I am clutching a long bouquet against my tattoo like it is my own precious babe. I made the flowers out of old copies of the TV Guide I found in a box when we were cleaning out the spare room for Bird to move in to. I told Iris my bouquet would be made from the romance novel she gave me at Easter, a Christian one with a title that would make the porn gods proud, Fidelity at the Drive-In. But Winthrop and I couldn’t even read through it using our best voices. It was unbearably not funny. So I tossed it and used the TV Guides instead.
Winthrop is sitting next to Rain and wearing his usual button-down shirt and tie, but today his hair is freshly cut. He looks too handsome to believe. Rain is wearing a dress we found together when we were hunting for the prom dresses I won’t be wearing tonight. This one is a deep green that matches her nails and the silk flower in her hair. The Epsworthys are knockouts. But I have to look away, because whenever Winthrop catches my eye he mouths, “Con-grat-u-la-tions!” and I have to look away because all I can think about is how much fun they are going to be having tonight at prom and how much my night will be the perfect opposite. I told them that we shouldn’t all miss the prom, that I wouldn’t do that to them. It was me who insisted they should not leave early to meet me at the VFW hall, but stay for the whole night, remembering every detail to tell me tomorrow. I made them promise.
It seemed like such a good idea at the time.
Aunt Bev is in the first row on our side. She is wearing a long sheer silk coat with big gold feathers printed on it, and underneath that a purple dress, and her special-occasion cowboy boots, a black that is almost blue, with a green cactus on the heel. This combination would seem especially designed to make Iris groan, but Aunt Bev is gorgeous. She sits there moving a rosary through her fingers, mouthing a prayer. I hope it’s for me. Because when Iris walks in, on Bird’s arm, because he is giving her away today, I’m glad that everyone’s head is turned so no one can notice the flush creeping up my face.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen Bird out of a sweatshirt or tank top, but here he is, in a suit he picked out himself, that fits him like he wears one every day. His hair is mostly out of his face, so that hot sparkle in his eye is clearer than ever, like the Devil himself crawled in with a Bedazzler and set to work. Bird enjoys every step down the short aisle, moves slowly and with care. Where I practically sprinted, he holds Iris back, practically struts. When Pastor Ted thanks the Lord for this day and looks to Bird, asking who gives this woman to be wed, I wonder if he notices that a famous fallen angel is giving him a wink.
* * *
Among our setup duties at the VFW was stocking the bar. With iced tea and sodas. So Bird and I made sure to stock a fifth of Jack Daniel’s in a little corner in the storage closet for ourselves. We’ve each put $5 in the White Horse kitty, a drinking game suitable for even two players. No one around here has much of a chance to play White Horse because it is for special occasions only. Winthrop and Rain and I were going to play it hard tonight at prom, and now they’ll play without me.
To win the White Horse, all you have to do is find yourself attending a prom or wedding, some special event that people invest a lot of emotion into, and then you guess who is going to be the first of the attendees to get so drunk that she loses her shit. That’s your White Horse. She might do this by crying on the dance floor, or falling on the dance floor, or making inappropriate dance moves. On the dance floor. Or making out with someone other than her date. On the dance floor. It doesn’t always happen that a White Horse is first revealed on the dance floor, but mostly they are, because that is where your blood gets flowing. Also, I’m referring to the White Horse as her here because easy money says the person under the most pressure is going to break first, and no one is under more pressure at a wedding, for example, than bridesmaids, say, or unmarried women, or any woman. Ever.
Pro tip: The amount of pressure a potential White Horse feels is directly proportionate to how high her heels are. Look for the highest heel, the most skill-requiring shoe. She is the one who is going to lose it first, bereft not to be the bride once again or to not have captured her husband’s roving eye even in this dress, or at having some other illusion of romance shattered.
It’s the meanest of all drinking games because not everyone knows they are playing. The ones with money in the kitty get to laugh it up in judgment and pretend we aren’t the actual losers. Usually. But this is a dry wedding, because of course it is. Bird and I don’t know who, like us, will be sneaking a little something in along with their good wishes. We were going to keep our eyes open until the cake was cut, then place our bets, but apparently the race was already won.
