Chapter 9 The Prom Queen #2
Mr. Manceau toddles up to the deejay booth, rings of sweat darkening his chartreuse dress shirt. He hands a sealed envelope to the deejay and whispers something in his ear; the deejay nods while the student body waits eagerly for the big reveal.
“Okay, here we go,” the deejay says, his voice affecting more enthusiasm. “When I call out the prom king and queen’s names, please step up here to the booth, where Mrs. Shackleford and Mr. Manceau will crown you. The official king-and-queen dance will follow that. Y’all ready?”
The crowd responds with a heavy cheer and an ever-increasing amount of clapping. Hannah claps her hands limply together, feeling a great misgiving in her stomach.
“Your 2012 St. Mary’s prom king is…,” the deejay says, inflecting his voice on the last few words, “… Mr. Clay Landry.”
A huge cheer goes up around the ballroom. Hannah looks over at Clay, his smile too big for his face, his skin turning a light shade of pink. The guys all around him, most of whom are other football players, pound on his back and shove him toward the deejay booth.
“Nice job, man,” the deejay says, seeming like he’s just going through the motions. “How do you feel? Nervous?”
“Hell no,” Clay yells, and a great roar of laughter and applause follows. Hannah hears more whooping from the football players.
“Are we allowed to say that at a Catholic prom?” the deejay asks, sounding truly amused for the first time all night. Mrs. Shackleford, standing with her arms folded, rolls her eyes but lets it go. Mr. Manceau frowns and tugs up the waistband of his pants.
“I didn’t think so,” the deejay continues, clearly trying to stir the pot now. “Maybe we should send this prom king to confession?”
“Get to the prom queen!” someone in the back yells out, and the surrounding students echo his sentiment.
“All right, all right, just having some fun. Well, St. Mary’s, your 2012 prom queen is…”
Hannah’s stomach clenches.
“Miss Baker Hadley!”
A deafening roar goes up through the room.
Hannah teeters where she stands, suddenly off-balance like she is watching this moment from above the dance floor.
Baker makes her way to the deejay booth, her smile somehow both nervous and confident, and Hannah’s stomach twists with a strange bittersweet feeling, like she wants to fall to the floor crying and run to hug Baker at the same time.
Clay wraps his arms around Baker when she reaches the booth. The student body shouts with even more applause, clearly enamored of the two of them. Mrs. Shackleford and Mr. Manceau shake their hands, and then Mrs. Shackleford places the crowns carefully on Clay’s and Baker’s heads.
“Let’s hear it for your king and queen!” the deejay shouts into his microphone, and the student body whoops and hollers and smacks their hands together, and someone on the far side of the room shouts “Get it, Landry!” and both Clay and Baker laugh, their whole faces shining like it’s the happiest day of their lives.
Then music starts to play, and the deejay signals that Clay should lead Baker to the dance floor. The student body parts down the middle, and Clay steps forward with his hand clutching Baker’s. He wraps an arm around her waist, and she allows him to lead her in a dance.
Hannah stands rooted to the spot, easily able to watch from her vantage point at the front of the crowd.
She clocks her classmates’ reactions: the girls staring hungrily, the boys laughing awkwardly, and Michele Duquesne, on the far side of the crowd, clenching her jaw.
Abby Frasier, standing next to Hannah and watching the dance like it’s magic, turns to Julia Grey and whispers, “Baker’s so lucky.
Can you imagine how amazing she must feel right now? ”
Hannah wants so badly to escape, to run outside and gulp down the fresh cool air.
Her throat is tight with a choking sensation; her stomach aches so badly that she wants to throw up.
But several girls are looking at her, gauging the reaction of the prom queen’s best friend, even if they haven’t seen Hannah and Baker interact lately; so Hannah fixes her face into a happy expression, forcing herself to look glowing and proud, as if this entire scene is delighting her rather than killing her.
Finally the dance ends, and Baker pulls gently away from Clay. Clay turns to the crowd and waves for them to cheer like he just threw a touchdown pass at the end of a game.
“Okay, thank you to Clay and Baker,” the deejay resumes, clearly trying to quiet them down. “I’ve got a few more songs for you, St. Mary’s, and then it’s time to wrap up this night. So enjoy these next few gems and dance with your crush like there’s no tomorrow.”
He plays Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight.” Wally checks Hannah’s expression, raising his eyebrows playfully to ask Shall we? so Hannah wraps her arms around his neck and allows him to sway her where they stand.
