Pretending Normal (15 page)

He leans in close, his army jacket reeking of smoke. “I think you’re a lot nicer than Kelly Jordan, you know what I mean?” A smile spreads somewhere in that bush of hair on his face. “Maybe me and you could get together sometime, what do you say?”

He’s actually serious.
I turn away, and start down the hall, propelled by the need to escape his filthy stare.

But his full-bellied laugh follows me.
“Think about it. Let me know.”

***

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been mooning over that damn ex-boyfriend of yours long enough, and Conchetta needs to get out and enjoy herself.”

“I’m not mooning over him. I don’t even think about him anymore.”

“Good, then
it’s all set. We’re going to the dance.”

“Okay, fine, we’ll go.”

“Nina?” Conchetta’s back is pressed against the Mick Jagger poster on my wall. “I don’t know how to dance.”

“Neither does anyone else,” Nina says.
“You’ll be fine. All you have to do is watch me and do what I do. Besides, we’ve got two days to practice. Okay?”

Conchetta looks at me.
“Okay, Sara?”

“If
Tina Turner is giving dance lessons, how can we say no?”

“See?
We’ll have a blast.” Nina flings her arms across the bed, stretches her body flat. “There’s just one thing I didn’t tell you, Sara.” She sneaks a look at me. “Now, before you go getting all worked up, I just want you to listen. Okay?”

“What did you do now?”

“It’s no big deal, really. It’s just that Jerry and I were talking and he mentioned the dance and how you can’t hide in your house all the time.”

“I thought Conchetta was the one you wanted to get out of the house.”

“It’s both of you, actually.”

“And where’s Jerry fit into all this?”

“He’s taking you.”

Frank always says you can’t be nice to people.
He’s talking about doing something you don’t really want to do because somebody asks you to do it. Not a close friend or relative, either, but somebody who doesn’t really matter in your life. Like the time he loaned out his new wheelbarrow to a guy up the street and it came back with forty holes in it where the guy used an ice pick to break up shale. Or, the time he got a flat tire driving a co-worker home because the guy didn’t want to take his new LeSabre out in the rain.

So, now I am thinking about this as I wait for Jerry to pick me up and drive me to the Teen Center. I’ve told him three times in the past two days that this is not a date.
He says he knows, but he doesn’t.

Why would he ask what I’m wearing?
He better not try to match his shirt to mine. And he better not buy me flowers like we’re going to Homecoming. You never know about Jerry which is what is freaking me out right now. You really can’t be nice to people. When I spot him walking up my front steps, I rush out the door. And then I turn around and stare. “Jerry?”

“Hi.
Ready?”

“What did you do to your hair?”

“Like it? I used Sun-in.”

A smear of orange fuzz covers his head.
Even his father’s Brill Creme can’t keep it in place or hide the fringe of dark roots outlining his face.

“Where are your glasses?”

“Contacts,” he says, blinking twice. Minus glasses, his face looks like a map dotted with red pinholes.

“Oh.”
I don’t know where to look, so I settle on his neck which is streaked orange and gold. “Did you use QT?”

“Yeah
.” He holds out an arm which is a pumpkin color on top and a pale ginger on the underside. “No wonder they call it Quick Tan. I did it this afternoon. Kind of hard to put on, but it really does the trick.”

“Why?”

“A white shirt looks wimpy if you don’t have a tan.”

Which brings to mind the shirt—stark white, snow white, blinding white, polyester, stretched across his narrow chest.

“They didn’t have my size, so I got the medium.”

“Oh.” Peter has this shirt, but it looks nothing like this on him.

“Come on, let’s go
.” Jerry’s blinking again as he points to the white Pinto with the black racing stripe parked along the curb. “I heard the band is supposed to be really good.”

He opens my door, waits until I am tucked inside to close it.
“You can play whatever you want,” he says, once he’s in the driver seat. “There’s a stack on the floor in the case.” He shifts the car into Drive. “Sorry, I don’t have any Stones, but there’s Chicago, Elton John, Led Zeppelin, and pretty much everything else.”

“Barry Manilow?”
I say, holding up a tape.

Jerry’s skin burns pink under the orange tan.
“It’s my mother’s.”

“I thought she hated this car.”

“She does, but she loves Barry Manilow and Dad’s car doesn’t have an eight-track.”

I settle for Led Zeppelin.
“Don’t forget we have to pick up Nina and Conchetta.”

“Actually”
—there is the burned pink flashing across his face again—“they’re meeting us there.”

“Since when?”

“That was the plan. Didn’t Nina tell you?”

“No.
Jerry, this is
not
a date.”

“I know
.”

“I don’t like you that way, and you know that.”
I’m going to strangle Nina.
“Take me home.”

“No.
I understand. You’ve told me enough times. It’s just, Nina and I heard Peter was going to be there with Kelly and we thought you should go to show him you’re over him.”

“By bringing along a
boyfriend
?”

He shrugs and the shirt stretches tighter.
“Well, yeah.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It was Nina’s idea.”

“Figures.”

“Let’s just go, okay? She’s waiting for us.”

“I’m sure she is.”
That’s all I say the rest of the way because I’m too busy deciding if I will scream at Nina or just blow her off.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a chance to do either because she slaps her hands across my back and hugs me the second we enter the Center.
“Sara, please don’t be mad,” she shouts over the music. “Please. I didn’t want to see you dragging around anymore. I did it for you.”

