Fearful Symmetries (11 page)

Joyce and I were slightly-more-than-budding feminists but there was still enough little girl in us to love playing dress-up. We were so busy with all the lace and velvet and general fluffiness that it took a while before we noticed no one had come over to ask if we needed help.

That
never
happened. If you were a teenager, you couldn’t walk into a store without a sales person pouncing before the door shut behind you. Because teenagers stole, everyone knew that. Neither Joyce nor I had ever shoplifted but stony-faced clerks followed us even when we were with a parent. This did have one advantage—we never had to wait for service. Except that day.

Joyce noticed before I did. After a lot of fabric-feeling, color-comparing, and mind-changing, she picked out three dresses to try on. But instead of going into the changing room, she paced back and forth holding the hangers high in the air so the hems wouldn’t drag on the carpet. I thought she was just dithering some more until she said, “Do you see a sales clerk anywhere?”

There weren’t even any other customers around. It was a few moments before I finally spotted a small cluster of sales clerks and shoppers in the accessories department, whispering to each other over a display case. Some I recognized from school but a few were adults—
real
adults, with gray in their hair. All of them had the same sour expression of disapproval pinching their lips together.

Joyce and I looked at each other. Then she hung the dresses on the nearest hook and we marched out the front door together.

“Can you believe that?” she said when we were outside.

“No,” I said honestly. I couldn’t. Since when did grown-ups care about high school crap? What was wrong with them? “For a minute there, I thought you were gonna throw those dresses on the floor.”

“I was tempted,” she said. “But then they’d have had a reason to throw us out. And then maybe they’d bill my mom for damaged merchandise.”

Damaged merchandise
. The fluttery chill I felt—if that was a goose walking over my grave, it was a pretty big goose.

“The hell with this—let’s go to Worcester,” Joyce said suddenly. “Mom’ll let me take the car. There’ll be a better selection.”

Joyce was right. No one stared at us except sales people and only for the usual reasons. We had lunch out and Joyce found a dress that made me wish my mother hadn’t already made mine.

It was Jack’s idea for Tom Clement to spend all of prom weekend at his house. A few days before, he stopped by after school, had me point Tom out, and talked to him. Tom looked awestruck as he nodded; I don’t think he said a word.
That’s my boyfriend
, I thought, watching from a short distance away with Joyce. I’d never liked Jack so much as I did right then and there. Would I ever feel the same about anyone else? The question was a brief, secret pang.

My feelings about my best friend, on the other hand, were more mixed. I wondered if she’d ever realize that however much she thought she was doing for Tom Clement, Jack was actually doing more.

Or was I just jealous because I had to share my boyfriend’s attention? We weren’t just going to the prom any more, we—or to be honest, Jack—also had to protect Tom.

It was like Jack and I had been drafted for someone else’s fight and it wasn’t going to be pretty. Maybe I’d just been watching too much Vietnam on the news, I thought; lately the metaphor seemed all too apt for so many things.

“
Ruth
.” My mother made two syllables out of my name—
Roo-
uth. That and the way she stood in the doorway of my room with her hands on her hips usually meant I was in trouble. “What’s this I hear about you going to the prom with some guy named Tom Clement?”

It was the morning of the prom and I was going nuts trying to put my hair up in rollers. I’d been letting it grow since last September’s Great Hair Disaster—what the hairdresser had called a “lamp cut”—and it seemed to be all odds and split ends. “
I’m
not going with Tom Clement,” I said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “I’m going with
Jack
. You know that.
Joyce
is going with Tom.”

“In the same car. And I’ve heard this boy is . . .” she hesitated, her face troubled. “
Not
from a very good home.”

“It’s not his fault. I’ve told you about him.” I started to summarize the torments he had been put through by kids who
were
from good families.

“
That’s
the boy?” she broke in, horrified. “But surely his family won’t—”

I told her about Jack’s inviting him to stay the weekend.

“And Jack’s parents don’t mind?” my mother asked, incredulous.

Jack had recently moved into an apartment with a roommate, a bit of information I’d decided she could live without. “Well, he’s over at Jack’s now,” I said, hoping I sounded casual.

