Rita took me to a boutique in Queens to find a dress that matched Gene's plum-colored tuxedo. I didn't like that plum color, so she helped me look for an elegant, traditional cerise gown. We found a few options, beautiful pink and red dresses that weren't quite what I was looking for. We boutique-hopped for an hour or so before we found the right one. A gorgeous, traditional dark rouge dress that flared at the knees and tightly hugged my chest. It had no sleeves so we paired it with elbow-long gloves of a matching color; it was perfect. I put in an order at the seamstress so I could pick it up a few days later. Meanwhile, Rita bought herself a small, sapphire bracelet. She always had a knack for jewelry, owning a collection of at least a hundred varying colors, shapes, and sizes. She particularly enjoyed bracelets; she had a whole drawer in her dresser dedicated to them. We called for a yellow cab from Queens to the Bronx; it was a short drive, only twenty minutes or so. We watched the people fly by in elongated blurs as "Heartbreak Hotel" played on the radio.
"Could you change the song?" Rita suddenly asked.
I gave her a puzzled look to which she replied with a quick shrug. The driver said a brief "okay, ma'am" and then turned the knob to play "Why Do Fools Fall In Love".
"Just turn the music off."
We went the rest of the drive in silence. When we arrived at my apartment we paid the driver (I gave him a silent apology for Rita's attitude and paid him a little extra for the trouble) and then watched as he drove off into the bustling city. We stood in front of my door for a while in awkward silence before I asked her if she wanted to come upstairs. My apartment wasn't the go-to hang-out spot for our group; Matt's place was homier and Mrs. Bun was a fun gossip while the campus courtyard was often unpopulated so it suited our group well. Kim had only been in my room once since I met her my freshman year and Matt had never stepped a single toe into my apartment (partially because my father was strict on men). She eventually accepted my invitation, and I could tell she had something she wanted to talk about.
We walked up the stairs to the second floor, to apartment room 204 where I unlocked the door and escorted her inside. The living room directly across from the entryway was in a modest state with bare white walls and oak wood beams and pillars, a pale yellow vinyl sofa in the center alongside a matching armchair, and a small circular glass coffee table on top of a yellow circular carpet. Atop the table was a stack of my father's Review and Aspen magazines. In the corner of the quaint living room was a bookshelf with a handful of my father's favorite books and newspapers about the economy, art, sports, and architecture. The kitchen through an archway to the left of the sitting room was even smaller. It had enough space for a refrigerator, stove and stove top, three cabinets, a few inches of counter space, and a sink. The floor in the lounge was wooden, but there were white tiles in the kitchen that contrasted with the wooden cabinets and pale yellow refrigerator. My father's room was to the right of the lounge next to the single bathroom, but I hardly ever visited him when he was there. When he wasn't at work or reading old magazines and books in the living room (which he did most of the time he was home), he was wallowing in his room, reminiscing about my mother and the war. He was a lonely, sad man, having come home from the war only to lose his wife. I regret not doing more for him then, but what could I have done? I was sixteen, much too young to deal with such strong and complicated emotions. My room was next to the kitchen to the left of the sitting room. It was small but comfortable and reminded me a lot of my childhood bedroom (minus the car horns and shouts that came in from the window facing the street). I had a small twin bed with dark green muslin sheets, an oak bedside table, and a large dresser of matching wood with a big mirror facing the bed. I had a few shelves hung on the walls holding my textbooks and romance novels like Perchance to Marry and When She Was Good.
I sat down on my bed, patting the space next to me. Rita joined me, and we sat in silence for a few moments. Her face was blank, but there was a complicated, solemn look in her eyes so I waited for her to speak first. She told me a lot that afternoon; things she would not admit to anyone else. A few days prior, she caught her mother cheating on her father.
"School let out early the other day so I went home earlier than usual," she began. "My father's car wasn't parked where it usually was, but there was an unfamiliar one instead. I didn't give it any thought; it was just a random car. It didn't have anything to do with me."
She paused for a moment, choking on sobs and trying to compose herself. I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. She continued:
"I walked up the stairs to our apartment and the door was locked. I thought that was strange because my mom never locked the door when she was home alone. I unlocked it and walked inside but didn't see anyone."
She paused again.
