by Cat Bauer
We all inhale together. I feel the smoke tumble around my lungs. I exhale a big white puff and blow myself right down the rabbit hole. I issue a royal proclamation from my lips: “The Ball of the Misbegotten is most enchanting.”
Jessie laughs. “It's the best ball in town.” She is smoking her joint as if it were a cigarette. I take another puff and set mine down. I already feel a little buzzed, and I don't want to get too whacked.
Evan tucks me under his arm and then his lips cover mine. “Happy?” he asks.
“Very,” I say, and at that moment, full of golden bubbles and white smoke, I mean it.
Oliver stands up and bows in front of me. “Let us partake of some nourishment from the royal banquet table, Your Highness. I'm starving.”
I float to my feet. I drift over to the table crammed with food. I pick up a white china plate, a linen napkin, a knife, a fork, and a shiny silver teaspoon.
“You don't need a spoon right now, Harley,” Evan says.
“But I want her!” I titter. “I want her just to have her!” Evan smiles and shakes his head. He fills my plate with mutton and pheasant and Yorkshire pudding. Or maybe it's steak and chicken in disguise.
We sit on a sheepskin rug in front of the fire. I nibble my food. Viking food. I chew slowly and watch the flames leap and sway. I am fascinated by the fire. A piano and harp start playing, and I think the fire is dancing to the music. I recognize the tune from Mrs. Tuttle's house. “Ooo,” I say. “I love Schumann.”
Oliver snorts. “The World's Most Beloved Melodies. Belongs to my parents.”
“I don't care.” I wonder if Oliver is making fun of me. “It's romantic.”
I turn to Evan. The firelight flickers across his face. “Nice tune,” he assures me. I smile at him. We touch without touching, using only our eyes. Jessie motions to Oliver, then tugs him out of the room. Evan reaches out for me. His hand glides over my shoulder, my neck, my arm. I move next to him. Gently he pushes me back on the sheepskin rug. Evan is over me, his blond hair spilling across my face. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer. I feel the heat of the fire and the warmth of Evan's kisses. I close my eyes and let him take me where he wants to go.
Me and Jessie are in the bathroom, putting on fresh lipstick. Jessie's lips are so red, they look almost purple.
“I think you guys fell asleep,” she says. “Let me zip you up.”
I yawn. “I think we did, too. Where'd you go?”
“Upstairs.” Jessie grins. “You looked like you were having fun.”
I catch her eye in the mirror. “I was having a very nice time.” I turn my back to her so she can reach my zipper.
“Oliver wants to ask you something.”
“What?” I am curious. “What does he want to ask me?”
“Wait and see.” Jessie smiles mysteriously, and her teeth are brilliant white pearls inside her big purple lips. “It's something good.” She takes my hand and pulls me into the living room.
Oliver and Evan sit on the sofa, drinking beer. “You girls finish off the champagne,” says Oliver. “We men will drink the big beer bubbles.”
Jessie perches on Oliver's lap. She pours me a glass of champagne. “Here you are, milady.”
I take a sip. The champagne is ice-cold from sitting in the bucket. It tastes even better. “Mmmm. I could get to really like this stuff.”
“Ask her, Ollie, ask her.” Jessie wiggles on Oliver's lap, almost spilling his beer. “Ask her right this second.”
Evan takes an envelope out of his suit jacket. He tosses it on the coffee table. “Inside this simple white envelope are two tickets to the Spring Ball, bought and paid for. Oliver has volunteered to escort you, our dear Princess, if you would like to go.”
My mouth nearly falls right off my face, I am so surprised. Go to the Spring Ball with Oliver? I say nothing. Evan grins. “Well?”
“I … I don't know what to say,” I stammer. In a way I want to go, but in a lot of ways I don't. I barely know Oliver. I don't want to leave Evan. I am having too much fun at the Ball of the Misbegotten.
“This way you won't have to lie to your parents when they start the interrogation,” says Evan. “You don't have to stay long, just a dance or two. Me and Jessie can drive around or something, then come back and get you. I mean, I paid for the tickets. There's no reason why you shouldn't go just because I can't.”
He has a point. I know Peppy's going to cross-examine me. Plus, I'm dying to see if Carla gets Princess of the Ball.
