Circle the Soul Softly

by Davida Wills Hurwin

  I realize he doesn’t miss much. “Yeah.”

  “Got a dress yet?”

  “No, I haven’t had time to think about it.”

  “Good. Dad thing number one.” He hands me a silver credit card. “No limit, whatever you want. I mean that. Dress, shoes, hair, jewelry …everything. My treat.”

  I fall asleep that night around two, trying to figure out what exactly happened, why I feel calm now instead of frantic. My homework isn’t finished and nothing’s solved, but something fundamental seems to have shifted and settled, like the floor of a house after a small earthquake.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Only eight days till Prom, and either I tell David I’ve changed my mind or I go and buy a damn dress. But where the hell do you find such a thing, and what is it supposed to look like? Being your basic jeans and a T-shirt girl, I can’t recall the last time I wore anything resembling “fancy.”

  I ask my mother for help and get the lecture about waiting until the last minute and can’t I see she’s just a little tied up right now planning her wedding? Yes, of course I can see this, but I press on anyway: “Maybe I could wear the dress you got me for the wedding?” I smile hopefully—I really like it and then I wouldn’t have to shop. She rolls her eyes and flounces out of the room, announcing as she goes that this dress costs more than three months’ rent on the blue and white house.

  Which apparently is infinitely more significant than the fragile psyche of her kid. Obviously she doesn’t hear my angst; Prom is now, the wedding is whenever, and having the Perfect Dress has unexpectedly become my Most Pressing Issue. Pretty much all I can worry about right now.

  Michael takes pity on me. After explaining—in graphic older-brother language—the circumstances under which he’d even consider shopping with me, he suggests I call David’s sister, Casey. She goes to Harvard-Westlake, and if anyone knows how to shop, it would be her. I do, she agrees, and we arrange to go the next day, the very last Saturday before Prom. Casey brings a friend, Kira. They ask a bunch of questions about color, style, etc.—do I want vintage or couture or do I have my own ideas? Stupid Kate smiles. They ask me what David will be wearing—I hold palms up and smile bigger. Finally they ask, “Okay, do you have a budget?” and I present Robert’s platinum Visa. One out of three. Phew. I’ll settle. Ten points for the stepdad.

  Casey exchanges a fairly wicked glance with Kira.

  “I know,” Kira agrees. “With that body . . .”

  I can only hope she means something good.

  Casey winks at me. “This is going to be fun.”

  We arrive at Fendi in Beverly Hills and a valet parks our car. Inside I smile at the salesgirl, who looks exactly like Zooey Deschanel in The Good Girl; she sighs as if I’ve seriously interrupted her day. As Casey and Kira flit through the racks and pull out this swirly lovely thing and that flimsy sexy thing, I check out a T-shirt that’s pretty cute, wondering if there’s such a thing as casual at a prom. I glance at the tag and have to look again. $313!

  “Katie,” Kira commands, and hands me a pair of high heels they’ve snagged from Zooey Girl. Casey follows with five dresses and points me toward the changing room. Which is pretty much the size of my bedroom in Santa Rosa.

  The first two—not so good—I wouldn’t be seen in public in either one. The third is killer: black, fitted, simple, and elegant, with an extremely low back. Suddenly being Skinny with No Tits works. I glance at the tag and once my heart starts again, I choose to ignore it. Robert said anything I want. Good for me.

  When I come out to show the girls, they actually jump to their feet. Even Zooey Girl likes it.

  “Oh yeah,” says Casey, nodding.“Oh very yeah.”

  Kira sweeps my hair up off my shoulders, and we all three admire how I look. Zooey Girl brings over a necklace and earrings. They’re perfect.

  “My brother won’t have a chance,” Casey says.“We’ll take it,” she tells the girl, then quickly looks back at me. “Oh, Katie, sorry. Do you like it?”

  Do dogs poop?