"I called out to her, but I got no reply. I called her again, and she came running out of the bedroom. Her hair was disheveled and her blouse was unbuttoned. She was panting. I instantly knew–maybe it was instincts–that there was another man. I pushed past her and into the room. A man was standing by the bed, putting his pants on. I didn't know what to think—to feel. But I felt a lot of things. Shock, rage, betrayal. And then, fear. What would my father do?"
She looked into my eyes, wiping tears from her face. "He's a strict man. A scary, powerful man. What would he do to my mother when he found out?"
"You're not going to tell him?"
"Can I? He would ruin her, I know it. And we were a happy family until now. I love my mother. I can't destroy everything she—we have like this, Shirl. What do I do?"
She started to sob, placing her head in her hands. I hugged her, rubbing her back.
"You're not alone. Whatever you decide to do, I'm here for you."
We lay in my bed for a long while after that, talking about everything and nothing. That night something changed between me and her; we developed a new level of friendship and love. She told me that she loved art and ceramics, but her parents made her become a cheerleader. She only joined the band because it was the closest she could get to an artist without disobeying her parents. I told her about my father and his sorrow, how he was always there in body but never in spirit. I confessed that I missed my mother and Michigan and that I felt so out of place in New York. She hugged me while I cried then we laughed. How ridiculous was it that we were sobbing over things far beyond our control? When we got hungry, we baked a cherry chocolate marble cake (I argue sugar is the best cure for sadness) and ate the whole thing together while we fangirled over Gene and the football team. We forgot about the faults of our parents and played the only board game I owned, Barbie Queen of the Prom.
When her father picked her up a few hours later, I bid her goodbye and good luck. I watched as she drove away then I cleaned up around the house before I lay in my bed in the dim light of my bedside lamp, staring at the ceiling for a long while after. That night I dreamt of an endless road shrouded in darkness. I knew there was an ending but I couldn't see one. The voices of my friends, strangers, and my father echoed from my childhood home behind me. I couldn't see the house but I knew it was there; a sickening, lingering feeling of unease and nostalgia. My feet were hooves and horns protruded from my skull but it didn't strike me as odd. I walked down the road until it came to a fork, where I was offered a choice: go left and die or go right and live. A bird flew to the left while I walked to the right.
It was a week until prom when I noticed Gene's friend, Brett, and his friends sitting at a table a couple of rows down from mine in the cafeteria. Gene wasn't with them; he was in line for lunch. I sat with only Kim that day as Rita and Matt were in class. The conversations weren't particularly flowing well that day, and for some reason, I felt rather apathetic. I was excited about prom, and everything was going well for me, but it was just one of those days where I had no motivation and everything felt meaningless. Kim and I were eating our lunches in silence when I saw Brett casting me a slight point of his finger. When he noticed that I saw him, he quickly retrieved his hand and started laughing with his friends. I raised an eyebrow but didn't give it much thought until it happened again. I didn't know the other boys at the table because they were most likely upperclassmen, so I didn't like that they seemed to be laughing at me. When Gene got back to the table, red lunch tray and cardboard pizza in hand, I called him over. Kim listened in as we talked.
"What are they laughing at?"
He raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"Brett is pointing at me and laughing. Why?"
Gene sighed–relief?–and smiled. "So you didn't hear what they were saying?"
"No, what is it?"
"Stupid stuff, teasing me for having such a hot girlfriend. You know how guys are." He scratched the back of his neck–embarrassment?
I sighed, muttered a brief "whatever" and then shooed Gene back to his table. Kim leaned across the table and whispered:
"What was that?"
I shook my head. "Nothing apparently."
Kim scrunched her eyebrows. "Were they pointing at you?"
"Yeah, but they were just teasing Gene."
"So he says. I don't like the way they were looking at you; gave me the shivers." She stuffed a carrot in her mouth. "I'd stay far away from them for now if I were you. Between you and me, Lawrence told me that Brett is up to no good."
"What kind of things?" I leaned closer to her.
She lowered her voice to a loud whisper. "Drugs, dealing, and the like. Sketchy stuff."
Although the reason was childish, for the following days leading up to prom, I actively avoided Brett and his crew. The days passed by in a blur, school was winding down and the seniors were preparing for graduation. Gene was too busy to spend much time with me that week and I saw him sparingly even at school. I finished up my finals and spent my free time reading at home or Matt's house with Rita and Kim, and before I knew it, it was May 22, 1968.