One Mississippi (7 page)

We did three fast dances in a row. I pulled her off the floor when the deejay put on “So Very Hard to Go” by Tower of Power, a slow dance any way you cut it.

“That was great!” she cried. “Let’s go get some punch!” She was so excited that everything came out a little scream. She kept squeezing my arm as if to make sure I was real. We pushed through the crowd to a table laden with punch bowls and cookies, cocktail weenies, chips and dip. Dianne squealed and hugged everybody, how gorgeous how fabulous oh my gosh Brenda that dress is out of this
world!
We were in full prom mode, all right, we were here and doing the total Prom Thing. Dianne spotted Debbie at the end of the table. They ran into each other’s arms shrieking as if they hadn’t seen each other in months.

Tim tossed me a pig in a blanket. “How’s your nose?”

“Never better.”

“I saw you dancing. You been taking lessons at Arthur Murray, don’t deny it.”

“It wasn’t as hideous as I thought it would be,” I said. “Oh and thanks for telling Passworth all about my nosebleed, she’s notifying all ticket holders as they come through the door. I’d hate it if everybody didn’t find out immediately.”

“I had to tell her, Skippy. I had to give her the ticket for you to get in.”

“I’ll do the same for you sometime.”

He ignored my sarcasm. “Did you get a load of that?”

I followed his outstretched finger to an incredible vision: Arnita Beecham in a glimmering white gown, a very thin, stretchy, translucent, revealing gown. The lights behind Arnita outlined her figure in that dress in a very particular way. All the boys were gathering on this side of the ballroom to take advantage of the effect.

The dress was a white goblet containing the upsweep of Arnita’s long legs and tiny waist, swelling outward to her bosom and naked shoulders. The midi skirts and prim white blouses of Studious Arnita had vanished, along with the eyeglasses, the vocabulary words, and the opinions. In their place stood this astonishing lovely strapless creature — star-glamorous, like Diana Ross or Leslie Uggams. A rim of light outlined the gleaming sheaf of hair curved around her face. She wore long spiky fake eyelashes, gold lipstick, a gorgeous wide smile.

“Good God,” I said. “She is
beautiful.
”

“Unbelievable,” said Tim.

“She’s amazing. There ought to be a law against that dress.”

“Apparently she’s got an aunt that works in some store in New Orleans.”

I turned on him. “You were such an asshole to me before. Do you realize that?”

He shrugged. “What do you want me to say?”

“Try ‘I’m sorry.’”

“I’m sorry, okay?” He didn’t mean it. “Jesus, Dullwood, you’re weird tonight! First all that sneezing, and all the bleeding, and buckling in, and now you’re all — what happened, did you get drunk off that one Champale?”

“Aw, forget it.” I pushed his hand away.

Mrs. Passworth came through handing out ballots and tiny pencils like the ones at the Putt-Putt. I nominated myself for Best Personality (Boy), so I’d be sure to get one vote. I put Dianne down for Best Personality (Girl) so I could tell her I did. Cutest Couple was easy — Tim and Debbie. I looked around for King of the Prom and settled on Greg Ptacek since he had the pizzazz to wear Lime Green.

Tonight the plain girls were much prettier than normal, and the pretty girls were beautiful, but there was only one Queen: Arnita Beecham, hands down, nobody even close. Tim tried to see my ballot but I said, “Secret ballot.” He asked who I put for King. I said Greg Ptacek. He rolled his eyes. Greg was a brain/geek like us and didn’t stand a chance.

Mrs. Passworth came through collecting pencils and ballots.

“Did y’all put Lisa Simmons for Queen?” Debbie said.

“Secret ballot,” I said.

“
Y’all!
Lisa needs our votes!”

Her sister said, “Debbie, they can vote for whoever they want.”

“Well, Daniel probably voted for Arnita just to make me mad! Look at her! She looks like a, like some kind of prostitute!”

“Oh come on,” said Dianne. “She looks pretty.”

Her sister looked horrified. “Pretty? I bet she’s not wearing any underwear!”

“You can say that again,” Tim said. “Have you ever seen anybody who looked less like their normal selves?”

“Oh Tim, you didn’t vote for her too? Y’all! You’re gonna make Lisa lose! After all her hard work!”

