How They Met, and Other Stories(17)
Author: David Levithan

“Sally…,” I said over the music.

“Damon…,” she said back, pulling a little closer.

Then (hey, the good lord is good) “Twist and Shout” started, and there was no way to pretend it was an intimacy-inducing tune. I tried to twist in time with her, but we were always just a little off. When the medley was finally over, I gasped for some water and headed back to the table.

I thought that maybe if we could talk normally, it would all go back to normal. But it soon became apparent that I was speaking to some prom version of Sally, without being able to summon a prom version of myself. I tried talking about college next year, about how weird it was to be facing the last of our final exams, about how I couldn’t believe that Nina wouldn’t even come over to say hi. I thought Sally would bring up her own ex, so we could bond over our jiltedness in a friend kind of way. But she just said she had never understood why Nina and I were together in the first place, and that I deserved much better than that. Then she said, “Let’s not talk about Nina,” and asked me if I was ready to dance again. A slow song had just come on.

Clearly, Sally thought this dance was going to seal the deal. She wrapped her arms around my neck and dangled there, my very own new-girlfriend necklace. Usually when I slow-danced with Theresa or Liz or one of the other girls, we’d joke with each other, hanging out. But Sally had no desire for banter. She was staring at me so intently. She didn’t even look happy. Instead, she looked determined to be happy. I was the only thing standing in the way.

My arms were around her back, caught in the bubblegum folds. I knew if I’d wanted her, if I’d really wanted her, my hands would’ve moved up—they would have wanted to touch skin. I know that thrill now—of sliding your hand under a shirt, or crossing a collar to get to that nape of hair, that touch. But I was still stuck in girl gear then, and the thrills I got were from talking, from comfort. And with Sally it wasn’t even that.

Theresa cut in for the next slow song. As soon as her mouth was within whispering distance of my ear, she said, “You look like a mink who’s about to be turned into a coat.”

“You’ve been working on that line for the past hour, haven’t you?” I asked.

She nodded.

“What were some of the runner-ups?”

“Well, there was ‘You look like Sylvia Plath waiting for the oven to preheat.’ And ‘You look like you’re taking the SATs and you’ve only brought pens.’ And just plain ‘You look like a castrato.’ I decided to go with the mink.”

“I might’ve gone with Plath.”

“But you haven’t even read Plath.”

“Maybe I’ll go home right now and start.”

I remember this conversation word for word. I don’t remember the way I was holding Theresa or the way she was holding me. I couldn’t even tell you what she was wearing. But I remember each of the things she said to me, and the way we were laughing without having the need to laugh out loud. Just sharing that.

When my dance with Theresa was over, I spied Sally talking to some of her friends at another table. The rest of my girl group—a few of them with dates in tow—joined me and Theresa as the singer tried to make her way through “Brown-Eyed Girl.” At one point, I was opposite my friend Allison’s date, Chad, and when we sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-le-la-dee-da-ed, we both leaned forward so that his bangs brushed up against mine. He smiled at me and I smiled back, and that was all there was. But I remember that, too.

Sally joined us—well, I should say she joined me—a few songs in. Some of her makeup had worn off in the sweating and her subsequent restroom visit. Her flushness came through more. The dancing scuffed up her dress, the bubble gum deflating in parts. I honestly think I was the only one who noticed.

The head of the prom committee announced the prom song, “Wonderful Tonight,” and all the groups immediately split into pairs. Sally made her way into me, and I held her. Yes, I held her. Because I had been the one to ask. And because I didn’t want to be an ass**le. And because I knew that even if the moment didn’t mean anything to me, it probably meant something to her. So I danced to the song as if it had somehow become ours. As if it showed us what we were meant to be.

When it was over, I kissed her. Closed-mouthed. Quickly. Like I would’ve kissed a friend on New Year’s.

Further announcements were made, about not driving drunk, about remembering to take our prom memento (a coffee mug) from the table. Sally and I hadn’t really talked about after the prom—I knew there were some parties, but we’d only booked the limo until midnight. Finding the limo was a nightmare—there were so many of them outside, and I barely remembered what the driver looked like. Luckily he was holding a placard with our names on it, hyphenated together. As if we were already married.

I was exhausted, and I hoped that Sally would be exhausted, too. But when we got into the limo she immediately leaned her head on my shoulder again.

“What do you want to do?” she asked, running her finger over my sleeve. I could barely feel it, but I was intensely aware of it.

“I don’t know—what do you want to do?”

“How about this?” she said, leaning in closer, about to kiss me. But her dress got in her way and she didn’t quite make it.

“Sally…,” I started.

“Damon, I’m so into you,” she said. And I immediately wished she hadn’t.

She was pulling her dress out of her way now, so she could push closer into me. Then her hands were on my shirt, pressing on my chest, but there really wasn’t anything she could do. My sleeves were cuff-linked tight. My tuxedo buttons could only be undone from the inside. My cummerbund was safely clasped in the back, and it was protecting my pants button from any fumbling. It was like armor. And then there was her dress: Even as she rearranged the poofs, I realized there was no way for her to get out of it without some help in the back. As long as I went nowhere near her zipper, the force field would hold.

“C’mon, Damon,” she whispered. “Let’s make out in the back of a limo.”

I’m all for making out in the back of a limo when you have a chance. But there was no way…except that I couldn’t think of a way to tell her that.

“C’mon,” she repeated, her hands getting to the back of my neck, her lips coming closer.

“I can’t,” I said.

She pulled back a little to look me in the eye, and asked the question I most feared: