When I was a junior I went steady with a girl named Angela Clark. She was my first
real girlfriend, though it lasted for only a few months. Just before school let out for the
summer, she dumped me for a guy named Lew who was twenty years old and worked as a
mechanic in his father’s garage. His primary attribute, as far as I could tell, was that he
had a really nice car. He always wore a white T-shirt with a pack of Camels folded into the
sleeve, and he’d lean against the hood of his Thunderbird, looking back and forth, saying
things like “Hey, baby” whenever a girl walked by. He was a real winner, if you know
what I mean.
Well, anyway, the homecoming dance was coming up, and because of the whole
Angela situation, I still didn’t have a date. Everyone on the student council had to attend—
it was mandatory. I had to help decorate the gym and clean up the next day—and besides,
it was usually a pretty good time. I called a couple of girls I knew, but they already had
dates, so I called a few more. They had dates, too. By the final week the pickings were
getting pretty slim. The pool was down to the kinds of girls who had thick glasses and
talked with lisps. Beaufort was never exactly a hotbed for beauties anyway, but then again
I had to find somebody. I didn’t want to go to the dance without a date—what would that
look like? I’d be the only student body president ever to attend the homecoming dance
alone. I’d end up being the guy scooping punch all night long or mopping up the barf in
the bathroom. That’s what people without dates usually did.
Growing sort of panicky, I pulled out the yearbook from the year before and started
flipping through the pages one by one, looking for anyone who might not have a date.
First I looked through the pages with the seniors. Though a lot of them were off at college,
a few of them were still around town. Even though I didn’t think I had much of a chance
with them, I called anyway, and sure enough, I was proven right. I couldn’t find anyone, at
least not anyone who would go with me. I was getting pretty good at handling rejection,
I’ll tell you, though that’s not the sort of thing you brag about to your grandkids. My mom
knew what I was going through, and she finally came into my room and sat on the bed
beside me.
“If you can’t get a date, I’ll be happy to go with you,” she said.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said dejectedly.
When she left the room, I felt even worse than I had before. Even my mom didn’t
think I could find somebody. And if I showed up with her? If I lived a hundred years, I’d
never live that down.
There was another guy in my boat, by the way. Carey Dennison had been elected
treasurer, and he still didn’t have a date, either. Carey was the kind of guy no one wanted
to spend time with at all, and the only reason he’d been elected was because he’d run
unopposed. Even then I think the vote was fairly close. He played the tuba in the marching
band, and his body looked all out of proportion, as if he’d stopped growing halfway
through puberty. He had a great big stomach and gangly arms and legs, like the Hoos in
Hooville, if you know what I mean. He also had a high-pitched way of talking—it’s what
made him such a good tuba player, I reckon—and he never stopped asking questions.
“Where did you go last weekend? Was it fun? Did you see any girls?” He wouldn’t even