I should have noticed that Bird’s shoes, while flat-soled, have him in a high-stakes position. He’s wearing dress shoes. He gave away his mom today. We have been taking turns in the storage closet in the dark with that Jack Daniel’s as we wait for Dad and Iris to arrive from the church, but Bird must have had a bottle of his own somewhere else, because he is practically toast when he flicks the lights at the VFW hall and announces the happy couple’s arrival with a wolf whistle that involves stuffing what seems like all his fingers into his mouth at the same moment.
It was Iris’s idea for Dad to wear his uniform instead of a suit, and the guys from the USPS did the same. Even Bird’s suit is that same midnight-blue the Postal Service favors, and Iris moves through these blues in her pearl-gray gown like a great white shark in a stormy sea.
Once we’re done with the potluck dinner and the dancing begins, Dad and Iris start with, no lie, “Please Mr. Postman.” We all stand like we’re supposed to and watch them, their heads close together, Dad somehow finding his feet, both at once, moving in time to the music. He sings along too, and Iris looks, well, pretty. Like brides always figure out how to do. Bird is behind the bar, his hands on the wooden case around the stereo, and the look in his eye is one I’ve never seen there before. For a guy who always knows where everyone is, exactly, maybe more than they know themselves, he looks lost.
And then it’s my turn to feel the pressure.
I begged Dad not to do a father-daughter dance and I almost won that battle, but he said it was that or reading a psalm during the ceremony. At least on the dance floor I don’t have to pretend it isn’t awkward.
When the floor opens up, the ten square feet of wooden laminate that Bird and I have sectioned off with twinkle lights and streamers becomes a place for everyone to watch Dad and I hold hands. And dance. We move around each other like we are trying to politely avoid a swarm of slow-moving bees, waiting for Stevie Wonder to finish working through all the months and seasons and holidays of the world’s longest year in “I Just Called to Say I Love You.” This song was not my choice. And when Winthrop was giving me dance lessons for prom, he skipped the lesson on connecting with your partner while evading bees. Awkward for the win.
I can’t meet Dad’s eyes. I’m trying to pretend he’s not here. That neither of us are actually here.
And that’s when he sees my tattoo.
There was makeup on it, foundation and powder that Rain said would last if I was careful, but that has pretty much rubbed off. Of course, Dad recognizes the handwriting on my arm. He spent most of his life memorizing its every curve, and as he takes it in, he goes perfectly still.
Then Dad lifts my hand to his heart. To his lips, where he kisses it. And then he lifts my hand higher, above our heads.
And he twirls me. Just like we never practiced. In something like joy. In everything like acceptance.
* * *
When it’s over, everyone hoots and claps and I grab my purse and basically run into the bathroom. That’s right, my purse. The purse is a gift from Iris, one of the many that came my way by virtue of agreeing to stand up for them during the ceremony. It’s a stupid silky thing with a rhinestone clasp and long silver chain that Iris insisted would go better with my dress than my black canvas backpack with the silver Sharpie drawings of vampire cats and lightning bolts, the backpack that is my North S
tar if I ever want to get lost. And this would be a good time for getting lost, all the way lost.
I look up at the ceiling, but I’m really looking higher than that, to the empty sky above. Where God pretends to be. And I raise my hand, like my dad just did on the dance floor, high above my head.
And I flip God off.
Because if Dad is happy, healed, if Dad is actually … twirling … where does that leave me? I slide down the wall onto the stained carpet of the VFW hall’s bathroom. And I scream.
No one can hear me. No one that matters. Aunt Bev didn’t even make an appearance at the reception, and my voice won’t carry to Rosary High’s auditorium, where Winthrop and Rainbolene are making memories without me.
Plus, the small crowd in the VFW hall is surprisingly loud. Apparently, every member of the Rosary Postal Service knows the lyrics of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” by heart. The hall is filled with their singing.
