“He just asked me to the Prom,” I whispered, dropping my bag in the hall and staring at my older sister.
“Oh Baby!” she cried and wrapped her arms tightly around me. “That’s so great! I assume you said yes? What are you going to wear?”
I was closer to my sister in the next two weeks than I ever had been or ever would be again. I had become her project. My after-school hours were filled with shopping, with make-up application, with coaching in kissing and... other things. I don’t know how much Lee actually knew about sex beyond that frenzied fifteen minutes beneath the bleachers, but it seemed she knew all sorts of things about the stuff that led up to sex. I felt like taking extensive notes: First, the hand is allowed to go HERE, then HERE, but never, ever HERE.
By the night in question, I was nearly hysterical with fear and information overload.
“I can’t do this,” I screamed to my father when he popped his head briefly in through the bedroom door.
He simply smiled at me, the way parents do when they recognize your fear and think it’s cute, then ducked out again. Lee was glaring at me and holding a mascara applicator like an instrument of torture.
“Look up and then blink. Do it!”
I did it. In the end, I had to admire her effort. I looked... twenty-five. But when you’re really seventeen, that doesn’t seem so bad. And I wasn’t wearing a hoop, or polyester, but some sort of slightly fluffy rayon concoction that cost more than most people made in a week. It was a bit sophisticated, but I wasn’t in any danger of ending up a sodden mess in a singles bar, either.
“You look gorgeous,” she said, standing behind me and handing me my shoes. “These will make you taller.”
I slipped on the shoes and found myself pitching forward and then settling back on heels smaller than a dime.
“I can’t walk,” I told her.
“Don’t be stupid,” she said coldly and twitched a ruffle to make it lie still. She was right, of course. Within five minutes whatever gene it is that controls the feminine ability to ambulate on the very tips of our toes had kicked in and I was sashaying up and down the hallway like a pro. “Go show Dad.”
I made it down the stairs without incident and insinuated myself between my father and the TV.
“So, what do you think?” Lee asked.
If I had been her, he would have teared up and talked about my mother. But I don’t look like her, I look like him and for a moment, I saw that recognition in his eyes. It was enough.
“She’s beautiful,” he said. “But she looks too...” he sighed and ran a hand through his graying hair. “...Too old.”
“What?” Lee said, incredulous. “She does not.”
End of conversation. My father returned to the TV and Lee dragged me into the bathroom and made me pee to be sure I could make it until I was somewhere with a decent bathroom.
Jake was on time, which astonished me. I really hadn’t expected him to show up at all. Lee let him in, with me peeking down from the second story, where I had been instructed to stay so I could make “an entrance”. He greeted her with some familiarity, after all, they had known each other when she was in school, and then headed straight for my father. They shook hands and talked shop for a minute, all about Jake’s scholarship to my dad’s university and how they were looking forward to working together, as if they were investment bankers. Then Lee nodded, and I descended. She told me to float down shyly, as if I were naked on a cloud. That image made the whole thing even more traumatizing.
In the end, I simply stepped down, concentrating on not dying. Jake looked wonderful, for 1981. It was, after all, still the era of ruffled shirts. He had ignored that trend, however, and was wearing a classic tux, complete with blue bow tie and cummerbund. Lee must have tipped him off to the colors in my swirl of a dress, because we matched perfectly.
“Hey Casey,” he said and handed my corsage over like a man bartering for his head in a group of cannibals. “You look great.”
“Thanks,” I managed to whisper.
“So...” he said, as Lee pinned the wilting orchid to my breast. “You ready?”
“Have her home by midnight,” my father said.
“Two,” Lee amended, shooting Dad a look.
“One,” he said and it seemed to work for everyone, and I was released from the domestic bosom into the arms of The Dark Prince. Or at least, that was how it felt. I wanted to claw my way back in through the door to safety. And I also wanted Jake Munsey to kiss me more than I’d ever wanted anything in my life.
