Senior prom was kind of our last formal hurrah before graduation. Years ago, the only ones permitted to attend were opposite-sex couples only, thank you very much, but now anyone who could afford a ticket was allowed in. Some parents still grumbled about that—not too many—but frankly it didn’t matter to me or anybody I knew because, well, it wasn’t a matter of life or death; it was just a fancy dinner and a dance.
Onion, Dave, and I had been going together to the prom since our sophomore year. It was amazing how well Dave washed up when he really wanted to; he was almost unrecognizable with slicked-back hair, neatly trimmed beard, and a tux. Onion, too, could really dazzle in a dress, although it was odd to see her with just one layer of clothing. As for me, I didn’t take proms all that seriously, so I always tried to add some outrageous element to what I was wearing that nobody would forget. People thought I was trying to make some kind of statement about proms or society or something like that, but really, I was just having fun. This year, I found a fluorescent green bowtie with matching handkerchief square and cummerbund to wear with my tuxedo.
When I put the whole outfit together, I just had to show Dad and Kenny before Dave picked me up to go the banquet hall where the prom was about to start.
“Too bright,” said Kenny, briefly covering his eyes. “George should wear something else.”
My dad just laughed when he saw me.
“You look like a leprechaun ambassador. Well, if the power goes out, people will know where you are.”
I heard a horn beep in the driveway. Dave was right on time.
To my surprise, not only had Dave washed his car, he’d cleaned out the inside as well.
“Wow, Dave,” I said as I got in. “Lots of room back here. How hard was it to wash?”
He snorted. “The dirt was caked on. I really had to scrub. It looked like some of it in the wheel wells was still there from your little football field excursion. Remember that?” he said, looking back at me, as if it were even possible I could forget.
“Sure, Dave. I remember,” I said, as pleasantly as I could.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him was that after all his scrubbing, every dent and scrape stood out now like the proverbial sore thumb. He had the only car I knew that actually looked better dirty than clean, all the damage camouflaged nicely by all the layers of crud.
Onion came out of her house looking like a fashion model, wearing a sparkling silver dress and her hair styled way up like I had never seen it before. When she got in next to Dave, she had to keep her head down so her hairdo didn’t get crushed. I noticed she was clutching a little silver purse of some kind.
“You look great,” Dave said.
“Thank you, David.”
“What’s in the purse?” I asked. “You’ve never carried one before.”
“Nothing’s in it. It’s an accessory, okay?”
She did a double take glancing back at me.
“What are you supposed to be? The leprechaun president? It’s not a costume party.”
I was beginning to think I should have gone with some other fluorescent color if I was going to hear leprechaun comments all night.
When we arrived, the front entrance was lined with limousines of all shapes and sizes, including some that looked half a block long. Dave honked several times as he drove past them to park in the lot next to the building.
“Why did you do that?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Just to let the beautiful people in their fancy rides know that the truly important people were here.”
The banquet hall was really an aristocratic kind of place, with wide, sweeping staircases, lots of intricate woodwork, and the plushest, bounciest carpeting I had ever walked on. The tables all had these tall brass cardholders with guests’ names printed in fancy script on gold-bordered cards. We spread out to search for our names in the sea of tables, each one elaborately set with fine china, crisply folded linen napkins, and glimmering silverware. The room was about half full, with more people trickling in behind us.
“I don’t believe it,” Dave said by one of the few tables that didn’t have someone already sitting at it.
We abandoned our search for our names to see what Dave had found.
“Oh, no,” I said when I saw what Dave was pointing at. “It can’t be.”
Dave had found our name cards. The good news was, we were sitting together as we had requested. The bad news was, we were sitting at the head table with Principal Morgan. And his wife.
“Who made these table assignments?” Dave demanded to know.
“I don’t know, but they sure have a twisted sense of humor,” Onion said.
Dave looked around to see if anyone was watching, then snatched his card out of its holder.
“Come on. Grab yours. Let’s switch with someone before Morgan gets here.”
“Too late. Put it back,” I whispered.
Principal Morgan walked through the entrance with a primly dressed woman who looked to be his age holding on to his arm.
Mr. and Mrs. Morgan had arrived.
With a faint sigh of resignation, Dave surreptitiously slipped his name card back in its holder as they approached.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Nancy. Are you our tablemates?”
Mrs. Morgan beamed at us even if Mr. Morgan didn’t.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, knowing David wouldn’t.
“Splendid. This is my wife, Agatha.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, and gave a little bow.
“Agatha, this is George Wells, and this is David Baker.”
Agatha’s cheerful expression quickly faded, and she briefly touched her face. “Oh. I see. Nice to meet both of you.”
“And this is Nancy Gordon.”
Agatha’s cheerful expression returned just as fast as it had disappeared.
“So very good. You look wonderful, my dear.” She took Onion’s hand in hers.
