The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [38]
“You should go to the prom,” Susan said one Sunday night, when she picked me up from work and drove me back to the trailer park.
I laughed.
“I’m serious. You should. You’re going to be the valedictorian, right? So, you should go to the prom.” She stopped at the red light opposite the gun store.
I stared at the samurai swords in the front window. “Yeah, okay. So who will I ask? Mr. Jones?” I giggled. Mr. Jones was my film and media teacher. “Mrs. Lindt?” She was the Home Ec teacher who always had lipstick on her teeth.
“You could ask someone from your smart club.”
“Quiz Bowl.”
“Sorry. Quiz Bowl. Is there anyone you like?”
What was I supposed to say? Of course there wasn’t anyone I liked. Seanie Carroll was not on the Quiz Bowl team. Luckily, we were just pulling through the trailer park gates and I didn’t have to answer.
“Damn! Can’t they pave these roads? It’s like you live in backwoods Arkansas or something.”
“Yeah. I know. Watch out for the—”
She drove into the hole and swore. Trying not to feel the red-hot embarrassment I felt every time she drove me home, I looked out the window at the dark line of dirty singlewides. As we passed by them, I saw a young guy sitting on the steel steps of #20. He waved.
He was there again the next Saturday, and after I called Susan from the pay phone I decided to say hello. It was nice seeing a young face, acne-scarred or not, in the land of wrinkled retirees.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I said. “I’m Saffron.”
“I’m Sam.”
I shook my head, but had no idea what to say next.
“You’re on the Quiz Bowl team,” he said.
“You go to Hollow Ford?”
“Only since January. I live with my grandparents now.”
“Oh.”
“And you work at McDonald’s. I see you there all the time.”
“Really? That’s weird. I don’t remember seeing you before.”
Maybe that was a stupid thing to say. It made Sam look at his feet and shuffle. He reached up to his mouth and picked a small scab of dry skin near his lip.
“Are you going to Senior Skip Day?” he said.
I’d completely forgotten about Senior Skip Day. Susan told me I had to do it, but I knew I could get in trouble and so I hadn’t made up my mind.
“I don’t know. Are you?”
“I figure we’re only seniors once.”
“True.” I looked at my watch. “Shit. I have to go.”
“See you around.”
“Yeah.”
Twenty minutes later, as Susan rounded the dusty corner to pick me up, Sam was still sitting on the front steps of his grandparents’ trailer. When I slid into the front seat in my God-awful polyester McDonald’s uniform, she said, “Who’s that guy?”
“Dunno.”
Then he waved at me, smiling, and I flogged him for it.
“You don’t know?” Susan raised her eyebrows.
“He’s just some guy.”
“Sure he is.”
I reached for the volume knob, turned up the music, and waved to Sam as we drove by.
Nine hours later, Harry, my manager, dropped me off on the main road. As I walked back to our trailer, I saw Sam was still outside #20, building something.
When I got close enough, I saw that it was a plywood ramp.
And yet, I asked, “What’s that?”
“It’s a wheelchair ramp.”
“Oh.”
“My pop’s coming home from the rehab hospital next week,” he explained.
“Right.”
“So, did you think about Skip Day?”
I shrugged and made a gesture like I had to get going. “I’ll think about it some more,” I said, and then walked slowly down the gravel road to our trailer—where I found my parents asleep on the couch with the heater set on high. I turned it down and opened one of the push-out windows to clear the burning kerosene smell. Then I peeked back toward #20, trying to ignore the small feeling of excitement gathering in my stomach.
DOG FACT #3
Always Trust Your Nose
One of the most important