Of course I'm here. Where else would I be? I don't exactly have a lot of hot dates (I do like warm raisins, though).
Now, all of your readers are wondering: What does Jason have to do with Deena? Once again, it was timing. Or in this case, two-timing.
I was depressed. Kimber had rejected me. My fantasies didn't work any more. After that infamous day in Room 60, when she knew my feelings and jumped up and down on them with hobnailed boots, it was no good lying on my bed, looking up at the stars, and imagining her cool lips on mine. I kept hearing her laugh.
What stars? Oh, when I was about nine, I cut out little pieces of glow-in-the-dark material and made constellations on my ceiling. I was into astronomy. I remember quivering with excitement when I could see Jupiter out my window. Every night for a week, I'd kneel by my window and look out at Jupiter. I'd call in my parents, who were not interested. I had a red telescope I got for Hanukkah one year. You couldn't see anything through it. But I pressed my little throbbing eyeball to that lens night after night and looked at blackness, hoping to see Jupiter up close. I never did.
See, I always believed in miracles. Like the telescope would work. Or Kimber would love me.
But she didn't. And as I digested that, I got a pristine white envelope from RPI telling me I was rejected. That was my number-one college choice, but my math wasn't strong enough. I was crushed. I sat in my room, looking at my glow-in-the-dark constellations and crying. I refused to eat more than four meals a day. I became heavily involved with peanut butter Twix bars.
Not that I showed my pain. I bounced cheerily through the day (until Cheerily got dizzy from being bounced), I joined in the spring madness by wearing the most garish Jams and tropical shirts I could buy, along with sunglasses on a rope. But I was hurting. Meanwhile, Deena had witnessed the fracas with Kimber, Martha, and Lou (heck, she'd caused the fracas!), and was steaming with jealousy. Deena expected Lou to be made a soprano by Kimber. She didn't expect him to wind up playing tonsil-hockey with Martha.
So she came into school depressed. Now when Deena gets depressed, she draws elaborate foliage and her eyes are misty. All day she walks around with misty eyes. And her head down. When you ask her, "Deena, what's wrong?" she gives a bitter little smile and says "Nothing." And she keeps her head down and draws more flowers.
Okay, so here we were in English. This was Alterson's class, and Alterson was by his desk, sliding out folders from his tote bag and freaking because he couldn't find anything. Also, twelve kids in the class were waving overdue papers at him and he was saying "Don't give me papers until I call for them!"
I strolled in and saw Deena sitting in her seat, which is against the blackboard, first row. Her head was down. She was drawing a huge forest in her sketch pad. I saw the way the fluorescent light gleamed from her hair. I saw the way her narrow shoulders hunched in her peach-colored top. She was upset! Hey, who you gonna call, when you don't feel good? MOROSE BUSTERS!
I stopped at her desk and said, "Hi? What's wrong?"
She gave a bitter little smile and said, "Nothing." And she kept her head down and drew more flowers.
I swung gracefully into the seat next to her (good thing Gracefully doesn't weigh much) and rubbed her neck. I waited through that heartstopping minute to see if she told me to stop. She didn't.
"Love troubles?" I asked. She gave a bitter little smile and said, "No." And she kept her head down and drew more flowers.
I expanded my rubbing territory, in widening ovals across her back. Her top was scooped out so once during every oval my hand touched her skin. For a man doomed to celibacy, this is a major event. "Did Phil break up with you?"
She gave a bitter little smile and said, "Nothing." And she kept her head down and drew more flowers.
This was getting critical. I'd have to stop rubbing pretty soon, and either go into a two-handed massage or just leave. The bell rang, so a full massage was out. I went to a joke. "Okay, Deena," I said. "This is shock treatment. A bunch of ants are in a bakery. They're eating bread. Suddenly, the head ant yells, 'Let's get outta here! The baker's coming!' And one little ant says, 'Don't stop me now—I'm on a roll!' "
Deena stopped drawing. The comers of her mouth tugged upward. She said, "Jason, go away."
