by Lisa Super
Trying to be home as little as possible, Daphne had applied for a job at Sweetie’s Ice Cream Shop the day after her sixteenth birthday. She worked two nights during the week and one weekend shift scooping out artisanal ice cream from the deep vats in the display freezer. Besides walking to and from school and work, scooping was the only form of physical activity she undertook.
Daphne didn’t recall getting to Sweetie’s that day. A hypnotic trance carried her down the blocks, her body numb and warm and unaware of its movement, fueled on pure satisfaction. The minutes of her shift ticked away like seconds.
The exhilaration settled throughout the evening. Daphne had no illusions. Seniority and cumulative body of work would outweigh her solid audition. She would not get the lead on her first try. She probably wouldn’t even get a part. The victory was the audition, joining the ranks of the unafraid. The person she most wanted to tell was Oliver. She didn’t know why, and she was done trying to figure it out.
After her shift, she pulled out her phone to text him and found his text waiting for her: “How did the audition go?”
Her glee was as subtle as Mrs. Baker’s drooping jaw.
“Really well,” she typed. “I’ll find out tomorrow.”
• • •
At 3:00 p.m. the next day, she approached the auditorium door with a heaviness in her creepers. A small group of students gathered around a piece of paper crudely stuck to the wall with masking tape.
“Yes!” Holly, the lead in last year’s fall play, clapped and pumped her fist.
There’s your Emily, Daphne predicted. Another girl dashed by Daphne crying tears of rejection. The doubt crept in. That’s going to be me. Daphne wanted a part more than she’d allowed herself to believe. She rushed up to the cast list, forcing the misery to begin.
She scrolled down and found her name. Her name! She had a part! She scanned across the dotted line to the character’s name: Mrs. Soames.
Daphne smiled in that dopey, mouth-breathing way she only did while watching movies alone or in the dark, when no one could see her. Now, she was surrounded by people and didn’t care. She grabbed her phone and texted Oliver: “I got a part! Nov. 4th. Save the date.”
She stared at her phone, willing it to respond. And it did.
“SUPER JUICE!!!”
Jim Morrison’s Grave
“I’m not telling.” Katrina reclined against Oliver’s locker. She stretched a lock of hair to cover her lips.
Oliver did his best to fend off annoyance. He loved homecoming, but he could’ve done without the dance. The formality was fine. Oliver liked getting dressed up in a suit. He liked seeing his date in a slinky dress, teetering in high heels, wearing twice as much makeup and hairspray as usual. He enjoyed showing off with the guys in the middle of the floor as much as slow dancing with his date, pressed up against her, breathing in the perfume on her neck, carving a private cave around them amongst the other couples. All that was good. It was the dinner beforehand that had to be somewhere nice, which really meant expensive, that he dreaded. Making conversation while out came course after course—that was a lot of talking that could lead to places he didn’t want to go. He also hated those damn flowers. He’d never met a boutonnière whose pin hadn’t stabbed him in the chest.
“I need to know what color your dress is so I can buy a matching corsage,” he said.
“I want it to be a surprise.”
Oliver noticed the blind optimism in Katrina’s eyes. Nothing had ever gone truly wrong in her life. There was that one time freshman year when she didn’t make the cheer squad and was named an alternate, but Caitlyn Mendelson broke her ankle a week later and Katrina was added to the permanent roster. This year, she was the team’s beloved captain and Caitlyn a mere shadow in the bleachers.
Silly girl. Katrina thought a surprise could only be something good.
“I just don’t want to show up with the wrong flowers and ruin the night,” he said.
“You couldn’t ruin it if you tried. I can’t wait. It’s going to be a night to remember.”
Oliver slung his backpack over his shoulder. He leaned in like he was going to kiss her and at the last second pulled up and kissed her forehead, leaving Katrina hanging, lips puckered against the wind. She whimpered and punched his arm as he took off down the hall.
“That’s what you get for not telling me,” he called over his shoulder.
