Saturday Night Read online

  She checked the mirror again, tilting her head to one side to see the rhinestones, and a flashbulb went off in her face. “Grandma, I wish you wouldn’t do that!” Anne cried. Lights continued dancing in her eyes, making the queasy feeling come back.

  “I always immortalize you before your dates,” said her grandmother, paying no attention to Anne’s complaints.

  Panic began to crawl up Anne, like some kind of little slimy animal, taking control of her, walking on her skin.

  She could hardly breathe.

  The doorbell rang. Her mother and grandmother pounded down the stairs like two little kids, to let Con in. Grandmother got there first. She was a swim instructor at the Y and more athletic than any of them. Anne could hear Con’s soft voice—very deep, very mellow. Everybody in school said it was the sexiest voice they’d ever heard. Anne would have to agree with that. Bellowing up the stairs to make her hurry, so he wouldn’t have to talk to her mother and grandmother very long, Con shouted, “Anne! I’m here!”

  “Coming,” she called.

  She thought, Maybe I could forget about it for a little while longer. Pretend. It’s our first formal dance. This is my first formal gown. It’s practically an historic event at the school, since it’s been so long since they’ve allowed dances like this. Not since the vandalism three years ago. Who am I to ruin it for us?

  She stared at the dress again.

  She would never have chosen the dress herself. But she found her grandmother’s decisions hard to argue with. The dress was rather too hard-edged, too sophisticated. Anne would have chosen something much softer, much more romantic. The dress was so bright it screamed.

  Well, that’s only right, she thought. I certainly feel like screaming. Perhaps I will scream. Go to the top of the stairs, look down at these three people who run my life entirely, and start screaming.

  She walked to the top of the stairs, went down six steps to the landing, turned, and looked into the uptilted faces of the three people who admired her most in the world. Con was laughing, his wonderful smile spread across his face. He tossed the flowers up to her. Anne caught them and bent her face over the bouquet: gardenias. They smelled like paradise, thick with romance.

  As she reached the bottom of the stairs, the flashbulb went off, but she was prepared this time, and kept her eyes focused on the lovely flowers. Tears came into her eyes again. “I love you, Con,” she said huskily.

  He looked faintly surprised. Was it because he knew that already, and there was no reason to repeat it? Or was it because he didn’t love her, loved only the good times he had with her, loved being the perfect couple with her, and. …

  With all the self-control she had ever learned, Anne put a smile on her face. “Some dress!” said Con, which was high praise from him, and Grandmother Stephens looked happy.

  “You’ll be home by one A.M.?” her mother said to Con, frowning so that Con would know this was a command.

  Con smiled. “Yes, we will.” He put his arm around Anne.

  “You do know there’s a terrible storm out there,” he said to her. “You got a raincoat or something?”

  “A raincoat? Over that dress?” her grandmother said.

  Anne’s raincoat was shabby. She knew in the morning her mother would buy her a new one, having seen the shabbiness. “Let’s run to the car, Con,” she said, holding the coat over her to keep her hair dry.

  She ran, and kept her hair dry. It reminded her of some old battle cry. Keep your powder dry, boys. If I tell him tonight, that’s what tonight will be, thought Anne. A war zone. But I have to tell him tonight. I can’t last alone any longer.

  Con began driving.

  He put the windshield wipers on high, and heavy rain flicked off the glass. Lightning tore through the sky, and thunder rolled. Anne stared at Con’s profile. He didn’t notice.

  Chapter 3

  EMILY EDMUNDSON HATED THUNDER and lightning. She had read lots of statistics by now, and every time she had to leave the house during an electrical storm (or stay in the house alone) she reminded herself that few people were killed each year by lightning. Emily knew, however, that she was destined to be one of the few.

  What would it be like to be burned to death by a shaft of electricity? Quick, at least.

  Outside her bedroom window lightning fired in the sky like a series of warning signals. Don’t go, don’t go.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” said Emily’s mother, fixing the hook at the top of the zipper in the back of Emily’s dress.

