Action Figures - Issue Two: Black Magic Women (16 page)

“Considering what you told us about your last few, uh... romantic interests, let’s call them, your mom has decent reason to worry about who you’re going out with.”

“Yeah, but I’ve gone so out of my way to prove to her I don’t hang out with people like that anymore. I mean, you guys are nothing at all like my old friends.”

“Because we’re awesome,” Missy says.

“Exactly. So why would she think I’m going back to dating punks and losers?”

“Because moms worry about their daughters,” Sara says.

“Dad wouldn’t be that way.”

Sara casts a skeptical eye my way.

“No, that’s not true, he’d be way worse. This one guy I went out with for a couple weeks, Kyle Moss, came to the house to pick me up. Dad looked him square in the eye and said, ‘Kyle,’” I say, mimicking Dad’s stern tone, “and gave him one of these.”

I grasp Sara’s hand and give her a long, slow handshake, topped by a squint-eyed glare of harsh, unforgiving judgment.

“Oh, wow,” Sara says, duly impressed.

“This goes on for a full minute, then Dad says, ‘I expect my daughter back, safe and intact, by nine.’ Kyle went white as a sheet. I was home twenty minutes early.”

“Don’t blame him.”

“Safe and
intact
?” Missy says.

“As in, if Kyle had attempted to get into my panties, Dad would have spent that night burying him in a shallow grave.”

“Ohhh. Good for him.”

“Yes. Embarrassing at the time, but looking back, I’m grateful for it,” I say, though I suspect I might not look back so fondly at whatever implied threats Mom plans to level at Malcolm.

Malcolm’s ETA is six. By five-thirty I am perfectly coiffed, my hair falling in wide spirals, and in my dress, which gets a round of
ooh
s and
aah
s from my girls. And now, the waiting in eager anticipation (played off as cool disinterest for the benefit of my mother).

“I am officially jealous,” Sara says before she and Missy depart for whatever platonic shenanigans they have planned with the boys.

“You know, it’s not unheard of for girls to ask boys out,” I say. “In fact, because it’s a leap year, it’s actually expected.”

“Huh?” Missy says.

“Dad told me about it once. It’s a day when girls are encouraged to ask boys out, instead of waiting for the boys to ask them.”

Sara makes a face. “I don’t know. It’s also Matt’s birthday. Group rules, the birthday kid calls the day’s activities.”

“Matt was born on Leap Year Day?”

“I know. Guy can’t do anything normally, right?”

All right, looks like getting these two together is going to be a long con, but I’ll worry about them later. Tonight is all about me me me.

I take a seat on the couch, and pretend to be not at all eager to dance the night away. Feels like I haven’t gone dancing in forever. Nuts, did I remember deodorant? Pretty sure I did. Maybe I should re-apply, just in case...

Man, I’ve never been this anxious before a date before. What’s wrong with me?

Mom wanders in from the kitchen. “You look very nice,” she says. The compliment is sincere, but offered with reservations.

“Thank you.”

“I know this is a school dance, things might run late...”

“Be home by midnight, firm deadline, no excuses.”

“And keep —”

“My cell on, I will keep it on vibrate, I promise.”

She nods. “Okay,” she says, returning to dinner prep.

The next four minutes feel like four hours. How I keep from literally — very literally — flying across the room when he finally knocks...

“Hey,” Malcolm says. He’s dressed, totally by coincidence, in a silvery-gray suit that matches my outfit without crossing that line into creepy-couple-in-identical-ensembles territory. No tie, though, which adds a casual flair.

I like. I like lots.

“Hey. You look...” There’s no other word for it. “Amazing.”

“Aw, you beat me to the first compliment. Now mine’s going to sound obligatory.”

“Don’t let that stop you. Praise away, please.”

“You look astounding.”

I’ve never been called astounding before. My face feels hot. Oh, I hope I’m not blushing. Unless he thinks that’s cute.

Gah! Why I am I such a spaz tonight?

Malcolm glances past me. “Am I expected to —?”

