A LITTLE something
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TWO: Part I
HOMECOMING 101
***
Forty-five minutes later, we arrive at a SoBe ballroom that has been transformed into outer space, or at
least what students at Miami Orange Grove Senior High imagine that to be. I suspect a lot of research
wasn’t put into this project. The decorations are mostly a billion twinkle lights and black-velvet tablecloths.
Sheer fabric sprinkled with pearl-colored stardust cascades down from the ceiling.
At Marisol’s insistence, we sit at a table near the dance floor. At first, no one seems to notice us, but
then like water trickling down a pipe, kids start drifting toward our table. Most are friends of Ryan and
Marisol, but a few hazy-eyed potheads with jumbled smiles greet Marc. Nobody says anything to me.
“Dance? Drinks? What do you guys want to do?” Marisol asks.
“Just hang out here for bit?” I reply, as Ryan reaches over to nuzzle Marisol’s neck. She kisses his
forehead, which makes Marc groan.
He stares at them. “Are they going to be like that all night? You know,” he says, his arm sweeping
the room, "this isn't any fun for me."
Marc got dumped last year by his then-girlfriend, Sheila, on the night of homecoming. The
pained expression on his face, which intensifies with every glimpse of Ryan and Marisol's PDA, makes me
wonder if he still has some PTSD surrounding that experience.
“Maybe it’s not too early to dance?” I twist around to face the DJ, who's playing something fast with
a hip-hop beat.
“I can’t dance to that,” Marc mumbles. He slides down in his chair until his chin rests on the tabletop.
As if on cue, a slow song starts, the lyrics promising love and forevers and all the other things you hope to
find in your big high school romance but never do. Marisol squeals, “I love this song!” Ryan starts kissing
her in earnest. Marc closes his eyes.
“Marc, come on. Can you just try?”
Marc shakes his head no. It takes all the strength I gained from my summer bowling excursions with
Marisol to coerce his cranium to the side. Now he sees what I see: The dance floor, our proposed escape
route. It’s a solid plan, until I realize that Sheila is on the dance floor, wrapped around a rail-thin basketball
player. Marc must have seen this too, because he's whacking his forehead against the table. It's like he’s
trying to knock himself into oblivion, which is an alternate escape route, I suppose.
Marisol stretches past Ryan’s lips, steadies her water glass, and asks moodily, “Is he going to be
like this all night?”
I nod toward the dance floor, careful not to utter what’s-her-name’s name.
“Oh, that’s bad,” Marisol says, surprisingly sympathetic considering she does not have a soft spot for
Marc. But there she is, all flushed with concern for his poor crushed heart. And if Marisol could put
her ill-will for Marc aside, maybe Marc could overcome his anger toward Sheila, and we could have an
honest to goodness time at this dance? Maybe—I turn back to the dance floor—it was…
Wait. What is that?
“Susie.” Marisol grips my hand. “Look away.”
But I can’t. There he is—the guy that I absolutely do not have intensely buried feelings for—with his
muscular, brown arms wrapped around Tamara Cruz, my evil-bitch-of-a-former-elementary-school-
friend.
“Susie, look at me.” Gently, Marisol turns my face, so that I'm staring into her blue eyes.
"You'll be fine."
Sensing something important, Marc stops beating his head against the table and glances back to the
dance floor. “Ha!” he says.
Well, Marc can have his victorious Ha! because I have a plan. It involves an emergency to-do list:
1. Take a small restroom break to regain my composure.
2. In restroom, check mirror to make sure that I still look my version of fabulous.
3. Reenter room and act like a normal, not-so-traumatized human being.
I'm already standing, ready to declare my departure, when I realize my tongue is too dry to form the
words. Obviously, I didn’t drink enough water today. So, I point toward the restroom with a hand that
won’t stop shaking, because I didn’t eat dinner before I came. Silly me.
God, my heart is pounding wildly. It feels like someone is pulling my rib cage apart with a pair of
pliers. But this is NOT a sign of my anxiety. It’s just an indication that I didn't need that double shot of
espresso at the hair salon.
The one thing I know is this: I am NOT having a panic attack, BECAUSE a panic attack is not on the
list. A panic attack is NOT the new Susie. That’s SO tenth grade. This is me in eleventh grade, comfortable
in my own body, and happy about my life. I refuse to let Danny Diaz turn the clock back on me. No, this is
NOT a panic attack. This, I decide, is a SLIGHT deviation from THE PLAN, which I can control with deep
breathing and my restroom break.
“Good, Susie, practice your breathing.” Marisol touches my hand encouragingly, like she’s Dr. Phil
or something. In return, I glare at her slender nose, perfectly symmetrical features, and hands that never
shake. “You’re not leaving, right?”
No, I’m not leaving. I’m just going to grab my clutch, and find an exit, any exit, so I can get some
fresh air.
Of course, Marisol doesn’t get all that because it’s communicated with subtle blinks and chin thrusts.
She stands, blocking my path. I shuffle around her, accidentally cracking her in the back with my elbow.
The impact temporarily disorients her, and I make a run for it. I don’t get far before Marc is jogging
beside me, saying, “Wait, take me with you!”
He lunges at my shoulder, and I stumble, falling forward until I grab onto the blurry object in front of
me. It might be a tablecloth or one really ugly dress. When I stabilize, I realize it IS an ugly dress—an
ugly dress that belongs to Sheila.
The universe does, in fact, conspire against us, folks.
“Are you okay?” Sheila stares down at me with her way-too-red lips (unlike my not-too-red lips)
curled up into a really bitchy smile. Suddenly, I wonder if she knows about my hook-up with Marc last year,
which considering the size of Tamara’s big mouth is entirely probable.
“Um…” I release her slinky dress, and with Marc’s help, manage to upright myself. "Yeah, I’m fine."
“I thought you hated these things?” she asks, glaring at me. Considering we hardly know each other,
it's a pretty odd question, but then I realize she’s talking to Marc, not me.
“Susie asked me.” Marc drapes an arm across me, and because I know he’s only trying to aggravate
Sheila, I smile sweetly.
“Why were you banging your head against the table?” Sheila asks.
Marc taps his chest, all caveman style, and says in a voice two octaves too high, “Me? Banging my
head on the table? Get real, girl.”
"What are you, all gangsta-tough now?" She laughs and says mockingly, "Get real, girl."
“That was just our private joke. Okay?” I say.
Marc slips a sweaty hand into mine. “A private joke,” he repeats, his voice suddenly normal.
“Anything else you need to know?”
Sheila stares at our interlocked fingers, her eyes as thin as coin slots. “No,” she says slowly.
Marc nods dismissively, and then pulls me away, toward the ballroom’s double doors. Just shy of
exiting, he stops and releases my hand. “That was something, huh? And you know what’s funny?
It’s like all the time I wasted missing that chick, but when she opened her mouth, all I could think about was
how bitchy she was. And she never listened to me.” He glances towards the dance floor and takes a deep
breath. “Screw her. I want to stay, and, you know, dance. If that’s what you want…”
I follow his stare. Sure enough Danny is still dancing with Tamara. Thankfully, the music has
switched, and his arms are no longer around her. Maybe if Marc survived his face-time with Sheila, I
might survive a similar interaction with Danny?
He extends his hand to me. "Stay?"
I take his hand. "Okay."
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