The Black Kids(63)
Candace, Tarrell, Julia, and Fat Albert link arms with LaShawn, and the chaperone exhales a big-ass sigh, like Why did I agree to do this?
Wigger Dustin looks over from where he’s doing the worm, or attempting to, anyway. His right eye is still swollen, a faded purple-maroon blend like the eyeshadow on a tacky off-brand doll.
A bunch of kids look in the direction of the black kids trying to see what the commotion is about. The entire dance floor presses in closer to them, like we’re one big moving ear.
“I just wanna dance with my friends,” LaShawn says quietly.
The chaperones look at each other, unsure of what to do.
“Let him in!” somebody screams over the music from the bowels of the dance floor.
Then another person joins in: “Let them in!”
The entire dance floor begins to rumble above the music like the roar of the bleachers during a game. The dance floor boos and jeers like Principal Jeffries and our adults are our rivals from across town.
Principal Jeffries looks ill at ease in a dress, like even though her dress is flowy, it’s somehow more constricting. Her dress flats look like those old-lady mall shoes with the extra old-lady cushioning. She ushers Dustin and LaShawn off to the side.
After a lengthy discussion, closely monitored by a bunch of sixteen-and seventeen-year-olds, Principal Jeffries decides to let LaShawn in.
Fat Albert raises up LaShawn’s arms in victory, and everybody on the dance floor loses their shit like he’s scored the winning point in a championship game.
Schadenfreude. We learned it in English class: taking pleasure in others’ misfortune. Now that LaShawn has fallen from being the golden boy, now that he’s begging to be let into prom when last year he was prom king, our school has rallied around him once more. It’s like they say: Everybody loves a comeback.
* * *
We do the Humpty Hump, then we drink punch, sip from Kimberly’s flask, and mate the two in our mouths before we bob our heads and jump up and down while the Beastie Boys tell us about girls. We boo when the DJ puts on “Ice Ice Baby” and then dance to it anyway. With each sip, our bodies get more fluid, our vodka-soaked hands find their way to one another’s shoulders and hips and butts. At one point, Courtney and Heather straight-up slap each other’s asses to the music.
Mr. Holmes dances with Ms. Garcia. Trevor tells me somebody once saw them making out in the parking lot late one night after school. Mr. Holmes is a surprisingly good dancer; maybe he got that from being around all those black folks in Watts. Although I’m black, I live in a house full of black people, and I can’t dance, so maybe not.
Heather, Trevor, and I start dancing in a circle. Then they start to dance up on each other, the E in full effect. I wish I were on what they’re on. It’s hard for me to let go.
Courtney and Rusty dance tentatively, an arm’s length between them, the way people dance when they don’t quite know each other’s bodies yet.
Michael and Kimberly clumsily hump to “It Takes Two” together. Every so often, when he’s not looking, she’ll beam over at the rest of us and offer a thumbs-up, like every air thrust is a prelude to something more.
LaShawn and the other black kids dance in a circle together. A piece of me wants to join them, to raise my palms into the air and yell “Awwww yeah!” when “O.P.P.” comes on, even though I’m only kind of down with O.P.P.
The DJ switches over to slow jams, the lights go down a little, and half of us find our way toward one another, while the other half awkwardly scurries to the punch bowl.
Trevor places his hands on my hips and guides me in a one-two to Boyz II Men’s “End of the Road.” We collectively decide that this DJ is on crack, because everybody knows this is an end-of-the-dance song and we’re not even halfway through the night.
The whole of our class shout the lyrics at the ceiling.
I know the song’s romantic or whatever, but I’m thinking about Lucia. About how she and Jose are off on their date somewhere. They’re learning all about each other, and maybe by now she likes him even more. Maybe she’s leaning in close to him and sharing noodles like in Lady and the Tramp and shit. Maybe she’s planning for her life without us, without me. Why should Jo and I be the only ones to grow up and move on?
When Heather, Kimberly, and Courtney run off to go “powder their noses” with Georgia Franklin and Molly Schmitt, Michael cuts in on Trevor and asks, “May I have this dance?”
Trevor and Michael say something to each other, and then Trevor walks away.
He whispers something into my hair.
“What?” I can’t hear him over the music.
“I’m sorry,” he says as we dance under a gilded chandelier.
“For what?” I say.
“I don’t know. I’m just sorry. It feels like we should be here together. You and me.” He places his cheek closer to mine, and I can smell the alcohol on his breath, through his skin.
“You’re drunk.”
“That just means I’m telling the truth.” He laughs. He pauses, and then his face grows drunk serious; you can almost see the boozy light bulb go off above his head. “I’m gonna tell Kimberly the truth. I’ll tell her now, okay?”
“Michael, don’t.”
“Isn’t that what you want?”