Читать книгу River of Love - Aimée Medina Carr - Страница 17

It’s Prom night: the corsages purchased and tuxes rented. Chavela and I buy new dresses she picks a fire engine red, backless number, mine is beige with lavender flowers. The all-girl sister parochial school, the Scholastico Academy will bus girls to the Prom. Cha Cha’s date Mac counts the hours and minutes till they’re together. He’s been telling his friends about her.

“She’s beautiful and hot, I can’t wait to dance all night with her,” he gushed, annoying anyone who’d listen to the obsessive ramblings. Mac’s a virgin; his end goal is to get laid.

I sit watching Cha Cha at the vanity applying mascara in her small, second-story apartment near downtown. She shared it with one-year-old son, Julian. Her parents picked him up to babysit for the evening. She’s a vibrant vision of young, seductive hotness.

There’s a knock at the door. It’s Rubin Ocho, an older, Red Cañon small-time, drug dealer her brother’s friend. “What are you doing here?” She asks, surprised.

“Wow! Damn girl, what a knockout! Where are you going dressed like that?” He asks.

“My first Prom, probably my only Prom, I missed out while having Julian.”

Rubin talks her into going partying with him. “Don’t waste that great dress and bod on a bunch of spoiled rich boys.” He said.

I’m appalled by this lowlife and quickly make my exit. “You’re really going to miss the Prom to go to an old flophouse hotel turned into a seedy bar with this loser? I’m outta here.” She looks away and shrugs her shoulders. I grab my purse and run down the two flights of stairs.

I park next to the theater, and Jack runs up to the car. He’s handsome in a gray tuxedo. Out of breath, he bends down and pecks my cheek through the car window.

“Step out for a second.” He twirls me around. “You look beautiful.” He scoops me into his arms and kisses me. “The prettiest girl at the Prom. Wanna do a quick run to The River?” He smiles broadly.

“Sure, but we can’t dilly-dally. I don’t want to miss a song,” he runs to gather the gang. They’re all decked out in black, except Oliver, in an all-white tux. I wave for them to hurry.

“All aboard the SOUL TRAIN! Woo-Woo, WOOooOOOH!” I shout as they pile into the cavernous car. “Hey, Foxy Lady,” Oliver blows me a kiss.

“Back off.” Jack pushes him into the back seat.

At The River, we smoke and drink into a partying frenzy. A half-hour has passed since we left the school, it’s evolving into the wild night we maneuvered for.

“Oh-lah, it’s DANCE PARTY time!” I squeal and slam the Star Chief in gear, ten minutes later they pile out at the school. Jack scoots next to me, and we share a juicy smooch.

“Thanks for being such a good sport.” He strokes my hair.

“We couldn’t come to this shindig without a boost.” I smile, reassuring him. We enter through the double doors of the small theater with the Prom in full gear. Tonight’s theme—

“A Night in King Arthur’s Court.” I’m at home here, where we spent months rehearsing and performing Murder in the Cathedral. A two-story yellow brick, block building, with a stage.

The building is in the middle of campus surrounded by thick, lush bushes and shrubs the monks planted years ago giving it an Ivy League school vibe. A swimming pool completes the dense oasis. A favorite spot, after Gonad football games, Marie Noonan’s, classes and theater rehearsal. We would steal away behind the thick bushes and sit on the stone bench; our Secret Love hideaway.

We make our entrance, I imagine that we’re the Prom King and Queen royalty. I hold my head up high knowing that I belong here just as much as the rich bitches from the sister parochial school. I’m going to dance my tush off, this is our last chance to celebrate and go out in a burst of brazen glory all starry and sublime: Per Ardua Ad Astra—Hard and High to the Stars.

Miles’ band plays, Jack and I dance non-stop for the first hour—every song. The band dives into Nights in White Satin by the Moody Blues, a poignant, slow song. My mind wanders, while cocooning in his comforting arms. I hold tight and grip hard. I know this is it. The future won’t be kind to us. Savor this moment; I’m swept up by a wave of belonging and Love. Everyone’s dancing—small clusters raging together, laughing, and bobbing up and down. The electric evening vibrates with bonhomie brotherhood. They’re with their de facto families. The years living together fosters a natural familiarity. Mac stumbles up to me. He’s crestfallen, “Cha Cha stood me up!” He stammers. He’s a disheveled, hot mess. His breath notched with liquor and pot. His bow tie unraveled, the tux shirt dangling and torn. He fell outside, and the ripped tux pants are caked with mud. His heart’s dismantled. “I’ve tried calling her apartment, many times—why’d she do this?” He slurs his words, hunches over and fights back tears. He’s a sophomore; there’ll be many more Proms. “I’m sorry Mac, she’s made a horrible mistake and has hurt an innocent person by making wrong decisions. I’ll let Cha Cha explain to you what happened.” I bear hug squeeze him tight. Jack walks up. “C’mon, it’s the Who’s “My Generation.” Dancing to his favorite song, overrides any Mac drama. “Please, go to your room and sleep,” I whisper to Mac, his shoulders slumped, chin in his chest, wavering he turns and staggers toward the door. The next day Cha Cha calls me and relates how Mac’s friends had him call her while he was quite drunk and stoned. After a few rings, she answered. “You BITCH! He slurs into the pay phone, propped up by his buddies, shouting obscenities in the background. She apologizes meekly. “I’m SO sorry, Mac!” She hears voices egging him on and heavy breathing—he drops the receiver and quickly, picks it up. “Tell her Mac, way to GO!” Then click, the phone went dead. A half-hour later still drunk, but feeling awful, he calls her back. “I apologize for that phone call Cha Cha, my friends made me do it,” he explains. “No Mac, I’m the one that is deeply sorry. You didn’t deserve what I did. I made a horrible mistake. Somehow, I’ll make it up to you,” she promises. For many years, Cha Cha received Christmas and birthday cards from Mac. It was an honor to have known him and often thought of him and how poor judgment can profoundly hurt those you care for. The first of many contributions to her “grist for the mill.” Cha Cha never makes it to the Prom.