  Emily smiled tightly at her mother. But she didn’t answer. Emily felt that she was boring. Therefore, all her thoughts were boring, too. Emily never knew what to do about being boring. Her life was dull, and apparently it was because she was a dull person. Right now Emily could not help thinking that her mother offered a penny for Emily’s thoughts because that was all Mrs. Edmundson thought they were worth.

  “I hope poor Matt recognizes you,” said Emily’s mother, laughing. “Goodness! The poor boy sat next to you in some assembly for an hour, and here he has to go out on a night like this to take you to a formal dance. We were all so surprised he agreed to go!”

  Emily forced a smile. “Not as surprised as I was. Good thing I don’t have any sisters for him to confuse me with. At least that way he’ll know who the flowers are for.”

  Mrs. Edmundson patted Emily’s arm and left her bedroom. Thunder rocked the foundations of the house. Emily, who kept track of such things, did not think she had seen such a fierce storm in years. And to think she had to leave her house, run through this wicked rain and lightning and thunder to get into Matt’s car, and then do the very same thing again to get into the high school. And all the time pretending she hardly noticed. Because, as her mother would have been quick to reassure her, most people did not give lightning storms a thought.

  Emily stared at herself in her mirror.

  She could never tell if she was attractive or not. There were times when she felt the reflection in that mirror was quite satisfactory, and other times when she felt that leaving the house would be an act of cruelty to the general public who would have to look at her. But at last tonight she had the perfect dress. Old-fashioned, garnet-colored, the cloth was a heavy velvet. Very romantic, dark crimson, with the narrowest line of pearl beads around the swooping neckline. She felt like the sort of girl who sat with a feathered fan and flirted with the young gentlemen.

  Oh, how she wanted a lovely evening to go with her lovely dress!

  Her mother had certainly cooperated. Mrs. Edmundson had taken Emily to the hairdresser, and bought her earrings that looked as if they had been custom made for the dress, with the same narrow pearls, and even agreed to the special purchase of matching shoes: shoes in that dark romantic red that would never match anything else in her life—shoes for a single night.

  Don’t let it be a single night, prayed Emily, staring at the sky. Let Matt fall in love with me. Let this be the first night of many, many more. Please.

  She sighed.

  The odds against such a thing were pretty high.

  She’d met Matt the second week of the term. There was a regional student government conference. Nobody in Emily’s school was interested in their own school government, let alone a regional conference. Every class officer in sophomore, junior, and senior year pleaded conflict from sports, jobs, family, or lessons. The social studies teacher in charge looked vaguely around his Comparative Economics class and said, “We have to send somebody. Won’t anybody volunteer to represent us?”

  Emily raised her hand.

  The teacher said (burning the words into Emily’s mind as if printing them with a hot branding iron), “Oh, good. At least Westerly will have a warm body there.”

  That’s all she was. A warm body. The teacher couldn’t even remember her name. She had to spell Edmundson for him. And the next week when he demanded to know why she’d been absent from his class on Wednesday, she had to remind him about the conference.

  But Matt had
remembered. Emily called him up. The most daring thing she’d done in her life. She felt as if she were scaling Mount Everest just lifting that telephone. And Matt remembered. His laugh rang out over the phone as if Emily had made his day by calling.

  “Emily!” he cried happily. “The only interesting person at that whole conference. It’s great to hear your voice! So what’s happening? Where are you calling me from? Are you up here? Are you coming our way? Want me to meet you at the turnpike exit?”

  Emily was staggered. Her biggest fear had been thinking of something to say to him. And listen to this outpouring of interest! “I just called to talk,” she said nervously. “I would drive up to see you if I had a driver’s license though. And a car, and money to buy gas.”

  Matt laughed. “I’ll settle for the phone call. It sounds like it could be a few years before you drive my way. Your timing is perfect. I’m doing trig. I hate math. Don’t know why I’m planning to be an engineer when I hate math. You think maybe I should consider another career goal, Emily? What do you think about my becoming a disc jockey? I sure can talk.”