The Camaro was washed and polished and rumbling with vitality. I felt like letting it sniff me, like I would a strange Doberman. Jake pulled out of my driveway and immediately had his hand on my leg. This time, oddly enough, it wasn’t quite as overpowering.
“So,” he said. “I thought we could go to a little place I know of and talk.”
Huh? I wasn’t sure what that meant. I had pictured romantic candle-lit dinners in the auditorium, so I had no idea what he was offering me.
“Ok,” I said, prepared by Lee to agree to just about anything.
We drove through the liquid evening, oscillating and rotating and my head was so light I could hardly feel myself. The night was going to be beautiful, full of stars and little wisps of powder-gray clouds like ripples on a vast, dark ocean. For a moment, trapped in the wine-red interior of the Camaro, I wanted nothing more than to step out into that wet, hot night air and breathe it deeply, as something known, something familiar.
“You looking forward to graduation?” he asked suddenly, jerking me back into the car.
“Uh, yeah,” I said.
“What are you going to do?” he asked. Everyone knew what Jake was going to do. Baseball scholarship to State. Then the Majors. Then a shining career. Then... well, it didn’t matter what would happen then.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I’ve applied to a bunch of places around here but none of them really...”
“You aren’t going to State?” he asked, surprised.
“No,” I said. “Lee and Dad are there. I guess I wanted to go somewhere different.”
“Oh,” he said, and there was something unplaceable in his face.
Jake pulled down a darkened road I recognized as the road to the lake.
“What are we doing here?” I whispered.
“Just stopping for a minute,” he said, and pulled to a complete, deadened stop in the parking lot.
“Oh,” I squeaked.
And for a moment, it really seemed like that was all we were there for. Jake and I sat and stared out at the black surface of the water, his hand still and warm on my thigh. I would have given anything at that time to have been just slightly more experienced. Just slightly.
In the end, I didn’t need it. He leaned over, very slowly, like he was listing, until he was a few inches from my face.
“You sure look nice,” he whispered.
“Thanks,” I whispered back, my tongue feeling huge in my own mouth. “So do you.”
“Mmm,” he murmured and pressed forward.
I had been kissed, as I’ve said, before. But that had been mostly fumbling around in a darkened closet with a boy I liked only enough to have agreed to it in the first place. It was not like this. Jake’s mouth was warm and slick and his tongue felt hot as it scraped against my own. I wasn’t overcome, exactly, but it was nice. We kissed for a few minutes, Jake’s hand never straying somewhere on the list of off-limit places, but skirting them carefully.
This is the most erotic thing I’ve ever done, I thought, and it seemed profoundly true, at the time.
He pulled away at last, his lips moist and very, very red. I was stunned for a moment by how lovely he was in the limited light from the fading sun.
“You want something to drink?” he asked.
“Ok,” I replied, butterflies still churning my stomach.
“Great,” he said, sliding back into his seat and gunning the engine. “I know a great little diner near here.
We can grab something and then go to the dance, ok?”
“Ok,” I repeated.
The diner was just that, a little roadside place with a few cars out in front and a neon “open” sign in the window by the door. It wasn’t so bad, but entering in our fancy clothes, I felt like a socialite at a biker bar. Jake seemed to know a couple people there, the sort of older boys who looked like they’d never been to high school, much less a dance. They slapped his hand as he passed and leered at me in a way that made me want to cover myself with one of the big plastic-laminated menus stacked in trays at the end of each booth.
Jake selected a booth and we sat opposite one another. Drumming his fingers on the table, he was shifting and grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“Isn’t this place great?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s great.” Not what I pictured for my damn prom night, but then, until the day he asked me out, I hadn’t pictured a prom night at all, so what the hell.
Jake ordered a beer and I got a strawberry shake from the waitress, which seemed to disappoint him for a moment. I began to think that perhaps I was supposed to get drunk now, but that seemed totally ludicrous, since I still wanted to go to the dance.