  We find the perfect shoes and something truly wicked for After Prom, then do a quick stop at Casey’s stylist to make an appointment for me to get my hair, nails, and makeup done. The girls fill me in on Proper Prom Protocol, and I finally remember my upbringing and offer to buy them lunch. They opt for mocha Frappuccinos. One drawback. Since the afternoon has been entirely too awesome, the Universe sends us to the very same Starbucks Layla and Stacey happen to be visiting. They’re deep into conversation on the patio, sipping chai and smoking cigarettes.

  Layla sees me and waves as we walk by. Stacey sends over her usual f-you expression and arrogantly turns away.

  “Bitch,” Kira mutters, loud enough for them to hear. “You know them?”

  “Sort of. They go to my school.”

  “That’s right, they do. I know them too,” Kira says. “At least, I know about them.” She smiles a deadly smile.

  “The redhead’s a slut,” Casey tells me. “She slept with Kira’s boyfriend.”

  I think: No doubt he fought her off. I say: “Wow.”

  “Yeah, wow.” Casey looks at me over her sunglasses. “You’re not like good friends or anything, are you?”

  “No, we were just in a play together.”

  “Omigod, that’s right!” Casey says. “They were in David’s play. They were actually good.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Prom. Me. Damn.

  I had doubts about going to my own prom, and here I am, in tenth grade, watching my Beautiful Boyfriend walk up to the door of my Brentwood mansion, dressed like I’m Kate Hudson, feeling pretty much able to conquer the world.

  Who knew?

  Mom and Robert take 3 billion pictures and finally we get in David’s car to rendezvous at someone’s house I don’t know, with our “limo group,” more people I don’t know. They’re all seniors and not theater kids, giving Stupid Kate her chance to go to Prom too. I begin Kate’s Infamous Smiling Silence. David doesn’t seem to notice.

  More pictures. The limo arrives and Mr. Charming (real name completely unpronounceable), our slick-haired, middle-aged, gangster-looking driver, has us each sign a “no drinking or drugs” agreement. He assures the moms who are there to see us off that he will take good care of us. But a block down, he pulls over and lays out the rules again—not exactly as polite as he was with the moms. The girls in the car assure him we are Good Teenagers and show him we’ve only brought Arrowhead, in case we get thirsty, and Gatorade—to replenish our systems from all the dancing, since we are all avid dancers. Bottles are opened and reluctantly, as if he thinks we might overpower him and steal the car, he sniffs, sips, and nods. Finally we’re on our way.

  Do I catch on that the rest of the Arrowhead bottles are filled with vodka? Um, that would be—not a bit—until I see their contents poured into the Gatorade bottles. I glance at David, who grins as he shrugs and offers me a sip. I take one for the sake of company, make a face, and cause everyone in the car to burst into giggles. Except David, he’s very patient. He puts his arm around me and gives me a little squeeze.

  We arrive at the old Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood. The combination of my geometry teacher in a red formal gown and my half bottle of “Gatorade” start me giggling. David likes this; he takes my arm and we find a place to sit. As if they were at some overaged dress-up party, people float from table to table, saying nice things. Even Stacey drifts by and mumbles, “Good dress,” though I don’t think she realizes she’s talking to me.

  By eleven most of the girls have changed to After Prom outfits and the boys have summoned the limos. I’ve spoken maybe four words. As we wait for Mr. Charming to make the turn into the hotel driveway, a police car beeps its warning siren, and flashing lights appear on two sides of one of the smaller limos. Jake comes barreling out of the hotel line with a girl I don’t know. “Hey!” he hollers. “What the hell’s going on here?”

  “Step back, please, sir,” an officer tells him as another hauls the limo drive
r out of his seat. As Jake paces, shaking his head, and the dean hovers, the limo driver is given the Walk the Straight Line exam. He fails. We clap and whoop. A tow truck hooks up his limo, he’s plopped into the police car, and Jake makes a scene. The dean threatens to call his parents. Jake says, “Call my lawyer while you’re at it,” and keeps on with his entitled assholeness until Layla appears and drags him and his date off with her.

