Carrie felt herself blushing again and dropped her eyes to the table. 'It's awfully nice of you to say so. I know I'm not ... not really ... but thank you anyway.'
'It's true,' Desjardin said. 'Carrie, anything that happened before ... well, it's all forgotten. I wanted you to know that.'
'I can't forget it,' Carrie said- She looked up. The words that rose to her lips were: I don't blame anyone any more. She bit them off. It was a lie. She blamed them all and always would, and she wanted more than anything else to be honest. 'But it's over with. Now it's over with.'
Miss Desjardin smiled, and her eyes seemed to catch and hold the soft mix of lights in an almost liquid sparkling. She looked across toward the dance floor, and Carrie followed her gaze.
'I remember my own prom,' Desjardin said softly. 'I was two inches taller than the boy I went with when I was in my heels. He gave me a corsage that clashed with my gown. The tailpipe was broken on his car and the engine made ... oh, an awful racket But it was magic, I don't know why. But I've never had a date like it, ever again.' She looked at Carrie. 'Is it like that for you?'
'It's very nice,' Carrie said.
'And is that all?'
'No. There's more. I couldn't tell it all. Not to anybody.'
Desjardin smiled and squeezed her arm. 'You'll never forget it,' she said. 'Never.'
'I think you're right.'
'Have a lovely time, Carrie.'
'Thank you.'
Tommy came up with two Dude cups of punch as Desjardin left, walking around the dance floor toward the chaperones' table.
'What did she want?' he asked, putting the Dude caps down carefully.
Carrie, looking after her, said: 'I think she wanted to say she was sorry.'
(momma untie your apron strings i'm getting big)
and she wanted it that way.
'Look,' he said as they got up.
Two or three stagehands were sliding the King and Queen thrones from the wings while Mr Lavoie, the head custodian, directed them with hand motions toward preset marks on the apron. She thought they looked quite Arthurian, those thrones, dressed all in blinding white, strewn with real flowers as well as huge crepe banners.
'They're beautiful,' she said.
'You're beautiful,' Tommy said, and she became quite sure that nothing bad could happen this night - perhaps they themselves might even be voted King and Queen of the Prom. She smiled at her own folly.
It was nine o'clock.
Sue Snell sat quietly in the living room of her house, hemming a dress and listening to the Jefferson Airplane Long John Silver album. It was old and badly scratched, but soothing.
Her mother and father had gone out for the evening. They knew what was going on, she was sure of that, but they had spared her the bumbling talks about how proud they were of Their Girl, or how glad they were that she was finally Growing Up. She was glad they had decided to leave her alone, because she was still uncomfortable about her own motives and afraid to examine them too deeply, lest she discover a jewel of selfishness glowing and winking at her from the black velvet of her subconscious.
Chapter Thirteen
She had done it; that was enough; she was satisfied.
(maybe he'll fall in love with her)
She looked up as if someone had spoken from the hallway, a startled smile curving her lips. That would be a fairy-tale ending, all right. The Prince bends over the Sleeping Beauty, touches his lips to hers.
Sue, I don't know how to tell you this but
The smile faded.
Her period was late. Almost a week late. And she had always been as regular as an almanac.
The record changer clicked; another record dropped down. In the sudden, brief silence, she heard something within her turn over. Perhaps only her soul.
It was nine-fifteen.
Billy drove to the far end of the parking lot and pulled into a stall that faced the asphalt ramp leading to the highway. Chris started to get out and he jerked her back. His eyes glowed ferally in the dark.
'What?' she said with angry nervousness.
'They use a P.A. system to announce the King and Queen,' he said. Then one of the bands will play the school song. That means they're sitting there in those thrones, on target.'
'I know all that. Let go of me. You're hurting.'
He squeezed her wrist tighter still and felt small bones grind. It gave him a grim pleasure. Still, she didn't cry out She was pretty good.
'You listen to me. I want you to know what you're getting into. Pull the rope when the song is playing. Pull it hard. There will be a little slack between the pulleys, but not much. When you pull it and feel those buckets go, run. You don't stick around to hear the screams or anything else. This is out of the cute-little-joke league. This is criminal assault, you know? They don't fine you. They put you in jail and throw the key over their shoulder.'
It was an enormous speech for him.
Her eyes only glared at him, full of defiant anger.
'Dig it?'
'Yes.'
'All right. When the-buckets go, I'm going to run. When I get to the car, I'm going to drive away. If you're there, you can come. If youre not, I'll leave you. If I leave you and you spill your guts, I'll kill you. Do you believe me'
'Yes. Take your f**king hand off me.'
He did. An unwilling shadow-grin touched his face. May. 'It's going to be good.'
They got out of the car.
It was almost nine-thirty.
Vic Mooney, President of the Senior Class, was calling jovially into the mike.. 'All right, ladies and gennelmen. Take your seats, please. Ifs time for the voting. We're going to vote for the King and Queen.'
'This contest insults women!' Myra Crewes called with uneasy good nature.
'It insults men, too!' George Dawson called back, and there was general laughter. Myra was silent. She had made her token protest.
'take your seats, please!' Vic was smiling into the mike, and blushing furiously, fingering a pimple on his chin. The huge Venetian boatman behind him looked dreamily over Vic's shoulder. 'Time to vote.'