I nod, biting my lip. “Actually, I do. Can I ask you something now?”
“Of course. Please take your cat out of your bag.”
“What is it that you like about Marci? I mean, why are you guys best friends?”
Rebecca frowns. “That’s not a very nice thing to ask about your girlfriend.”
“I know. But I’m not in the mood to be nice. I’m in the mood to be honest. Like you’re being.”
A smile flits across her face. “You want to know what I like about Marci, Zack? What I love about her? She’s honest. She is the most honest, unpretentious person I know. She buys into the whole romantic notion of a prom. And she’s proud of it. By the way, that dress she’s wearing? It’s the same dress her own mother wore to her prom. Marci did this all for you.” Her hazel eyes bore into my own. “For you, Zack.”
I’m not sure how to respond to that. I feel sick. My eyes flicker toward Marci as the song ends. She and DePaul pull apart, hooting and clapping — and the band immediately launches into R.E.M.’s “Radio Free Europe.” In a flash, DePaul and Marci are back in each other’s arms, whooping it up.
“What are you thinking?” Rebecca asks.
“That I’m happy Marci seems to be having fun right now,” I murmur — and I am telling the truth. “And that I want to get out of here. I want to go throw out D’s stash of acid. I know some uptight asshole teachers are gonna be checking our rooms and trolling our mini fridges for booze tonight, and I don’t want them to stumble on … you know.”
Rebecca nods. “Yeah. I do know,” she says with a rueful smile. “Hey, I’ll come with you if you want. I don’t really feel like hanging out here, either.”
“You don’t? What about —”
“Mr. Tambourine Man? Seeing as he’s going to finish up the night on Pluto, I don’t see much point in sticking around.” She brushes a red curl behind an ear and fixes me with another intense stare. “That leaves the question of Marci, though.”
My mind whirls. I can either stay here or go back to my room alone with Rebecca. I can either stay here or go back to my room alone with . . .
I jump out of my chair and hurry across the dance floor. The song is blaring full force; DePaul’s face is soaked with sweat. He’s grinning crazily. His eyes catch mine.
“I’m gonna go get some punch,” he gasps over the music. He stares at one of the balloons on the ceiling, and then lurches away.
Marci is breathless, too. Her lungs heave beneath her strapless pink gown.
“Marci, I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole to you,” I confess. “I really am.”
She sniffs. “You’re not that sorry.”
“Can we … I don’t know — talk? Can we —”
“How about we talk tomorrow?” she interrupts, following DePaul. “I want to have fun tonight. It’s the Spring Ball. I’ve put too much time and energy into this night not to have fun.”
X: Oh, You Better Be Good to Me
Rebecca tries to console me on the walk back to my dorm. I’m not quite sure what to make of her behavior. I’ve been an asshole to her best friend. She should be telling me that. But instead she loops her arm in mine and snuggles close, making it impossible to concentrate on a word she’s saying.
The halls are eerily quiet. There are no faculty prowlers, looking to bust illicit drinkers. With silent and professional detachment, Rebecca and I remove the sheets of Daffy Duck Blotter from the mini fridge and open DePaul’s desk, to slip them inside a porn magazine or whatever he has hidden in there (more LSD?). And the whole time, I’m wondering, Did Rebecca just agree to come back here because she wants to hook up? I don’t trust myself to speak —
And then our eyes come to rest upon the sole contents of DePaul’s drawer: an unsealed envelope with Rebecca’s name on it. There’s a date scrawled on it, too, at the top. A future date: June 11, 1986. The day of our graduation.
For what seems like a long time, we both stare at DePaul’s sloppy handwriting.
Honestly, I’m surprised that there’s anything in the desk at all. I’ve never actually seen DePaul open the desk. Besides, he keeps his porn magazines very publicly strewn on the trunk by his bed. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen him open one of those, either. As far as I can tell, he only buys porn to piss off Rebecca and to screw with the heads of the teachers who inspect our rooms.
Rebecca turns to me. It’s my decision. My pulse picks up a notch. I nod.
She opens the envelope as delicately as she can. I read over her shoulder.
