Dark Blue: Color Me Lonely with Bonus Content (14 page)

Edgar drives us to the other side of town, parking in front of a little café called The Blue Moon. Now I’ve seen this place before, just in passing, but I’ve never gone in. I hear jazz music as we go inside, and I notice right off that it’s kind of funky looking with its black-and-white checkerboard floor and old-fashioned booths. And as I read the handwritten menu, I notice that the prices are pretty reasonable. A relief since I came prepared to buy my own dinner tonight. I don’t want Edgar thinking this is an actual date. I finally decide on the lemon chicken. I’m not even sure why, since I’ve never had it before. Probably just because it is the cheapest thing next to a hamburger basket, which I think would be rather tacky tonight.

“I didn’t get you a corsage or anything,” Edgar apologizes after we’ve placed our orders. “I just wasn’t sure what the proper protocol was, you know. I mean I haven’t really done anything like this before.”

I can tell he’s embarrassed and I wave my hand. “Hey, don’t worry. Actually, I’m glad you didn’t. This outfit isn’t exactly the corsage type anyway. Besides, this isn’t supposed to be like a
real
date, remember? We’re just supposed to be a couple of friends going to the dance together.”

He smiles with what seems relief. “Yeah, that makes it more fun, doesn’t it? Less pressure.”

We manage to make small talk during dinner, mostly about
chess. I tell him that I can play a little but can’t imagine playing in a real chess tournament. I don’t mention that most people think it’s slightly geeky. I have a feeling he knows this. But then he tries to explain some simple chess tricks to me by drawing a diagram on the paper napkin. I nod and pretend to understand then I stuff the messy napkin into my purse like I plan to study it later. Not.

Finally the waitress brings our bill, but when I offer to pay for my portion, Edgar refuses. “I know this isn’t really a date,” he says, “but I’d like to pay if you don’t mind. And don’t worry, I won’t act like you owe me anything, Kara.”

“Okay,” I agree, “if it makes you feel better.”

He smiles. “It does.”

Now I must say that when Edgar smiles, his whole face lights up and he’s actually rather cute. In fact, I’m thinking with Edgar’s recent makeover he’s quite good-looking. Okay, maybe I’m imagining this. But it’s possible. It’s also possible that we’ll make quite a striking couple at the dance tonight. And suddenly I’m envisioning myself in the old Cinderella role. The poor, abused stepsister (or cast-off friend) shows up at the dance and just blows everyone away. It could happen.

Now Edgar’s driving back toward the school, and suddenly it feels like my dinner has sprung to life and is dancing the Funky Chicken in my stomach. I reassure myself that it’s just my stupid nerves, and I seriously try to relax. I breathe deeply and stare blankly at the pine tree dangling from the mirror.
I can do this,
I assure myself.
Everything’s going to be perfectly fine.

Just the same, I wonder why on earth I wanted to put myself through something like this tonight. I mean, hasn’t my life been bad enough without adding this completely new form of torture to it? But, on the other hand, I think,
Hey, why not?
Why shouldn’t I do
something wild and crazy for a change? Something totally out of the norm. It could be a brand-new beginning for me. Maybe even for Edgar too.

And suddenly, I feel slightly hopeful. It’s like I’m thinking tonight might be some kind of a liberation for me. Like a coming-out party, whatever that’s supposed to be. I imagine that I, Kara Hendricks, am announcing to the world, or at least to Jackson High School, that I no longer give a flying fig what other people think of me anymore. It will be my way of showing Jordan Ferguson and all her superficial friends that I, too, can have a life. I, too, can have friends. Okay, they might not be the kind of friends that Jordan would choose. But who knows? Mine might be a whole lot more interesting.

However, I do have one predominate concern right now: I really, really hope that Edgar knows how to dance. I never thought to ask him about this little detail before. And I’m not terribly reassured by the fact that he comes from a churchy sort of background that may not encourage dancing. But somehow, the idea of sitting on the sidelines all night long, like a couple of stuck-in-the-sixties wallflower geeks, just will
not
work for me tonight.
I really need to dance.

E
DGAR AMAZINGLY FINDS A PARKING SPACE AND PARKS THE LONG, BLACK
Caddie near the entrance. I think this might be a good sign. Imagining I am
Someone
, I wait for Edgar to come around and open the door for me. I’ve already figured out that this guy likes playing the gentleman. Then I leisurely step out, extending one black-booted leg and then the next. I notice some kids across the street looking at us like they’re wondering who we are. And I really feel like maybe we are celebrities.