That’s like saying somebody shot your fingers off because you couldn’t keep them away from French fries.

She points her hand at the dance floor.
“Look at Conchetta!”

And there she is, swirling to the music in her red shirt and black jeans, head thrown back, earrings glinting in the light, waving her hands in the air, and laughing.

“Is that Henry Wallenski?”

“Yeah, they’ve been dancing since we got here.”

“Isn’t he going to be a priest?”

“Maybe not.”
Nina squeezes my hand. “Don’t be mad, okay?”

“Don’t ever do this again.”

“Okay, I promise, I’ll never do it again. You promise you’re going to have a good time and forget that jerk. Speaking of, what’s with Jerry?”

“Don’t ask.”

Jay Galeston grabs Nina’s hand and pulls her to the dance floor, leaving me standing there, alone.

So, it is me and Jerry.

And what choice do I have, but to dance? At least this way, I don’t have to talk or spend much time looking at his orange and white body which reminds me of a Creamsicle. Actually, he’s a decent dancer, even if his moves are awfully similar to jump shots and slam dunks. At least he’s moving. And he’s smart enough to know better than to hang his fuzzy head on my shoulder when the slow dances start. Even Jerry isn’t that naive. So where are Peter and Kelly? I try not to look around but that’s like saying don’t notice the one-eyed giant next to you.

“I guess they decided not to come,” Nina says as we pile in Jerry’s car after the dance.
“Who knows? Maybe he heard you were coming and backed down.”

“How would he hear that?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I said maybe.”

“I’m starving.
Let’s go to Benny’s.” Jerry throws this in quickly, too quickly.

“Great idea,” this from Conchetta, who hasn’t stopped smiling since she waved good-bye to Henry.

“I could go for a Benny’s, too,” I say. At least the night won’t be a total waste.

Of course, I should have guessed Jay Galeston and Henry Wallenski would also be here, sitting in separate booths.
What a coincidence
, Nina says.
Wow
, is all Conchetta can manage as she drifts toward Henry. She hasn’t figured out that when you dance all night with one guy, he’s going to follow you when you tell him you’re going somewhere. So, it is me and Jerry, stuffed into a booth, together. Again.

“I’m sorry about tonight,” he says, rubbing sweat from the corners of his eyes.
“I heard he was going to be there.”

“It doesn’t matter, Jerry.
It’s over.”

“I feel bad for dragging you out.”

“I had a nice time.”

“Really?”
There is such hope in that single word. “There’s another dance in two weeks.”

“Jerry.
”

“Okay, I know.”
He blinks and squints, his eyes watering as he presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “These contacts are killing me.”

“Why don’t you take them out?”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“Go.”
I watch him walk away, his white shirt splotched with drying sweat, his orange-gold hair frizzing out. Jerry is so kind, so gentle. Why couldn’t it have been him?

“Hey.”

I know the voice before I turn my head. Peter is standing next to the booth, blond and tanned—naturally—not bottled. He’s wearing the same white shirt as Jerry, the same but so not the same.

“Hey,” I say.

“I thought you didn’t go in for the Teen Center.”

I shrug.
“It was something to do.”
You were supposed to be there, you were supposed to see how much I don’t miss you.

“Yeah, I know. I almost went.”

“The band was decent.”
Did you hear I was going to be there with Jerry? He’s not my boyfriend. He’ll never be my boyfriend.

“No Stones, I’ll bet.”

“No. Chicago and Three Dog Night.”

He laughs.
“So, let me guess, you’re getting a double dip with fries.” He works his mouth into that slow smile and I have to look away.

“I haven’t decided,” I say, fidgeting with a menu.

He shoves his hands into his back pockets. “Sara?”

It’s that voice.
I lift my eyes, meet his gaze.

“Listen, I know I
—”

“Hey, Peter!”
Jerry, barrels toward us like a giraffe trampling underbrush. “Hey, man, how are you?” He slaps his big hand on Peter’s back, slides into the booth next to me, and,
oh my God
, slings his arm around my shoulder.

Peter stares at Jerry’s hand on my shoulder, one small wedge of contact that speaks of ownership, of rights granted and taken.
“I gotta go,” Peter says, backing away, one step, two, eyes still on Jerry’s hand. Then he turns and is gone, the whiteness of his shirt disappearing into the night.

“And that”
—Jerry moves his arm from my shoulder and lets out a low laugh—“takes care of that.”

Dear Sara,

I have thought of you and Kay every day, prayed that you are both safe and well.
Uncle Stan and I found a lawyer in Pittsburgh who is willing to take our case. Arthur Jebowitz is confident he can prove you would be better off living with us. He would like you both to think about why you can no longer live with your father, how it’s unsafe, even dangerous. You’ll have to tell the judge in court, but just tell the truth, that’s all you have to do and everything will be fine. Think about what happens when your father drinks, how he frightens you. You must tell the judge about the knife incident. Your father can’t take care of you, we all know that. Things can only get worse, even more dangerous, God forbid.

I am so anxious to have you and Kay in our home. I believe it’s what your mother would have wanted. I hope you enjoyed the lasagna and other dishes. Soon, you won’t have to worry about fixing any more meals!

Love and prayers,

Aunt Irene

“Well?” Mrs. Peterson lifts a piece of apple crumb pie onto a white china plate, “Is it good news?”

“It’s good and bad news,” I say, folding the white note in half.

“Oh?”
She pushes the plate toward me, hands me a fork.