The Moment Before

Chapter Twenty-Three

TWENTY-THREE

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By the time Connor’s arm is about ready to fall off, and my hands are black from charcoal, and Mrs. Cupworth has come and gone several times, bearing limeade and teacakes, apparently thrilled that I’ve taken to the space—that my “artistic sensibilities have been stirred,” it occurs to me that if we were normal Greenmeadow juniors instead of outliers and freaks, we’d be getting ready for Prom.

“I’m sort of curious about it,” I admit to Connor, clinking ice in yet another tall glass of refreshment. “Are you?”

Connor is rubbing his arm. “Nah. Not really.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t you wonder what Cathi Serge and Walter Pine are wearing? Maybe his and hers Amish outfits?”

Conner feigns shock at my cattiness. “That’s not very Martha of you.”

“Speaking of Martha. I’m not feeling really great about keeping quiet on what I know about her boyfriend. If anyone needs to hear what’s on Sabine’s voicemail, it’s her.”

Connor considers this, running his hand through his hat-hair. “She made her bed,” he says. “As they say.”

“Still. Maybe we should, you know, take a drive out there. Watch the action from afar?”

“Where’s it at again?”

That’s the thing about Connor. Some things he’s just clueless about. The whole school had been buzzing about the unprecedented venue, the Multnomah Country and Golf Club, in lieu of the usual converted gymnasium. This year, it was a combined deal. Juniors and seniors together, plus their dates. Tickets were $75 a piece. They were serving prime rib. And for the vegans, there would be some sort of casserole. “Made from Parisian mushrooms,” I tell Connor.

“Yeah?” he says. “Well, if you want to. I think the whole thing is sort of lame.”

We bid Mrs. Cupworth adieu. Connor will return tomorrow, he tells her, with his gas-powered hedge trimmers. He’ll take care of that unwieldy laurel. And me, I couldn’t be happier with the set-up. “You’ll have to drag me out of here,” I offer, and even though I’m smeared in black like a chimney sweep, she takes my one hand in both of hers the way fancy old people do, and she tells me how happy she is to hear it.

We’re back in Connor’s noisy truck, and rumbling down Mrs. Cupworth’s driveway before I realize that, in these past few hours, I’ve not thought once about Mom and Dad or school. And only a little bit about Sabine. It’s been an afternoon of happy normal.

Also, I’m feeling almost like Connor’s my boyfriend, him driving all sure of himself in this big old truck and me riding shotgun, trying to tune in something reasonable on the crappy radio. We could be like that old John Mellencamp song about Jack and Diane. He must be feeling it too, because in between shifts he squeezes my knee and sort of glances over at me.

It’s just about dark again, and if we hurry, we’ll probably be able to catch some of the prom-goers climbing out of limos, their corsages pinned neatly to their vintage bodices in keeping with the 60’s theme. I’m pretty sure Martha will be wearing some original gown proffered from eBay. A frock that might have cost the sum total of the Cupworth Prize. Or more. And for Nick, maybe she scrounged up a Nehru jacket, one of those coats with a Mandarin collar, circa British invasion.

Certainly they wouldn’t take Sabine’s Volvo. Or even Martha’s zoomy little Beemer. No, they would most likely rent a classic vehicle, some mid-century boat of a Chrysler with sharp fins and shiny chrome. Dusk has turned to coal black, and Connor asks me again if I’m sure I want to head to the country club. If I’m certain I want to stir the Greenmeadow pot. I am. Pretty sure. Even if he’s not.