Gimme Everything You Got - Iva-Marie Palmer Page 0,110
hands from my face and stared at me. “What did you say?”
For the first time since we got inside the closet together, I felt too naked. I stuttered useless syllables as I began to answer, but then the door flew open and a man’s voice said, “It’s been a while since I smoked a cigar.”
My dad’s voice.
The lights came on. My hands were still on Joe’s hips and he was still pressed to the wall—his arms limp at his sides—but when we registered my dad, with Mr. Trillo right behind him, Joe wrenched away from me, pulled up his pants, and bolted past them.
My first thought was that I’d climaxed with a guy—a guy I liked—for the first time, and I’d called him the wrong name. My second thought was that I might never be aroused again, after being caught by my dad and Mr. Trillo.
And I was caught. My dress was partway down, my hair was now a puffy mass, and one of my pumps had come off. The looks on their faces were nearly as bad as Joe’s had been.
“What the hell is going on? . . . Are you . . . ? Were you?” my dad sputtered.
“Oh God,” Mr. Trillo said, like he was a soldier stepping over mauled and bloody bodies.
“I’m sorry,” my dad said to him. “I don’t know . . .” Neither one was moving, as if they were in shock.
I turned to find Joe, to apologize, and to grab him so I could take him somewhere else to explain. But then I remembered he was gone. I pulled up my dress and scrambled past my dad and Mr. Trillo, picking up my stray shoe and taking off the other one.
I ran. Out the front door of the banquet hall, down the steps, across the circular drive where Bobby had dropped me off hours earlier. I ran to the parking lot, searching for Joe’s car. Searching for Joe. Then, when I was sure he’d left, I stopped and stood there.
He would never want to speak to me again.
I looked toward the reception hall, but I couldn’t go back in there. And no one was coming out for me. So I ran down Ridgeland, probably a ridiculous sight in my peach dress, and cut to a side street where I stopped to think.
I sat inside an empty bus shelter, grateful for the small mercy of a warm November night, and not knowing what to do. Mom was out of town, and Tina was with her dad. I had my teammates but I didn’t know their phone numbers, or where they lived. Candace was probably with George, and I didn’t want this to be the first time I spoke to her since our fight, anyway. My house was miles away. A bus stopped, but I couldn’t even get on because I had no money with me.
Then I remembered: Bobby’s apartment was only a few blocks from the banquet hall. It was Saturday night, and he could be out for the evening, but I’d try him first, and if he wasn’t home, then I’d call Candace. There was no way I could tell him what had happened, but he could drive me home. Maybe he’d have some motivating words if I told him I felt like I’d fucked everything up. He’d said himself I could tell him anything.
I smoothed my dress and composed myself as best I could, turning down 107th Street toward Mansfield. I hated Cinderella even more now. She didn’t have real problems. Who cared if the prince knew her carriage was a pumpkin and her dress was rags? He hadn’t given her an orgasm as she called him by some other prince’s name while her freakin’ dad watched. I didn’t even want to think about what my dad would tell Polly, and I could only hope that I hadn’t ruined their day. There was probably only an hour or so of the reception left. Pretend like nothing happened, at least until tomorrow, Dad, I thought, hoping the message would reach him. Say I didn’t feel well, or you told me I could go for a drive with Joe. Polly deserved that.
It was just after ten. The lights were off in Bobby’s duplex, but music came from the garage and a light shone under the door—he must have been working out. I knocked once, then pushed open the unlocked door. “Hey, I hope it’s okay I’m here—”