Her troubled expression deepened as she sat down on my bed. “I’ve managed to maintain a spotless reputation since we came here and that’s no small thing. In a small town, people are always ready to gossip about a single mother. And you’ve been a good girl, a good student, the best daughter anyone could ask for. Why do you want to jeopardize everything by associating with this boy? Once you lose your reputation, you
never
get it back.”

Oh, hell, not the bad-reputation talk
again, I thought. “Good thing I’ll be a hundred miles away at UMass next year. Things like that are why I don’t want to stay here a second longer than I have to.” I told her about shopping in LaFleur.

“No wonder everyone was staring at me the last time I went in there!” she snapped. “I thought I was imagining things. God only knows what they were whispering.”

“What
could
they say—that I’m going to the prom?” I said. “It’s true, I’m going to the prom. So what?”

“Guilt by association! Lie down with dogs and you’ll get up with fleas!”

Suddenly I was so angry I wished Tom Clement really
was
my date. “What does
that
mean—if I ride in the same car with Tom Clement, my mother’s just like his? She drinks and smacks me around and locks me out of the house all night, too?” She started to say something but I talked over her. “If you really
were
a good person, you’d
help
Tom Clement, take him in, even.
We’d
be his
foster family
—”

The next thing I knew, she had the front of my bathrobe in one hand and was about to backhand me with the other.

Now, my mother had
never
hit me. She had never
threatened
to hit me, she’d never even
joked
about hitting me. I’m not sure whether she caught sight of herself in the mirror or just saw me flinch, but she snatched her hands away and put them behind her back. Then she sat down on the bed again, looking horrified and like she was about to throw up. I rushed over and put my arms around her.

We held each other and she stroked my hair like I was a little kid again, neither of us speaking for I don’t know how long. Then she cleared her throat. “First thing Monday morning, I’ll call the welfare office and tell them that boy needs help. If they say they can’t do anything, I’ll call every number I can find in City Hall, all the way up to the mayor. Then I’ll move on to the county and even the state if I have to.”

I gave her a squeeze.

“But
don’t
say anything to the Clement boy. Let him be a normal teenager for a weekend. And don’t tell Joyce or Jack, either,” she added, ushering me back to the bureau so she could put my hair up for me. “You know what
my
mother always used to say—the only way two people can keep a secret is if one of them is dead.”

The old joke couldn’t have been less funny. I wasn’t sure whose grave the goose was walking over but I thought it might be more than one.

I suspect this never happens to psychos.

Joyce invited me to get dressed at her house rather than limp down four flights of steps in a gown and heels. Her parents invited my mother, too. Between the cube flash on her Instamatic and Mr. Kilburn’s Polaroid Land monster, Joyce and I were practically blind by the time Jack and Tom showed up. Then they were blinded too, while all the parents oohed and aahed over what handsome couples we were. Joyce’s dress and mine looked great together and the wrist corsages were perfect.

But the surprise success was Tom Clement’s tuxedo. Jack had taken charge and the two of them turned up in Edwardian velvet jackets, Tom’s a rich brown, Jack’s a wine-dark maroon. Jack looked wonderful but Tom seemed transformed—the tux did more for him than any of us might have imagined. His frail delicacy became an all but aristocratic elegance. When I looked at the photos years later, it was still there. Three of us were going to a prom; the fourth could have been on his way to a reception for visiting royalty.
As
the royalty.

Joyce was bowled over. So was I; I felt that heart-skip stirring sensation that always came with the start of a crush and had to remind myself not to look at him too much. While Joyce’s parents were saying
One more, honey, okay? And now just one more, pleeeeeeeze?
I got into the car with Jack.

“You’re wonderful,” I said, scooting over next to him as he slid behind the wheel. “You’re the most wonderful guy in the world.” I kissed him on the cheek but when I pulled back, I was surprised to see that he didn’t look very happy. “Something wrong?”

“Nah. I don’t know. Nothing really. I just—” he shrugged, wincing. “I’ve been feeling kinda weird since last night. Maybe I’m coming down with something.”

