When Women Were Dragons(87)

His expression changed to panic. “Oh!” he said. “Mothers!” He smacked his forehead. “I almost forgot.” He returned to the car door, yanked it open, leaned inside, and rummaged around for a bit. He reemerged with a small box. He shoved it into my hands. It was a corsage of pink carnations with a ribbon to hold it to my wrist.

“Thank you,” I said.

“My mother said I had to give you one,” he said. “She picked it out.” He motioned to me to put out my hand so he could secure the ribbon.

“Oh,” I said. “Well, thanks to your mother.”

“I helped,” said Randall Hague, his flush deepening. He opened the door and ushered me into the car, and we sat in silence as he inched down the street, his face tense as he eyed any and all possible mishaps that might assault his father’s car, slowly making our way toward the school.

There were dragons lining the roof of the building when we arrived. More than I had ever seen at once. I didn’t see my aunt, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t there. I peered upward, trying to differentiate their faces in the slanting light and deepening shadows, but it was difficult to see. The dragons didn’t say anything. They didn’t move. They just pressed their hands to their hearts. They had good posture and kept their feet sensibly apart with a slight bend to the knee, and their chins tilted upward. They held purses and craft bags and document caddies and what appeared to be sack lunches. One held an old-fashioned suitcase. Their eyes were clear and wide and searching.

I shivered. I waited for Randall to come around to the other side of the car to let me out. It never made any sense to me why this was considered good manners. No one came to open his door, after all. It wasn’t like it was hard, opening doors. Still, I waited, with my ankles crossed and my gloved hands folded on a frothy pink skirt that wasn’t even mine. Or at least it wasn’t mine originally. I guess it was mine now. I was literally standing in my mother’s shoes. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I readjusted the shawl over my shoulders.

Randall opened the door and offered me his hand. I took it and stood. His hand felt cold, even through my gloves. And impossibly damp. I gave him a squeeze to show that was quite enough, thanks, and clasped my hands in front of me instead, like I was praying. I don’t know why, but I looked up, and realized that one of the dragons was watching me with interest. She gave me a curt nod before returning her gaze to the sky.

I didn’t know what that was supposed to mean.

Randall noticed me noticing, and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Ugh,” he said. “It’s bad enough that they make a nuisance of themselves during school. But did they have to come to the prom?” There was a distinct whine that I decided not to notice. My mother, long ago, said there was nothing worse than whiny men. She couldn’t have been talking about my father—he rarely spoke. I think she was just speaking in generalities. I wished I had paid closer attention.

“I rather like it,” I said. He looked at me in confusion. “It’s like an honor guard, you know? Look how stately they are. And dignified.” I found myself suddenly thinking about Mrs. Gyzinska.

“Honor guards are men,” he said scathingly. “And anyway there’s nothing dignified about a . . .” His voice trailed off and he cleared his throat. He couldn’t even bring himself to say it.

“A dragon?” I prompted. It seemed impossible, but his flush actually deepened. “I don’t know why people get so squirrelly about that word,” I said. “It’s like how they make the boys take a separate health class so they don’t have to hear about menstru—”

“Ah!” He slapped his hands to his ears and looked like he was about to faint. “Please let’s change the subject!”

“Fine. In we go,” I said, walking forward while keeping my hands to myself. He offered me his arm, but I just gave a vague smile and did not take it, quickening my step instead. I paused and glanced up at the sky. One by one, a few planets and the brightest stars began to assert themselves. My back hurt. Above the building a larger flock of dragons circled overhead, swooping and swirling across the darkening blue. It wasn’t quite evening yet. But night was coming.





35.

The prom committee chose a “Romance on the High Seas” theme that year, primarily because it allowed them to reuse the decorations from the school production of The Pirates of Penzance. Blue cellophane covered the light bulbs and blue streamers suggested frothy waves on either side of the gym. Four girls from my literature class had turned a French flag, a Union Jack, an American flag, and a Jolly Roger into capes tied across their shoulders with ribbon, and each held a pirate hat in their hands—not to be worn, of course, as it might interrupt the lines of their coiffures.

Everyone was so happy. Or at least the girls were. They moved through the crowd like birds, all color and flutter and flounce. Their hips swayed with each step, causing their skirts to ripple and flow about their legs, as their smart heels clicked daintily across the floor. They linked arms with their friends, resting their pretty heads on shapely shoulders. They waved at one another, and waved at me, a fact I found astonishing. In fact, they lit up when they saw me, each lipsticked mouth spreading into a wide smile. No one had ever smiled at me like that in all my years at school. Granted, I had never smiled that way either. The girls in the flag capes bowed and curtsied at one another. They broke into pairs and slid their arms around one another’s waists and grabbed one hand and stepped out an abbreviated waltz. I gasped. I had to look away. They were too beautiful to bear.