Space Station Seventh Grade

  Afterward I could have killed myself. Why did I say that? If I gave her the impression I wasn’t going, maybe she would decide not to go too. She might be thinking I wasn’t interested in her anymore.

  It was being afraid of the damage that blunder might cause that made me see what I had to do: get her a heart-shaped box of candy.

  So I went looking for it with Peter Kim. When it comes to talking about Debbie, it’s Peter I feel comfortablest with. Richie knows me too well already. Dugan would only laugh and wisecrack. Calvin wouldn’t care. But Peter—I don’t know why—I just feel I could say almost anything to him, even embarrassing stuff, and he would take it just right.

  We went to the mall. Naturally Peter’s little brother Kippy had to come along too. We looked all over: department stores, drugstores, Woolworth’s. There were all kinds: little ones, big ones, giant ones, red, purple, white, yellow, ribbons, lace, bows, cupids, flowers. I never knew there were so many kinds of hearts.

  I never knew they cost so much, either. I couldn’t believe the prices. Those second-grade cards used to be about 5¢ apiece.

  “Look how much they cost,” I said to Peter. “What do they cost so much for?”

  “Must be good candy,” he said.

  “I only got five dollars.”

  “I can loan you some.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I didn’t mean that. I just didn’t think they would be so much.”

  “Must be inflation,” he said.

  I said, “What’s inflation got to do with love?” It was the first time I ever remember saying that word out loud. Sure enough, Peter took it in stride.

  “How about these?” he said. He was holding up a plastic bag of those little red cinnamon hearts. It cost 59¢.

  I just sort of smiled and said no thanks. Just because Peter’s a good listener doesn’t mean he always understands.

  It would have been a lot easier if Kippy wasn’t along. Every time we passed a food place he said he had to have some. And Peter would get it for him. Soft pretzel. Hotdog. Giant chocolate chip cookie. (As big as his face. That’s what Kippy’s flat, round face looks like—a giant cookie. With chocolate chips for eyes.)

  I told Peter, “You’re spoiling him.”

  “Why’s that?” he said.

  “ ’Cause you’re giving him everything he wants. You’re not supposed to do that to little kids.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “ ’Cause then they’ll want everything. When they grow up they’ll be lazy.”

  “Not Koreans,” he said. “We don’t get spoiled.”

  I laughed. That’s Peter’s new way of getting back at me for always calling him Korean instead of American. Whenever I criticize him, he calls himself a Korean and says that’s the way they are.

  Well, I finally picked out a box at Woolworth’s. It was on the small side. Smaller than a baseball glove. The color was the best part: light purple. With a dark purple bow. No cupids or flowers. It was $5 exactly. I let Peter loan me the money for the tax.

  Now that I had the heart-shaped candy box, I didn’t know how to give it to her. I’m not stupid. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, so there was no way I was going to take it into school.

  For days and nights I just dreamed away. Over and over I saw myself giving it to her, and her opening it and squealing with joy and throwing her arms around my neck.

  I did a lot of dreaming about the dance too. A million times I said, “Like to dance, Deb?” and a million times she turned and smiled and said, “Love to,” and while colored lights swirled and the music played, we danced and danced like the whole gym was ours. We danced some fast ones, and the steps we did were better than on TV, never seen before, and the others—even the ninth-graders—made a circle around us and clapped and whistled and cheered, “Go, Jason! Go, baby!” And we danced slow ones too, long and slow, and our eyes were closed and the dance floor was all music and whispers.…

  But when Saturday came, the day of the dance, the heart-shaped box was still in the bottom of my drawer beneath my underwear. And when I tried a dance step in front of my mirror, I knew if a dance crowd ever came circling around me, it wouldn’t be to cheer.

  I went out alone that day. Just to walk. It was cold and bleak and icy. I wished time would stand still. I wanted it to stay the day before the dance forever, so I could always be sure she would throw her arms around my neck, and that when I asked her to dance she would really turn and smile and say, “Love to.”