Dear Rebecca,
Whew. We are finally OUT OF HERE! I would say congratulations, but I’ve already congratulated you in our caps and dresses. I mean, gowns. And just so you know, I am not tripping right now. But you might be wondering why I decided to write you a letter. How to phrase this? I am figuring things out. I am............... Shit, this is harder than I thought!
Okay. So. You know me, and I think you love me — as a person, that is. A very flawed person, of course. Zack knows me and loves me, too, I think. But there’s something neither of you knows and it’s been driving me crazy because I want to tell you both because when I said it to myself in the mirror just now, it felt really good. Except, here’s the problem:
I think I may be gay.
Hmm. It definitely felt better to say it out loud than to write it. Looking at these words on the paper, they just seem so.......... GAY.
Ha! Sorry. Lame attempt at comedy. All right, so part of the reason I’m writing this letter, too, is to clear up one matter once and for all: You and Zack. You know what? Nothing would make me happier than you and Zack. No joke. Maybe something will happen this summer with you guys, away from school. He’s a total dick to Marci, and I’m a total dick to you, and even though my reasons for being a dick are different — and I apologize for them — I know why Zack is a dick. He’s just as into you as you are into him.
Want to hear something really funny? I’ve spent a lot of time driving myself crazy trying to make up some BS about how I want to hook up with Marci, just to piss Zack off and send him running into your arms. How fucked up is that? But the truth is, I love you, Rebecca. And I love Zack, too. I’m on your side, both of your sides! I just don’t love love you. I don’t love anyone that way yet. I never have, but I want the space to find that person. I don’t want to lose you, either. Or Zack. I don’t even know if I’m going to give you this letter. Maybe I’ll reread it after I drop a tab later. Yeah. I think that’s a good idea. Shit.
Love, DePaul
Rebecca glances at me upon finishing. Neither of us says a word. She neatly folds the letter and replaces it in the envelope, then drops the envelope on top of the sheets of Daffy Duck Blotter — and closes the drawer.
I sit on my bed. She sits beside me.
“So he is gay,” I hear myself announce after a while. “I thought he was … happy.”
“You can’t be both?” Rebecca asks in a faraway voice.
“At this school? Are you kidding?”
“So does that bother you? That he’s gay?”
“No — what bothers me is that he didn’t tell me,” I mutter. For the first time in my life, I’m annoyed with her. She knows better. I shake my head, running over a thousand different memories and scenarios — some of which fall into place like easy fly balls, others of which bounce out of the glove without any explanation. (And why am I thinking in terms of baseball metaphors? I don’t give a shit about baseball.) “He could have told me,” I finish. “He should have. He’s my best friend. Why didn’t he?”
“He was scared,” Rebecca soothes. “You said it yourself. You know how this school is. He was worried you’d get freaked out.”
I turn to her. “How about you? You seem to be taking this remarkably well.”
“To be honest, I’m relieved.”
“Relieved? How?”
“Because DePaul is
right. Not just about him. About you and me.”
I open my mouth. It falls shut.
“Aren’t you into me, Zack?” she asks, so quietly I can barely hear her.
“Yeah, of course. I mean, I almost told you once… .” I fight off the dizziness. “Remember that night we all got drunk on DePaul’s boat, and he passed out? But I can’t tell you now. I have a zit on my nose. I’m wearing a fucking rented tuxedo.”
She kisses me once, very softly, on the lips. “I don’t care that you have a zit on your nose. And you can take your tuxedo off. Tonight can still be amazing. I want it to be amazing. Don’t you? It’s the Spring Ball.”
It is indeed the Spring Ball. So we talk about that for a little bit. We talk about how we’re going to explain everything to Marci, and to DePaul, too. We talk about a lot of things, but the talk eventually grows fuzzy and pointless and peters out.
I stand and turn off DePaul’s desk lamp. My knees are shaking. I know we’re done with conversation for the evening, DePaul’s desk lamp included; I know because my heart is thumping too hard to do anything but let Rebecca take control.
And when I return to the bed, she fumbles in the darkness, reaching into the pockets of her skirt — and I hear a soft plastic crinkling. And in that instant, I am both more frightened and more elated than I’ve ever been in my life, and she knows it, because her fingers intertwine with mine, reassuring me. And I don’t have to lie or put on an act. I don’t have to speak. I can be honest. DePaul is on our side.