Oliver burps. “We'll get there around nine, and they don't crown the damn princess till around ten anyway. I took some babe from Lenape last year.” Jessie pouts. Oliver ignores her. “It's worth a laugh. We'll get a good buzz on the way over.”
I smile. “Okay.” Not exactly the way I planned on going to the Spring Ball, but what have I got to lose?
Evan does a skid in front of the Elks Lodge, which is this drab concrete building they rent out for banquets and dances. The rah-rahs have decorated the place with red and yellow balloons. The theme of this year's ball is Spring Fever, so there is a huge fake thermometer on the door. Tacky.
Evan kisses me good-bye. I'm a little tipsy and really anxious, and for a second I want to tell him that Baby Girl Harley can't go through with this. Instead I climb out of the car and shiver in the parking lot. Oliver staggers out of the backseat, wearing his top hat and tails, still smoking a joint. He has brought along a black cane with a white tip. He looks like a deranged ballroom dancer.
Jessie scoots up into the front seat. “Have fun, guys!”
Oliver hands her what's left of his joint and leans over to kiss her. He nearly falls onto her lap. He straightens up and grins at me. “Ready?” He offers me his arm. I don't want to take it, but I don't know what else to do. I grab on. He puts his left foot out and does a little hop, like a drunken scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.
Evan peels out of the parking lot as Jessie waves good-bye. I turn to watch them go and part of me wants to chase after the blue Camaro and hide in the trunk. I sigh. Oh, well. I will try to make the best of this. We hum as we skip and stumble up to the door.
Hairy Mr. Petranski guards the entrance like he is protecting Buckingham Palace. Just my luck that old Mr. Detention-Giver is the faculty chaperone. Oliver saunters up to him, his long dark hair flapping underneath his top hat. He taps his cane. He whisks the two tickets from the pocket of his long black jacket and speaks with a phony British accent. “Entrance for two to the Spring Ball, please, my dear sir.” He hands the tickets to Mr. Petranski and clicks his heels.
Mr. Petranski's mouth falls open like he can't believe what he is seeing. “That's some getup, son.” He takes the tickets from Oliver and puts them in a huge fishbowl. “For the raffle,” he says. He peers at me. “Harley Columba, is that you?”
I am a nervous wreck. “It's me!” I titter.
“You're a little late. I don't know how much food is left, but find a table and help yourselves.”
Oliver takes my arm and pushes past him. “We've already dined, sir.” He leads me into the room, leaving Mr. Petranski behind us with his eyebrows raised in one furry arch.
They have decorated the hall with construction paper flames and crinkly red cellophane. Orange and red balloons drip yellow ribbons from the ceiling. Spring Fever. It looks like we've stepped into hell.
The band is called the Magpies, a bunch of boppie seniors who play disco music. Couples are boogeying on the dance floor. I spot Mr. Angelo, wearing a red tie, moving to the beat. He looks like he's at the wrong party. I bet he hired the band. Across the front of the room is a long table where all the nominated princesses sit with their boyfriends. I see Carla draped all over Troy. What a floozy. Scattered around the hall are round tables, big enough to seat eight.
“Where do you wanna sit?” Oliver asks.
Hmmm. Good question. I look around the hall at all the laughing faces and see no place where I belong. It is then I realize I do not have a single fri
end anymore. “I … I don't know.” I never even thought of this. The only open chairs I see are at a table full of geeks. This is such a mistake, coming here. I want to run right out the door.
Then, from behind me, someone puts their hands over my eyes. “Guess who?” It is a girl, but I have no idea which one. I turn around. It's Debbie Nagle.
“Debbie! Hi!” I am so glad to see anyone, even if it's the class nympho.
“Where's Evan?”
“He's banned from the ball.” I giggle as if everything is fine and dandy, but inside I am wilting fast. “This is his friend Oliver. Oliver, this is Debbie.”
Oliver tips his top hat and kisses her hand. I cringe.
Debbie laughs. “Cool. Come sit at our table. We're over in the corner.” We follow her through the crowd. Roger would die if he saw how short Debbie's dress is. You can see right up her butt. Everyone points at Oliver's outfit, whispering and snickering. I try not to walk next to him, but it is obvious he is with me. Evan, Evan, where are you?
Lisa Kowalski is the only other person I know at the table. Her hair is stringy and her eyes are wild. “Harley, hey. Ya jus' get here?” She sounds like she's whacked.
