“I mean nice,” Kevin corrected himself.
Nice.
Great.
The problem with going to prom at another school was that I didn’t know anybody. The problem with going to prom with the most popular boy from that school I didn’t go to was that he was too cool to dance to any of the fun songs and I had to sit next to him on a metal folding chair, watching everybody else having the time of their lives.
Kevin just sat there, slumping in his chair, every once in a while admiring the cloth-covered buttons of his shirt and the shiny cummerbund around his waist. He didn’t even offer to get us little cups of punch. I probably wouldn’t have wanted it anyway. I’d learned from watching teen movies that the punch at all public-school proms was spiked. Still, it would have been nice to be asked.
“This is lame,” he said while everybody danced to “Walk Like an Egyptian.” “I hate this band.”
I had to force my mouth to stay closed so it wouldn’t hang open. What kind of person didn’t like the Bangles?
It wasn’t until the DJ started playing “Take My Breath Away” that Kevin showed any interest at all. Something at the middle of the dance floor caught his eye and he sat up straight.
“Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward all the swaying couples.
Not entirely used to wearing heels, I tottered and he caught me just before I tumbled.
“Easy there, sport,” he said.
Sport? Had he just called me sport?
I had to, like, make a major effort not to roll my eyes at him.
All my annoyance with him melted away when he put his arms around my waist and I got a case of the swoony butterflies in my stomach. We moved back and forth a little and he whispered in my ear, telling me to link my hands around his neck. Then he pressed me against him.
It was the closest I’d ever been to a boy, and I felt special that this boy—Kevin Woods, for goodness’ sake—wanted to be that near. To me. It was nearly unbelievable that he thought I was pretty enough, good enough, to be with him. I thought that maybe he’d want to be my boyfriend or something. Part of me had an instant daydream that he was the one.
I dared myself to rest my head on his shoulder the way I’d seen girls do in the movies, but I chickened out. I’d save that move for later. From the way he kept pulling me closer and closer, I thought he would want to dance with me all night long.
When the song ended and Kevin let me go, I looked up at his face and smiled. But he wasn’t looking at me. When I turned to see what had his attention, my heart dropped.
She was beautiful. Not in the way that eighteen-year-olds were supposed to be. But more like a movie star. And not like a cute movie star, but a glamorous one like Michelle Pfeiffer or Kim Basinger. When she laughed, her perfect smile showed off perfectly straight teeth, and her red dress fit her exactly like it should have.
“Oh my word,” I said under my breath when I saw who she’d been dancing with.
Mike Huisman. He hadn’t mentioned at lunch the day before that his date was Miss Universe. He leaned over and whispered something in her ear that made her throw back her head and laugh like she’d just heard the funniest thing in all the world.
I wondered how anyone could look that pretty when they laughed. It was super annoying.
“Who’s that girl?” I asked.
“My ex,” Kevin answered.
Of course. It figured. Blonde and gorgeous and perfect. She was, like, made for him.
“Oh.” I swallowed back a lump of either dread or jealousy. Something like that. “I have to go powder my nose. I’ll be right back.”
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, seeing that my hair was too brown and my dress too little-girlish. My makeup was too last year and my face was just too ordinary. Looking at my reflection, I saw a hundred little imperfections and wondered why in the world Kevin would want to be with me after being with her. I couldn’t even compare.
But he did want to be around me or else he wouldn’t have asked me out. Right?
When I left the bathroom, “Raspberry Beret” was playing and Kevin was nowhere in sight. I stood near the chairs where we’d been sitting, trying to find him on the dance floor or by the punch bowl or in the clusters of kids milling around.
But he wasn’t there.
For that matter, I couldn’t see Miss Beautiful-Ex-Girlfriend-in-the-Red-Dress either.
I crossed the gym to the double doors where we’d come in, hoping maybe he’d gone outside for some fresh air. But when I looked out into the parking lot, I didn’t see anybody. And the spot where Kevin had parked his Mustang was empty.
Backing up against the wall, I slid down, sitting cross-legged on the floor and trying to figure out what to do. It took a whole lot of clenching my teeth to keep from crying.
A cluster of girls talked all at once and walked past, pushing through the doors and seeming not to notice me. An adult rushed after them, yelling that they weren’t allowed to smoke in the parking lot.
Yup. That was what I had expected of public school.
After just a few minutes, Mike came walking out of the gym, a plastic cup of punch in each hand. He handed one to me before sitting beside me.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not spiked.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking a sip. I hated to admit it, but it wasn’t all that bad.
“Well, I’ve got some bad news.” He put his cup on the floor. “Kevin and Allie left. Together.”
“Who’s Allie?”
“She was my date.” He rolled his eyes. “I should have known better.”
Then it hit me. I’d been dumped. Abandoned. At the prom for a school I didn’t go to. And I was stuck sitting in the hallway like a dweeb with a boy whose greatest accomplishment was being able to burp the alphabet.
I could have screamed.
“I can drive you home if you want,” Mike said.
“That’s all right.” I took off one of my toe-pinching shoes and turned it upside down until the dime fell into my hand. “I’ll call my dad.”