“Why, thank you,” Onion said. “So do you.”
Principal Morgan gave Dave and me a brief look of disdain.
“Your reputations precede you, don’t they, gentlemen? Shall we take our seats?”
“Right away,” I said. After that introduction, I was all too happy to no longer be standing face to face with them.
The room was nearly full now, with most guests having found where they belonged. Soft piano music started up from somewhere as we took our seats. A few feet in front of us was a lectern with a microphone.
“Excuse me,” Morgan said, getting back up. “Now that just about everybody is here, I have to make some opening remarks.”
He strode purposefully to the lectern. Those who noticed immediately fell silently.
“Welcome to your senior prom, ladies and gentlemen. Dinner will be served shortly. Let’s give a round of applause to the prom committee for making this event happen. As usual, they’ve done a wonderful job.”
There was enthusiastic applause. Even though everyone looked around to see who it was exactly they were supposed to be applauding, no one waved or stood up to take credit.
“After dinner, there will be dancing in the adjacent room.” He pulled a small card out of his coat pocket. “Music tonight will be provided by . . . DJ Outofmyway.” He looked closer at the card. “Is that right? Well, it’s music. I think.” He shrugged and put the card away. “Oh, and joining me at the head table this evening are three of your classmates I’m sure you all know: Miss Nancy Gordon, Mr. David Baker, and Mr. George Wells.” He glanced back at us with a stiff little grin. “Enjoy the evening, everyone.”
Now the applause was so anemic it was almost nonexistent.
“Oh, great,” Dave said quietly, hunched over as if trying to hide his bulky frame behind the water pitcher in front of him. “Now we look like three brown-noses, like this was our idea.”
Morgan returned and took his seat.
As I looked out over the unsmiling, nearly hostile-looking crowd from our head table vantage point, something told me this was going to be long, long night.
We helped ourselves to the rolls in the breadbasket at our table. No one spoke. I hoped someone would start some kind of conversation to break the uneasiness that quickly settled in.
Dave spoke first. “You know, the three of us were surprised to have been selected to sit with you, Principal Morgan, especially after our recent history together. Isn’t that right?” He looked at me and Onion.
Onion and I nodded meekly. I wondered where Dave was headed with this, if he wasn’t leading us into some new kind of slaughter.
“I know,” Morgan said, not looking at any of us. “I saw you pull your name card and hastily put it back as we approached. I can only imagine you were attempting to sit anywhere else but here.”
Dave sputtered a bit in his water glass. “Oh. You saw that, did you?”
“Yes. But I haven’t been completely forthright with you, either. The truth of the matter is I requested that the three of you be seated with me.”
“Why?” I said, without really meaning to.
Dave hung his head, as if already regretting what he was about to say. “I hope that wasn’t because you wanted to keep an eye on us this evening, like unruly children.”
Morgan gave a dry little laugh. “Perhaps to some degree. No, mainly I wanted to follow up on our ‘recent history,’ as you put it, and see if you truly learned the lessons you claim to have. In short, I wanted to see if you’re sincere or if you believe you’ve pulled the wool over my eyes. I hope that’s not the case because I would be very disappointed.”
“I would never do that,” Onion said.
Dave and I didn’t respond in kind. By the time I thought to agree, it was much too late.
“I never thought you would, Nancy,” Morgan said. “Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about your two friends.”
We were silent again.
Principal Morgan cleared his throat as he buttered his roll.
“Interesting color selection for your tuxedo accessories, Mr. Wells.”
I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “Well, thanks,” was all I could say. At least he hadn’t mentioned anything about leprechauns.
He paused. “Weren’t you the one who wore the spinning bowtie that lit up at last year’s junior prom? That caused quite a sensation as I recall.”
I was amazed he remembered. “Yes! That was me!”
His stern expression remained. “I thought so.”
No one spoke again for an uncomfortable amount of time.
“So, Mr. Wells. Our groundskeeper Mr. Meadows tells me you did a wonderful job helping him to restore the football field after you damaged it with Mr. Baker’s car.”
Dave nudged me hard in the ribs, and I knew why. Morgan made it sound like Dave was partly responsible.
“Yes, sir, but of course David didn’t know I had taken his car, as I’m sure you remember.”
I saw Dave nod as he chewed, satisfied with my response.
“I like Mr. Meadows,” I added. “He’s a nice guy.”
Principal Morgan looked at me as if surprised I would say such a thing.
“I like him, too. He does excellent work.”
“He knows a lot about old movies, you know.”
Morgan’s eyebrows went up.
“No, I didn’t know that. Do you like old movies?”
“Yes, sir. One in particular. My favorite. Mr. Meadows knew some things about it I didn’t.”
“Oh? Which movie is that?”
“The 1960 version of The Time Machine with Rod Taylor and Yvette Mimieux.” I beamed, certain that Morgan would be impressed.