I rested my rubbing hand on her right shoulder and drew closer (while Closer drew somebody else). "Meet me later by the school store," I whispered. "I'll buy you a brownie. You deserve to forget."
Her eyes were misted. She looked incredibly beautiful. "Thanks, Jason," she said.
"No problem." I smiled.
Alterson was addressing the class. I squeezed Deena's hand and scurried to my seat. I sat gripping the edges of my desk, feeling the sudden May warmth across my back, smelling cut grass and soft, wet sky. It was springtime! The sap runneth!
I know I'd bought Kimber a brownie. But Kimber had kissed me off, so why not buy a brownie for Deena? I know Deena was going with Phil. But Phil was at Stony Brook, and Deena was here. I didn't think about Phil.
Yes, I did think about Phil. I thought about acing him out. I thought about seducing Deena and taking her from him. I thought all of those evil thoughts.
The longer I sat in that seat with little cirrus clouds wisping through the sky, the more excited I became. I wanted a conquest. I wanted to go where every man had boldly gone before. I wanted to win one for the Gipper. I wanted to know who the heck the Gipper was, and who he Gipped. I'd given my brains and heart and soul to others. I wanted something for myself myself myself (sorry, I'm repeating myselO.
So I spent that period fantasizing rich, sweet fantasies with Deena in the starring role. Alterson must have wondered about the sick smile on my face. I didn't care. I just knew that I wanted Deena ... I wanted Deember ... I wanted Dimber ...
Well, you get the idea.
And so did Deena, for a moment. But it was the moment that set the stage for the Prom.
The Art Wing is opposite the Music Suite, down by the Gym lobby. There is something about that whole area that inspires romance. You have the lighting booth above the auditorium, the loft above the stage, and the practice rooms in the Music Suite. After hours, these become dark, empty places, littered with old Burger King wrappers and stained with spilled soda.
In other words—Make Out City.
The Art rooms aren't usually part of the sin strip because they're tightly locked. Wayward students can't be allowed near X-acto knives. But sometimes, if a student is working on a project, an art room can be open late.
So it was that afternoon. I playfully prevented Deena from leaving Alterson's room, and I said, "Are we on for the brownie later?"
This was another critical moment. If she gave me a "Be real" look and rolled her eyes, the illusion was over. But I was driven by forces beyond my control (usually, my mother drove me, but she was busy). I waited for her response.
She looked directly at me, and said, "Sure. I'd like that."
I smiled gently. And I thought:
SHE SAID SURE SHE'D LIKE THAT!!
I said, "Seventh period? School store?"
She chewed the comer of her lip (O beauteous comer! O ravishing lip!) and said, "I've got Economics seventh. How about after school? I'm finishing my portfolio project in Room 102."
I nodded amiably. And I thought:
SHE'S GOING TO BE ALONE IN ROOM 102 AND SHE WANTS YOU TO BRING THE BROWNIE!
I said, "Great. See you then."
She smiled brightly and shifted her sketch pad against her chest (O beauteous sketch pad! O ... never mind) and skipped out. I won't bother describing my state of mind for the rest of the day. I was obsessed with images of Deena, lying nude on a drawing table while I painted her in acrylics.
I purchased the brownie during seventh period and kept it in my folder through eighth. I had to periodically cool down my fevered body by thinking of Calculus quizzes.
At last the piercing electronic whine signaled the end of the academic day. In 3.6 seconds, the classrooms emptied and the hallways filled. Like buffalo herds, they stampeded past the door to my Social History classroom. This was in the hallway where Lou rescued Martha. In fact, this was the very room where John Brody was made to cool his heels!
I adjusted my tropical shirt, popping an extra button to show more skin. I brushed back my wedge of dark hair. My tongue probed my teeth for traces of lunch. Then I tucked my folder under my arm and walked through the Gym lobby. I entered the Art Wing. I saw the light from Room 102.