THE END (CUT TO THE FULL CHORUS)
Glossary
Randy: An adjective meaning excessively and inappropriately horny.
Bang and Olufsen: A sleek brand of stereo, very popular in the eighties.
DePaul Adams: Best friend, best man at our wedding; renounced hallucinogens and came out of the closet freshman year at Princeton; he and his partner, Norm (music professor at Columbia, sick piano player, disagrees with my classic rock musical tastes but whatever, jerk) are godparents to Harper.
Marci Wolf: Ex-girlfriend, wife’s best friend, maid of honor at our wedding, married a Kansas City weatherman who shares her penchant for heavy makeup.
Timothy Leary: Deceased Harvard professor who believed that LSD was the key to salvation. Advised the sixties generation to “Tune in, Turn on, and Drop Out.”
AC/DC to ZZ Top: Two grizzled bands (and every grizzled band in between) who wrote kick-ass guitar-driven classic rock songs, and who don’t wear cover-up to this day. At least Rebecca and I hope they don’t. But we know they do.
MTV: Up until 1986, MTV was music television: no commercials, no “reality” programming, and no self-congratulatory awards shows. The downside was that they mostly played videos by bands like The Thompson Twins.
The Thompson Twins: Google them. I won’t go there. I still have some dignity.
Looking-Glass Porters and Marmalade Skies: References to lyrics from the Beatles’ psychedelic classic “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.”
Deadhead: Fan of the Grateful Dead; a smelly hippie who is often annoying or high.
Beat Street: Break-dancing movie. Funny.
Sammy Hagar: Replaced Van Halen singer/icon/legend “Diamond” David Lee Roth in 1985. Should be shot. (Original Van Halen = ONLY Van Halen.)
College Rock: The 1980s term for “alternative rock.” Is “alternative rock” even a term anymore???
Mr. Tambourine Man: A Bob Dylan song, rumored to be about a proselytizing, pied piper druggie type (see DePaul Adams).
“Better Be Good to Me”: Okay, it’s not that horrendous a song. Listen to the lyrics if you ever read this story a second time. It grows on you. (The song, not the story.) Screw it; the song rocks, not that I’d ever admit that to anyone. DePaul insists on blasting it at every one of our anniversary parties — in front of you, Harper. Jerk.
Three Fates
by Aimee Friedman
I think I’ve made a mistake.
A month ago, in May, I was sitting in calculus class, scribbling a poem in the margin of my tattered notebook, when Pete DeSilva passed me a note that said: You + me = Prom? Because Pete writes in equations, and because he laughs like a coyote, and because I’ve known him all my eighteen years, the thought of him tying a sweaty corsage onto my sweaty wrist and leading me in a slow dance made me just this side of nauseous. So I bent over the sliver of paper and wrote I’m sorry, but that would be mathematically impossible. I knew Pete didn’t have a crush on me — most likely his pushy mom had volunteered me while he was eating his oatmeal that morning — so I didn’t feel the need to sugarcoat.
But now it’s June, prom is two weeks away, and karma has not been kind to me: I don’t have a date. All my girlfriends have theirs lined up, practically tuxedoed already, a row of eager penguins. And Pete DeSilva, who I clearly should have said yes to that day, has somehow lassoed the long-lashed Michele Martin into going with him. Everybody is pairing off, wearing the panicked look of third graders choosing partners on a field trip. And I’m the lame runty kid, the one with the shoelaces forever untied and the nose forever running, left partnerless. Alone.
“You’d better do something, Abigael — and fast,” my best friend, Iris, advises me as we walk home from school, book bags low on our backs and flip-flops slapping the sidewalk. I can tell she is serious by the way she uses my full name. The sunlight glinting off the flat surface of Lake Serene momentarily blinds us, and we squint at each other.
“Why can’t I just go stag?” I argue, even though I hate that expression. I picture myself leaping like a horned antelope through a forest of girls in pink taffeta.