When we go into the dance, I realize that we probably should’ve stretched out our dinner longer and made a fashionably late appearance. I assume that’s what Jordan and her friends will be doing since they’re not here yet. Amy and her gang aren’t here yet either, but that was their plan. I should’ve taken the hint. I don’t even see Felicia and the Rubensteins. But maybe this is a good thing. It gives Edgar and me a chance to get ourselves somewhat acclimated.

“Do you want something to drink?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder as if he’s expecting to be pounced on by someone. Maybe that’s happened before. Who knows what life is like for someone like Edgar Peebles?

“Sure,” I tell him, and together we walk over to the refreshment table to get some punch. We slowly consume the sweet
orange concoction as we watch what few couples are dancing. Then to my surprise, Edgar invites me to dance.

“Sure,” I say, suppressing the urge to inquire, “Do you really know how to dance?”

As it turns out, he’s not half bad. And now I’m thinking this time might come in handy for us. Get the kinks out before anyone who matters shows up to see us fumbling around like amateurs.

Before long, I realize that I’m actually having fun. And smiling and even laughing. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this happy, and I must admit it feels strange. Felicia and Jessie are here with their dates now, and we pause to chat with them.

“You guys look absolutely fantastic,” says Jessie Rubenstein as if she really means it.

“Amy Weatherspoon gave them makeovers,” explains Felicia.

“She’s good.” Jessie gives us her nod of approval as their foursome goes out to the dance floor.

Then, as Edgar and I pause for a little break, I notice a large group of kids coming in. I can hear them from here, and I suspect that it’s Jordan’s new circle of friends. You can tell who they are just by the way they walk and talk and throw their heads back to laugh and basically act like they own the whole place. Every single one of them just seems to ooze confidence. I can feel my stomach beginning to tighten again, but I remind myself to just relax and breathe. Everything will be okay.

I can see Jordan now. She’s wearing a pale green dress that looks like it’s straight out of the fifties. Now I notice that the other girls are wearing what appear to be fifties dresses too. All in a rainbow of pastel colors—pink and blue and lavender. It’s obvious that they planned it. They also have matching purses and shoes and all of them are wearing wrist corsages. I tell myself that they look like a bunch of
prissy dorks, but I know that they actually look pretty cool. And I realize how out of place my sixties outfit would look among them.

They’re walking right past us now. I feel their curious glances, but I can’t tell what’s behind them. Do they recognize us? Do they care? Are they impressed by our unique fashion statement? I stand up straighter and square my shoulders as I turn my attention back to Edgar and smile as if he’s just said something wonderfully funny.

When I glance their way again, I catch Jordan looking directly at me. Her expression is one of wonder and disbelief. But once again, I can’t exactly read it. Does she think I look cool or ridiculous? Will she say anything? I remember how it wasn’t that long ago that Jordan really liked sixties fashions. Based on that, I’m guessing that she would probably approve of this outfit. Maybe it’s just Edgar she can’t figure out. She probably doesn’t even know who he is. Well, that’s fine. Give her something to think about.

Soon we go back to the dance floor and I try to keep an eye on Jordan and Caleb without being too obvious. I have to admit, if only to myself, they do make an attractive couple. Still, I don’t want her to see me spying, so I attempt to direct my attention back to Edgar.

“Look who just got here,” he says in a quiet voice, as he nods toward the door.

I look to see a throng of dark clothing swaggering into the cafeteria. “Amy’s group.”

“Yeah, they look like a motorcycle gang.”

I laugh. “Amy probably gave them all makeovers.”

Soon Amy and her friends are out on the floor and the noise and activity level seem to immediately increase. I’m guessing by their expressions that some of them are high or drunk or both. Including Amy. In fact, when I say “hey” to her, she’s so spaced out that she doesn’t even seem to know me.

“You okay?” I ask her.

“Huh?” She looks at me with blurry eyes, then slowly nods as if it’s all coming back to her.

“Kara!”
she exclaims in a slurred voice. “You look sh-plashing. I mean sh-mashing.” Then she begins to giggle and goes back to dancing with a tall dark-haired guy.

“I hope she’s okay,” I say to Edgar. “She looks pretty wasted, don’t you think?”