“I’ll wait with you until he gets here then.” He shrugged.
“If you want to.” I got up and grabbed the receiver of the pay phone on the wall.
“Hey, Sonny,” Mike said.
“What?”
“You look really pretty.” He swallowed. “Like, twenty-two-and-a-half times prettier than Allie.”
“Thanks,” I said, dropping my dime into the slot. “You look pretty too.”
Mike gave me half a smile, watching while I worked my other foot out of my darn shoe.
There really was no reason to give myself a blister.
Dad didn’t ask me what had happened when I got into his truck and I was so glad. And he didn’t steer us toward home. Instead, he swung around the McDonald’s drive-thru, ordering chocolate shakes and French fries.
I held the bag and the drink carrier on my knees until we got to the little park just down the road from our house. It officially closed at dusk, so nobody was there. And nobody would come along and ask the director of the parks department to leave.
It was just Dad and me and a handful of fireflies.
He helped me up onto the tailgate of his truck, and I handed him his shake.
“My date was using me to make his old girlfriend jealous,” I said after half my fries were gone. “And then he left with her.”
“What a rotten thing to do,” Dad said, shaking his head.
I shuddered, the milkshake making me cold.
Dad unbuttoned his flannel and draped it across my shoulders, promising that he wouldn’t be too cold in his T-shirt.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said.
“No problem.” He slurped the last of his shake.
“I should have known better.”
“What’s that?”
“I mean, why would a guy like Kevin want to be with somebody like me?” I pulled the collar of Dad’s shirt tighter around my neck. “I was so dumb to think he might a
ctually like me.”
“Sonny . . .”
“No, seriously.”
“Any guy who doesn’t want to be with you is a fool,” Dad said. “And that kid is a darn fool.”
I rested my head on his shoulder, kicking my feet back and forth lazily.
When I was younger and something was upsetting me, I’d ride my bike here and swing, pumping my legs as hard as I could until I forgot everything except the way the air felt on my face and how it blew my hair every which way.
It was the closest I’d ever get to flying.
I thought about asking my dad if we could go on the swings, just for a few minutes.
But I wasn’t a little girl anymore.
CHAPTER
Seven
Bruce, 2013
It’s the kind of autumn day that tricks a man into thinking it’s far warmer than it really is. Still, it’s beautiful outside and the sun is shining, so I take the back way, avoiding the highway that cuts through town. Creedence Clearwater Revival is on the radio, and Linda’s on the passenger side. I long for the days when my old Chevy pickup had a bench seat and she could sit right next to me and I could have my arm around her.
We traveled a lot of miles that way, my babe and me.
But, safety measures as they are these days, she’s on her side of the truck and I’m on mine, both of us singing about the rising of a bad moon, all manner of cup holders and gearshift and storage compartments between us.
I won’t complain about the heated seats in this thing, though. Those are pretty nice in winter.
“How about we drive past the old place? We’ve got plenty of time,” Linda says, grabbing my hand. “I haven’t seen it in forever.”
“Sure.” I take the next right, headed that way.
It’s funny how, even though I haven’t been within five miles of the old house in years, I don’t have to give a thought to which way to steer the truck.
We moved into the house on the highway leading out of town about a year after we got married. It was no bigger than a postage stamp, but the lot was decent sized and there wasn’t a neighbor for a mile in each direction. The property was hemmed in by sugar beet fields.
Plus the price was right for our budget. If nothing else, that was the deciding factor.
Linda did her best to make it homey. It was one, maybe two steps up from being a shack, but somehow she made it warm and cozy.
Man, I have such good memories of that place.
As soon as we get within sight of it, I think it may have been a mistake, bringing her out here.
It looks as though nobody’s lived here in a long time.
“Pull in,” Linda says.
I do as she asks. Disheartened as I am by the appearance of it, I’m curious.
The weeds have overrun the yard, the paint peels from the wooden siding, the windows are fogged up with grime. And as I step out of the truck, I can see that a thick branch from the old maple broke off and crashed into the roof.
“Well, that’s a shame,” I whisper, although I’m not sure why.
It little matters that an old abandoned house is ruined.
I hesitate. Linda, though, gets out of the truck and makes her way up the graveled driveway. Shoulders slumped, hands in her back pockets, she turns back toward me and crinkles her nose.
“A bit of a bummer, huh?” I ask.
“Yup.”
I put my arms around her.
Once I let her go, she takes a deep breath.
“Oh, Bruce, it smells the same as it did then,” she says. “Don’t you think?”
I sniff the air and catch the earthy aroma of the fields and the crisp and clean air.
“Suppose so.”
She touches the crumbling lattice I nailed to the side of the porch when we first moved in.
“Remember the morning glories we used to weave into this?” she asks, hooking her fingers on one of the slats. “They were so pretty.”
“Yup,” I say, making my way over to stand beside her. “The girls used to sneak out, hoping to catch sight of a hummingbird.”
“They pretended the birds were little fairies.”
“I’m not altogether convinced that they aren’t.” I wink at her.