  Along the way I saw the Rocksalt Lady. Nobody knows her real name. Or even exactly where she lives. She came toward me, shuffling along in her galoshes, throwing rock-salt from a box out in front of her, so she wouldn’t slip on the ice. All winter long, even if it hasn’t snowed for a month, you’ll never see her without her box of rocksalt. She always dresses the same, winter and summer: the galoshes, a long black coat, and a big green scarf like a monk’s hood or something. In the summer the only difference is, she trades in her rocksalt for a shopping bag and goes around picking weeds and dandelions.

  Even when she passed right by me, I couldn’t see her face. Nobody ever did. Except Dugan said he did once. We don’t know if it’s true, but if anybody would, he would. He said he just planted himself right in front of her one day and turned his head sideways and gawked right up into the green hood. He said it looked like a paper bag in there, when you crumple and crinkle it all up.

  I got a strange feeling when the Rocksalt Lady went by. Even after she passed, it was like she still wasn’t gone. I kept hearing the rocksalt falling behind me, like a tiny hailstorm, and ahead of me my feet kept crunching on it. Finally I crossed the street.

  Standing around at the dance later that night, I still didn’t know what I was going to do.

  As soon as we got there I told the guys I was going to the bathroom. What I really did was go outside and hide the heart-shaped candy box under a bush. All the way walking to the dance, I had it safety-pinned by the purple ribbon to the lining on the inside back of my coat.

  It’s scary walking to your first dance. I wouldn’t have done it by myself, free food or not. Calvin, Richie, Peter Kim, me—we all walked together. Dugan didn’t go with us. He just showed up later. Alone, as usual. Dugan is scared of absolutely nothing. Nothing. For the first and only time in my life, I was actually a little sorry Kippy wasn’t along.

  Along the way we did a lot of messing around and laughing and moosecalling. But not a word about the dance. On our insides I think we all felt like it was the last long walk to the gallows. I half expected to look over and see this little old padre walking along with us mumbling verses out of the Bible.

  When we got there we just trucked on by the gym doors. It was bad enough hearing the music and just feeling it so close. Nobody was ready to actually look, much less go in. So everybody headed for the food, which is when I ducked out to hide the candy box.

  The food—all this great free food that we said we were coming for—turned out to be sodas, in teeny-weeny paper cups, and pretzels. A couple of ugly ninth-graders were serving. But nobody wanted to admit how junky it was, so we hung and hung and hung around the food table until we got kicked away.

  Finally there was nothing left to do but go into the dance. There was twisted crepe paper swooping down from all parts of the ceiling and meeting right over the center of the court. And coming down from there was this humongous red heart, hanging pretty low, and pasted onto it were all these little white hearts.

  The eighth- and ninth-graders—especially the ninth-graders—sort of dominated the place. It was like they were the lions at the waterhole: they hogged up all the good spots. The head lions were The Lovers. They just stuck under the hanging heart, leaning a little bit this way and that to the music. All that was left for us little seventh-grade rodents were some puddles on the side. From where we were we could see some of the ninth-graders writing on the little white hearts that were on the big red one.

  “They’re writing their names. ?
??Somebody Loves Somebody.’ Stuff like that,” Dugan told us. Before we ever came in, Dugan had already been to the middle of the floor. Not dancing, of course. Just checking things out.

  It was Dugan that noticed we still had our coats on. We laughed as we took them off. We laughed so hard we almost went into convulsions.

  We moved around the place the way you cross a creek. You stand on a good rock, and you don’t move until you spot the next rock. It has to be another good one, that’s big and steady enough to hold you, and not too far away. When you spot one like that, that’s when you take your next step. Only in the gym, instead of rocks there were little knots of seventh-graders. Especially guys that we knew.

  We would slap hands and say something about the scrimpy food and school and basketball and how we had to get dressed up to come. After a while, though, what we did more and more was play a new game. It’s called Who’s That One.

  All the girls were in dresses. With high heels. The first thing it made you think of was church. Most of their hair was different too. I guess the combination of that and the darkness made it hard to tell who was who. So you’d see this girl go wobbling past with this dress on and fancy hairdo and you’d say, “Who’s that one?”