“Submit to parental inspection and intimidation? Oh, yes. Enter freely, and of your own will.”

“Better than ‘Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.’”

“I’m trying to be comforting. Mom! Time to do your Mom thing!”

“My ‘Mom thing?’ You mean saying hello?” Mom, warmly enough, extends a hand. “Hello, Malcolm.”

“Ms. Hauser,” Malcolm says, remembering his coaching (“It’s
Ms
. Hauser, not
Mrs
. Hauser”). “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you.” She gives Malcolm a once-over, barely hiding her surprise. “Don’t you two make a sharp couple?”

“I think so,” I say.

“Well, Malcolm, I hate to give you the ‘care and feeding of my daughter’ spiel...”

“Carrie said she has a midnight curfew, and I plan to have her back by eleven. I’m not much of a night owl, plus I have church in the morning.”

Oooh, playing the churchgoer card. Nicely done, sir.

In a moment of my worlds colliding, which is becoming increasingly common, Granddad pops his head out of the kitchen. “Malcolm?”

“Mr. Briggs?”

“Hey! I thought I heard your voice,” Granddad says, emerging to shake Malcolm’s hand. “I didn’t know you were Carrie’s date.”

“Well, I didn’t know this was the granddaughter you’re always talking about.”

“You know each other?” I say.

“Sure, from church,” Granddad says, and without realizing it, he cements Malcolm in my mother’s eyes as a stand-up guy.

Win.

The high school guys I knew back when I lived on Cape Cod, the ones who had cars, they either drove what were derisively called Daddyllacs — fancy cars their well-off parents bought for them — or beaten-up pieces of junk that barely ran. In the latter case, the self-styled cool kids always had sporty cars, Firebirds and Mustangs and the like, and they worked very hard to pretend they were a hot set of wheels despite the massive patches of primer, the blotches of rust, the cracked windshields, and the faulty mufflers.

Malcolm drives an old Toyota (can’t say what model), used but in good condition — a sensible car, not a
hey look at me
car.

     Our restaurant is a little place on the north side of town, not quite nice enough to be considered fancy, but better than one of those chain places that litter the walls with faux antiques and pop culture tchotchkes — a sensible restaurant.

The conversation is mostly getting-to-know-you talk. Malcolm knew my parents were divorced, and that I was born in Kingsport but raised on the Cape, but that’s about it. I knew he was the football team’s captain and star wide receiver, he has a little brother, and earlier tonight I learned that he went to the same church as my grandfather, and that he looks mighty fine in a suit, but that’s where my knowledge ended.

So, yeah, a lot to talk about — and we do talk a lot. Gab gab gab, all throughout dinner, all throughout the car ride to the school.

“I once again disavow any involvement in the decorations,” he says before we enter the field house. “I will take full credit for the music, however.”

The décor, honestly, is not all that terrible. It’s mostly streamers and balloons, and there’s a huge hand-painted banner proclaiming HAPPY VALENTINES DAY (no apostrophe) looming over a line of buffet tables laden with food. Round banquet tables, for the guests, are situated along the edge of the gym, leaving plenty of room for a dance floor. A student DJ is running the music, which at present is generic modern R&B, to set the mood.

“The music needs to get a whole lot better before I’ll be impressed,” I say.

“Trust me,” Malcolm says. “I have something special planned. You’ll love it.”

We weave through the crowd to claim a table. A lot of kids say hi to Malcolm as we pass, a few say hi to me, sometimes by name. I only know their faces. We find an empty table and lay our coats over two chairs, the traditional method of marking our territory, then head for the buffet.

“Three varieties of punch available,” Malcolm says, “also my idea.”

“So quick to take credit for the successes, yet so quick to pass the blame for the failures. Not very noble of you,” I say, teasing.

“Well, see, I’m trying really hard to impress this cool girl...”

“Uh-huh.”

“Maybe trying too hard?”

“Maybe a bit.”

“Whoops. Heads up, obligatory but unwelcome socialization ahead.”

