Chapter 10

When Melissa answered his knock and saw him standing there, her hand flew to cover a cluster of zits that had settled on her chin. In a slightly muffled voice she said, “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

He smiled at her.

“Come on in. Patrick’s downstairs, practicing,” Melissa said. “I beat him five games last night, playing pool. He’s sore. Patrick’s a sore loser, know that? My mother and I can take him on and my father any day, and wipe up the floor with them.”

Melissa’s hair was done up in fat pink curlers. Without her glasses, her eyes were pale, luminous, myopic. He noticed the zipper on her jeans didn’t quite close, leaving a small portion of Melissa hanging out. He averted his eyes, thinking of what Patrick had said about a thirteen-year-old sister being the ugliest thing in the world. Melissa would improve, he figured. She had nowhere to go but up. Her nose was a little lopsided and the zits didn’t help. And she could definitely stand to drop ten, maybe fifteen, pounds. Outside of that, Melissa was all right.

“What grade you in these days, Melissa?” he asked, being friendly.

“Eighth,” she answered, hand still over her chin. She wore a gray sweatshirt that declared “I Wanna Rock.”

“Tim,” she said hesitantly, “don’t tell Patrick I asked you, but I want to ask you something. Privately.”

Melissa cast a cold eye over her shoulder, ready to nail Patrick if he showed himself.

“Ask away,” he said, feeling very mature, flattered that she wanted to consult with him, ask his advice.

“Well, we’re having this dance. That is, at my school. It’s sort of a fund-raising dance combined with a graduation party. Graduation from eighth grade?”

Melissa was asking him, not telling him, and he began to feel uneasy. Was she going to hit him up for money, he wondered, slapping noisily at his empty pockets. “Yeah? Go on, Melissa.”

Melissa took down her hand and the zits seemed to leap out at him.

“I’m broke, Melissa,” he said. “Sorry, I can’t help.”

“It’s not that.” Her face was very earnest and her cheeks were stained a deep red.

He waited, listening, hoping for sounds of Patrick approaching.

“We’re supposed to ask a boy, see,” Melissa said in a rush. “I was hoping you’d be my date.”

He was stunned. Absolutely knocked on his ear. Go to a dance with Patrick’s thirteen-year-old sister, who was in the eighth grade? Melissa went to St. Raymond’s parochial school, the very same school in which he and Patrick had received their religious instructions before they made their first communion.

As if she read his mind, Melissa said, “I’m almost fourteen. That is—I’ll be fourteen in six weeks, or so.”

“Uh,” he said, as if someone had hit him in the stomach. They stood there, looking at each other. “I don’t know how to dance, Melissa.” Which was the plain truth. “I never went to dancing school.”

“That’s all right.” She seemed to feel better now that she’d spoken her piece. She waved her arms around and her feet moved as if to silent music, though she wore no headset, no earphones. “I can’t really, either. Nobody dances at these dances, anyway. They just sort of stand around and pig out.”

Once, twice, he tried to find the right words to turn her down. He even resorted to a choking fit, fighting desperately for time.

Gasping, eyes tearing up, he finally said, “How come you don’t ask one of the boys in your class?” blinking at her as if a bright light had been turned on suddenly, blinding him.

Melissa put her hands on her hips. “Because,” she said, “they’re all smaller than me. Than I. I’m the biggest girl in the class.” Suddenly, without warning, Melissa’s face turned downward completely, like a sad clown’s. Mouth, eyes, eyebrows, even her nose seemed to dip down as she spoke. A terrible silence fell, broken only by the sound of him swallowing. All the saliva seemed to have left his mouth.

“It’s only a tea dance!” Melissa wailed, tossing her head, sending the pink curlers on a wild wobble.

“A tea dance?” He had never heard of such a thing. This was even worse than he’d thought. “A tea dance,” he repeated, trying to stay calm.

“Yeah. From four to six. On Sunday. Please, Tim.” Melissa’s huge eyes glistened at him. “Will you please, Tim? If you won’t go with me, I won’t go either. You’re my only hope.”

“Can’t you find someone else to take you?” he asked, almost pleading with her. “I think I’m busy Sunday. I don’t think I can go, Melissa.”