“So Casey,” he said, leaning across the table a bit and taking my hands. “It must be cool to have such a famous dad.”
“It’s all right,” I hedged. I hadn’t gone out tonight to talk about him.
“Just all right? Damn, I would give anything to have him for a father. I swear, the man is a legend, you know?”
“So they tell me,” I said, withdrawing one hand to get a sip of water.
“So they tell you? Jesus...” He leaned back, releasing me completely. “You must follow the games.”
“I don’t really anymore.”
“Right,” he said, seeing right through me. “I bet you watch baseball every night, especially if your dad’s playing.”
I shrugged, wanting to talk about anything other than this. A terrible realization had begun to dawn on me, but I pushed it back and smothered it thoroughly with the strawberry milkshake, which arrived at that moment.
“When I get to State next year,” Jake said. “I’m going to be in the starting line-up. I know it.”
“Freshman never get to be in the starting line-up.”
“Well,” he said, grinning and waving his beer, “you’re looking at the first exception to the rule.”
“We’ll see,” I said primly, sipping my shake and wishing we could just get somewhere, anywhere, and start kissing again.
“Yep, you will.” He pointed the bottle in my direction and downed it in one long drink. “When I get to State, you can come watch the games, cheer me on. You can say to everyone: ‘See, that’s Jake Munsey, and he’s the first freshman to get out of the dugout since my dad started coaching.’”
“Jake,” I said, feeling that same realization work its slick way up past my shake, “How come you never, you know, talked to me before?” I had just quickly examined the last four years for even a moment when Jake had shown the slightest interest in me, and damn, there wasn’t one.
“Well...” he paused, looking at me closely. “I guess I just never had the courage to.”
“What?” I said. “Jake, I’m not exactly the most popular girl in school.”
He smiled. “I’ve never understood that, you know? I mean, with your dad, you should be.”
Damnit, damnit, damnit, I thought. Never in my life had I wanted so badly to put my head down on the table and just cry. Not because Jake had done anything horrible, since he hadn’t, not really. Nothing more horrible than asking me out to get in good with my father.
Live with it, part of me screamed. This is your chance! Look at him! He’s gorgeous, he’s rich, he’s talented (sort of), he’s sexy, and he’s fully prepared to date you. You! He kissed you, and you liked it. So did he. Isn’t that enough?
I knew my brain was lying to me. I tried to picture Jake, years from now, looking at this with anything other than a greedy eye, and I couldn’t. But then, I reminded myself, what did I know? So this wasn’t what I had pictured. Was it any worse than Jake asking me out simply because he liked my body, or the way I wore my hair? Did he have to love me for my mind right now, or should I take his attraction at face value and see where it led? You don’t date, my head shouted, so you don’t know. Maybe it isn’t always wine and roses. Maybe it never is.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I whispered, and stood up. He smiled up at me, lounging against the vinyl booth, all big hands and strong, lean muscles. It would help, I thought frantically, if my hormones weren’t firing like bottle rockets in my head.
The bathrooms at the diner were prefaced by a small hall, complete with the requisite pay phone and graffiti-strewn wall. Inside was not much better, a single stall with a questionable door and a small, dark mirror over the grimy sink. Looking at my reflection, I saw that Jake had kissed off all my lipstick, in addition to pawing at my hair. I examined one wayward tendril and decided that maybe once my hair was all back in place, this would turn out ok.
My heart was pounding. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him, or even that I resented Jake for taking this chance. He was not, after all, the brightest bulb in the pack. It was myself that I was reserving the most righteous ire for, the girl now reapplying just the right shade of berry-red lipstick and a layer of clear gloss. Perhaps I was my father’s daughter, and this was a small chance to prove it. Final inning, ahead by three, two outs, bases loaded and power hitter on deck. All you have to do, I told myself, is keep him from knocking it out of the park.
By the time I slipped out of the restroom and back into the booth opposite Jake, I had made up my mind about many things. The least of which was my own faltering identity.