Slowly, I slid the wrapped brownie from my folder. I clutched it in one sweating hand. My heart slammed against my ribs. I hadn't been this nervous with Kimber. But that's because I really hadn't expected Kimber to succumb.
I entered Room 102. The strong smell of fixative filled my nostrils. I stood in the entryway, between the paper cutter and the metal supply cabinet. Wooden easels loomed over my head.
I went all the way into the room. There she sat, coloring a huge flower bed with pastels. Rose-colored dust stained her fingertips. She looked up and smiled.
"Hi, Jason. Got my brownie?"
Disappointment. I'd hoped she would bypass the brownie and declare her passion right away. I'd envisioned her eyes smouldering, her lips parted, her chest heaving. She was too cheery.
"As promised," I said. "Sweets to the sweet."
"Thanks," she said. "I'm starving."
Worse and worse. I kept my step jaunty as I walked to the table and set the brownie before her. "Nuts to you," I quipped.
She flashed a quick smile, and unwrapped the confection. She shut her eyes as she bit off a piece, and chewed soulfully. "Mmmmm," she murmured. "I needed that."
I came around the table, and glanced at the pastel. She was really very good. I pride myself on feeling genuine appreciation for her talent while at the nadir of my hopes.
But my nadir was postponed. Deena looked over at me, daintily holding the half-eaten brownie. She glanced down at the pastel. "It stinks," she said. "I'm just trying to get it done."
"I think it's amazing," I said honestly.
She gave a self-deprecating little laugh. "Yeah, amazing."
"Come on, no false modesty. You know you're good."
She shrugged. "I guess I am. Well, yeah, I am."
"That's a good little egomaniac."
"Stop!" She laughed self-consciously and finished the brownie. She brushed her hands together to get rid of the crumbs. A tiny shred of nut clung to the comer of her mouth.
"Are you going to art school?" I asked.
To my surprise, her eyes filled and she kind of twittered her hands and looked down. "I don't know."
"Don't you want to?"
"Yes."
"Is it money?"
Now her lip trembled and she started to cry.
"Deena?" I moved to her, really concerned. I put my hands on her shoulders. "What'd I say?"
She shook her head, and her hand came up to cover mine. She took a deep breath. Her whole body was hot. She turned to face me; my hands stayed on her shoulders. "It's stupid."
"So am I."
She laughed. "Jason, you're the only person I can trust."
"So trust me."
She sighed. "My folks won't pay for art school. They want me to go to Suffolk Community."
"What?"
She nodded. "They don't want to shell out all that money when I might not be a professional artist."
"How would you know unless you went there?"
"Don't ask me."
I pushed stray hair back from her forehead. I do gentle things like that. "Why don't they apply for financial aid?"
Her eyes suddenly flared. "They have the money! They're using it to buy land upstate."
"Huh?"
"They're buying all this land upstate because it's all going to be developed. It's a big investment. First it was the stock market, and then it was some real estate group, and now it's land upstate. Oh, and of course there's the Lincoln Town Car which they must have and the vacations in South America. They have to unwind a lot. I don't know from what."
All of this came gushing out in a few breaths. She was shaking when she finished. Finally, I said, "You really hate their guts, huh?"
She shook her head violently. "No, I don't hate them. I just resent them. It's like they had me and they're pissed off because I didn't die young or something. They have this incredible romantic marriage, always together, always holding hands, and I'm nowhere. Except when they're laying down all these stupid rules and telling me I'm not that good at art. I idolize their marriage. I want my marriage to be just like theirs. But I want my children to be part of my happiness."
When she stopped, I hugged her, which seemed like the thing to do. She hugged me back and rested her cheek against my jaw. I could smell her perfume.
"What a duo," I said. I rubbed her back with one hand. "What you need is for them to have a nice, juicy divorce, and fight over you."