“Yeah. This is Oliver.”
“You didn't miss nothin'. Have some punch. We spiked it.” Lisa pours me a plastic cup full of orange liquid and spills half of it on the table. “It tastes like crap, but it does the job.” I stare at the cup. No way am I going to drink spiked punch at a school dance. Just having it in front of me makes me nervous.
Debbie plops down next to us. “This dance is so boring. I'd leave, but I gotta see which one of those bitches wins.”
Oliver chugs a couple of glasses of punch and yawns. I bet he's sorry he ever volunteered to bring me. I'm sorry, too. Without Evan here, I really have nothing to say to him. He turns to me. “You wanna dance?”
Before I can answer, the music stops. Ms. Minelli walks up to the microphone. She is wearing a limegreen dress covered with sequins, so she twinkles as she talks. “May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen?” The microphone screeches feedback.
“Step back!” bellows Oliver, drunk on punch. He is a donkey braying in someone else's field. The entire hall turns to see who dares to challenge Ms. Minelli.
“Sshh!” I kick him under the table. If anyone missed him before, they sure won't now.
“I hate it when people eat the mike,” mutters Oliver, tossing down another glass of punch.
Ms. Minelli edges back a baby step and leans into the mike, tentative. “Is this better?” No feedback. “Good. And now, the moment you've been waiting for: the tally of the votes for Princess of the Ball!”
“It's only a li'l after nine,” says Lisa, taking a swig of punch.
“They figured we'd all leave if they waited any longer,” says Debbie. “Pass that pitcher, will ya?”
All the girls who are nominated step up on the stage. I have to admit, Carla looks great. She stands there, beaming, in her Frangelica dress, and there is a little part of me that wishes it were me up there.
“First, we will announce the Duchesses of the Court.” Ms. Minelli looks down at her list, ready to read off names. Each girl is supposed to step up to be handed a rose by some preppie senior guy. Ms. Minelli calls out, “Carla Van Owen.” Everyone claps politely. Good. She didn't win Princess. Carla looks disappointed, but she smiles when the senior guy hands her a rose. Next Ms. Minelli calls out Melody McCormick's name, the sophomore, and Melody does a corny little curtsey when the senior guy hands her a rose.
“And now, our last Duchess, Betsy Hamilton.” Prudence Clarke squeals like a pig. That means she won Princess. I can't believe it. She practically shoves Betsy Hamilton off the stage. Ms. Minelli says, “May I present this year's Princess of the Ball, Prudence Clarke!” She places a sparkling tiara on top of Prudence's head. The senior guy hands her a huge bouquet of roses. The Magpies break into “There She Is, Miss America” as Prudence prances around the stage. Johnny Bruno appears from behind a curtain and escorts Prudence to the dance floor. They move together as the band plays a slow song I've never heard before. They look like the perfect all-American couple. I am a little sad. That could have been me.
“Just think. That coulda been you, Harley.” Lisa Kowalski punches me in the arm. “You and Johnny Bruno!” She laughs like that is the funniest thing she can imagine. Me and Johnny Bruno. Yeah. Instead it's me and Oliver the Scarecrow.
“And now the rest of the court will join their Princess,” announces Ms. Minelli. The Duchesses descend to the dance floor. Troy sweeps Carla into his arms. She rests her head against his shoulder. I watch Prudence and Johnny and Carla and Troy twirl around the dance floor. There is scarcely anything left of the person I was a short time ago, all straight A's and proper. Now I am sitting at a table full of druggies, escorted to the Spring Ball by a guy in a clown suit who I barely know. I am miserable.
“Everybody dance!” Ms. Minelli shouts, and all over the room guys tug their girlfriends onto their feet. Oliver chugs some more punch and looks over at me. He burps. “Wanna dance, Harley?”
I am getting really depressed, but I nod. I wish this ball were over. I wish I'd never come. But what I really wish is that I was the Princess of the Ball and Evan was by my side. Oliver struggles to his feet. He picks up his cane, hesitates, then sets it back down. Good. I didn't feel like getting impaled.
We wade out into the crowd of dancers. I put my hands on his shoulders and try not to get too close. He leans against me. I am afraid that if I let go he will fall on the floor, he's so drunk. We shuffle around on the dance floor and I can hear everyone whispering. Oliver in his top hat towers over the crowd. I want to shrink down to a whisper myself and disappear.