  There were only about two that you could recognize right off: Marceline (Don’t-Call-Me-Marcy) McAllister and Esther Kufel. McAllister had a dress on, all right, but other than that she didn’t exactly kill herself trying to look beautiful. Same hair. Same no-makeup. Esther Kufel—well, she always looks like she just got out of bed. Esther’s kind of retarded, but they’re allowed in regular schools these days. She talks like there’s something in her mouth. Her glasses are so thick they’re like old-fashioned Coke bottles. It looked like her and the tromboner came together.

  Gorgeous. That’s what Debbie Breen was. She had a blue dress on, and her hair was kind of fluffed up on top of her head, except for a couple little ringlets that came spilling down the sides. She still flicked her head once in a while, even though no hair was in her eye. I got all queasy whenever she did it.

  No matter where we were or what we were doing, I always kept an eye on her. Like radar. I knew she came with her girlfriends, and she did a lot of dancing with them, but guys kept going over to ask her to dance too. She acted nice and friendly to all of them. She smiled all over the place and flicked her head. Different guys went over. She wasn’t attached to anybody. That’s one thing I knew.

  The only ones that gave me a hard time about her were Richie and Dugan. Richie wasn’t too bad. He just kept saying stuff like, “Wow! Look at that one!” And, “Man, you sure know how to pick ’em.”

  But Dugan, he was hard-core. He’s the type of person that, what everybody else might only think, he’ll say. Like, “Hey, ain’t that that Breen girl? Who’s that she’s dancin’ with?” And, “Hey Herk, whydn’t you go ask her to dance?”

  The worst thing, though, was him saying he would go ask her to dance for me. “Hey Herk,” he kept going, “I’ll get a dance for ya.” He kept getting more and more ballsy about it. At first he just took a step or two in her direction, then wheeled around and came back. Then he kept going farther and farther, getting closer and closer to her before he wheeled around. I knew he was waiting for me to make an ass of myself by calling him out loud to stop.

  Then one time he made up his mind to go all the way. I could just tell. “I’ll getcha a dance,” he said and he was gone. He headed over to the little group of girls where she was. He was going to do it, no question he was going to do it. Dugan didn’t care. He loves to embarrass people. He was heading straight for her—her back was toward him—his arm was going up—he was going to tap her on the shoulder—“Dugan!” I hollered—and he strolled on behind her, scratching his head. By the time the girls finished turning to see who had the big mouth, I was already melted back into the crowd.

  Most of the guys that were going over and asking Debbie to dance were ninth-graders. And most were tall ones. Any one of them could have been the other Luke Skywalker. When one of them would take her out to the dance floor, her girlfriends turned and grabbed each other’s arms and whispered and giggled. I kept thinking of the purple candy box out under the bush.

  Then I saw her head out to the food table. It was now or never. I said I had to go to the bathroom and left. All night long I was working on something to say to her. I figured I had just the right line. It would remind her of past times, and it would kind of bring her back to me.

  She was at the table, picking up a soda. All of a sudden I didn’t like the glare of the lights. I wanted to check in a mirror. It was kind of like feeling your fly was open on your face.

  But there wasn’t time. I went to the table, sort of wedged in next to her, grabbed a soda, turned, and acted surprised to be bumping into her.

  “Hi,” I said.

  She smiled at me. “Hi. Thought you weren’t coming.”

  That was a good sign. She remembered—sort of—what I had said. “I said I might come.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said.

  Time for the line. I picked up a pretzel. I held in in front of her. I frowned at it. I said, “Not exactly a marshmallow, huh?”

  She laughed. “Or a hotdog.”

  “Hey,” I said, “you just get here? I didn’t see you around.”

  I handed her the pretzel. She took it, took a bite. “We were here for a while,” she said. White pretzel specks came out. I wanted to take a shower in them.

  “Been dancin’?” I said.

  She shrugged. “A little, I guess.” She was looking, squinting at the lights.

  “Well,” I said. I grabbed another pretzel and backed off. I didn’t want to be too close in case the answer was bad. “Gotta save me a dance, okay?”

  She crunched on her pretzel. “Okay,” she said. “Sure.”