For being so holy and all, God has a wicked sense of humor.
SOMETHING CHERRY
Inside of my horrid little purse is a lipstick Iris got for me, the same bubble-gum color as my dress. I even put the lipstick on before the ceremony. I can still see traces of it on my lips when I look in the mirror after I’m done screaming. And then I do this unspeakable thing. I take out the lipstick. And I reapply.
Like Rain taught me, I blot. But I don’t look in the mirror again. This is not how I want to remember myself. I don’t want to remember myself at all, and I know just how to forget. I go back out to the party before I lose my nerve, find Bird still behind the stereo, and I ask him if he wants to dance.
* * *
Bird holds me too close or spins me too far and I love it all except that he’s wasted. Or because of it. When “We Are Family” comes on, we join the bigger circle with our parents, we jump up and down, and Bird raises my hand up like I’m a prizefighter during the chorus, “I’ve got all my sisters with me.” Then Bird puts on “Sweet Child o’ Mine,” and dances with his mom while everyone coos about how sweet it is.
No matter who else is on the dance floor, all I can see is Bird.
Tsk tsk tsk.
As everyone begins to leave, Iris and Dad start looking like they don’t know what to do. This is the one part of the day we didn’t plan, but without looking at each other, and almost at the same time, Bird and I say, “We’re going to stay and clean up.”
You would think that Dad or Iris would notice that something was going on, but they are already on some kind of honeymoon, holding hands and leaning into each other. They’ve been moony from the first song to the last, which was, of course, “Signed, Sealed, Delivered I’m Yours.”
This happiness between them is such a real thing, it is so hard to argue with, that when Dad comes to say good night and kisses me on the cheek, I whisper in his ear, “It was a great day, Dad, congratulations.” And he gives me a squeeze and they’re off, leaving Bird and me alone with Iris’s car keys and the mess. And each other.
And the mess of each other.
* * *
It doesn’t hurt really, and the little bit it does, I like. I like how the pain makes it real, and, more than the feeling of finally, finally catching up with Rain and Mo and Sissy, with everyone at Rosary High who has already done it, is that, after that first minute, it starts to feel actually and truly good. Bird is not crazy like I thought he would be, or stupid, or even gross. He’s smooth, like all that practice he gets has paid off, and just like in the kitchen when he is saying my name over and over while the water runs into the sink and a wet plate drips between us on the floor, he looks me in the eye the whole time.
* * *
Like this. We’ve cleared all the trash and popped all the balloons we can reach without a ladder. And we’ve finished all the Jack Daniel’s. We’re reaching up for the same streamer when we crush into each other. The streamer tumbles gently onto our heads and Bird catches me. So I don’t fall. Like I was going to fall. And then he’s gripping my hands and I move them behind my back, so he’s got me around the waist, and I pull us back until my hips hit the folding table we’ve just finished clearing. The tablecloth bunches up under me like my dress does, saving my ass from splinters after the condom is on and he pushes in, slow at first, gentle might even be the word for it. Then faster, harder, complete with moaning, like a porno book is being written right there in the VFW hall as the table slams its legs into the filthy carpet.
When we’re done, the tablecloth has stains that are not going to wash out. And for the first time since I reapplied the bubble-gum lipstick and we started dancing, Bird seems to actually remember that we are family now.
I’m going to bury the bloodstained tablecloth under popped balloons and crepe paper in the garbage can but I’m not fast enough. Bird points to the blood. “Helen?” He says my full name and there’s no tsk tsk tsking in it, no shame or smirking, he says it almost like he cares.
And I almost do too. For a minute. But then I remember that Bird’s mom, who is alive, is married to my dad. I remember that my mom is not alive or married to anyone. And I say what I practiced saying as I pull the tablecloth off, whisk it away.
Not that I planned this. But I didn’t not plan it either.
“As if, Bird. It’s just shark week.”
