me and then he was on me, wrestling the phone away. “Yes operator, hello?” he said. “I, uhm, listen, we’re here in Minor, we need to report an accident. A black girl’s been hurt. She fell off her bike. An accident, yeah, can you send an ambulance — Sorry? Uhm, sure — Barnett Street, like three blocks to the, to the west of Minor High School. What’s that?” He paused. “Uhm, I don’t know.” He hung up.

  His eyes came around to me. “Think they can trace that call?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Get back in the car.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’ll take you home, and then I’m going home. We have to forget this ever happened.”

  “Tim. We have to go back. Or it looks like we did something really wrong.”

  “We left the scene,” he said, checking the rearview.

  “Look, we go back right now,” I proposed, “we tell the truth. She ran into us, she fell off her bike, you freaked out and drove off, we called an ambulance and came back. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “What do you mean I freaked out? You’re the one who grabbed the damn wheel.”

  Terrible, what fear can do to a boy. Fear can take a perfectly good boy like my best friend Tim Cousins and turn him into this shaky pale guy, unnerved but weirdly composed, his eyes spinning.
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  I was scared too. Oh yes. I knew I should march back to that pay phone, call the police, and tell them the truth. I thought about doing that, but instead I got back in the car.

  Tim started the engine. “There’s not a scratch on that bumper,” he said. “Now listen to me. I can’t explain it right now, but I cannot get involved with the police, okay? Don’t ask why. Just trust me.” He started the engine. “We called for the ambulance. They’ll know what to do. We’ve done everything we can.”

  “She saw us, Tim. Aren’t you forgetting that?”

  “Who?”

  “Arnita! We talked to her! She knows who we are.”

  “Oh shit. You’re right.”

  “We have to go back,” I said.

  “You saw her. Did she look dead?”

  “You drove off so fast I couldn’t — Jesus, Tim, what if she is. What if we . . . ?”

  “It’s not our fault. She ran into us, remember? We stopped to help her. . . .” His voice trailed away.

  “What?”

  He straightened in his seat. “You’re right. We don’t have to stop, necessarily, but we have to go back. At least ride by and see. If she’s awake and talking, then we’ll stop.” He drove slowly. “She fell, we stopped to help her, then went to call an ambulance. What’s wrong with that? We’re not drunk. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

  The Jitney Jungle lot was deserted. It seemed like a year ago I was steeling myself to kiss Dianne Frillinger under this sickly yellow light.

  We sat at the stoplight by the Dairy Dog, left blinker clicking. Just as the light changed, a car blasted through the intersection, flashing headlights and blowing its horn.

  Tim said, “Jesus!”

  “Police,” I said. “Minor Police.”

  We crept over the railroad tracks, onto Barnett Street. Ahead I saw the blue winking lights of cop cars parked at angles, their headlights trained on one place.

  Tim said, “Easy, now. We’re just riding through, we haven’t got a care in the world.”

  Two police cruisers sat nose to nose, an ambulance between them. As we passed I saw two men lifting Arnita on a stretcher into the ambulance.

  Her bike lay where it fell.

  Just beyond the police car was a jacked-up Mustang Fastback, cherry red with yellow flames. The trunk and doors were wide open. There were cops in the backseat, digging around. Another cop held Red Martin spread-eagled on the hood.