The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(74)

“Doesn’t count.”

“Fine. Do you want to go to the prom with me?”

“Yes.”

“What? You just said—”

“I said I was content to stay home. Now I want to go.”

“You’re just doing it to spite me and appease my mother.”

She put the yogurt on the roof of the Falcon and folded her arms. “Have you ever known me to do anything to appease anyone?”

I hadn’t. Mickie stood her ground, I’d give her that.

“Then why are you?”

“Because I think it could be a lot of fun, that’s why. Because it means I get to spend the night with my two best friends. It means I get to spend time with you.”

I felt about two feet tall. “I’ll pay for everything,” I said. “If you need a dress . . .”

“You’re not paying for my dress, Hill.” She’d resumed eating her yogurt.

“I just don’t want . . . I know this is . . .”

“Do you want to shut up now?”

“I’m sorry about the way I asked you.”

“You should be.”

“I know. You’re doing me a favor—”

She groaned. “Stop saying that. It’s not a favor, Hill. Why can’t you get that through your thick head?”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“Hello! Have you ever known me to say anything I didn’t want to say?”

Again, I hadn’t. “No. Usually you say things I don’t want you to say.” She smiled and put the spoon in her mouth, being playful, and at that moment—I’ve heard people say things like being struck dumb—but it was as if I had never really seen Mickie before, seen how truly beautiful she was. Her head was tilted, and her hair, caressing her neck, had streaks of gold that glistened and made her eyes stand out, a vivid blue.

“What?” she asked wiping at her chin with the napkin. “Do I have yogurt dripping down my face?”

“No,” I said.

“You okay?”

I nodded and briefly contemplated telling her what I had been thinking, but I knew Mickie would not take me seriously. She’d blow it off and say something sarcastic like I should get my eyes checked again.

“Okay,” I said. “Saturday night then.”

I walked to the driver’s side, opened the door, and slid in. Mickie had walked to the passenger door. I put the key in the ignition, but Mickie remained standing outside the car. I checked the door lock to make sure the knob was up. It was. I looked up at her. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m waiting for you to open my door for me like a gentleman. It will be good practice for Saturday night.”





10

The following Saturday, I stood in the marble foyer of Mickie’s house in a burgundy tux with a ruffled shirt and burgundy bow tie. A photograph, much to my chagrin, remains in my mother’s scrapbook for 1975.

“Did you take a job as a waiter?” one of Mickie’s brothers asked. My luck they were home from college.

“A job as a waiter,” Joanna laughed, holding on to the banister and swinging back and forth.

“Is that velvet, Hill? I think we have drapes made of the same material,” Mickie’s other brother said.

“We have drapes made of the same material,” Joanna repeated, laughing.

Thankfully Mickie’s father had moved out of the house by this point.

Joanna stopped swinging and yelled, “Hey, Mickie! Sam’s here, and he has flowers!” She started up the stairs. “I’ll get Mickie, Sam. My mom is putting tape on her boobs.”

I had no idea what that meant and flushed a color to match my tuxedo.

Mickie’s brothers and I sat in the den with the television blaring. After the initial ribbing, we made small talk about the Giants and the Forty-Niners. I felt like the room was a thousand degrees. Finally, I heard the click of high heels on marble, stood, and almost dropped the corsage. I’d seen pictures of my friends at their proms. The girls wore long dresses that made bridesmaid dresses look good. Not Mickie. She wore a burgundy dress that seemed to defy gravity, held up by nothing more than two thin shoulder straps. It sank low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage, hugged her hips, and ended just above her knees. Her legs were free of nylons, her calves toned above white high heels. I couldn’t tell you the fabric of the dress, but it looked like silk. I really didn’t care. As eye-catching as I found the dress, Mickie’s face stole my attention. She looked like something created by a great artist, with her hair curled and diamond earrings protruding from her lobes.

“Close your mouth,” she said. “You’ll catch a fly.”

“Oh, Michaela,” her mother said.

“You’ll catch a fly.” Joanna rolled on the ground in hysterics. “You’ll catch a fly.”

“This is for you,” I said, holding out the corsage.

“Aren’t you going to pin it on?” Mickie asked.

I studied the thin straps.

“Here, Sam, I’ll do it,” Mickie’s mother said, coming to my rescue and giving Mickie a reproachful look.

The corsage in place, Mrs. Kennedy instructed us to stand this way and that as she took pictures and promised to make an extra set, which my mother would date, label, and slide into the photo album right next to the photograph of me in my tuxedo.