  I sailed back into the gym. It seemed all comfortable and friendly now. I went right across the middle of the floor, right past the big red hanging heart. A little voice inside me was humming: Okay, she said. Sure, she said. Okay, she said.

  Then it all started to fall apart.

  First, it took a couple songs before Debbie came back into the gym.

  Then a couple more before I got up the nerve to walk over to her.

  And then, just when I was ready, the supercool ninth-grader who was acting as the DJ announces: “Okay, all you dudes. Stand back and watch out for your Valentines, ’cause it’s a dudettes’ choice!!”

  I sort of slid over to the dance-floor side of the group of guys I was with, so I’d be easy to find. But I kept talking so I wouldn’t look like I was expecting or hoping for anything.

  The song started. It was a slow one. I could see the guys being led away from the sidelines by girls that asked them. My mouth kept jabbering to the guys, but inside I was praying for a tap on the shoulder, a sweet marshmallow voice to say, “Jason? Like to dance?”

  The song went on. I couldn’t not look forever. I turned. I sniffed. I put on my bored look. I yawned. I saw her. Out under the big red heart. With a ninth-grader. She just about came up to his armpit. Her free arm had to go practically straight up to hook around his neck. His nose was down in her hair. Her face was up in his Adam’s apple. She was on tiptoes even in her high heels. You couldn’t squeeze a fart between them.

  Then all of a sudden I hear Dugan’s voice: “Oh no, not me!”

  I turn. Dugan is shaking his head and pretending to limp. Esther Kufel is standing in front of him. Just as soon as I look over, Dugan sees me and he points and goes, “Him. Jason wanted to ask ya.”

  I took off. Just as I was turning I caught a glimpse of Marceline McAllister in the background, watching it all.

  I went outside. I wanted to swear, cry, scream, spit, kick, and kill myself—anybody—all at once. I cursed ninth-graders. I cursed Debbie Breen. I cursed dances. I cursed my mother and father for making me short. I cursed girls. I looked around. Nobody was there. “Here ya go!” I yelled, and I gave the world the finger.
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  I walked around the school. My breath came out in clouds, but I didn’t even feel the cold. I just kept muttering: “Shit Shit. Horse shit. Dog shit. Monkey shit. Pig shit. Shit shit.”

  I told Debbie Breen what I’d do with the marshmallow stick if she ever came around me again at a hayride. I told her her face would have to be my sofa for a year before she ever got an invitation to see my space station again. I told her the next time she saw a football game she’d see me score five touchdowns, then be carried off the field to the waiting arms of the captain of the ninth-grade varsity cheerleaders.

  As if it wasn’t bad enough to feel rotten about the rest of the world, I had to feel rotten about myself too. I could picture the Perfect Miss McAllister back in there, deciding what a cruel rat I was. It’s true I didn’t want to dance with Esther Kufel, and it’s true I was glad I got out of it. But it’s also true that I felt bad about it. I do have feelings, and I do try to be aware of other people’s feelings and not hurt them. But Miss Perfect didn’t know that. She probably figured I was just like Dugan. She was already gone from the vice-principal’s office when Ham told him: “He’s a good kid.”

  You know you’re really in a bad way when the best thing that happened to you was not having to dance with a retard—and you can’t even feel good about that. I couldn’t even go home. As soon as I opened the door Ham would go, “Well, how was the food?”

  I wished somebody would come along with a gun and put me out of my misery.

  I was back at the dance door. Esther Kufel was standing there. She was alone. She must have been waiting for McAllister.

  I didn’t think. I just talked. Fast. “Esther, hi. Listen. I was just talking to some guy—this is no joke, believe me—I was talking to this guy and he says he was kinda shy and didn’t want to come in to the dance, know what I mean? But he said—swear to God—he said he brought you a box of candy and he hid it—for you—out under the bush that’s right next to the boys main entrance. Know where that is?”

  She didn’t seem to know. I was getting nervous. I started moving in toward the gym. “Ask Marceline,” I said. “Bush by the boys door. Purple Box. Purple ribbon. Honest to God.”