  Our driver shows up happier and more pleasant than before. Not. “Gatorade” is passed around and we head off to After Prom, at a club called Tyranny, smack in the middle of Hollywood. We show our school ID’s at the door and walk through a curtain to the real prom: no adults, unless you count the paid bouncers; spike heels and short skirts instead of elegant gowns; tons of “Gatorade” and from the smell, plenty of pot. People are practically having sex on the dance floor, including one male/male couple locked at the lips. Two people I don’t recall ever seeing at school are actually doing it in the corner. At least that’s what it looks like—it’s too dark to tell for sure.

  Four of us grab a table, and a waitress drops off cranberry juice, which David promptly dilutes with “Arrowhead.” Jake and his entourage make their entrance, heading past us to the VIP lounge—which they get to occupy since he and Layla “organized” the After Prom.

  “At least she could wipe her nose,” someone at our table mumbles, nodding toward Jake’s girlfriend.

  David whispers, “Cocaine,” and I wonder how I’ve managed to live my entire life completely unaware of Real Teen Behavior. I sip some of my Arrowhead-cranberry drink and pretend I can hear the conversation David’s having with the guy at the next table. Mostly, though, I watch.

  “Check it out,” someone says. Five nearly naked senior girls pose in the doorway, in not much more than bras and bands (read:“skirts”) around their hips. A boy I don’t know is trying to talk to one of them. Turns out she’s his ex, and he’s way drunk. The date he brought to Prom tries to pull him away; Nearly Naked starts “dancing” with another guy—the ex goes postal and Prom Date bursts into tears. Nearly Naked’s friends make fun of her, and Random Guy—not connected to this drama at all—decides to stop in front of our table to share everything he’s eaten or drunk this evening.

  That’s it. We head for the door. We’re outside and hailing our limo before the guy even gets off the floor.

  THIRTY

  Final Prom stop—the Sheraton in Santa Monica. Almost the whole floor is taken up by the seniors from Bentley Evans Prep, and I feel very sorry for anyone that isn’t part of the party. People stumble up and down the hallways, ducking in and out of rooms. They have champagne bottles and an occasional joint tucked inside a hand. Most of them act as though their fathers own the place. Maybe one of them does.

  David and I are technically not supposed to be here. It’s a tradition for seniors; most of the juniors and younger dates usually go home or spend the night at someone’s house. We’re only going to hang out for a while and then catch a taxi back to get David’s car. The plan is to watch the sunrise from the roof of his house.

  People head up to the rooftop pool, but we escape to a borrowed suite. We slow dance and eat strawberries. It’s the best part of the whole night for me, until the door flies open and three boys and a girl burst in with a camera, a script, and a tripod. They’re doing a movie version of the musical Rent with a Baz Luhrmann twist, and the director, Micah, wants to shoot “Will You Light My Candle?” in our room. I think they’re all a bit crazy, but they’re so hyper they make us laugh. They start rearranging the hotel furniture. David grabs strawberries, the champagne bottle, and me. We lock ourselves in the bedroom.

  We kiss as we dance some more. After what seems like forever, the noise from the living room subsides and we’re alone again.

  “Thank God,” David says. “I thought they’d never leave.”

  I look at him and tingle all over. Seriously.

  “Did I tell you this evening how beautiful you are?”

  “Only once.”

  “You are the most beautiful.” He kisses me. “You know I’m madly in love with you?”

  “I do. I love you, too.”

  “You know I really want to be with you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It doesn’t have to be now …”

  “But it can.”

  Silence.

  “Are you sure, Katie? Because nothing changes if we don’t.”

  I can only nod. In acting, we call it a beat. One part of the action is over and the next part begins.

  We dance so close I can hardly stand it. He reaches behind me for the zipper and my skirt drops to the floor. I put my arms up and he slips off my top. I’m standing in a thong and heels and every cell I own is glowing.

  “Oh my God, Katie,” he whispers.“You are the most beautiful.” He pulls me gently toward him and we continue to sway back and forth. He kisses my neck and slowly runs his hand up and down my back. “I love you so much.” He sighs.

  “I love you, too.” The feeling is so amazingly intense I can hardly stand up.

  “Shall we?”

  I nod.

  “Are you sure, Katie?”

  “I am so sure.”