I glanced at Lisa Simmons, laughing in the arms of Randy Felts. She was too much the springy little cheerleader to be Queen of the Prom. The Queen should be someone who makes your jaw drop. Like Arnita Beecham. Nobody could stop looking at her. I wondered if her fabulous new self was a statement on behalf of the few other black girls who had dared to come to the prom in their Simplicity-pattern homemade ball gowns. They hung out at the back of the room with their boyfriends, who had puffed-up Afros and dark sport coats, not tuxes. Arnita was all over the room, dancing with black boys and some white boys too. She enjoyed the stir her dress was creating. I’d never seen a black girl acting sexy and proud like that, not keeping her eyes down, not staying within her group. It was shocking, a bit revolutionary. I found myself hoping she’d win.

Dianne dragged me back to the dance floor. We bobbed through “Jungle Boogie” and “Crocodile Rock” and “Midnight Train to Georgia” (whoo whoo!). I was surprised to find I enjoyed dancing. Nothing to it, just bop around and act goofy. I was so glad to have escaped the backseat of that Buick, I would have danced the whole night had not the deejay put on Maureen McGovern singing “The Morning After.”

“More punch?” I proposed.

Dianne followed me off with a wistful glance at the couples slumping into each other’s arms.

I didn’t want any part of a slow dance. Tim and I had worked up a plan to kiss the girls at the end of the evening — I’d even practiced on my forearm — but wrapping my arms around Dianne Frillinger in public was more than I could ask of myself.

I found Tim lurking at the punch bowl.

“This song makes me think of Shelley Winters trying to swim through a porthole,” he said.

“Swim, Shelley, swim!” I said. “Swim sideways! Come on, you can make it!”

Tim’s sharp little laugh. “Look, she’s teaching the whales to sing!”

“You boys are so awful!” Dianne said. The song was over and Coach Rainey was helping Mrs. Passworth onto the stage.

“Okay now,” the coach boomed over the PA, “all you kids shut the hell up and pay attention!”

Mrs. Passworth shot him a look for the profanity. “Good evening boys and girls,” she said — the mike howled — “or should I say
ladies and gentlemen!
On behalf of the faculty of Minor High, I welcome you all to the Night of a Thousand and One Stars! Isn’t this just a magical evening!”

This statement would have provoked jeers and catcalls in Thursday assembly, but here we were in formal clothes in a crepe-papered ballroom with nice twinkly lights, and the evening
was
somehow magical, even if it was corny. We applauded in spite of ourselves.

“We’ll get back to dancing in a minute, but first a big thanks to the junior girls for these fantastic decorations! Didn’t they do a great job? Let’s hear a big round of applause!”

The junior girls clapped the loudest for themselves. Coach Rainey bent down to rummage in a box of bouquets and tiaras.

“And now without further ado,” Mrs. Passworth said, “let’s meet our Royal Court!” From her hand fluttered a long piece of paper. “Okay, I had to add these up myself, bear with me — you see, boys and girls, math
can
come in handy —” Scattered boos. “Anyway, first off for Best Personality, Boy, come on up here when I call your name, the winner is . . . Jeff Wilcox! Congratulations Jeff!”

Jeff was a football player with all the personality of a loaf of Sunbeam bread. Mrs. Passworth hung a medal around his neck. Jeff clenched his fists together and raised them like a victorious boxer.

“Next, the girl voted Best Personality, let’s hear a big hand for — Lisa Simmons!”

A violent shriek. Lisa jumped up and down, screaming and crying as if she’d just become Miss America. Her friends had to help her onto the stage, she was crying so hard.

“Oh that’s awful!” Debbie cried. “That means she won’t be Queen.”

“Arnita Beecham,” I said smugly.

“Shut
up!
”

“Now we have Cutest Couple — and let me say this vote was nearly unanimous — come on up here, Molly Manning and Gary Brantley!”

Another shriek. Molly tore through the crowd, jumped onstage, and hugged Lisa. They cried, hanging on to each other. Gary shuffled his feet as if this whole thing would be too stupid, except Jeff Wilcox was up there too. They poked at each other, exchanging sheepish grins.

“Isn’t this exciting?” Passworth exclaimed. “Now here we go — ladies and gentlemen, this year’s King of the Prom — Red Martin!”

Oh my God. Who would vote for that big dumb bully? A lot of people, apparently, from the rousing cheer that went up. Okay, so he did pick up three fumbles for touchdowns in the Warren Central game. He was MVP, for God’s sake, why did he get to be Prom King too? He was still a junior! Wasn’t the King supposed to be a senior? Why did the same two or three people always have to win everything?

Red tilted down his big head to receive his sash and gold-plated crown. He pumped his fist in the air to show that being crowned King feels just like scoring a winning touchdown.