  Oh, yes, he could talk! For two hours they talked, and her mother didn’t interrupt her once. They went over the conference, as if it really had been fun. But it was Matt who’d been fun. For once Emily had had good luck—sitting next to a strange boy in the auditorium who instantly introduced himself and informed her they would go to the lectures together, because a person could only survive this junk if he had an ally.

  That was late September. All through October Emily thought about Matt.

  Kip Elliott had created the Autumn Leaves Dance herself; chaired every committee, in her exuberance and determination to make it wonderful. Kip had a knack for publicity. Everybody in school—and Westerly had nearly 2,000 students—knew as each step was accomplished. And each time Emily heard about the next thing Kip had done for this dance, she thought, I wonder if Matt would. …

  And over the phone he said, yes, he would, he’d love to.

  And she believed him, because he was such a solid person; he seemed so trustworthy and good and funny. Like Con Winter, who dated Anne Stephens. Matt seemed perfect to Emily, so of course she believed him. She said it was formal and Matt said he had a tuxedo. She said her street was hard to find and Matt said he had the directions written down and would not lose them.

  But he had not called her in the two weeks since then.

  No flowers had been delivered.

  He had done no double checking to be sure he had the right night, the right hour.

  Emily turned out the light in her room, and stared into the pelting rain outside her window, and shivered when lightning ripped through the night. I’m a fool, she thought. He was just handing me a line. He didn’t mean it. He won’t come. A forty-five minute drive to Westerly in this weather? Next year’s yearbook they’ll have a new category. Biggest Jerk. Emily Edmundson. Most Gullible. Emily Edmundson.

  The dance starts in fifteen minutes.

  And he’s not here.

  Her mother walked into the room and flicked on the lights. “Don’t sit in the dark, Emily. Honestly, Emily, this boy will come. Although I must admit if he doesn’t show I’m going to be irritated.”

  Emily sat immovable in the garnet velvet dress, the pearls dangling delicately against her cheeks. Irritated? she thought. My mother will be irritated? I will be sick with shame and sadness and embarrassment and loneliness … and my mother will be irritated.

  Emily sat alone.

  Lightning flashed, thunder shuddered.

  And Matt did not appear.

  Molly Nelmes adored boys, and they adored her.

  Sometimes she stared into her mirror, wondering what the boys saw. Certainly girls didn’t see it. Molly didn’t have a female friend in the world. Molly didn’t have a great figure, either, or terrific looks, or wonderful hair. Yet she was the only girl who was truly in demand. She actually turned boys down fairly often, because she already had a date. Those same boys came back again, until she squeezed them into her schedule—or didn’t squeeze them in, if they were duds.

  But things had slacked off. All fall there had been nobody but Roddy. Over the summer, girls and boys had paired off. Molly hadn’t run into this before; most of the boys at Westerly were pretty casual. Now they were imitating Anne and Con, who had been and remained the most tightly bound of couples.

  Molly’s favorite sweat shirt said SO MANY BOYS … SO LITTLE TIME. She had no intention of tying herself down to anybody.

  Roddy was all right. A little on the thin and gawky side for her taste, but he’d fill out this year. He was seventeen, and even the shrimpy ones started growing when they hit seventeen. Not too bright, but brains weren’t number one for Molly. Roddy had plenty of money, and she liked that. He could borrow his father’s Jaguar, which she loved, and he had his own four-year-old Ford—not exciting, but there.

  But Roddy had had the cars taken away. His grades fell, he got a speeding warning, he’d failed to write a thank you letter to his grandmother, or some dumb thing, and the cars had been taken away for six weeks.

  As far as Molly was concerned, Roddy no longer had anything to offer. She herself had no car, and what good was a boy if he couldn’t drive you to the movies or the Pou-Belle, or someplace? She especially liked the Pou-Belle. A coffeehouse/juice bar, with pool tables, darts, video games, wide screen television, and a dance floor. Pou-Belle meant “garbage can” in French, which appealed to Molly’s sense of humor. She loved to hang out there.