They’re halfway through the song when she sees it: Baker and Clay, still dancing in the middle of the crowd, pressed tightly together—
And kissing.
Baker’s mouth is tilted up to Clay’s, and his hands are low on her back, and they’re truly, freely, openly making out for all the world to see.
Bile surges up Hannah’s throat. “Don’t feel well,” she mumbles, jerking away from Wally. She turns on the spot and hurries off the dance floor, past the double doors, down a hallway, through the clanging metal Exit door—
And as soon as she’s outside, she vomits all over a patch of milkweed.
She falls against the building, weak and shaking.
She gasps for breath, begging it into her lungs, wanting so badly to clean these anguished feelings from her body.
She slides down the concrete wall and begs her mind to think of something else, anything else, anything but the images that keep flashing across its surface: Baker clutching Clay’s arm at the picture party—Baker swaying with Clay on the dance floor—Baker kissing Clay on the mouth, kissing him with those same lips that have kissed Hannah—
Please make it stop. Please make it go away. Why can’t You just take it from me. What am I doing wrong. Why did You give me these feelings. Please help me. Please.
“Han? You okay?”
It’s Wally, come to check on her. He lingers in the doorway, dress shoes reflecting the floodlights, his expression concerned but confused.
“Yeah,” she says, steadying her breath, smiling as nonchalantly as she can. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just got overheated. Claustrophobic.”
“You want me to sit with you for a little while?”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
He guides her to the sidewalk and helps her sit upon the curb. Hannah feels her dress snag, but she doesn’t care. They watch the cars race past on the interstate, and Hannah yearns to be inside one, on her way to anywhere but here.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Wally asks after a while.
She breathes through her nose, trying to steady her body. “I am. You want to catch the last dance?”
He shakes his head, smiling kindly at her. “Sitting here is fine with me.”
They follow a long line of cars to Clay’s house for the after-party, and Hannah, finally relaxed from Wally’s soothing presence and their safe distance from the ballroom, starts to feel marginally better.
Mrs. Landry greets them at the front door, trilling the same refrain they heard from the driveway: “Boys’ things in the guest room, girls’ things upstairs! There’s water and Coke in the coolers!”
The house feels as crowded as the ballroom, but everything is brighter and closer. Hannah weaves her way through the hallway, saying hi to various friends, Wally following behind her and echoing the hellos, occasionally placing a hand on the small of her back.
“Let’s go outside,” he mutters in her ear. “Too many people in here.”
The backyard is as blissfully quiet as the porch at Tyler’s party in Destin. Wally pulls off his shoes and dress socks and cuffs the bottom of his tuxedo pants. “Come on,” he says, reaching for her hand, “let’s take a ride on the swings.”
She kicks off her heels and hitches up her dress, then takes his extended hand.
His palms are sweaty but warm, and she allows him to lead her across the same grass they stood upon for photos earlier.
Wally waits for her to choose a swing, then smiles and plops down on the other one.
Wordlessly, they kick off the dirt and fall into a rhythm, swinging higher and higher, lengthening their arcs each time.
“I’m trying to get in sync with you,” Wally laughs, “but I can’t.”
Hannah grins. “That’s about the hardest thing in the world.”
“Wait for it,” he says, holding up his hand, daring her with his eyes.
He grabs the chains and hiccups his body, slowing his arc to match hers, paralleling her down to the lift of their bare feet.
And Hannah remembers, with a jolt, what she and Joanie and the neighborhood kids used to call this phenomenon when they were younger.
Look! We’re married!
She startles and loses her momentum, falling out of rhythm with him.
“Shit!” Wally yells, his voice brimming with laughter. “Catch up!”
She pumps her legs and arms, trying to recover from her mistake. She mimics Wally’s hiccup maneuver but doesn’t pull it off right: The gap between their swings grows larger.
“Han!” Wally calls, still laughing.
“I’m trying!” she yells, growing more and more frustrated.
“Yo!” a voice shouts from the house. “Stop having playground sex and get in here!”
It’s Clay, backlit by the floodlights, his hair mussed and his tuxedo replaced by a T-shirt and drawstring sweatpants.
“We’re coming, you dick!” Wally yells back.
Clay swats his arm as if to say Yeah, yeah, then turns back into the house and leaves the door open. Hannah and Wally slow their swings to a gradual stop, both of them kicking up dirt in the process.
“I’m gonna ruin my pedicure,” Hannah gripes, “but I don’t really give a shit.”
“I’m gonna hit Clay,” Wally says, “but I don’t give a shit, either.”