"No," she murmured into my neck. "I don't want them to get divorced. I just want to be there. I'm not making any sense."
"You're making sense," I assured her. "You're making dollars, in fact. And if you don't try for an art scholarship, you're an idiot, because you're good."
She hugged me tighter.
"Yeah," I said angrily. "And when you become a hot artist, wipe all your childhood drawings off the walls! Take back your mother's day cards! They can't do this to you!"
She laughed. Then she looked me square in the face. That is powerful wampum for me, boy. I don't usually get those full-face looks from girls. But she kept gazing, her eyes full and damp. I watched her nostrils flare. She tilted her face, shut her eyes, and opened her mouth.
Wait a minute ... tilted face, eyes shut, open mouth ... Oh my God, that means something! What does it mean? Spock, search the computer banks, quickly! Tilted face, eyes shut, open mouth ... I know it means something, Spock! What does it mean?
Captain, it is part of an illogical human response to physical attraction. It is a form of labial oscillation . . .
In English, Spock!
Your race quaintly refers to the process as a "kiss" ...
Kiss! That's it, Spock! She wants to be kissed! Battle stations! Lock phasers! We're going in!
And so our lips met. I felt like a star ship hitting warp speed. My thigh pressed hard against the drawing table, and my hands clutched at her back. I tasted chocolate brownie and I heard her breathing. All the time I was consciously aware that I was kissing Deena. I was passionately kissing Deena.
We went on for some time, and I'll leave out the more spine-tingling details. But at last, we broke apart and held hands and I grinned dumbly as she swallowed me with her seafoam eyes.
And then she said, "Oh, Jason. I miss Phil so much!"
Now you have to know, so you won't feel too sorry for me, that only Deena could say that, at this precise moment, with total innocence. She meant no harm. Her dizzy, romantic little heart tumbled in those few seconds and Phil was there when it stopped spinning.
I said, "What?"
She realized her gaffe and wrung my hands. "Oh, God! I'm sorry, Jason. I didn't mean it that way."
"How many ways could you mean it?"
She let go of my hands and clenched her fists. Turning away, she sighed deeply. Then she turned back. "Jason, this was . . . " She swept her hand to indicate the brownie wrapper and me. ". . . all of this . . . it meant so much to me." She looked tenderly at me. "I've never told anybody how I feel, ever. Not even Phil. You helped me so much, Jason. You've given me the motivation to go on. I love you, Jason. I wish everyone knew how incredible you are."
"We could print leaflets."
She laughed, and said, "Stop. You're always putting yourself down. Be proud of what you are. I am."
"I'd rather have physical affection than pride."
That brought a sweet smile. "Jason, I'd love to be your girlfriend, I really would. But ... " And here her voice took on a tone of wonderment. ". . . I'm really in love with Phil. I want to see him right now."
"Well, just click your heels three times and say 'I want to have my Phil ... ' "
"Nut!" She laughed again and hugged me with that ecstatic fervor the girls always display when I've convinced them to return to their boy friends. She kissed me hard. "I'm so happy right now. I feel content and fulfilled and right for the first time. Thank you, Jason. I owe you my life."
"How about your body as down payment?" I joked. Of course, she laughed.
And soon after, I left the art room, rejected again. But this was different. Even though it was the same dreary scenario, with me bringing joy and revelation to a girl, but not getting the girl, I wasn't despondent or frustrated (well, maybe a teensy bit frustrated). First of all, my heart wasn't totally into seducing Deena because she was attached, and I still loved Kimber. Second, I felt kind of good about finding out that Deena hated her parents and was truly human. She'd released her demons and I had changed her life.
That's kind of worthwhile, you know? If my role in life is to be fairy godmother, I might as well be a good one. If the wand fits, wave it!
And it may have been magic because Deena's epiphany started the trend of reconciliation that led to the night of the Senior Prom.
When all hell broke loose.
And that's your cue, Kimber.