Instead, he put his roll down, tossed back his head and laughed. “That old thing? It’s terrible! That’s your favorite movie?”
I heard both Onion and Dave chortle. They didn’t even try to hide it.
“Well, I think it’s a fine movie,” Agatha said. “Don’t pay any attention to him.”
Principal Morgan shrugged, picked up his roll, and took a bite. I was beginning to like Agatha a lot more than her husband.
“And how are you doing, Mr. Baker? Feeling better now?” Morgan asked, staring over the top of his glasses at Dave.
Dave’s amused reaction to Morgan’s comment about The Movie vanished.
“Yes, I am. The doctor I’m seeing is helping me with my . . . mood issues.”
Agatha set her roll aside and looked at Dave with concern. “You do whatever is necessary to get better, young man. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
She gave her husband an icy stare. He coughed politely and looked away from her.
Now I was beginning to think that the wrong Morgan was our principal.
A gaggle of waiters appeared with trays at our table. Apparently, the head table was going to be served first, which so far was just about the only benefit of having to sit there.
Dave nudged me again. “Good. I’m starving,” he whispered.
It was going to be family-style dining, I soon realized, as the waiters set heaping bowls of twice-baked potatoes, vegetables, roasted chicken, and salads on either side. It all smelled wonderful, and I waited to see who would serve themselves first, figuring it would be Agatha and Onion.
Before anyone could reach for the food, the sound of dishes crashing and a yell came from the entrance to the hall.
“No, you watch out!” someone said in a loud, slurred voice.
A senior who I vaguely recognized came charging in, wearing a disheveled tuxedo that looked slept in. He staggered toward us, arms raised.
Both Principal Morgan and Dave stood up when he stopped in front of our table.
“Morgan!” he said. The smell of alcohol from his breath overpowered the smell of the food. “What do you think you’re doing, man?” He wavered unsteadily in front of us.
Morgan signaled for help from the waiters, who didn’t seem to know how to respond. Dave ushered Onion and Agatha away from the confrontation. Agatha in particular looked distraught.
“What’s the meaning of this?” Morgan demanded.
It was then I remembered that this was the glassy-eyed guy who insisted I have a beer at the house party months ago. I had to wonder if he had ever sobered up since then or if he was perpetually drunk, which was really a sad thought.
“Meaning?” he rasped. “There’s no meaning in any of this. I’m supposed to be here with Maria, but I guess I’m not good enough.”
He turned around and staggered to the lectern.
“Maria? Where are you?” The sound system screeched from his too-close encounter with the microphone.
The crowd fell silent and finally looked our way.
“Did you disappear, Maria? Did you just vanish? How about that. Must be magic.”
He turned and staggered back to our table.
His face brightened considerably. “Say, do you like magic, Principal Morgan? Well, do you? I’m gonna do a little magic trick for you. Watch this!”
And with that, he grabbed the front of our tablecloth and yanked, falling backward in the process.
You know, if you really could have a time machine, you could watch time go by not only fast but slow as well, so you could see everything in the smallest detail that normally happens too fast to be observed. As if I had set the controls of a time machine to make the next second or two last much longer than normal, I watched as the tablecloth tried to escape from under all those place settings and bowls of food. Done properly, the trick of course is to yank the smooth tablecloth so quick, everything stays right where it is and drops the imperceptible thickness of the cloth straight down to the now-bare table, no harm done. But this tablecloth was bunched up and moving just a little too slow, I saw in my altered state of mind. The empty cups and silverware reacted first, lifting up and tumbling end over end. Then the plates took off, wobbling into the air. Finally, the food quaked and launched up out of their heavy serving bowls, chicken and potatoes and lettuce and tomatoes, each piece taking its own unique trajectory. Some came right toward me, others toward Principal Morgan. Even Dave, shielding Agatha and Onion as best he could, was standing within range of the flying food projectiles. One by one they found their targets, striking with a distinctive splat—face, chest, outstretched arms and hands. As the tablecloth laboriously made its way off the table, there was that silent pause like after a flash of lightning, then the thunder as everything came raining back down, breaking and ringing and bouncing and spinning, until finally all was still.
After that, as I sat there covered in food, I looked up and saw everyone on their feet, mouths hanging open. Where there had been steady chatter and the clinking of glasses, now there were only stares.
And then there was a single guffaw, an old-fashioned kind of snort, right behind me. I turned around.
Agatha was pointing at Principal Morgan, who was covered in more food than even I was, with half a potato upside down on his head like a tiny little hat.
“Charlie, you look ridiculous!” And she guffawed again.
That was all the permission we needed for everyone to laugh—even, to my faint surprise, Principal Morgan, whose laughter seemed restrained, but laughter nonetheless.
The only one not laughing was Dave, who had taken the fewest hits but was still food stained.
He stood there looking indignant, as if shocked that anyone would find it funny.