For Pete’s sake, kid, I just spent hours composing a steamy love letter to this girl. A tea dance. Kid stuff. A pig-out tea dance, for God’s sake. Go play with your pals, Melissa, and leave me alone.

Melissa stood close to him, smelling of shampoo and onions.

“You wouldn’t even have to dance with me, Tim,” she said. “All they do anyway is stand around, the girls, I mean, and the boys do the same thing. They tell jokes and burp and, you know, laugh. We wouldn’t have to stay the whole time. We could just stay a little while. Just so they’d see you were my date.” By now, she was so close her breath tickled his ear.

“And I’d pay, Tim. It wouldn’t cost you a nickel. I promise. My mother’s buying the tickets, anyway. Please, Tim?”

He couldn’t look at her.

“Why don’t you get Patrick to take you?” he whispered, ashamed.

Melissa jumped as if stung by a wasp, a whole nest of wasps. “I’d die first!” she shouted. The color left her face and he was afraid she might be having an attack of something, might even faint. “I’d absolutely die rather than go with my own brother!”

At the word “brother” Melissa let out a low gurgling sound, like an unplugged drain.

“Hey Tim!” Patrick popped into view. “I didn’t know you were here. What’re you doing, chewing the fat with Fatty? Let’s go down and shoot some pool.”

Melissa turned and ran. He stumbled after Patrick, falling upon the pool table as if it was an oasis and he a traveler tuckered out after crossing the Sahara. Patrick tossed him a cue and a piece of chalk, to take the slipperiness off the tip of the cue, Patrick said, as if he’d been playing pool since he was a pup.

Patrick beat him one game; then, by a fluke, he beat Patrick. The cool joy of winning was heady and unfamiliar to him. He was not a winner at sports, or at much of anything. There was nothing like coming in first, he decided, hoping to make a habit of it. Patrick’s father showed up and beat both of them. Fortunately, for one and all, Patrick’s mother and Melissa were otherwise occupied.

Buoyed by winning a game, Patrick’s father was all set to make an afternoon of it. But, “I have to get going,” Tim said, still thinking about the tea dance and wondering if he could dredge up somebody to escort her. He liked Melissa, felt sorry for her. It was tough to be thirteen, a girl, and ugly. He felt sorry for her, but not sorry enough to say he’d go to the dance with her.

On his way out, through the kitchen, he ran into Patrick’s mother, who was stirring a huge vat of chili. He liked her and she liked him, too. Patrick had told him that. “She says you have a kind heart,” Patrick had said, and he had been terribly pleased. Melissa stood at the sink, back to him, as he stopped to talk briefly to Patrick’s mother. Melissa’s mother, too, if you wanted to be persnickety. Because he felt guilty about turning Melissa down, he was extra talkative and polite to her mother. Guilt does funny things to people. When Melissa turned to say something to her mother, he saw her face. She was puffed up like a blowfish, probably from crying. He felt like a rat.

If only St. Raymond’s would throw a beer bash for the eighth-grade graduation, he might reconsider. But he was darned if he’d be caught in a tea-dance trap. The telephone rang and Melissa’s mother answered. “It’s for you, Missy.”

Melissa spoke in a low voice, but he heard her say, “No, he won’t. No, I won’t. I don’t care. I’m not going by myself and that’s that.”

He opened the kitchen door and a gust of wind entered, uninvited. A little voice in his head said “Get going or you’ll be sorry.” He knew that voice. Ninety-nine percent of the time it was right.

“About that dance,” he heard himself say. Melissa turned and gave him a terrible look, full of hope. He was aware of her mother standing by the sink, spoon held high, frozen, as if someone was taking her picture.

“I guess I can handle it,” he said. It was as if another person was talking, saying things he himself would never have said. “It’s OK, Melissa. I’ll go.”

He knew he would never, ever, forget her expression.

“Oh, Tim.” She clasped her hands and a blinding light lit her face. Followed by a smile of such unmitigated happiness he was embarrassed.

He thought he heard Patrick coming. He had to get out of there before Patrick showed his face.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said. For now, the important thing was to keep going, to make space between himself and Melissa, his tea-dance date.

“You’ll be sorry,” his little voice repeated. “Boy, will you ever be sorry!”