  They had ridden with another couple to Pou-Belle the week before and Roddy got all bent out of shape when Molly danced with other people. “I like to dance,” she said to him. “And you’re not good at fast dances. You just sort of stand there and twitch.”

  She was trying to be funny; she was laughing when she said it. But Roddy blushed an uncomfortable splotchy red, and mumbled, and fumbled. Molly couldn’t stand being with a boy who was awkward. She walked away instantly, and who should be leaning against the bar, waiting for some action, but Christopher Vann.

  She was amazed to see him. Christopher had graduated from Westerly High two years before. A sophomore at some Ivy League college back East, he was old enough now to drink legally. What on earth was he doing in a kids’ juice bar? She went right up and asked him, in her direct way.

  “Waiting for someone like you,” said Christopher instantly, and Molly laughed, and forgot about Roddy. A few hours later when their ride was leaving, Roddy came up to her and Christopher. Looking down at his shoes (stupid shoes; shoes with Velcro pads instead of laces) he mumbled, “You ready to leave, Molly?”

  “No,” said Molly. “I’m going with Christopher.”

  Christopher grinned down at Roddy. Big, broad, and muscular, Christopher had been the football captain and president of his class as a senior. Almost got into West Point, but ended up at Harvard instead. Harvard. Molly adored the sound of it. I go with a Harvard guy, of course, she pictured herself saying.

  “So what are you doing this weekend?” she said to Christopher.

  Roddy shuffled a little bit. Molly thought, At least when you asked me to the Autumn Leaves Dance, you were a jerk with a Jaguar. Now you’re just a jerk.

  It would be fantastic to appear with Christopher. There were plenty of decent boys in Westerly now—like Con, or Gary—but Christopher was a Harvard man, and this year’s crop was nothing like that. What a splash she would make, strolling in with Christopher! Molly was wildly excited.

  “You got something in mind?” Christopher asked lazily.

  “I’m taking you to a dance.” She grinned at him mischievously, a grin she had long ago learned wrapped boys around her little finger.

  Christopher fell right in line. “What kind of dance?” he said.

  Roddy made a funny little sound.

  Molly said, “Formal. At school. You’ve got to dust off your tuxedo and everything and I’ll be wearing a dress cut so low you’ll have trouble driving.”

 
Christopher laughed. “Can’t pass up an offer like that,” he said. They talked about the dance and about Harvard, and what she would wear. Actually her dress wasn’t that low cut because her mother wouldn’t buy her anything like that, but Molly was no stickler for facts.

  On Saturday night she was still laughing happily, without any memory of the way Roddy had slunk off and the way she and Christopher moved on to another nightclub—no juice bar this, but one where she had to lie about her age to get in.

  What a catch Christopher was. Molly even thought of him that way—as something she had snagged, rather than a man she was with.

  Boys, Molly thought contentedly. Her mirror told her the hairdresser had done her hair perfectly and her complexion was clear. I love boys, she thought. Girls, now. A dime a dozen. I hardly even notice girls. Except when they get in my way. But boys are worth counting one by one. I’ve never had a Harvard man before.

  And what it would do for her status in school! Not plain old Roddy, but Christopher Vann, who’d been Most Likely to Succeed and Best Dressed.

  He’ll invite me to a Cambridge weekend, she thought. Football. The Harvard-Yale game.

  When the doorbell rang, and she heard Christopher’s voice and her mother’s, exchanging conventional greetings, Molly was almost delirious with pleasure.

  It did not occur to her to wonder why a Harvard sophomore would be home for a week in November, with nothing better to do than go to a high school dance.

  Chapter 4

  “MOTHER,” SAID BETH ROSE, her voice tight with panic, “can you button me up?”

  Unfortunately her mother’s negative advice would come right along with the buttoning. But there was nobody else in the family to do it. She was an only child, and her father was a television addict who was even now glued to some Saturday night program, although at this hour there was nothing interesting on. Mr. Chapman never cared. He just watched, regardless.