  He leads me over toward the bed and slowly takes off his clothes—all the while saying how much he loves me, how beautiful I am, how much he’s waited for this moment. I can hardly breathe. We lie down facing each, a foot or so apart. He kisses me, he touches me, we smile at each other. There’s no hurry, no pressure.

  This is exactly how a first time should be.

  He traces the outline of my lips with his finger and travels down my neck to my chest. “You’re perfect,” he whispers. His arms go around me and he draws me close. I feel his breath on my neck. He starts to move in rhythm, slowly, gently.

  Suddenly I’m terrified. Scared to death.

  I remind myself this is what I want to do.

  It doesn’t help; my fear’s a volcano erupting.

  I tell myself this is right, this is good, this is how people act when they love each other.

  My body is turning to stone.

  I am shutting down; no amount of needing to stay seems to help. David continues to stroke me and kiss me, whispering how much he loves me. I’m terrified. I want to be done with it.

  I thought knowing what happened would make it go away.

  I was very wrong.

  Somehow I manage to keep still. His hands are all over me, but I can’t tell what he’s doing, because I literally cannot feel it. I don’t know if my body is responding because I’m no longer in it.

  He loves me—I love him—He loves me—I love him… .

  It’s my prayer so he won’t realize I’m freaking out, a mantra to keep me calm so he can finish. Then maybe I’ll be normal again and the next time it will be all right. I don’t know how much time passes before he says my name—in passion?

  I love him—He loves me… .

  “Katie.” He says it again, louder.

  My eyes open. He’s pulled back away from me. His voice is flat and angry.“What’s going on with you?”

  I try to smile, but it doesn’t work.“What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said, what’s going on?” He has never sounded like this.

  I search his eyes for our connection; I can’t find it. I’m suddenly conscious of being naked.

  “You’re not even here.” He’s disgusted, I can tell. “I’m holding a corpse.”

  I try to respond, but since I can’t think and I can’t feel, I sure as hell can’t talk. I’m a lump, null and void.

  “You have to talk to me, Katie. Otherwise I don’t know what to do.”

  He waits; I watch him. I pray for words to explain, but my brain is a beehive and nothing is making sense. He’s up now and starting to put on his clothes. His tone of voice makes me wish I could just disappear. “We didn’t have to do this. I asked you. It would have been fine to just dance or do Micah’s movie, or not even come here.” His face is complet
ely blank. I pull the pillow in front of me. “I thought we were, that you and I … Oh shit, I don’t know what I thought.” He’s half dressed and he pauses to look at me. “You say you love me. You say you want to be with me, and then … you act like I’m hurting you or something. What is it? What am I doing wrong? Are you playing me? What?”

  He throws his hands up, like I’m hopeless.

  Which I am.

  “Talk to me, Katie.” It’s a warning.

  I want to. I want to tell him I love him, that right now I don’t know what to do either, that I hope he’ll forgive me.

  But lumps don’t talk.

  Instead, I stare. I can’t even shake my head.

  “Okay. Whatever.” He picks up my skirt and top and tosses them at me. “I’ll be back in a while.” He grabs his shirt and heads for the living room. A few seconds later I hear the door to the hallway open and close.

  I don’t move for a few minutes because nothing is processing. Finally I remember David said he’s coming back and I need to be ready. I can manage that. I’m good at doing what I’m supposed to. I put on my clothes, fix my makeup, get my hair back up to a reasonable facsimile of before. I find my shoes and walk to the living room and sit down to wait.

  When he comes back, I can’t look at him, but I feel his stare.

  “Okay, let’s get you home.” His voice doesn’t know me; he’s speaking politely to a stranger.

  “Okay.” We’re silent as we walk down the hall. He kids with Micah and crew filming in the hallway, as if I’m not even there. We ride down in the elevator and trek across the hotel lobby and out to the front. The sky’s still dark. He beckons to the first yellow cab parked in the turnaround. He holds the back door for me, then goes around and gets in the other side.

  “It’s all right,” I manage to blurt. “I can—”

  “I’m not letting you ride home by yourself.”