Random Acts of Trust

That’s how it was with me and Amy. The words were perfect, the intensity was high, the analysis, the intellect, the give and take, the back and forth, was all lockstep. Dead on. She was in the affirmative and had her case down cold, and because I was in the negative and had my case down cold, what it came down to was the stronger argument. She was more confident on the affirmative, and I was less confident on the neg, no matter how hard I tried. Because we were equals, it was going to come down to a loss for me. I tried. I did.



But at the end when we shook hands, I knew. I just knew. Her eyes were confused, brilliant and alive, but perplexed because our emotional connection had deepened enough that she could read me. It made my pants tighten. My free hand twisted to a fist. My jaw clenched. An impulse to pull her into my arms and kiss her almost overrode the sense of polite decency that was expected of us. Besides, I had no desire to get expelled.



“Want to wait together?” she said.



Something inside me gave way. I knew it was over. I knew that I was fourth or fifth, which to my father meant that I might as well have been 1,117th. He would consider me dog shit; I considered myself a king. As we walked back to that quiet classroom, where everything had turned on a dime, before we knew we were debating each other, the hard reality sank in, seeping through every muscle, making me feel like a walking bag of concrete. I’d lost. They didn’t have to announce it for me to know. I’d lost.



My fingers played a mindless beat against my leg, my other hand twisted with Amy’s. She was so alive and trying to cover it up. I didn’t want that. Nobody wants to see an angel clip their wings. Nobody wants to take away someone else’s drive. Nobody except my dad, that is. I wasn’t going to be like him. I wasn’t going to crush her just because I could, or because it served some bigger purpose in my life. Selfish motives weren’t my thing. If I was going to be great it would be because I was great, not because I pushed other people down.



Amy stood there, holding my hand, looking at me as if she were chronicling my entire life with those brown eyes. She hadn’t needed to push me down in order to rise above me. All she’d needed was to be my equal and then to do better. I have to admit, as a guy, and a fairly competitive one, it crushed me. I won’t lie. Losing a game of mini golf on a date was one thing, but losing a full ride and knowing what I had to go home to was a whole other situation.



Was I perfect? No. Was I mature? Not really. And so, when I leaned down and took that ever-so-sweet kiss, I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing. Why did everything have to happen at once? My mind raced as our lips touched, as I tasted her pleasure and her energy. It gave me some sort of fuel for my soul at the same time that a fire was tamping out inside. How could so many good things happen and one horrible thing cancel it all out?



I would go home to a father who would come as close as humanly possible to killing me. Not with his hands, not with a weapon, but with his mouth. How could I take so much enjoyment from one person’s mouth, Amy’s pure connection, and yet, experience so much pain from another’s? It was funny, a mouth’s a mouth, but it’s how you use it that turns it into an instrument of the divine, or a tool for destruction.



Too many thoughts raced through me, too many feelings pounded through me, too many drum beats out of sync made my brain hurt.



“Get a room,” growled a familiar voice.



Amy pushed me back, turning. Her turn to wipe her mouth. “Joe,” she whimpered.



“It’s final ceremonies,” he said, looking at both of us and then just shaking his head, turning away.



It felt like being an inmate on death row, and being told it was time. I knew what they were going to say. Amy wanted to hold my hand walking back, and I knew I should, but the part of me that wanted to be a dick was starting to come out. The part that needed to go and sit with headphones on, and blast music and drum along, and drown out the world, was starting to emerge. I wished I had time, I wished I had space.



I wished I could go for a twenty mile run, or drum for three hours, or take some kind of drug that would just get me out of my own mind, but I couldn’t. I had to walk, step by step, next to her down the linoleum floored hallway. I had to turn and step on the carpet in the auditorium and look at the expectant faces of my teammates. I had to break contact from her, and nod and pretend everything was going to be okay, even as a knot formed in my stomach and my skin buzzed at the thought of going home.



My phone rang. I ignored it. I knew it was my dad, calling to find out. If he really cared he’d be here, right? Right? What he cared about was the surface, not the depth. Amy could be deep. Right now I just didn’t give a fuck about anything anymore. I wanted it all to go away. All of it.



Mr. Feehan whispered something about what I thought the final rankings would be, and I turned to him and said, “I think I lost.”



“Everyone thinks that,” he said back, bright blue eyes twinkling, bags under his eyes a swollen pink. I know he was trying to make me feel better, but it just added to the cacophony.



The final ceremonies dragged on, the Lincoln-Douglas results toward the end. If I had been sitting next to Amy, by the time we got to the announcements of our names, well, her name, I probably would have had her in tears because I was shut down. You could have gotten more emotions out of a slab of granite.



Talia Sheridan’s name was first, Mike Zendo was second, and when they went to announce number three my team looked at me expectantly, everybody holding their breath, the freshmen with their fingers crossed. So much energy erroneously focused on me because I knew, God dammit I knew. When the coach who gave the announcements said “Amy Smithson” I stood up and walked out, scores of eyes on me. Including Amy’s.