“Puke on this dress and I’ll kill you with my bare hands.” I was only half-kidding.

“Nah, it’s not like that. It’s more like a headache—”

“I’ve got some Bufferin in my bag.” It was actually Midol but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“In that silly little thing?” Jack nodded at my clutch purse. “That’s not big enough for a stick of gum.”

“You’d be surprised at what I can get in here,” I said solemnly. “Besides Mi—ahem,
my Bufferin
, I’ve got lipstick, a pack of tissues, moist towelettes, a Swiss Army knife, two road flares, and a set of jumper cables.”

I thought for sure that would make him laugh but he only managed a brief smile. “No, it’s more like a headache I don’t have yet,” he said. “I’ll let you know if that changes. I just feel . . . I don’t know,
funny
. Out of focus. I bet when the pictures come back, I’ll be all blurry.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s an allergy. All the flowers.” He looked at my wrist corsage and I immediately moved my arm so it was farther away from him. Then Joyce and Tom got into the car and we headed off for our big night at the Merritt-Andersen Country Club.

The MACC, as most people called it, was twenty minutes outside of town, in an area of mixed woodlands and fields, most of it privately owned. It was a pretty drive but my nerves were jumping before we passed the city limits. Halfway there, I suddenly wanted to beg Jack to take us somewhere else, anywhere else.
Hey, really, what the hell
—anyone
can go to a prom but
we
could go dancing in Worcester.
Boston
even!

I glanced at Jack; his attention was on the road. In the rear view mirror, I saw Joyce and Tom sitting like a shy couple on a living room sofa. Each had a hand resting on the space between them. If one of them moved an inch, they’d have been touching; neither did.

I sneaked another look at Jack. This time he caught me and gave me a quick smile before resting his arm on the back of the seat, inviting me to cuddle up. I did, heart sinking. Just as well that I didn’t have the nerve to suggest skipping the prom. They’d think I’d lost my mind and neither Jack nor Joyce would believe I’d been kidding. They’d go at me until I confessed I was scared something bad would happen. And I’d have to say it all to Tom Clement’s face.

All my worrying about the prom being ruined would have been for nothing. I’d have done it myself, before we even got there.

Maybe
I
needed some Midol, I thought, and opened my silly little purse. I really did have tissues, moist towelettes, and a Swiss Army knife but I was dismayed to see I’d forgotten my lipstick. Well, maybe Joyce would loan me hers. Or the chaperones would have some, along with other emergency supplies (everybody knew you were most likely to get your period while wearing a light-colored evening gown at the prom). I was about to close the bag again when a small gold glint caught my eye. Tom Clement’s chintzy little cross was wedged so firmly in one corner that I couldn’t pull it out without tearing the lining. Weird; I didn’t remember putting it in there but then I didn’t remember leaving my lipstick on the dresser, either. Oh, well, I thought, at least I hadn’t forgotten the Midol.

Nobody gave us a second look when we got out of the car in the parking lot. Two MACC staff members were checking people in at a table outside the ballroom. They smiled as they found our names on their list and told us how stunning we all looked. I knew they were saying that to everyone but they sounded like they really meant it and it gave me a thrill in spite of myself.

When we went in, a hush did not fall over the entire room and people did not stare in disbelief. The only person who did any staring was me—I was goggling at the giant chandelier hanging down from the high domed ceiling. It was all spirals, spirals around spirals and spirals within spirals—I almost went cross-eyed.

“I’d hate to be the guy who has to clean that thing,” Jack chuckled.

“Close your mouth, Ruth, before something flies in,” Joyce added, which broke the spell immediately.

“Unh-unh-unh,” I said, wagging my finger. “You can’t say that on weekends. I hope you brought something less annoying to use till Monday.”

“Sounds like somebody’s jaws weren’t fast enough,” Joyce replied, fake-haughty.

Tom Clement burst into hearty laughter, something I’d never heard him do in all the time I’d known him.

“That’s another day for talking about it and one more because you should’ve known better,” I told her. “We’ll just tell everyone you came down with lockjaw till Thursday.”