midnight

Her dress is lavish, extreme, ornamental to the pointless max, and yet, only $67 at JCPenny for the dress and shoes. Yellow and light blue, the yellow being a darker shade of yellow, as though the sun were compressed to a tiny pinprick of light and studded against black construction paper. The blue’s a shade of watercolor so light it bleeds through the page, taking the white into oblivion.

She’s tapping her nails along the small side railing leading upstairs. Her house is normal, in a row, beside other normal houses and behind and in front of other houses, all of them rolled off the line. Of course, some minor changes exist, changes in the houses such as a bathroom here where another would have an office, but even then some amount of predictability sneaks past the designers’ eye for random.

White wall-paper, faded couch, tired television, and the room begs no more description.

She’s sitting on the couch, her legs held close and refined, “Princess,” her father called her when she cried from the school kids’ words, and she’s feeling like a princess tonight. 

She’s holding a flower, a flower of singular beauty and strength, a flower made from candy-dipped crystal, a flower made to be balanced between thumb and forefinger to allow the light to catch the petals and illuminate the room in a prism’s power. She’s imagining, as all girls imagine, that the flower he brings her will shine with a luster afforded emeralds, shimmer with a gleam given only to gold, and blind her mother with the brilliance of a thousand sapphires. And of course, he’s a prince, with his hair neatly styled and combed, every strand in perfect accordance, a harmony of gelling shapes and textures, his suit clean and immaculate, certainly no short hems or straggled strings peeking from behind the cummerbund.

“He here yet?” asks her mother, walking down the freshly vacuumed stairs.

“I’m sure he’s on his way,” says the date, and her mother slightly scoffs.

“If he comes at all,” she says, walking up the stairs.

“He’ll come,” says the girl.

Any second now, the door will open, maybe he’ll be bold and brave enough to crash through it on his own, just rip it open and sweep her off her feet, her yellow and blue dress dragging on the lined carpet as he carries her to the car, opening the door, helping her in, softly closing the door, taking her away from her mother. The girl still remembers running inside, throwing open the office door much the way she hopes her prince will, and shouting to her mother, “He asked me! One of the coolest guys at school, and he asked me!”

Her mother had looked at her then, a look filled with experience and age and wisdom, enough wisdom so that nothing but the briefest, “Congratulations, honey” left her lips.

But the week before the dance passed quickly, the girl looking at magazines and watching all the latest TV shows to judge exactly what dress she should wear. The saleswoman had been helpful, with her gentle questions and budget concentrations, and the pair had quickly found the dress, placed on the clearance rack, must have been by mistake, and everything after had been a blur, a wonderful camera flash.

To now, with the clock going on nine-thirty. Doesn’t matter, after all, he’s one of the cool kids, a real jock, and they won’t show up at the dance unless it’s an hour after it starts.

Otherwise, his coolness would be diminished. And in a way, the girl’s glad he doesn’t want to embarrass her like that, bringing her to the dance when only the sophomores with acne and sweaty armpits clog the sides, scared of touching each other for fear of blushes and whispers.

He’s looking out for me, she thinks, and feels a little sad.

Her mother’s walking up and down the hallways upstairs, probably desperate to run downstairs and berate her for being so excited, for acting like such a child, for not even thinking about the possibility that maybe he won’t come—

No. Start thinking about it and it becomes so.

He’ll have a rose, a red, shiny rose to contrast her generic corsage, and he’ll smother her with kisses for being late, her first kisses, and she’ll have so many she could never possibly peel them apart and remember each one. Forgive me, he’ll say, his voice low and firm, melting her knees and forcing goosebumps to appear all over her arms and neck. She’ll forgive him, of course, maybe even scold him a little for being late, nothing major, just a girlfriend chewing out her boyfriend, and they’ll laugh about it later.

But now it’s almost ten-thirty, almost time for the dance to be in full swing, almost time for her to be swinging through and around the lights and patterns on the walls, the speakers reaching past the crowd to capture her ears and force her to listen. She’s waiting to dance, look, she’s starting to shake uncontrollably now, her shoulders moving back and forth, to the sound of an unheard radio, as the clock stays a faithful partner and ticks in time to a second.

Now. 

Eleven-thirty.

He’ll be here in a second, his hands holding nothing, his hair messed up, him asleep the whole time, he’ll say, I forgot. Sorry. Yeah. This meant so much to you. To me, too. He’s taking her corsage, laughing, kind of, or smiling in just that way that says he wants to say something mean but won’t because her mother’s standing behind her, yes she is, and she’s looking sick, and he’s kind of leaving, without her, and she’s chasing him, but she doesn’t make to the door on time, before the slam.

The kisses turn to pinpricks along her cheeks and neck, and she’s startled to realize she’s crying.

Crying, yes, where is he, it’s eleven-forty-five, fifty, every tear is a minute for his absence, and she’s drowning.

Arms clumsily encircle her, arms holding her, arms desperate to help her, make her understand, and she’s looking up expectantly, hoping to see her crush, or maybe even the ghostly shadow of a father she no longer remembers.

But it’s her mother, and after a second, her mother walks upstairs again. Too painful.

The memories, they resurface at moments like this. Except, it wasn’t a dark yellow and light blue dress, but a light green and dark pink dress, just as interesting a selection for mother as daughter.

$67 at JCPenny, dress and shoes.

Yellow and light blue, the yellow being a darker shade of yellow, as though the sun were compressed to a tiny pinprick of light and studded against black construction paper.

The blue’s a shade of watercolor so light it bleeds through the page, taking the white into oblivion.

Midnight.