Kick Me (27 page)
Absolutely nothing.
It was the strangest sensation. I think we both were expecting to discover something resembling chemistry or a spark of future passion or even a twinge of connection between us this evening. But we suddenly both felt like cousins who had been pushed into a crowded subway car and shoved together by the surrounding crush. We forced smiles when the photographer uttered the classic “Let’s see those pearly whites” and fought not to blink against the punch of the flash. As soon as he informed us that we were finished, we quickly moved apart, getting away from the camera and the eyes of our peers. I immediately shoved my hands in my pockets and Mary quickly crossed her arms. We gave each other a supportive smile and headed into the dance.
The evening became one of avoidance. We danced a couple of fast dances together and then spent a lot of time excusing ourselves to go to the bathroom. But when the song “Please Come to Boston” by Dave Loggins came on, a song that Mary used to listen to as she beamed at the pictures of Shaun Cassidy she had emblazoned the wall next to her bed with when we were younger, I knew that I had to ask her to dance. Proms are about slow dances, no matter what anybody tells you. They’re not about sex, they’re not about tuxes and gowns, and they’re not about having your picture taken when you first walk in the door. Proms are for young adults, former kids who suffered and enjoyed and worked and goofed off and made their way through the school system since they were five years old just to have one mature moment in a hot VFW hall that would usher them into the next phase of their lives. And because of this, I knew it was my responsibility to Mary as her prom date to escort her through this life ritual. I took a deep breath and went over to her as she stood with her friends.
“Mary,” I asked, “. . . you wanna dance?”
“Sure,” she said.
We walked out on the floor and positioned ourselves in the midst of our slow-dancing peers. The couples around us were holding each other tight; not a shaft of light or a gust of wind could work its way between their bodies. When Mary and I faced each other, we lightly put our arms around each other and began to sway to the music. However, we left a few inches between us.
As we danced and exchanged a few “fun dance, huh?”s, we both noticed that all of the couples around us were making out heavily. With mouths open wide enough to administer CPR to each other, they were engaged in the desperate French-kissing reserved only for high school proms and end-of-war celebrations. We both tried to look around for a pair of faces that weren’t suctioned together, but there were none to be seen. And so, with nowhere else to look, we looked at each other.
I stared at Mary. There in front of me was the face I had known my entire life. It was the face of my next-door neighbor, my fellow Garage Club member, my longtime playmate, and my best friend. We would not be having sex that night, nor would we ever. That wasn’t who we were to each other and we both knew it. I suddenly felt very close to her.
“I’m really glad you came to the prom with me,” I said.
“Yeah, I’m glad you took me,” she said back.
“Thanks, Mary,” I said, giving her a smile.
“You’re welcome, Fig Newton,” she said, smiling back.
And then we both started to laugh. We laughed not like people who weren’t related and not like people who had grown up next door to each other, but like two people who were what we had truly become—brother and sister.
The rest of the evening, she stayed with her friends and I stayed with mine. I was now completely relaxed and was pleased to find that my good friend Dave wasn’t getting along with his prom date very well. She had gone off to talk and gossip with her friends and so Dave and I ended up filling our time doing what we had done since we had met in sixth grade—reciting lines from Warner Bros. cartoons and trying to make each other laugh. We regaled each other with Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck dialogue and seemed to be laughing even harder tonight at things we had already laughed at a million times before.
As the dance neared its end, Mary came over to me and said that she was thinking of heading off with some of her friends. She asked me if I wanted to go with them, strictly because she knew she had to. I didn’t want to go with them any more than she wanted me to, and so I said not to worry. I’d tell her mom she was with her girlfriends from school and that everything was fine. We waved good-bye to each other, and then Dave and I decided to head over to the local go-cart track. We stayed there until one-thirty in the morning, driving laps around a dirt track in fast, noisy little cars we could barely fit in, wearing helmets and our rented tuxedos, kicking up clouds of dust and both amazed that we were doing something neither of us had thought could be possible. . . .
We were actually having fun on prom night.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A
t the movies, only a true geek stays through all the end credits. That is, unless he drank too much pop during the film and has to sprint to the can the minute the words “The End” hit the screen (not that anybody puts the words “The End” at the end of movies anymore—to be honest, I kinda miss them). I’ve always stayed through the end credits not only because of my geek status, but because I’m always curious to see who helped make the movie I liked (or didn’t like). And so, unless you’ve downed too many bottles of Fanta in your reading chair or there’s a weird guy staring at you from the seat opposite you right now, then I ask that you sit through the names of the following people I’d like to thank for helping to make this neurotic little book possible.
First and foremost, I’d like to thank the great Pete Fornatale, my editor, for wanting me to do this book in the first place. I’d also like to extend honorary membership in the Garage Club to Dorianne Steele, Philip Patrick, Annik La Farge and Trisha Howell in thanks for all their help. Lindsay Mergens, Anne Watters, and Jill Flaxman can drink out of my bottle of Squirt any day. And much appreciation to Joni Evans, Andy McNichol, Fred Toczek, Rob Carlson, Gary Loder, and Renee Kurtz for keeping all the bullies from beating me up.
Finally, thanks to Mom for thinking I could do no wrong, to Dad for supportively reminding me that I could, and to Laurie for being more like Mom than Dad.
Oh yeah . . . and to you, for buying this book.
THE END
(See how nice that looks?)
Grateful acknowledgment is made to
Folkways Music Publishers, Inc.
for permission to reprint an excerpt from the song lyric “Black Betty” new words and new music adaptation by Huddie Ledbetter. TRO-Copyright © 1963 (Renewed) and 1977 by Folkways Music Publishers, Inc., New York, NY. Reprinted by permission of Folkways Music Publishers, Inc.
Copyright © 2002 by Paul Feig
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published by Three Rivers Press, New York, New York.
Member of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.
THREE RIVERS PRESS and the Tugboat design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Feig, Paul.
Kick me: adventures in adolescence / Paul Feig.
1. Teenage boys. 2. Feig, Paul. I. Title.
HQ797 .F38 2002
305.235—dc21 2002018121
eISBN: 978-1-4000-4926-4
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