LINDA MCMULLEN
Homecoming
My shoes are squeaking against the usual linoleum-cum-wood-flooring, but I’m not wearing a boxy t-shirt and mesh shorts, and I don’t feel the urge to invent a malady, the way I usually do. Mr. Kramer, who exemplifies the those-who-can’t-teach-teach-gym chestnut, wears his whistle like an Olympic medal. And insists that there’s nothing wrong with me but my attitude. I’m here to inform all and sundry that his optimism is appalling: there’s plenty more wrong with me. And my attitude is usually my one redeeming feature.
But tonight, none of the usual items – not my curve-wrecking in calculus, not inability to kick a soccer ball, not my horsey face and irrelevant breasts – matter. It’s my senior year; it’s my seventeenth birthday (late birthday, early kindergarten). I’m wearing a black slip dress and red lipstick to Homecoming. The crepe paper and out-of-season Christmas lights almost conceal the inflammatory inspirational posters; the Bath & Body Works and Axe Body Spray fug nearly masks the traditional perfumes of sweat and floor wax. And I’m here with John.
John who listened to my college application woes, who dramatically lifted me over the 4×4-swallowing puddle on 73rd Street, who gave me his extra ticket to Midwest Falls’ Comic Con equivalent when his best friend Mike bailed (meningitis). Who asked me out a year ago, when I – regrettably – had fallen for Aaron, and underwent the Stepping-On-A-Rake Teenage Boyfriend Experience™.
By the time I’d stopped stalking Aaron’s locker between classes, and using my pillow as nighttime Kleenex, John had gotten friendly with Jenny and Mandy… went on dates with both of them… started seeing the latter.
Aaron and I tried again.
He dumped me a week later.
Mandy and John decided that their affection had taken a too-platonic turn, and they split – amicably.
Then – John and me in a deserted hallway, performing the “if-you-want-too” pre-Homecoming shuffle.
But we enjoyed an endless buffet dinner. Now, my hand nestles in his. And I’m… not dismayed?
Not like earlier this week, when John complimented Jenny on her performance at debate club. I have to admit some discomfort with him admiring her rebuttal.
But we’re here, and we’re Jump[ing] Around.
But inevitably, after months of dogging it in gym class, I experience a scorching stitch in my side, and tell John I’ll sit the next one out. He asks if I mind if he stays out on the dance floor. It’s “Electric Slide”, not “Unchained Melody”, so I nod, hunching toward the table where I’ve stashed my tampon-sized purse and the filmy scrap of gauze masquerading as a wrap. John’s dancing next to Jenny, dipping as she sways, the same give-and-take as when they take their places at the podium.
And here comes “Take My Breath Away”.
Which is what gym class usually does. But now…
Her hand is on his shoulder; his on her waist. No room for an inflated balloon between them. Not even room for debate.
It’s my party, and I suppose I could cry if I wanted to. Or rage against the inevitable. But that just seems like so much effort.
It’s only three-quarters of a mile to my house. I can amble home – at a nice, easy pace – and put on a movie, maybe enjoy some chocolate cake with Mom and Dad.
Then I recollect that the stitch might just be a warm-up act for menstrual cramps.
I smile, remembering that that will get me out of swimming, come Monday.
Linda McMullen is a wife, mother, diplomat, and homesick Wisconsinite. Her short stories and the occasional poem have appeared in over ninety literary magazines. She received Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations in 2020. She may be found on Twitter: @LindaCMcMullen.