Long Live the Tribe of Fatherless Girls(19)

The moves feel more natural with a bass throbbing under my feet, with Sisqó’s words of encouragement. I dip my butt as low as I can go, pretend to wax the gym floor with it. I push my palms into my knees like I was told, balance my weight, vibrate every muscle as hard as I can manage. The staples in my skirt ping off onto the floor. They scratch at my thighs, open the torn slit, but I don’t care, I want to get down, I want to get my freak on. The crowd screams, hollers; I drop on my knees and pump the damp air, thrusting my hips back and forth. I cry baby, cry. I feel sexy. I feel seen. For the first time, I feel seen as someone sexy. I lean my body forward and flat onto the floor. I give the crowd what they want. I pound the ground with my fists, kick the rubber toes of my platforms. I hump the floor like a dog humps a stuffed lion—deliberate, fast. The song fades out. Something slower leaks in. K-Ci and JoJo and a few piano keys.

Even though I’m dizzy, I pick myself up to stand. Everybody has wet, glowing faces and tears in their eyes. They point at me, bending over, waving away their laughs till they say, It hurts, it hurts, oh my god, I can’t. Quince Pearson has his face buried in a seventh-grade girl’s shoulder, and I can’t tell if he’s laughing or crying or both.

Clarissa bursts through the circle, takes my hand.

Bleachers, she says.

We thump up the steps to join the other Honors kids.

I thought it was good, I say. I felt it.

Let’s forget that ever happened, she says. Let’s not even talk about that ever happening.

We watch the girls weave their fingers around the boys’ necks for the slow dance. The boys rest their hands on the girls’ butts, or just above them. They all stand in place—they don’t move a single step—they simply shift their weight from left leg to right leg, swaying a little. It’s unimpressive, I think. It’s not dancing at all.

Did I blow it with Quince? I ask.

No, she says. She’s quiet for a pause after that. He told me he feels too shy or something. He said something to one of the girls like he’ll ask you to dance when he’s got more courage. When the time’s right.

Clarissa won’t look at me as she says this.

Maybe he can’t even handle me, I say.

I think that’s it, she says. I think that’s it.

My father picks me up at ten o’clock. He’s trying to be sober this week, so he’s staying close to home, smoking more, yelling less. He lights the end of a new cigarette from the butt already in his mouth, flicks that filter on the school lawn in a scabbed trail of light.

How’d it go with Prince Charming? he asks.

I love it when my father asks me questions. These moments come in slivers; they’re bright and fleeting, and, when I catch the insides of them, I feel like the most important man in the world is really listening to me, and with the power of one of his nods or Uh huhs, or Sures, or laughs, I, too, am important. My father will always have that way about him. But tonight, my throat feels so lumpy and hard I don’t want to talk much.

He got too shy, is what I say.

My father turns up the radio. It’s a Jim Croce song, his favorite.

You ever listen to the words here, son? he asks.

Operator, oh could you help me place this call, sings Jim.

No, I say.

You should, he says. It’s a sad, sad story.

The truth is, I waited and waited for Quince Pearson to ask me to dance. I waited on the bleachers long after Clarissa was picked up, until there were only a few people left on the dance floor, until it was only Quince and Candy Schwartz, their arms wrapped tightly around each other, her thumbs hooked on the back belt loops of his cargo pants. I waited until I saw them kiss on the lips, until I stomped down the steps in my platform shoes and tapped him on the shoulder, Hi, Quince, Hi, until he looked at me in a sad way still lined with kindness, cocked his head, and said, Hey there … what’s … up? I waited.

I open the window of the car, stick my hand out into the hot wind. I like the resistance of it. We’re miles from the ocean, but I swear I can hear the crash of all those littered waves.

You can keep the dime, sings Jim.

That’s the most important lyric, my father says. Remember that part, he says. After all the calling and calling for his sweetheart, he doesn’t even want to get through in the end. Love’s barely ever worth it.

At home, my mother sits on the living room floor with a joint in her mouth and the red velvet chocolate box where she keeps her stuff. She punches numbers into the CD player, jumps up when I walk through the door.

Hi, baby! she says. How was it? How was Quince? What happened to your skirt?

Ripped, I say.

My mother knows me best. She knows everything by just looking at me, even when I don’t want her to, even when I steady my eyes and fake it.

Take off those shoes, she says. To hell with middle school dances. We’ll have our own dance. We’ve got the CD player!

I kick my feet until my shoes thud against the wall and then the floor. My father picks up one of the eight remote controls from the coffee table and sits down on the couch. I watch my mother give him that Don’t even think about it look and he understands, stands back up.

My mother punches in a new number. Takes a hit. The robot player spins and spins. The speakers thump something disco, chords hot and elastic. The three of us dance in a circle, facing one another on the gum-bald carpet, snapping our fingers, throwing the dice. My father lets me stand on his feet as he shuffles and grooves. He holds me tight. He dips my body backward till the room tips over. He says, One day, you won’t even remember this night ever was.