The Spaces Between Us

by Stacia Tolman

  We work silently until Rack’s phone alarm goes off at seven o’clock. Twenty minutes later, the early bell rings at the high school, and we stand back to admire our creation. The senior float has become a pair of red plush lips. While we were looking for paint, we found a roll of deep crimson polyester fur and covered the bear trap with that. With two-by-fours and some chicken wire, we’ve made a long cigarette held up by two fingers. We made a pink smoke ring using fiberglass insulation, which we pulled out of the wall. The fingernails are long and shiny, painted with Metal Flake Candy Red.

  Our slogan? Smoke the Cougars.

  * * *

  Homecoming is a perfect football day—raw and cold and windy, with the year’s first hint of snow. The sky is the color of concrete and hangs about ten feet over our heads. At the parade, our float is disqualified as sending the wrong message. The sophomores win it with—guess what—a purple and gold rocket. The smoking lips are banned from the game. But we take it anyway and park it outside. Everyone loves it.

  It’s another tense game, lots of points scored, and at halftime, the Rockets are trailing the Cougars by a field goal, with the crowd on the verge of violent hysteria. After the marching band manages to screw up “Rock Around the Clock,” Rack gets on the winning float, takes the microphone, and presents me to the fans as the queen of homecoming. It happened yesterday at the pep rally. They pulled me off the sidelines, where I was sitting with my “sore knee” cramming Shakespeare into my head, and suddenly I was in the middle of the gym with a crown on, and everyone was laughing like it was the funniest joke in the world. My king is Tim Marhaver—how he got elected I’ll never know, because nobody likes him either, but I strongly suspect authoritarian practices, stuffed ballot boxes, and underhanded deals late at night in smoke-filled rooms. Suddenly we all hear honks, and here comes the Grimshaw brothers’ flatbed tearing across the football field, with the smoking lips on the back. Ruby’s driving. I hold my crown on my head and jump off the purple and gold rocket. My attendants run after me, and my king trails them. As I hike up my velveteen cape and get on the flatbed, Rack passes out the cigarettes and we sit on the bear trap and blow smoke rings at the crowd. They love it. The band tries “Rock Around the Clock” again, and gets it right this time, and the crowd gets very rowdy. I put the crown on Grimshaw. Tim reclines on the bear trap in the middle of his four queens.

  “Hey, buddy, can ya handle it?” someone yells.

  He gives them a thumbs-up, and the crowd goes wild.

  Toward the end of the third quarter, Rack insists we leave a tie game to go up to the farm and get her house ready for a party after the homecoming dance tonight. Rack’s parents have gone away for the weekend, which means she has to do the evening milking, which means we have to help.

  “The cows come first,” she says. “Even before football.”

  We all clamber into her truck. “Doesn’t anybody want to listen to the radio to hear who wins the end of the game?” Grimshaw asks.

  “I don’t,” says Rack.

  “Don’t you care who wins?” Angel asks her.

  “No. Do you?”

  Angel shrugs. “I guess we’ll find out sooner or later.”

  “Anyway, I just broke up with him,” Rack announces.

  “You did?” Angel and Grimshaw gasp together.

  “Yeah. In the first quarter. I told him I was sick of his shit and tired of looking at his ugly-ass face.”

  “Why?” Grimshaw asks.

  “Because I am. I told him he didn’t know how to play football, either. Among other things.”

  “Wow.”

  “Hey, Grimshaw.” I turn around. She looks particularly pretty and happy today. “Did Mike ever get that Viper?”

  She looks blank. “Mike?”

  “Mike Lyle. That Viper he was always going to get.”

  “Maybe,” she says slowly. “But I think he’s in California.”

  “I saw him last Sunday.”

  “She practically lives at Angel’s aunt’s these days,” explains Rack. “So she wouldn’t know.”

  “Do you know what his father does for work?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Grimshaw says stonily. “I don’t think about him.”

  “Doesn’t Mike’s father work at the high school?” asks Angel. “Isn’t he one of the janitors or something? That’s what my dad told me one time.”

  “Never tell Mike you know that, okay, Serena?” says Grimshaw. “He doesn’t want anybody to know. If he knew you knew, my God…”

  “I won’t. Who cares, anyway?” I ask. “Do you want someone else to drive, Rack? You haven’t had much sleep lately.”