“And now — okay Red, settle down — allow me the pleasure of presenting your Queen. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss —”

I didn’t even hear her name for the shout that went up. Arnita Beecham threw her hands in the air and strode across the room with a huge smile of victory. She seemed to see fine without her glasses — she walked a straight line toward that tiara.

The opening cheer quickly died away to a hush of amazement. My God, she won! A black girl is Queen of the Prom!

Dianne and Debbie looked stunned. Of course Arnita had gotten the black vote — the kids on that side were going crazy, bellowing their delight into the general hush. I could see that lots of white boys had voted for her too. The white-boy vote put her over the top. All the white boys took one look at Arnita in that dress and couldn’t help writing her name in the blank. We had voted for that dress and how naked she looked in it.

But nobody had imagined she would actually win, except Arnita.

She hopped onstage for her sash and tiara, a dozen red roses, hugs and squeals from Molly and Lisa, cheers from the back of the room. She took the mike from Mrs. Passworth. “Oh my God! Y’all! This is truly the most amazing thing. Do you know what you’ve done? An incredible thing. I’ll never forget it, as long as I live. Thank you so much. Thank you!” She performed a little curtsy, steadying the crown with her hand.

Debbie Frillinger rolled her eyes. “I guess people just wanted to show how liberal they are. I bet you think that’s great, huh Daniel?”

“Oh come on, she looks fantastic.”

“For pity’s sake, it’s not a
beauty
contest!” Debbie snapped.

“Yes it is! That’s what it is. What else could it be?”

“Don’t you think effort ought to count for something?” said Dianne. “Or school spirit? Lisa Simmons worked her heart out! She worked harder than anybody!”

“Come on, girls,” Tim said. “You’re just mad because Arnita won and she’s black.”

“We’re not
mad,
” Debbie said furiously. “I just can’t imagine that many white people voting for her, that’s all.”

“I bet they didn’t,” Dianne said. “Mrs. Passworth probably gave her extra votes so we’d end up with a black prom queen.”

“Poor Red,” said Debbie. “He has to be in the pictures with her. Can you imagine?”

Red Martin did look uncomfortable with Arnita on his arm and that silly crown on his head, while Bruce Davenport squatted before them snapping yearbook photos.

Suddenly I wanted the whole stupid prom to be over. I wanted to be stretched out on the family room floor watching Sonny and Cher with Tim over the phone.

The deejay was playing the Hollies’ “Long Cool Woman.” I said, “So, are you guys about ready to go?”

Tim and Debbie stared as if I was speaking in tongues.

“Go?”
Tim said. “Are you joking?”

Dianne said, “Gosh, Daniel, am I really making you that miserable?”

“No, I just thought — I don’t want us to be the last ones to leave. Never mind. Wanna dance?”

We went back to the floor. The deejay seemed to be playing four fast songs for every slow one.

I felt a little sorry for Arnita, the discussions taking place all over the room. She didn’t seem to realize that the verdict was not unanimous. She floated through the crowd, cradling her roses, pausing every few feet to let herself be hugged.

Eventually Coach Rainey got back up onstage to tell us good night, get the hell out of here, and drive careful going home. The lights came up, turning us into a bunch of blinking kids in rented clothes.

We poured through the double doors to the lobby, the parking lot. Some of the boys were drunk — Randy Seavers, Doug Pine. Red Martin still wore his lopsided crown, and carried his tiny date, Margaret Lipset, in the crook of his arm like a football.

The girls and Tim took turns warning me not to buckle up. Ha ha, I said. We joined the line of cars heading for the interstate, a flotilla of promgoers in our parents’ Buicks and Oldsmobiles, shooting out west, toward Minor.

“Oh, don’t take us home yet, Timmy,” Debbie said, snuggling close. “I don’t want this night to ever end.”

Dianne said, “Deb, it is getting close to midnight.”

“Yeah, I know.” Debbie stretched her arms. “I’m not ready to turn back into a pumpkin yet.”

The plan was for Tim to stop the car in the Jitney Jungle parking lot, we would kiss them and take them straight home. We wouldn’t have to kiss them very long. Mostly we were concerned about those braces. Tim said it would be like kissing a motorcycle, I said an Erector set. He turned that into a vulgar remark. As we took the Minor exit I was thinking how much easier it would be to kiss a pretty girl — like Cher, like Arnita Beecham — but I had to stop thinking that way or I’d never go through with it.