He just shrugs. “Doesn’t look like much fun if you ask me.”

Suddenly I see Amy staggering straight toward me with a wild look on her face. “I need—the bathroom,” she says urgently.

So leaving poor Edgar by himself on the dance floor, I grab Amy by the arm and direct her toward the girls’ restroom.

“Are you going to throw up?” I ask as we hurry toward the door.

“Yeah, I think so.” She is pressing her hand over her mouth now. Not a good sign.

Naturally, there’s a clog of pastel dresses blocking the way as Jordan’s friends gather in front of the mirror to touch up their lipstick and powder their noses. “Make way,” I yell as I attempt to press through the chiffon rainbow. But they are not listening. “Hey, we’ve got a sick girl here and she’s—”

But it’s too late. Amy is already starting to hurl. Man, I’ve never seen girls in dresses and heels move so fast. Most of them escape in time, but Amy does manage to hit the hemline of Betsy Mosler’s pale pink dress and satin shoes with a spray of chunky yellow barf. Not a pretty picture. I notice that some of it has even landed on my shiny black boots. At least they should clean more easily.

“Gross!” screams Betsy as she stares in horror at her ruined dress and shoes. Then she lets loose with a stream of cuss words that could make a biker blush. “You are so sick, Amy Weatherspoon!”

“Yeah,” I quickly agree as I direct Amy into an empty stall, hoping she’ll manage to hit the toilet this time. “She
is
sick. I tried to warn you guys.”

“You should’ve taken her out to the street,” screams Betsy, no less than hysterical now. “That’s where dogs like her belong.”

Fortunately, I don’t think Amy can hear this cruel comment since she’s puking her guts into the toilet just now. I stand behind her and help her to balance as I hold onto her jet-black hair so that it doesn’t get into the stinky mess. I keep thinking she should be done by now, but she seems to go on and on. I wonder what she had for dinner, or was it just alcohol? Then I worry that she might actually need medical attention. I’ve heard of kids dying from alcohol poisoning. But finally she seems to recover. She is breathing hard as she slowly stands up, hanging to the side walls for support. She looks at me with watery eyes that have created two black streaks down her cheeks. She grabs up a wad of toilet paper and attempts to wipe off her mouth and face and hands. I try to help clean off the black streaks.

“Thanks,” she mutters in a hoarse voice.

“Sure. Are you okay?”

She sighs. “I guess so.”

Still in the stall, I turn around to see that several of the girls remain clustered in the bathroom. Hovering, like faithful drones as they attend to the Queen Bee, they use wet paper towels to clean Betsy’s dress and shoes. She certainly seems to be getting plenty of miles out of her poor-victim routine. I am relieved that Jordan is not among them.

But Betsy pauses from this activity to glare at us when we step out into full view. “People like you should not be allowed to live on this earth,” she sputters, “let alone attend school dances. You’re both totally disgusting.”

I roll my eyes at her and help Amy get to the sink, where she bends down to wash her hands and face in cold water. I take a moment to wipe some of the muck off of my boots.

“What’s the matter?” asks Betsy in a mocking tone. “Did you get some of that on yourself? Pretty nasty, isn’t it?”

I turn and look Betsy in the eye now. “Look, it’s not like Amy did it on purpose, you know. And if you hadn’t noticed, it’s not like she’s having a real great time tonight either.”

“Then why don’t you losers just clear out of here?” Betsy seethes. “It’s not like anyone
wants
you around here anyway. Freaks like you aren’t welcome at this dance.”

I return her stare. “Despite
popular
opinion, it’s still a free country, Betsy. And Amy and I can come to this dance if we want to. Although, why we’d want to when people like you try to spoil it for everyone just beats the heck outta me.”

Now Betsy’s looking at me with narrowed eyes, as if she thinks I’m crazy. She turns her head slightly, as if talking only to her friends and says, “I
cannot
, for the life of me, understand how Jordan Ferguson could ever have been friends with someone like
that
. Man, it’s no wonder that Jordan can’t stand this loser anymore.”

The other girls laugh. Except for Ashley Crow, although her expression is a hard-to-read mix of disgust and I think boredom. But I decide I don’t care as I lead Amy out of the bathroom, which now smells like a bad mixture of puke and designer perfume. And frankly I’m not even sure which one smells worse.