  “I’m fine,” she says. “Never been better.” Rack exhales the first drag of her cigarette and speeds down Main Street. Colchis is eerily empty for a Saturday afternoon. She runs both red lights. The whole town is at the game.

  “Jesus. That’s probably why his game was off today,” Angel says from the back.

  Rack shrugs. “Not my problem.” For the rest of the way up the hill, nobody speaks. When we get to the farm, we pull in next to her parents’ car.

  “Oh my God,” Angel says. “Are they home?”

  “No, that’s Allen’s now. I wonder what he’s doing here.”

  As we get out of the car, Allen Mizerak walks out of the house. He has a dimple in his chin, electric green eyes, a small diamond in one ear, and curly brown hair still damp from the shower. I know who he is because he always handled the details of Scot’s real estate deals with Mr. Mizerak. Allegra always had an insane crush on him. He plays soccer and the jazz guitar. He’s one of those guys who’s sure everyone will find him as charming as he does, and in his case, there’s something to it. Even I find him disturbingly handsome. He’s dressed in a tuxedo.

  “Oh, good,” he says, walking toward us. “Here’s somebody to do my cuff links.”

  “Look at you.” Rack folds her arms and leans against the car. “La-di-da.”

  “Wedding,” he says. “My soccer coach. I’m an usher. Don’t worry about the girls. They’re all milked, fed, and tucked into bed. Dad asked me to come by.”

  “I was going to do it,” Rack says. “You were supposed to drain the pool, and I was supposed to milk.”

  Allen shrugs. “I didn’t mind. You can milk tomorrow.” We all stare at him. You can’t help staring at him, and he expects it, and so we all stare. All except Grimshaw, who is climbing out of Rack’s truck.

  “Look,” she says. “Snow.” She strikes a pose like a ballet dancer, arms out, palms up, to a pewter-gray sky.

  “I don’t see any snow,” Rack says. We search the air over our heads, and sure enough, there are a million little gray specks swimming around against the whiteness. Grimshaw makes a sweeping gesture, as if she zipped open the sky, and suddenly, there is snow floating around us. She steps up on the running board of the pickup, arches her back, and leans out, hanging on with one hand. Snowflakes are everywhere swirling around us, fat and soft. Angel nudges me. Allen’s noticed Grimshaw. Her cheeks are pink from the wind and the cold. The wind is blowing her hair around her face. She turns her face up to the snow and sticks her tongue out. One feather lands on her tongue and melts. Then she sees Allen staring at her. Her eyes open wide. She jumps down from the running board and brushes snow off her sweater.

  “Do you make other kinds of weather happen as well?” he asks. “Or mostly just snow?”

  “Just snow,” she says.

  “For the wedding,” Rack adds. Allen backs up a step and puts his hands in his pockets.

  “Really,” he says finally. “Do you think the bride wanted snow?”

  “Maybe,” Grimshaw says. “If I had a wedding at this time of year, I’d want snow, instead of all the gray.”

  “It’s a weird time to get married, though,” Rack remarks. “Halloween weekend.”

  Allen pantomimes cocking a shotgun.

  “Ka-pow,” he says.

  “I see,” Rack says.

  �
��She’s a freshman.” Allen’s talking to his sister, but he can’t keep his eyes off Grimshaw. “It was love at first sight. That’s what Coach wants us to say. So they don’t cancel his contract.” He looks at Grimshaw. “How about you? Do you believe in love at first sight?”

  “I don’t believe in love at all.” Rack keeps her arms folded over her chest. “But the bride’ll probably need snow for the baby shower, too, then, if it’s that soon.” She turns to Grimshaw. “So it’s a good thing you didn’t go to California.”

  “California?” asks Allen, moving in. “Pretty ambitious for a girl from Minnechaug Valley.”

  “She’s starting a dance team,” says Angel. “She’s very talented.”

  “Do you do cuff links, too, among your talents?” Allen asks Grimshaw. I don’t think she’s met Allen before. He graduated three years ago and mostly comes back to sell cornfields to Scot. I watch her take him all in—the tux, the cuff links, the dimple, the diamond.