Oliver stumbles and stomps on my feet. “Ouch!” I yelp.
“Sorry,” mumbles Oliver. His breath smells like stale whiskey. I turn my head away. Finally the music stops and I am relieved. I turn to head back to our table and come face to face with Carla the Duchess and Troy the Magnificent.
“Harley!” Carla pretends to be surprised to see me. “What are you doing here?”
Troy seems uncomfortable. “Hello, Harley.”
I don't have the strength to deal with these two. “Hey.” I force myself to smile. I wish Oliver would vanish back to the table, but he is glued to my side. “This is Oliver. Oliver, this is Carla, Troy….” My voice trails off. Carla and Troy stare at Oliver like he is some bizarre new life-form.
Oliver tips his hat and nearly falls over. “Please ta meetcha.”
“Oliver's … a friend of Evan's.” I am so lame, I swear.
Carla flips her hair. “Nice hat,” she says to Oliver, all sarcastic. She rolls her eyes at Troy and snickers.
Oliver's eyes narrow. Something dark crosses over his face. I've seen that look before: on Roger, right before the thunder breaks. “Whaddaya mean, nice hat?” Oliver mimics Carla's voice.
Oh, no. Disaster ahead. I grab Oliver's arm and try to push him toward our table. “Congratulations, Carla,” I say over my shoulder.
Oliver jerks his arm away from me. He strides back to Carla and looms over her. “Whaddaya mean, nice hat?” His anger has boiled up from nowhere, and Carla looks frightened.
Troy steps in between Carla and Oliver. “Hey, pal. Take it easy.”
“Your girlfriend's a bitch,” Oliver informs Troy. “A snobby little bitch.”
Troy pushes Oliver in the chest. “Watch it, bud.”
“Hey!” Oliver trips backward and falls to the floor. His top hat tumbles off his head and wobbles in a circle, then comes to a stop. Oliver sits there, stunned. A couple of girls scream.
The dance floor clears a circle around Oliver. Oliver shakes his head and jumps up, then smashes Troy right in the face.
Troy roars and rushes at Oliver. I try to get between them, but I am shoved out of the way. “Stop! Stop!” I hear a voice cry, and then realize it is my own. Oliver and Troy are two pit bulls going for each other's throats.
The music stops. I see Mr. Petranski and Mr. An-gelo run toward us from the side of the hall. Mr. Petranski yanks Oliver off Troy. Oliver swings around and punches Mr. Petranski in his hairy belly. Mr. Petranski doubles over. Mr. Angelo jumps in the middle of the chaos and puts his arms up. “KNOCK IT OFF!” he orders. Somehow his voice makes everyone freeze. Troy and Oliver move away from each other and pant, blood dripping from their noses.
I feel fingernails rip deep into my arm. I turn and look at Carla's twisted face. “You've ruined everything!” says the Duchess to the leper. No, no, I want to say. Everything will be fine, you'll see. You're my best friend. This is just a stupid dance.
Instead I whisper, “Sorry.”
I am numb. I sit in exile at the faculty table, waiting for my parents to arrive. Mr. Petranski called them to come and pick me up. Around me, the ball is winding down. The music has stopped, the lights are turned up bright, and the rah-rahs on the cleanup committee are sweeping the floor. Oliver left with Evan after a big discussion of what the school policy was for students from another district. Lucky for him, his parents are in Maui. They wouldn't let me go with them. They wouldn't even let me see Evan.
I look up and see Roger and Peppy in the doorway, talking to Mr. Petranski. Peppy's mouth is a tight white line and droops almost past her chin. Roger's fists are clenched. He sees me watching him and slaps me with his eyes. He is going to kill me. I don't care.
Roger and Peppy approach the table. “You dis-gust me.” Roger talks to me as if I were a dog. “Let's go.” I stand up. I shuffle between them out the door, a mutineer walking off the plank.
I climb into the back of the minivan. Peppy starts right in.
“You lied to us. We trusted you. Your teacher told us you didn't get there until after nine o'clock. Where were you? Who was that boy? Your teacher said Evan was suspended from school for selling drugs. There was alcohol in the punch at the table where you were sitting. You lied to us. We trusted you….”
Peppy's voice hammers at me. I stare out the window. I am trapped. I am suffocating. I am alone. There is no way out of this. There is no way out.