How They Met, and Other Stories(41)
Author: David Levithan

It was hot that night, so I was wearing a T-shirt and an old pair of shorts, and she was wearing some sleeveless Gap top and cutoffs. We’d discussed getting dressed up like everyone else, but decided to go for comfort instead. Instead of heading someplace fancy, we went to our local diner. It was amazing to see it so empty, and to know that we weren’t going to bump into anybody from our grade. Even though we were a couple, it was rare for us to get a chance to go out on our own. We had a group we called “the group” because it wasn’t defined enough to have a more elaborate name. It was just this mass of friends we moved with from time to time—in school, then from school, then after school, and (maybe once a year) instead of school.

Now it was just us, so we spent most of dinner talking about everyone else. Because that, in essence, was what we had in common: our friends, our classes. And also the confusions we tried to hide, the pressures we tried to resist. We loved the same movies—dark, twisted comedies with semi-sentimental endings. We each read the newspaper in the morning. We wanted our emotions to read like poetry, even if the poetry we wrote never managed to read like poetry, because we never really figured out how to put the emotions there.

She wasn’t pretty, but there were moments when I found her beautiful. I was just starting to figure these things out. I liked her br**sts, I liked her smile…and I loved her eyes. They had at least five colors in them, but I could never tell exactly which ones. As we gossiped over grilled cheese, I rubbed my bare ankle against hers. Not to be provocative or possessive. Just because it felt good to have that spot on me touch that spot on her.

We ate fast, like we always did. It was still light out at eight, so we drove over to my mom’s house and hung out there for a little. I don’t think my mom even knew it was prom night; she was simply home on a Saturday night like she always was, with her son and her temporarily adopted daughter swinging by to keep her company for the space of a TV show. By the time the credits were rolling, dusk had settled outside the window, and we were ready to go.

We had spent the last week planning this, not telling anyone for fear that they’d want to join us. With the group, any set of plans was also an invitation.

Now the rest of the group was safe in a Sheraton, wondering where we were, but not for too long. As we drove through the newly settling night, Kelly and I pieced together what we knew about what they were wearing, who they were sitting with. We placed bets on who would be the king and queen. We cast our own votes.

We got to the soccer field about ten minutes later. It was behind our old middle school, with a parking area all to itself, sheltered from view. I parked the car, turned off the headlights, and the two of us took the bags out of the backseat. These were the true fruits of our planning—our way of imprinting ourselves onto the evening, without having to wear a gown or a tuxedo.

We walked up to one of the goals—metal-framed and orange-netted. Kelly took out a string of paper lanterns from one of the bags. Neither of us was tall enough to hang them on the goalpost, so I had to lift her onto my shoulders. Then I lit candles and handed them up to her, trying to cup the flames as I did. When we were done, it looked like something strung out from a haphazard luau. But we loved it because it was peculiar. It wasn’t what we thought it would be, but we were used to that.

There was a streetlamp perched over the field, even though there was no street in sight. By its light, we unpacked the rest of the bags—blankets, cheese and bread, more candles, music player and speakers, chocolate. We were intellectual virgins, so instead of bringing contraceptives, we brought books of Margaret Atwood’s poetry and Sylvia Plath’s prose. And at first we read to each other, by that mix of candle and streetlamp—not just from the books, but from notebooks and Xeroxes, our own observations matched with the observations we wanted to make our own.

Then we lay back, rolling up unneeded sweaters under our heads, leaning into each other for light touches and deeper holding. We talked about everything that was about to happen—graduation, the summer, college—without talking about what would happen to us. We kissed, groped. The night stayed warm. Then we stared up at the sky, searching for the stars that weren’t quite there. We started to narrate a prom of our own making, taking it for granted that we were both picturing the same things as we said them.

“Right now, Alison Shaw is slapping Aiden across the face with her bouquet, because Samantha finally told Alison about her and Aiden hooking up.”

“Poor Cynthia is sitting at the table, afraid to dance.”

“Brett has to be drunk by now, so he’s singing along loudly to the wrong song.”

“Jeanette and Jeremy are dancing together, and they don’t realize anyone else is in the room.”

“Whoa—I think Brett just puked.”

“But Jeanette and Jeremy didn’t even notice.”

Then we went quiet, slowing the world down to the pace of our breathing. We fell into a trance of almost-sleep, shifting softly, touching in murmurs. We, too, could feel like we were the only ones. We lost track of time because we felt like time had lost track of us. Months from now, our relationship wouldn’t break up so much as dissolve. But here was the opposite kind of dissolution—that evaporation into a common moment, far from nothing and also far from anything else.

It was Kelly who looked at her watch, who realized it was almost midnight, the end of the prom. She jostled me up, and I reached past the still-wrapped food for the music. I pressed play…and nothing happened. Kelly took the player from me and looked at the blank screen.

“You have a charger in your car?” she asked.

And I said, “No…but I have a car.”

The candles in the paper lanterns had long since burned out, so now they hung like grown-up balloons from the goalpost. I watched them stir as I walked past. Turning the car on, I woke up the radio and cranked the volume as loud as it could go without waking the neighborhood. Then I left the door wide open, the inside of the car dimly gathering light from its small plastic chandelier. By the time I got back to Kelly, a song was just starting.

“Well done,” she said.

We held each other as the song started to play. I don’t want to say what song it was; that, more than anything, remains ours. It’s not really a song you can dance to—it’s a song meant for holding on. The temptation might have been to hold tightly, to pull each other so close that there was no distance, nothing between us. But instead we held lightly, so we could see each other, so we could look at each other’s faces and live in each other’s thoughts as well as our own. In my car, radio waves were being translated into sound, carrying across air, translating back into this loose communion, this song shared.