Dick move? Hell, yeah.



Then again, I am my father’s son.



Amy



2 months later



I stared at my prom dress. It was perfect. Peach with a slight copper undertone to it that set off the occasional topaz flecks in my brown eyes. Princess perfect.



Tonight, I was supposed to be a princess and Sam was supposed to be my prince. I knew I was supposed to be kind of jaded and hard edged and not talk like that. I was supposed to be all Gossip Girl, and smooth, and edgy. But really, even smart, above-that-crap girls could be allowed to be a damn princess on prom night. For prom night, I was supposed to put that dress on. I was supposed to have someone come to my house with a corsage, drive up in a limo with a group of friends all paired off for the night, either with boyfriends and girlfriends, or just going as buddies. Tonight, I was supposed to dance in Sam’s arms, marvel at how handsome he looked in the tux, look into those eyes, feel his arms around me, sense the comfort.



Tonight, I was supposed to sneak off to a hotel that everyone knew we would get, that our parents would turn a blind eye to as long as we didn’t drink and drive. Tonight, I was supposed to lose my virginity in a glory of cliché.



Instead, here I was, sitting in my bedroom, staring at the dress. The dress my mom helped me pick out long before I had a prom date, when I was hopeful and optimistic that I’d have fun going stag with my friends and maybe get to be that perfect princess. The shoeless dress. I never went out and bought anything to go with it. No jewelry, no shoes, no matching nail polish, or perfect earrings, nothing.Because I hadn’t seen Sam since the day he walked out of the auditorium when they announced my name. Hadn’t heard from him, hadn’t—anything. Nothing. The cold reality of the past months of silence, emptiness, and despair meant that I’d be throwing good money after bad if I assembled any sort of fashion plate for myself. My friends tried to convince me to go. Even Erin showed up at the last minute, pulling me along, literally yanking on my arm and trying to convince me that I could still go stag.



“You’re crazy,” she said.



We’d been best friends since kindergarten. She was going with her boyfriend, Jonathan, captain of the football team. A guy who looked just enough like Tom Brady to make you wonder if he wasn’t his bastard child. Her dress was slutty—her word, no judgment from me—in a really good sort of way. They’d have fun, I knew. It was easier to be immobile and immutable than to let the tiniest crack of hope seep in and make me think that maybe—just maybe—I should go.



Mom was almost inconsolable. She couldn’t believe that her little girl wouldn’t go to prom. “There are so many other boys you could ask,” she said.



No, Mom, I thought, there aren’t. I asked the only one I wanted to go with. So, instead, my date would be Ben and Jerry’s. Who knew? A threesome. And a movie, something from Judd Apatow. I needed a good laugh. Maybe I’d even watch Fanboys again. That would be my night.



It felt a little bit like paying penance, as if I’d done something wrong and needed to be punished. Being ignored by Sam was punishment enough, no question there.



Making it to Nationals meant that in a few weeks, after graduation, I’d be on a plane to some Southern state I didn’t care about to compete in an event that had no real impact on my future. It wouldn’t get me more money for school. It was just a feather in my cap. A very expensive feather in my cap. It cost me a guy I could have loved. Who am I fooling?



A guy I already loved a little.



I wondered what he was doing. Was he hanging out with his buddies? He went to a different school and I knew that their prom night wasn’t the same, so to him this was nothing, just a throwaway night. Like I was a throwaway girl.



Why the hell did he walk out of that auditorium and never say a word to me again? I got his cell phone number from Joe Ross and texted him. Nothing. I wasn’t going to try anything else. I looked him up on Facebook, but couldn’t bring myself to push the Friend button, because what if it hung out there in limbo?



With debate season over, my Saturdays were free again, and instead of feeling an opening in my life, it felt like something had closed. The feeling of his arms around me, of his lips pressed against mine, of the potential that rested in our touch, had swirled down the drain the moment we shook hands and that debate had begun.



And yet, if I could turn back time, I don’t know if I would do anything differently. If I’d pulled any punches along the way it would have been false, and Sam would have hated that. If he had condescended to me, I wouldn’t be pining away for him right now, that’s for sure.



I can understand being mad at me. I could understand being embarrassed, or pissed, or frustrated, but the silent treatment, being able to just push aside what we had? It’s so unlike the Sam I thought I knew. I wanted to storm over to his house, barge in on him, make him talk to me. Instead, I sat here on my bed, my phone turned off, staring at a bunch of peach cloth. I stood up and pulled the dress out of the closet, then threw it on the bed like a blanket. It was perfect for a perfect night that never would happen.



The doorbell rang and I ignored it. Evan hollered up, “Liam’s here!”



Liam? I’d known Liam McCarthy since we were, well...babies. He was popular. His parents had divorced years ago. He lived with his mom over in the same school district that Joe and Sam went to, but his dad lived next door, still in the house, so he was over here constantly.