“There you are,” Jake said cheerfully. “I thought you had wandered off into the night.”
“I want to go home,” I said.
Jake, much to his credit, barely blinked. “What? Why?”
“I’m not a connection to my dad,” I told him. “If you’re very nice and take me home right now, I won’t even mention to him that you did this.”
“Woah now, Casey... don’t get overheated,” Jake said, looking genuinely panicked and for a moment I thought maybe I was being too hard on him. “I’m sorry you feel like that, but that’s not the whole story.”
“Whatever,” I replied, steeling myself. “Take me home.”
“Casey,” he said, leaning forward. “Be fair. If I take you home now, your Dad’s gonna know you didn’t have a nice time. Just come with me, we’ll go right to the Prom, we’ll dance, we’ll have our picture taken, and it’ll be fine.”
“It won’t be fine,” I said. “Because it won’t be true.”
“I like you,” Jake said, palms up on the table, “I really do. You’re funny and pretty and I like you.”
“I don’t care,” I put my foot down. “Now, take me home.”
“Jesus,” Jake said, leaning back and staring at me. “Don’t be a bitch, Casey.”
Maybe, just maybe, if Jake hadn’t said that single, bitter little word, I would have gotten in the car with him and at the very least, allowed him to drive me home.
But he did, so I didn’t. We didn’t argue, actually, that much more. I simply stopped looking at him and in the end, he simply got up and left. That was the way it was, and until the moment when he actually pulled out of the parking lot, I thought I was okay with it. Like, all right, it’s not perfect, but at least I came out ahead. I won the game, right?
The funny thing is, when you’re sitting on the curb outside an all-night diner in your prom dress, sniffling and trying to decide whether or not to risk calling home and getting your sister, it no longer feels like you’re ahead of anything. I only knew, as the warm night air swirled around my shoulders and lifted the ruffles to caress the tender skin of my bare back, that I wasn’t at the fucking prom. Again. I had a long moment of self-pity, of “why me”s and flailing against
fate. But in the end, I don’t believe in fate. I do believe in coincidence.
“Casey?” I heard a voice say, and then a man was walking over and sitting down beside me without waiting for a greeting. It was only as he got close that I recognized who he was. Or perhaps that my brain acknowledged that he was here. “Is that you?” he asked.
An understandable question. We hadn’t seen each other in five years, and from twelve to seventeen is a bit of stretch.
“Hi Ben,” I said weakly, thinking the night couldn’t possibly be any more bleak.
“Well, my God,” he said, smiling at me. “I can’t believe it. Look at you.”
I had been, and had decided I was some sort of pariah, in a morose teenage fashion. Morals, while pretty in practice, make for a terribly lonely reality.
“Yeah,” was all I could muster.
“You want a ride home?” he asked, and his voice was as warm and friendly as I remembered.
“Sure,” I said, just as Jake pulled back into the parking lot. “I sure would.”
“Well come on,” Ben said, and helped me to my feet. I could see Jake staring at us through the tinted glass of the Camaro and I knew exactly what he was thinking, because I was thinking it myself.
Well, I’ll be damned, if that isn’t Ben McDunnough.
Orientation
1981
It had been such a long trip. Ben was bone-weary, worn through as surely as the furry cover he’d put on the cracking vinyl driver’s seat of the Datsun. And it was hot, Florida hot, spreading ink-thick over his body in the black evening, drawing him down until he was slouched and panting like a dog. Ahead, somewhere at the brief end of this road, was his mother. Waiting up, hoping tonight would be the night he arrived, twisting the edge of an afghan in her hands until it stayed that way, creased with sweat. It was odd, he thought, how everyone else found it so easy to tell him what they thought of him now, but his own mother, the only person he had ever trusted with the truth, was too devastated to bring it up. It hung between them, two thousand miles and still it hung there during every phone conversation, in every letter; like a piano in a cartoon, ready to flatten him.
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