By which he means, Gerry and Amber, and Angus and some girl I don’t recognize, are standing between us and the punch bowls. Gerry and Angus — who have dressed for the occasion in their cleanest T-shirts — have loathsome personalities to begin with, but the way they have their arms around their dates makes me cringe: their arms are slung around the girls’ necks, one step away from being headlocks. It’s not a gesture of affection; the boys are making sure their property doesn’t stray.

“MAL!” Angus booms. “About time you got here, bro!”

“Angus,” Malcolm says, trading polite high-fives with his teammates.

Angus and Gerry give me a blatant once-over. Amber doesn’t bat an eye, which tells me she’s used to her man openly ogling other girls — so used to it, she doesn’t bother with so much as a symbolic protest.

“Damn, honey! Mmmm-
mm
!” Angus says to me, as if this is somehow complimentary. I offer a strained smile by way of a token thank-you.

“Excuse us, guys, grabbing some punch,” Malcolm says.

“Tell me that psycho midget friend of yours isn’t here,” Amber sneers.

“Missy,” I say, stressing her name, “is home, so you can relax.”

“She tell you what she said to me?”

Great, she’s in a confrontational mood. Rise above it, Carrie, rise above it.

“She didn’t say, I didn’t ask. Whatever happened between you two, it’s between you two.”

Amber leans into me. “She told me she was going to tear my face off with her bare hands and eat it while I watched.”

My initial reaction is one of disbelief, because Missy is — well, she’s Missy, and something that outrageous would normally never come from her. Normally.

I can’t leave it alone. “Tell me something: what, exactly, is your problem with Missy? What did she ever do to you?”

“Why don’t you ask her father?”

My, that was cryptic and evasive. “What does Missy’s dad have to do with this?”

Amber gulps down her punch with an angry flick of the wrist. “My dad was in line for head of the genetics department at Boston University. Missy’s dad got the job.”

“Let me see if I’m following your thought process here,” I say, air-quoting
thought process
. “Your dad lost a promotion to Missy’s dad, so your response is to pick on Missy. And that accomplishes what, exactly? Does it get your father the job? Does it punish Dr. Hamill?”

Amber squirms.

Malcolm plays the unwitting hero, rescuing both of us from this uncomfortable moment. “Got our drinks,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say, taking my cup in one hand and Malcolm’s arm in the other.

The evening picks up from that point — once the dance music starts, to be precise, and yes, Malcolm deserves all the praise in the world for the selection, a mix of playfully cheesy eighties tunes, high-intensity modern pop (Katy Perry, The Killers, Pink, Lady Gaga), and danceable classic rock. The playlist hits its pinnacle when Malcolm’s “something special” fires up: Bruce Springsteen’s
Cadillac Ranch
. That’s when I leave it all on the dance floor. For three minutes and seven seconds, the rest of the world goes away; there’s nothing left but me and the music.

I collapse in my chair, panting and sweating (oh, now I
really
hope I remembered to put on deodorant). Malcolm grabs our cups.

“Punch,” he wheezes. “I’ll go...back in...”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be here.”

Okay, so Malcolm can’t dance to save his life, but if that’s his only flaw, I’ll take it.

Ugh. Speaking of flaws, here come Angus and Gerry, and they look none too steady on their feet. I learn why when they flop down in the chairs on either side of me, and I find myself suddenly engulfed in a pungent marijuana haze. If I go home reeking of weed because of you two jackasses...

“Gentlemen. Something I can do for you?”

Angus squints in concentration, gestures aimlessly for a few seconds. “Why?”

“Why...what?”

“Steiger and Danvers. Why do you hang with those guys? You seem. Like. You know. Cool.”

“Cool is relative,” I say. Angus goes a little cross-eyed. Looks like I’ll have to use small words. “I like them. Sara’s my friend. And Matt’s a good guy.”

“He’s a frickin’ weirdo.”

“So?” Angus spreads his arms, as if his previous statement should stand as its own proof. “Yes, Matt is weird. That doesn’t make him bad. Or unworthy of friendship.”