When Oliver arrived at the chapel for the second time in two weeks, he realized how infrequent his visits there had been, except to shortcut through from the football field to the parking lot. He had no idea how Daphne could concentrate in the five o’clock shadow of Christ. But there she was, furiously punching the keys on her graphing calculator and scribbling in her notebook.
“For a minute I thought you were gaming. I was going to light a candle in your honor.”
“Aw, and I was one candle away from sainthood.” A corner of her mouth dimpled her cheek.
Daphne continued calculating, jotting down equations, circling the final answer and resting her pencil before giving him her full attention. Her dedication astounded him. No commitment in his life equaled her attentiveness to a single math problem.
“Are you coming to homecoming?” he asked. “It’s this Friday.”
“Do you need a date to the dance?”
Trepidation intersected with flattery and the combination took Oliver off guard. Was she asking to be his date? She had the ability to disarm him with simple questions. This fight was unfair, yet something deep inside him enjoyed the challenge.
She rolled her eyes at his hesitation. “I’m kidding.”
“Yeah, I know.” The hoarseness in his voice forced him to clear his throat, making it all the more obvious that he had not been in on the joke.
“I didn’t even go to my own school’s homecoming. Why would I come to yours?”
A tinge of hurt pinched at the small of his back. He ignored it. “The chicken suit, of course. I got some new moves.”
“Are they going to shoot you out of a cannon? Because that I would go see.”
“So you’ll only come if my life is in jeopardy?”
“Pretty much.”
“You’re a tough audience, Daph.”
She crossed her legs, signaling a refocus to the heart of the matter. That was why he was standing amongst the chapel pews after all, for hearts and matter.
Defeat weighed down her voice. “I’ve been racking my brain on Jim Morrison’s grave.”
“Don’t worry, I got this one.” He gave a reassuring nod.
Daphne’s nod fell into sync with his. “Okay, you’re on. This weekend?”
“It’s homecoming.”
She tensed again and picked up her graphing calculator. “Oh, right. I thought, Sunday, maybe.”
He hated letting her down, but his parents were conveniently out of town this weekend. He hoped the carnal midnight after the dance would stretch into daybreak—especially given Katrina’s current state of forgiveness and overall enthusiasm. The thought of jumping out of his twisted sheets and spending the day with Daphne felt dirty. He didn’t know why. It probably had something to do with him not telling Katrina about the Top Ten list, and how he wouldn’t ever be divulging that information to her.
“Next Sunday. Bring a Sharpie. And red lipstick,” he said.
Daphne bent an incredulous eyebrow and returned to her homework. “You better wear the chicken suit to the dance, or I’ll be very disappointed.”
For half a second, he considered it. Katrina would kill him.
• • •
Homecoming was a typical game with a higher box office. As the Sacred Heart Hawk, Oliver ran back and forth and back and forth, energizing the rambunctious crowd. Sacred Heart was winning so handily and exuding such school spirit that no extra encouragement was needed, but Oliver kept running, jumping, and cheering, as he had for the past season.
Oliver had spent all of middle school trying to bulk up for football and pra
ying to grow five more inches for basketball while throwing ten thousand footballs and shooting a million free throws. He’d earned the friendship and respect of all his teammates, but after sitting on the bench in both sports for his entire freshman year, he’d grown tired of the pity in his coaches’ eyes.
During sophomore year, while he prepared to sit on the bench before the homecoming game, he read an article that profiled a college mascot. The young man bore the broiling heat and relentless cold all for the sake of the fans. How selfless. The accompanying photo depicted this small man being hoisted on the muscular shoulders of the football team, their faces focused upward in admiration. It didn’t hurt that this scrawny, not-conventionally-attractive fellow alluded to having zero trouble in the lady department.
Oliver knew he needed a powerful ally in the mascot game, and Coach Anderson was the mark. Anderson was the merciless football maverick that the high school revolved around. A new trophy case was always under construction for his end-of-season accolades. The Math Team trophies had been stuffed into the teachers’ lounge to clear shelf space. If Oliver could win Anderson’s approval, the school board would blindly follow.