“How come . . . why is everybody . . .” he stammered, apparently unable to comprehend the humor in the situation.
“Dave, our head table is a wreck and our principal is covered in food. That’s funny,” Onion explained.
Agatha laughed along with her.
Dave kind of slumped then, as if defeated.
“But I was really hungry,” he said.
Onion patted him on the shoulder.
“Now, now. I’m sure they’ll give you plenty to eat.”
Dave seemed consoled by that and finally smiled a bit.
Only then did I notice our wannabe magician, still lying on the floor in front of us, clutching the tablecloth up to his chin like a blanket. His eyes were shut.
Dave and I went over and stood on either side of him. A few others joined us.
“Is he dead?” someone asked.
“I don’t think so,” Dave replied.
“He looks peaceful,” I said.
“Serene,” Dave added.
A puzzled look came across Dave’s face. He bent down and turned an ear toward the motionless figure.
“You know why?” Dave said, straightening back up. “He’s sound asleep. I thought I heard snoring.”
We let him slumber as we pitched in with the wait staff to clean up the mess the failed magic trick left behind.
The mood the rest of the evening was upbeat after that, boisterous even. Dave finally got his meal, as did the rest of us at the head table. Despite my mottled, greasy appearance—or maybe because of it—I actually went out on the dance floor and danced the night away, figuring I had nothing left to lose—at least, not my dignity. In a way, it was totally liberating. Dave danced too, in his stiff, jerky fashion. Perhaps not surprisingly, we were both quite popular with the ladies, who not only wanted to dance with us but have their pictures taken with us, food stains and all. When Onion wasn’t dancing, she was laughing hysterically on the sidelines at our awkward dance moves, which we exaggerated just for her.
It reminded me of the time I danced with Kenny at The Post, only sillier still.
Before Agatha and Charlie left, they took to the dance floor when a slow song started. The dance crowd stepped aside and applauded. And when Agatha put the half potato she was secretly carrying back on Mr. Morgan’s head, the crowd roared its approval.
“You know, I never thought I’d say this, but tonight, Morgan’s all right,” Dave said as our principal danced proudly with his potato hat. “I had no idea he had it in him to act like a regular person.”
“I think Agatha brings out the best in him,” Onion said. “She’s pretty cool.”
“He should bring her to work, then,” Dave replied. “Maybe that would improve his image.”
“Think we convinced him we’re sincere?” I asked.
“Sure,” Onion said. “Dave shielded his wife from a whole bowl of flying chicken.”
The crowd thinned as the night wore down. Since Dave was our ride home and he wanted to leave, complaining that his feet hurt after all that dancing, we went to hunt for Onion’s lost accessory purse, which had gone flying with our plates and food hours earlier.
To our great surprise, our failed magician hadn’t budged from his spot, still reposed and covered by the tablecloth.
“He’s still here? Really?” Onion said. “Nobody kicked him out or called the police or an ambulance or anything?” She picked up her purse from under our table.
“Nope. Still sleeping like a baby,” Dave observed.
“What should we do?” I asked. “We can’t just leave him here.”
“Sure we can. Not our problem. Let Morgan or the banquet hall people deal with him. We’re outta here.”
Onion stepped over him to head out, and we obediently followed.
When I got home and walked through the door in the wee hours of the morning, my dad was nearly ready for bed.
“Good heavens!” he said the second he saw me. “What happened to you?”
Like Homecoming, once again I didn’t know where to begin.
“Dad,” I said, going the simple explanation route again as I walked by, “it was prom night, remember?”
“Oh. Of course,” he replied in a voice that said he understood, even though his expression clearly said he didn’t.
On my way to my room, I looked in on Kenny, who was asleep in his usual curled position. I wondered what kind of proms he would attend in the future—and I was sure he would—and if he would have as much fun as I did that evening.
He stirred a bit and opened his eyes.
“George is home,” he said, as if reassured to see me.
“Shhh,” I hissed, finger to my lips. “Sorry. Don’t let Dad hear I woke you up.”
“Did George have fun?”
“You bet.”
“Did George dance?”
“Yes, I did. You should have seen me.” I sat down on the edge of his bed in the semi-dark, the only light coming down the hall from the kitchen. “I made a real fool of myself.”
“Kenny dances, too.”
“I know you do. You’re a good dancer.”
“Lots of pretty girls there?”
“Lots of pretty girls. You’ll dance with some when you go to your proms someday. You’ll see.”
He reached out and touched one of food stains on my tuxedo where a stick of butter had stuck.
“Uh oh. George made a mess,” he said.
“Yes, there was a big mess. But that’s all right. We cleaned it up.”
Kenny yawned. “Good night, George.”
“Good night, Kenny. Sleep tight.” And I got up and softly closed his bedroom door, glad to be home and glad the prom had turned out the way it did, magic trick fail and all.