  “Sure,” she says carelessly. With a clink, he drops the gold cuff links into her hand. She pushes up his tuxedo sleeve, folds the cuff over like a pro, and begins wrestling the cuff link through the layers of cloth.

  “Great game,” Allen tells her. “I listened to the radio during milking.”

  Grimshaw looks up at him. “Who won?” she asks. Her voice is slightly husky from shouting all day.

  “You don’t know?”

  “We left early.”

  “We have better things to do,” Rack puts in.

  Grimshaw finishes the cuff link.

  “Well done,” Allen says. “It feels right.” She starts on the second one while we watch him watch her.

  When she finishes, she takes a step back from him and straightens his bow tie. She squints at him, brushes a few snowflakes off his lapels, and then nods. “You’re all set.”

  “You got a dress?” he asks her.

  “Sure. Why?”

  “I need a date.”

  “My house is closer,” offers Angel. “You can get one of mine.”

  “God, Allen!” Rack explodes. “You’re so forward! Do you even know her name?”

  “I will when you introduce us.” Allen winks at Grimshaw. “They’re your friends.”

  “Allen,” Rack exaggerates, gesturing at me. “This is Serena Velasco.”

  “Serena,” Allen says, smiling at Grimshaw. “That’s a beautiful name.” He takes her hand and lifts it to his lips. Grimshaw blushes.

  “That’s Serena.” She giggles, pointing at me. “I’m Melody.”

  “Melody,” he says. He draws her to him and puts his other hand around her waist. “I’ll sing harmony.” He twirls her suddenly under his arm and then snaps her back to him. “We’ll dance.”

  Rack rolls her eyes. “And this is Melody Grimshaw.”

  “Oh!” Allen’s smile freezes. “So you’re a Grimshaw! Who knew?” He lets go of her and backs away. “Well, I gotta go, girls,” he says. He points at Rack. “Don’t wreck the house.” In a minute, he’s gone. Grimshaw’s hands stay in the air where he left them, still dancing, no partner. Then she sees me watching her and pretends she was just brushing the snow off her sweater.

  Angel comes forward. “I like that idea, actually, getting dressed up for the dance. In the back of the bridal shop are all these dresses left over from people who, you know, changed their minds? Let’s get dressed up.”

  “He shouldn’t be done milking this early.” Rack frowns a little as she stares after Allen’s car. “My father always says he cuts corners. Anyway, I don’t like how he treats the cows.”

  nine

  WE GO BY TERESA’S BRIDAL Shoppe before the dance. The back room is stuffed with the unused gowns of rejected brides and unemployed bridesmaids. Angel says that most of them get sold eventually, but there are some leftovers that have hung around for a long time, and we can have our pick of those. Grimshaw, who has her own little flask of whiskey underway, picks out a wedding gown with lace that looks like it will dissolve if you touch it. It takes the three of us to get her into it. The stark white against her light olive skin is dramatic.

  “You should get married,” Rack tells her. “Just because you look so damn good in white. Don’t do it for any other reason.”

  “Remember when we were in middle school, that girl who died of brain cancer right before her wedding?” Angel picks up the hem and starts shaking the dust out of the folds. “This was going to be hers. It’s still here.” She chokes out the last words. The ensuing dust cloud is so thick we have to open all the windows.

  Grimshaw gathers her hair back up behind her head and studies herself in the mirror. “Give me the veil, too,” she says. “And the garter belt. I want the works.”

  They put me in tea-length hot pink, or try to. I go through several dresses, but they are all too short. “I don’t think they like tall bridesmaids in Colchis.”

  “You might be right,” Angel says. “Just wear the pink, though. At least it covers your knees.” She offers me a matching hat and then kneels down next to me and rips both seams up to the thigh. She gets out a pair of scissors and makes several other strategic rips. “There,” she says. “That’s sexier. Now you can go have your big night with Tim.”

  I stand in front of a full-length mirror and do some voguing. “Pink is too springy, though, don’t you think, for an October dance?”

  I am eclipsed by Grimshaw, a glowing vision in white. She tips up the flask and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She points at herself. “Nice swallow,” she says. At this, Grimshaw lets out a long peal of laughter and takes another swig of whiskey. “Why don’t you just get pregnant and stay home?” She sees me over her shoulder, looking at her reflection in the mirror. I look away.