On the first day of practice junior year, Oliver marched into Coach Anderson’s office with straight shoulders and made his announcement. “Coach, wouldn’t it be great to have a mascot who pumped up the crowd at every home game?”
Anderson mulled it over for a moment. “No, that’s what the cheerleaders are for.”
“But the Hawk would be the living embodiment of the team, and fans love mascots. He could interact with the cheerleaders. We could play off each other.”
“We?”
“Yes, I would be the Hawk.” Oliver debated whether he should have led with this information while Anderson scratched his forehead.
“You’re a football player and you want to be a bird?” Anderson curled his upper lip.
“Coach, I want to contribute to the team. All I do is sit on the bench. And I’m not blaming you for that. I suck, I know. And I’m not getting any better. If I could be the mascot, at least I’d be doing something.” Anderson inhaled his irritation. Oliver kept going. “I just don’t want you to waste your time on me, Coach. You’ve already spent more than enough.”
Anderson perked up. “You used to play baseball, didn’t you? Heard you were good. Made the All-Star Team, right?”
Oliver hung his head, the shame of unwelcome accomplishment. “I did. But I don’t play anymore. Baseball’s not for me.”
Anderson didn’t bite. Oliver knew he needed to go even further, bring his argument back around, but he couldn’t do it on his own. He needed to play the dead brother card. “Things have been kind of rough at home, Coach. I really miss Jason…”
After two years of devoting every fall afternoon to the gospel of Anderson, Oliver had learned the only sure way to terrify the football coach was to mention feelings. Oliver averted his eyes so Anderson could openly shudder.
Jason had been an elite wrestler, making it to the State Finals his freshman year, finishing as runner-up his sophomore year, avenging for a win as a junior, and defending his title senior year. Though Anderson hadn’t known Jason, his athletic prowess had grown into a tall tale after his death. The legend had scaled the school walls and spread throughout the San Fernando Valley. Anderson had remarked on more than one occasion, usually when Oliver was struggling to block anything with two legs, how Jason’s talent was rare and how it was a damn shame that it had been wasted.
Anderson cleared his throat to cut off Oliver. “I think it’s a good idea. I’ll see what I can do.”
On his way out of the office, Oliver tried to shake off the guilt he felt. Wasn’t this the least Jason could do for all the anger, confusion, and every other negative emotion in the English language that he’d unearthed in his absence?
By the home opener, Oliver was the embodiment of the most expensive mascot costume in the San Fernando Valley. He ran back and forth along the stands, hyping up the crowd. He danced with the cheerleaders, even joining in some of their choreography. Like the scrawny Sports Illustrated mascot had prophesized, the ladies loved the the Hawk. More than once during a steamy make-out session he’d been asked to leave on the bulky body of the furry bird until the last possible moment.
Through the eye slits in the headpiece, Oliver enjoyed the view: the roaring crowd, the men on the field, the bouncing cheerleaders, Katrina. She never took her eyes off Oliver, even when she was at the top of the pyramid. For a split second, her ankles faltered, and his heart dropped, but she steadied herself and beamed down at him from the top of the world. He knew that even if she did fall he would catch her. Or, at least, soften the impact.
On Katrina’s front doorstep, Oliver slipped the pale pink corsage around her wrist. “You look gorgeous.”
Katrina sauntered to his car without responding. She didn’t have to. Her long, bare legs spoke for her, stretching out underneath a short dress of royal blue sequins. He charged ahead of her and opened the door, right on time for her to slide in.
The tiny, reflective discs on her dress scratched Oliver’s hands, but he figured he deserved a little pain to go along with his pleasure. He had convinced Katrina to forgo a romantic solo dinner and hitch onto the Mitch and Joe supper wagon. Oliver concocted this scene as a sure way to avoid any boyfriend drama. Or, in their case, lack-of-boyfriend drama. Mitch and Joe would mess around and barely avoid a food fight, and Oliver could make eyes at Katrina while they played footsie under the table. Katrina had balked at the suggestion, not because she didn’t like Mitch or Joe, or even because she had wanted Oliver to herself, but because Mitch and Joe’s dates, Jamie and Mandie, were dumb as hell. Hanging out with them was a chore, but without the sense of accomplishment at the end of the agony.