Kicking aside some rotten walnuts and thick fall of leaves, we make our way around the yard, letting ourselves remember. Here, where the girls built their snowmen in the winter and stacked leaves to jump into in the fall. There, the tree that Sonny fell from and broke her arm. And over there where Mindy turned her first cartwheel.
The tire swing I hung from the old weeping willow is long gone, but if I shut my eyes, I can still see it in my memory. The girls on either side of it, their feet dangling in the middle, their hands holding tight to the rope.
“Faster!” they’d yell at me, squealing when I pushed them higher and higher.
If I’m still enough and concentrate hard enough, I can almost hear the echoes of their little-girl voices.
The house was never anything to speak of. It gave me more grief in fixing rusted-out pipes and drooping floorboards than was ever worth it. Every spring we’d have to put down ant traps in the kitchen, and in the winter we’d set out some for the mice.
Still, there was something special about living at our own little chateau in the middle of nowhere.
“Why did we ever move from here?” I say, more to myself than anything.
“Well,” Linda says, taking my hand, “we outgrew it.”
“Yeah. I suppose we did.”
“It was a good place for us for a time.” She leans her head against my shoulder.
We wander around the yard a little more, rub the meat of our hands on the windows to look inside, sigh when we see the damage from the branch that fell into the roof.
“Ready?” Linda asks, taking my hand. “We’ll be late.”
“Sure,” I answer, letting her lead me back to the truck.
It’s melancholy making, walking away from our old place. But we can’t stay here all day.
We’ve got a party to go to.
Linda makes much of birthdays. She bakes cakes and hangs streamers and blows up balloons until she’s red in the face and seeing stars. She’s got a knack for picking out the exact right gift without spending a fortune. It’s her mission to make sure the birthday boy or girl feels sufficiently celebrated.
I can’t think of a soul who wouldn’t know they were loved by the end of one of her parties.
I can, however, think of one who is nothing short of a humbug about her birthday. No surprise, it’s my dear mother.
She thought she got out of having a party thrown in her honor just because she’s currently in the rehab facility. No such luck. We may be a week late, but we brought the streamers and cake to her.
Linda decided to skip the balloons just this once.
All of us crowded into Mom’s room, with barely space to turn around, we watch Dad help her tear open her presents—a blanket for her lap, a pair of mittens, a new heating pad. It’s clear that she’s complained to everybody about always being cold in this place.
“Thank you,” she says after each one. “This will be useful.”
That, as a matter of fact, is the highest praise she can bestow on a gift.
Once she’s done, Linda asks if she’s ready for some cake, sans candles. We didn’t want to set off any fire alarms.
“Wait,” Mindy says, stepping around her nieces, a beautifully wrapped gift in hand. “Just one more.”
She places it on my mother’s lap. It’s small. About the size of a paperback. I don’t guess that it’s a book, though. Mom never really had much use for reading when there was so much housework to be done. Mindy knows that as well as I do.
“You need a little help?” Dad asks, reaching over to tear a bit of the wrapping paper.
“I can do it.” Mom swats at him with her good hand, the other resting lamely on her leg. “Don’t baby me.”
Mindy squats beside Mom’s wheelchair, hand on the a
rmrest, eyes on her grammy’s face. It takes a good amount of time for Mom to get enough of the paper torn to see what’s inside. That’s all right. Nobody’s interested in rushing her. Well, none of the grown-ups, at least.
“What is it?” Evie asks, lifting up to tiptoes to see.
“A picture,” Mom says, holding it up to her face and squinting. “Huh.”
“It’s from Easter,” Mindy says. “Remember when I set up my camera? It was on a timer. Remember that?”
Mom shakes her head. Even if she doesn’t remember, I do. It took us a good half an hour to corral everybody and get them situated so we would all be in the shot and looking in the same direction. Mindy set the timer and ran to make it in before the camera took the picture.
After about two dozen tries she eventually ended up with one that was good enough.
“I thought you’d like to have a picture of all of us for your room,” Mindy says. “You could put it on your bedside table.”
“Isn’t that nice?” Dad says. “Hilda, isn’t that something?”
Mom nods and hands him the picture in its frame. “You can take it home.”
“Well, dear, she wanted you to have it here in your room.”
“Is there cake?” Mom asks.
“We have to sing first,” my granddaughter Faith says.
Mindy takes that as her cue to step to the side. She sings along with the rest of us, but the smile on her face isn’t real. I’ve been her dad long enough to know that much.
Sonny and Linda serve the cake on little red plates, and Holly makes sure everybody gets a scoop of ice cream to go with it.
While Mom’s busy trying to get a forkful of frosting into her mouth, I grab that picture and set it up next to her clock on the table next to her bed.
It’s a nice shot of us. We’re all smiling, which must qualify as a miracle. Well, and it’s clever how Mindy cropped the photo to cut out Eric. His hand made it in, but that’s all right.
“That was a good present,” Chris says, leaning back against the wall, plate in hand. “Real thoughtful.”
“Make sure you tell Mindy that,” I say.
“Will do.” He pushes his fork under the last of his cake and lifts it to his mouth.
The Nature of Small Birds Page 5