The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [48]
I’d put on makeup, and this shocked him as much as his hair shocked me.
“Wow. You look great.” The way he said it felt insulting—as if I’d never looked great before. Before I could answer, my mother was posing us next to the front window, inching Sam to the left or right to hide the peeling paper paneling.
“Hold that!” she said. “Saffron, smile, will you?”
I smiled.
“Sam, can you lean in toward Saffron a little? I can’t fit you both in the frame.”
She was backed up against the far wall of the living area, and I let her snap a few more shots before I suggested that we go.
Sam had left his pop’s truck at #20, so we walked over there, and the old folks came out on the warm May night to watch us. There was something about how they looked at us that I tried to connect with. Though I felt as stupid as a sack of rat shit in my beaded dress, lacy shawl, and a wrist corsage, I felt a little bit of happiness for us, too.
But then, Sam opened his mouth.
“Uh, I’m not sure I can dance tonight. I think I sprained my ankle.”
“You look fine to me,” I said. “We don’t have to dance if you don’t want.”
“Oh good.”
What a pathetic lying jerk.
Sam’s granny and pop took some pictures and then we got into the truck (Sam didn’t open the door for me) and headed for the Jefferson Hotel. About a hundred yards from the trailer park entrance, I saw two guys walking down the road in hooded sweatshirts. As we passed, my eyes met with Junior’s. I groaned.
“Do you know those guys?” he asked.
“No.”
“So how come you made that noise?”
“I just did,” I said.
“Did you used to date one of them?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
I turned my head to look at him. He was clearly doubtful, upset, and, from the sounds of things, possessive. “Yes I’m sure. Though it’s not any of your business.”
“It is my business because you’re my date.”
And that was pretty much how the rest of the night went. When he found me having an innocent conversation with Mike from the Quiz Bowl team, he grabbed my arm so roughly it left a little red mark. When he saw me heading to the bathroom with Susan and two other girls, he asked, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To the bathroom.”
“Just don’t talk about me behind my back,” he said. Susan looked at me and made a crazy face. I smirked. Wasn’t this her idea to begin with?
Sam and I had one dance together, a slow number, and he grabbed my ass. Like, grabbed it so hard it hurt and I let out a little yelp. I walked off the dance floor, gathered my shawl and my purse, and waited for him to catch up.
“Why’d you do that?” he demanded.
“Let’s just go home,” I said. “I don’t feel well.”
“But, I—” he stopped when he saw my face. I must have looked three hundred years’ worth of pissed off and ready to kill him. And I was.
He drove home emotionally. At first, he seemed sad and tried to get me to feel sorry for him, and then, when I didn’t, he drove like an asshole. When we got back to the trailer park, he stopped at the entrance, put the truck in park, and pouted at me.
“I can walk from here,” I said, reaching for the door handle.
“But I thought since we went out we could, um …”
I was already stuffing his eye sockets with salted limes, already carving his acne off, zit by zit, and feeding it to him. What more did he want? I made a move to open the door. He slammed the truck into drive and peeled forward on the gravel, aiming for every pothole there was. By the time we arrived in front of his granny and pop’s place in a cloud of gray dust, I’d hit the truck’s ceiling twice.
Before I’d regained my balance and straightened myself, he leaned in to kiss me. I recoiled a little, and then figured if this was prom night etiquette, and if it would get me out of ever doing anything remotely “normal” again, then I was willing to give him one stupid kiss. But then there was a knock on the truck’s window and I saw Sam’s granny standing outside, crying and gesturing toward the trailer.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want to interrupt your special night, but Sam, I need your help.”
Sam was out of the truck before she finished the sentence.