Katrina and Oliver were the last to arrive, mainly because they had pulled over to have an impromptu make-out session in Oliver’s car, during which Katrina forfeited half the sequins on her dress to the back seat. The geometry of her updo had been pushed a few degrees off-kilter. Neither she nor Oliver cared. A glorious precedent had been set for the evening and neither Jamie nor Mandie (formerly Mandy, she changed to an “ie” to match Jamie) could hinder them.
The dinner played out like a bad sitcom. Mitch and Joe and Oliver ribbed each other, Jamie and Mandie (Oliver nicknamed them the “Ies”) shared a single order of french fries. Katrina managed to respond to all of the Ies’ frivolous observations on the following topics with one-word answers: Their proudly overpriced dresses, their gaudy corsages, the blotches in their fake tans, their unbroken-in shoes that had the nerve to give them blisters, and even the paint on the restaurant walls, which was deemed “perfection.” It helped that the Ies took five trips to the bathroom together over the course of the meal. Five. Even Oliver noticed.
“Maybe one of them will come back pregnant,” Oliver whispered to Katrina as he stole one of the Ies’ french fries.
Katrina snorted a little too loudly, and Oliver had to backpedal to explain the outburst to Mitch and Joe.
“I told a lawyer joke.” He shrugged.
By this time, Katrina was in tears. She could barely get out the words. “My dad’s a lawyer.”
“Tell it, man.” Mitch and Joe gaped at Oliver like he was a traitor for not sharing the best joke ever.
Retreat was the only option. Oliver stood up. “I can’t. I have to go the bathroom.”
Katrina drowned in a new pool of laughter, and Oliver marched to the bathroom. Mitch and Joe turned to Katrina for the joke, but she shook her head, leaned back, and hung her napkin over her face until Oliver returned, which was well before Jamie and Mandie did.
Oliver and Katrina spun every which way on the dance floor. By the end of the night, the skin on Oliver’s hands had become numb to the sequins. He couldn’t tell the difference between the scaled dress and the soft skin on Katrina’s arms, the same arms she wrapped around his neck during all of the slow songs. Swaying in the center of the gym
nasium, surrounded yet isolated, she whispered in his ear how they were like the old song that was playing by the band she didn’t know. Two worlds collided and they can never tear us apart. Oliver liked the romanticism, but he was pretty sure that her arms would let go of him with little resistance. One pin prick into that tender skin and she would jump twenty feet away. He tightened his grip on her waist knowing she would let go before he would.
In the darkness of his bedroom, it had all gone according to plan. Well, not that Oliver had an actual plan. He wasn’t an evil sex genius by any means. It had all gone according to hope. To dream.
He plucked stray sequins from Katrina’s bare body and kissed each spot after removal. Their breath and soft laughter took on a musical quality, the roll of a timpani.
“Oly. Will you be my boyfriend?”
And the cymbal clanged.
Every expletive in the book ran back and forth between Oliver’s ears. He kissed her, praying the moment would pass, but she pulled back, demanding a response.
“Oly?”
A sequin stuck on her cheek, which made it difficult to take her seriously.
“Katrina, you know I don’t do the boyfriend thing.”
He reached up to pluck off the sequin and she slapped his hand away, surprising both of them. Undeterred, she looked directly into his eyes.
“We spend so much time together. Why do I feel like I’m your dirty secret?”
Dammit, there were going to be tears. Oliver hated tears. Even more, he hated being the cause of them. He went out of his way not to cause them, and still, it rained.
“We went to the dance together. I didn’t dance with anyone else.” He bowed his head and rested his forehead on her shoulder.
“Did you want to?” She rolled her shoulder out from under him.
Frustration coiled inside of Oliver. Why had she waited until neither of them had any clothes on to have this conversation?
“No.”
“Why not?”
The room smelled of coercion. He gritted his teeth. “Because I like you, and only you. And we’re having fun.”
“This is fun for you?” She sat back and crossed her arms.