My mother’s suggestion that I invite Mickie turned out to be a stroke of genius. We met Ernie and his date, Alicia, at a local restaurant, and dinner was not the awkward first date so many of my friends experienced on prom nights. The conversation flowed, and the four of us laughed as much that night as any other. I didn’t think the night could get any better. Then it did. When Mickie and I walked into the hotel ballroom holding hands, a lot of heads turned, and while other couples stood or sat at tables looking bored, Mickie dragged me straight to the dance floor. She sparkled beneath the strobe lights and spinning silver ball. Her years of dance and gymnastics classes had given her the ability to move in a manner that was part burlesque, part Ginger Rogers. I did my best to keep up, but I was grateful for the slow songs, which allowed me to catch my breath and to feel Mickie close against me. This time we didn’t need to leave six inches for the Holy Spirit, as we did in grammar school. She rested her head on my chest, and I felt her breath on my neck and smelled the scent of her perfume. It sent shivers up my spine.
Late in the evening, when the band took a break, Mickie and Alicia went to the bathroom, and Ernie and I ventured to the bar to get soft drinks.
“Mickie’s a good sport, huh?” Ernie said.
“The best,” I said.
“You two look like you’ve been together forever.”
“I’ve known her forever.”
“So have I,” Ernie said, “but we don’t interact like that.”
I looked at Ernie and suddenly wondered if this had been a mistake. Mickie and I were as close as Ernie and me, though in a different way. There were things I would discuss only with each of them. If I screwed up, I’d lose Mickie. “Do you think it could be a mistake?” I asked.
Before Ernie could respond, I saw Alicia hurrying toward us with a look of alarm. “I think you better get out there,” she said.
I ran from the ballroom. Mickie stood before Michael Lark, the linebacker I had beaten in the drinking contest the night I’d ended up passed out in my mother’s fern. One of the spaghetti straps of Mickie’s dress dangled loose, and she had a finger pointed in Lark’s face, the other hand balled in a fist. A group of my classmates surrounded Lark, some trying to pull him away.
“Don’t you ever touch me,” Mickie was saying.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I was just playing around,” Lark slurred. I could tell Mickie had slapped him. His right cheek was cherry red.
“Did you touch her?” I asked.
Another classmate stepped forward, looking anxious. “He’s drunk, man; we’re getting him out of here before he gets busted.”
Lark smiled at me. “Like, who hasn’t touched her,” he said, and in that moment I no longer saw Lark. I saw David Bateman. “We all know it isn’t the first time. Come on, Hell, you’ve gotten some of that, right?”
“Knock it off, Lark,” I said.
“Hey, man, you and I are drinking buddies.”
“Not tonight.”
“Come on, Hell. Everyone knows that girl has had more dicks between her legs than in a football huddle.”
I lunged at Lark, but Ernie quickly stepped in to hold me back, which was a good thing, because Lark would have likely killed me. I turned and focused on Mickie, hearing Ernie behind me saying things to Lark like, “uncool.” Mickie’s mascara had run, and her eyes were red from crying. That’s all it took. I turned for Lark. “It’s cool,” Ernie said, putting a hand on my chest. “He’s drunk. They’re getting him out.”
“It’s not cool.” I said it loud enough that everyone came to a standstill. I slapped Ernie’s hand away and walked past him. “Lark.”