When I smelled blood in the water earlier, I thought it was Bird’s, but when he looks at me like this, like it matters to him if this was my first time and not just my first time with him, like he might be able to tell that I am lying about having my period, I wonder if maybe there’s more to him, to this, than I thought. I wonder if I’m the one who’s going to get hurt.
LOST
VIRGINITY
PINK, SHINY, SHORT HAIR BUT FLUFFY.
SIXTEEN YEARS OLD.
LAST SEEN AT THE ROSARY VFW HALL.
ANSWERS TO: BABY, HONEY, COME HERE.
LIKES: TO BE TOLD THAT IT IS VERY GOOD AND BEAUTIFUL,
SEVENTEEN-YEAR-OLD BOYS WHO DO NOT LOVE IT AT ALL.
SOMETIMES LOSING IS ITS OWN REWARD.
PORCHLIGHT
When Bird and I pull into the driveway of the home we now share, Winthrop is sitting on the bottom step in the dark. There is a flower in his hands, like a real flower, an orchid. Pink and white and ferocious. The first living flower I’ve seen all day.
Winthrop stands up as I get out of the car. He’s drunker than Bird and I ever were tonight, if such a thing is possible, and he wobbles a little and kind of holds the flower out to me.
I don’t know how to act.
And he doesn’t know how to act. “Helen, I got you this corsage,” he says, “before.” This wasn’t what we talked about. Definitely not part of our prom plan. Definitely not a flower folded from an abstinence flyer striped with glitter. This is real, like for a real date to the prom.
I am stuck. With Bird behind me, closing the car door. With our house in front of me. With Winthrop in between, holding this ginormous flower that must have been flown into Sky, then trucked into Rosary, because it sure wouldn’t have grown here. With my underwear still wet and my brain confused.
But Bird doesn’t have any trouble figuring out how to act, it’s just another night for him. So he acts like a fucking asshole. He laughs as he pushes past Winthrop to the front door. Says, “Too late, Win.”
I’m about to scream, so that Winthrop won’t be able to hear what Bird says next, that we did it, It with a capital I, because if Winthrop hears it, then I have to hear it. And I’m not ready for that. But Bird doesn’t say that. Just, “Prom’s over. You missed your chance.” Then he goes in and leaves us alone.
“Winthrop…” I don’t know what to say. Can he see how swollen my lips are from smashing my face into Bird’s? From smashing all of me into Bird? I feel like I am just a smudge of lipstick, like the rest of me is fading. I’m a blur. Even to myself.
I could say, I want to say, “Winthrop, I just let Bird pop my cherry at the wedding reception like one of those girls in Bridesmaids or Bust.” I could
laugh and thank him like it doesn’t mean anything, this flower, his waiting with it. Like our entire lives don’t mean anything. Because it doesn’t. They don’t. Do they? And I start to, I blurt out, “Remember…” but I bite my lip on the B in Bridesmaids. I am confused. If losing my virginity doesn’t matter, why does what happened at the VFW hall suddenly matter so much?
Winthrop is watching my mouth, waiting for me to finish my sentence, I think, but then. He leans in to kiss me. Like, a real, living kiss.
He looks so beautiful with the porchlight behind him, with the flower in his fist. With trust on his face. And I feel so ugly in this stupid dress with Bird’s sweat on my lips, his skin under my fingernails.
I close my lips tight together and turn my face away.
And then Winthrop does know what to say. The perfect thing.
“Oh.”
And he drops his hand. Drops the flower. And he walks away.
CURSE
For being so full of people all of a sudden, my house is still, quiet, even though it is way past breakfast.
There’s a note taped to Dad’s door … Dad and Iris’s door. It says No Church Today, Honeymooning!
With a heart around it.
Which is only part of the reason I feel like vomiting.
I jump in the shower, then run to Winthrop’s house before anyone wakes up. When I turn onto the Epsworthys’ street, I slow down. I catch my breath. I want to appear normal. Be normal. Like this is the morning after prom and we all got wasted and had a great time and now they are going to tell me all the gory details, just like we planned.
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