Iris groans as we turn onto Main Street, passing the bait and tackle shop her parents own, the bookstore my parents own, and the ice-cream parlor where her boyfriend, Ted, pours sprinkles onto cones. Growing up in a small upstate New York town can feel like a choke hold when you think about it too much. Thankfully, college — Boston, September, so close yet so far — hovers on the horizon.
“In an ideal universe — where, say, unicorns exist — it would be cool for you to go alone,” Iris declares, stopping in front of Serenity Ice Cream and crossing her tan arms over her chest. Iris is lucky; with her dark hair and complexion, she turns the color of whole-wheat toast the minute the sun comes out. I’m blond, curly-haired, pale-eyed, and freckled, so my skin goes straight to lobster. “But as you and I know,” Iris continues as she opens the door and lets out a gust of cold, conditioned air, “dear old Lake Serene High is not an ideal universe. Not even close.”
“Tell me about it,” I grumble, stuffing my hands in the pockets of my carpenter capris and trudging inside after her. “I knew I shouldn’t have turned down Pete.” It had become my mantra of the past week. At our pom-poms-and-pride high school, even the stodgy chaperones raise their eyebrows if you don’t have someone to grope you during the last song.
And the thing is, I don’t want to go alone. I don’t want my mom to pin the corsage on the strapless green dress I bought ages ago, or my dad to walk me out to the waiting limo, all teary-eyed. I don’t want to squish myself into a corner of that limo and pretend not to watch as Iris and Ted play competitive tonsil hockey on our drive to the country club. And I don’t want to dance in a lame-ass circle with the two other dateless girls, shimmying our hips as the sadistic DJ blasts “It’s Raining Men.” I want, at the very least, a passably attractive boy who will lend me his tuxedo jacket when my shoulders get cold, who’ll chuckle at my jokes about the way certain people dance, who’ll — is it too much to hope for? — kiss me when the night is over.
But I don’t even have a current crush on whom to focus my hopes. I absolutely cannot be into a boy who’s dumped sandbox sand onto my head, like Archie Jong did when we were six. Archie himself moved to New York City in the fifth grade, but because most Lake Serene kids travel in straight lines from kindergarten to our high school’s loving arms,
I look at nearly all the boys in my class that way. My one boyfriend so far, Lyle Jamison, was a mop-headed, smiley college kid from Buffalo who worked part-time at my parents’ bookstore. Our not-quite-burning romance ended the day my dad found Lyle rolling a joint in, fittingly, the Plant & Garden section. Since then, my luck with the opposite sex has been the kind that puts fortune-tellers out of business.
The ice-cream parlor is crammed with loud ten-year-olds hopped up on sugar. The instant we enter, Ted, who has been scooping out a curl of blackberry chip for a scowling little boy, leans over the counter to kiss Iris. The sullen boy and I exchange eye rolls.
“Baby, do you know anyone Abby can go to the prom with?” Iris asks as we sit on the two free stools. She keeps her voice low and discreet, as if I have a highly contagious disease.
“Hmm,” Ted says, tapping a finger on his stubbly chin. Despite his pink apron and the matching cap on his black-and-purple-dyed head, Ted still manages to pull off his hard-core look nicely. “How about Elijah Hayes?” he suggests after a minute. “He doesn’t have a date yet.”
“He doesn’t?” Iris and I ask at the same time, wide-eyed.
I’d considered Elijah — who moved to Lake Serene in the seventh grade, thus missing the sandbox stigma — as potential crush material, but he’d struck me as too aloof. He lives on my street, and I’ve seen him peeling down Wildwood Lane in his beat-up vintage car. He’s also in my AP English class, where he sits in the back, shaggy brown hair falling into his smoldering brown eyes, strong jaw set, his long fingers twitching as if he is going through nicotine withdrawal — which he probably is. He hardly ever speaks, except to murmur some hit-the-nail-on-the-head comment in his scratchy voice. It was Elijah who pointed out that the green light in The Great Gatsby meant money, and that Edgar Allan Poe must have been smoking something while writing “The Raven.” Hot, smart, mysterious Elijah — it was no wonder that I’d assumed he had a serious girlfriend with red Botticelli curls who’d be flying in from, like, Paris for the prom.