Anyway, finally, just a few days before the prom she comes over to my house after school, all excited. She did it. She laid things on the line with her mom.
“I just told her this was my prom, it was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I wasn’t going to wreck it by throwing that old paper route.”
“I’m proud of you!”
“I’m proud of myself!”
She jumps into my arms, and to celebrate, we take the pitcher of martinis I just made and head straight up to bed. It’s not till after the congratulatory sex, when we’re lying there with our martini glasses, that she runs through the whole story for me, how she walked right over, turned off the TV, and mapped out the entire plan before her mom or Randy could open their mouths. She didn’t raise her voice or even get emotional. She just told it like it was.
When her mom tried to come with this line about how she and Randy might want to hit the casinos that night, Aimee had the facts ready. She’d delivered the route by herself over thirty times in the last year, while never getting a single day off herself. Therefore, she was going to take one off now and she was going to take one off for graduation, and there weren’t any two ways about it.
Of course, she didn’t exactly tell her mother about how we planned to get a motel room. Instead, she explained that the school was sponsoring all these heavily chaperoned after-prom events that lasted till sunup. Which is true, but only the mortally clueless actually go to those. Not to say I haven’t taken a wait-and-see attitude toward the laser tag thing. That would be absolutely hilarious to go to wasted.
“I didn’t actually lie,” she says. “I just told her the school was sponsoring the events. I never said we were going.”
“That’s perfect,” I tell her. I am really authentically proud of her. “You’re my hero. I might have to get you to come over and set my mom straight on a few things sometime.”
She’s quiet for a second before she comes out with, “Maybe it’s time you stood up to your mom too.”
“What are you talking about? My mom doesn’t care if I stay out all night for the prom. She’d barely notice if I didn’t come back for a week.”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean you should talk to her about your dad. Have you even asked her what really happened between them?”
“I never had to. She was always way too glad to feed me her phony story about him being a big cheating louse.”
“Maybe you should ask him.”
“How am I going to do that? Take an elevator to the top of the Chase building and ask him? Oh, that’s right. He’s not really there.”
“Then, ask your mom where he is. It’s time you talked to him and found out his side of the story. I’d go with you.”
Okay, it’s great that Aimee’s getting more assertive, but she’s starting to bug me a little with it now.
“Jesus, Aimee, what’s all this interest in my dad?”
“It’s just that, you know, I lost my dad before I could say everything I wanted to say to him.”
“Look, I’m glad you stood up to your mom. That was great. But that doesn’t mean you can fix my parental quagmire for me.”
“It might help if we could just talk to him, though.”
“No, I know what’ll help. A big fat party.” I roll over and grab my pants from the back of the chair. “I say, bring on the prom. All solutions will be found in the land of the all-night buzz.”
Chapter 50
My bow tie, cummerbund, and red breast-pocket handkerchief are perfectly Dino-rific. Aimee’s mom opens the door, her fabulous she-mullet glinting in the TV glow. “Don’t you look like the sophisticated gentleman,” she says, then turns and yells, “Aimee, your date’s here.”
Aimee doesn’t come out immediately, so there I am, stuck in the living room trading awkward glances with Mom and Randy-the-Walrus.
Then Aimee appears in the hall, and it strikes me that she postponed her grand entrance on purpose for dramatic effect. You have to know she stood in front of the mirror for about a month fixing everything just right, but Aimee’s Aimee—fancy really isn’t her specialty.
Of course, she has the lipstick again and even some eye shadow this time. On top of that—and I mean on top of that literally—she’s done her hair up, and it’s tilting just slightly off-kilter—the Leaning Tower of Pisa–style. Her dress is this vague yellow color that doesn’t go too well with her skin tone. The faux silkiness of it actually does give her hips a sexy, slinky touch, but the cle**age is pretty nonexistent.
The whole ensemble has this effect on me like I just want to grab her and hold on to her, pet her, and tell her she’s the most beautiful sight in the entire galaxy. Don’t worry about any wisecracks from the likes of Jason Doyle, I want to tell her. But she wouldn’t have the slightest idea why wisecracks would be in order in the first place.
We do the boutonniere and corsage exchange, and Mom takes a couple of photos with one of those little yellow disposable cameras, and then we’re on our way. Now, I know everybody else is going to fancy restaurants like The Mantel or Nikz at the Top, but Aimee and I aren’t everybody else.
“So,” she says. “What’s the surprise? Where are we going for dinner?”
“Just wait. You’ll see.”
About ten minutes later, the radio-tower lights come into view, and she’s like, “Wait, are we going to Marvin’s Diner?”
“You are correct,” I proclaim, all game-show-hosty. “Give the lady a new refrigerator and a ceramic greyhound!”