  Behind us, Angel is squirming into a strapless sapphire gown that lets out its own cloud of dust. “Help me with the zipper,” she says. We stuff her into the bodice, find the hooks and eyes, and fasten them.

  Near the window, Rack watches snow falling into the street. Her outfit is her barn jeans and a gray sweatshirt. “No dress for me,” she says.

  * * *

  At the dance in the gym, the best I can do is sit on the bleachers near my friend while she gets drunk on whiskey. I’ve done it before, but this time she’s trying to get caught, and if that happens, she’s automatically off the squad. She takes nips from the flask tucked into her garter belt, while I stand between her and the chaperones. Fortunately, Colchis won the football game, which packs the dance and gives the chaperones plenty of other people to worry about.

  Like a heat-seeking slug, Tim Marhaver finds me on the bleachers and comes up to me with his hand out. “My queen,” he says. “I require this dance.”

  “Um, no thanks, Tim,” I mumble.

  Rack comes over. “Will you go dance?” she hisses. “What’s wrong with you?” I glance at Grimshaw.

  “Go ahead,” Grimshaw says without looking at me. “Dance.”

  So I dance. Tim takes my hand, and I follow him doubtfully into the middle of the mass of bodies. Just as I get the hang of faking it, a slow dance starts. Again, I watch what other people do, and we start to slowly revolve around each other, me with my hands on his shoulders, Tim with his hands on my back, telling me how hot I look in my pink dress.

  “The band’s really wasted,” he shouts in my ear. “I got them high before they went on. Out in the parking lot.” He looks around the gym, very pleased with himself. “I made bank, too. Everyone’s really wasted.”

  I try to position myself so as to keep an eye on Grimshaw. She’s not even bothering to hide her flask.

  “What is it with you two?” Tim asks me.

  “Nothing. I’m just a little worried about her, that’s all.”

  “She looks fine to me.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “I’d like to get to know you better,” he says in a smoky voice. He moves his hands from my back to my hips and draws me in closer. “Relax,” he whispers in my ear. “Just go with i
t.” I have never much liked anyone’s hot breath on my neck. But there is so much else going on that I really don’t need to precipitate a scene with the king of homecoming, who seems to feel that it’s his prerogative to put his hands wherever he wants and grind any part of his body against any part of mine. And it might be, for all I know. Everyone else is doing it.

  Halfway through the night, a ceremony takes place. Everybody gets down on one knee, and Rack puts the crowns on our respective heads again. I’m not into it, though, especially when Tim grabs me, bends me over backward, and practically drowns me in his salivary juices, while the crowd cheers. For the rest of the night, Tim monopolizes me. We dance every single dance.

  At one point, Rack comes up to me and gushes, “Oh my God, you and Tim look so good together.”

  Angel’s right behind her, iridescent in sapphire. “You’re both so tall,” she says.

  “And smart,” Rack says. “You probably have a lot to talk about.” I smile weakly at them. As far as I can tell, the only things Tim and I have in common are everyone else’s assumptions. Besides, he has soft hands. I’ve always had a prejudice against guys with soft hands.

  I manage to escape Tim long enough to help Rack pay the band. The four of us are the last to leave the gym. When we get up to the Mizeraks’ farm, the party is already in full force. Two pickup trucks with MY SON IS AN HONOR STUDENT AT MINNECHAUG REGIONAL HS bumper stickers are there. A fight between Junior Davis and the other team’s quarterback has broken out in the driveway. A bonfire is blazing where I think Mrs. Mizerak’s rhododendrons used to be. The band is there ahead of us. There are even some trick-or-treaters, guys with panty hose pulled over their heads, sticking people up for beers. It’s still snowing, soft and wet, melting as soon as it touches the ground.

  My heart sinks when Tim emerges from the crowd, opens my door, and lays claim to me. He takes me away into his truck, but then starts talking about his early decision application to college and how he can’t wait to get away from a depressing redneck pit like Colchis before his brain atrophies. It’s warm in the cab of the truck, and I haven’t slept much lately. He talks about the rock-climbing camp he goes to every summer and how everyone there is from private school, which would totally rule, and he never really knew what good drugs were until he went camping at Mesa Verde. As I doze off, he is making the case that I am definitely college material, and I should consider distancing myself from some people who will just drag me down.