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Cherry spots them across the cafeteria while scanning for an open seat; Huddled at an otherwise empty table, the two boys are pressing their heads together over some magazine or maybe a comic book. Ponyboy points to something on the page and Randy laughs. She can't hear it over the din of the cafeteria but she knows the sound. She hesitates, shifting her weight on her foot.
"Hey, check it out," One of the guys behind her in line says to another, "Randy's slumming it."
The other boy laughs.
"No way! Man, that's sad. Does he know that doesn’t count towards his volunteer hours?"
"Hah, probably not. What a queer." He crunches on an apple, "Hey, did you wanna go to the river bottom on Friday?"
"Ugh, I can't, I have to take my sister to a tennis match."
"Again?"
"Yeah, man, my parents are still pissed at me for that party."
"That's such bullshit, that was like, weeks ago. I guess you’re getting your charity hours in."
“I guess so.”
They laugh and head to their seats, moving around Cherry like a river cutting around a rock. Once they’re in front of her, she recognizes the boys at Peter Harrison and John Joseph Jr, sophomore Socs. They make a beeline for a table of other Socs, including Dan and Susan. Cherry looks away quickly when they catch her staring.
It’s too damn cold to be eating outside, really, but at least out here she won’t have half the cafeteria watching her eat alone. She huffs and brushes some dirt off the picnic table, which is still damp from the rain. She wishes she had a blanket to sit on; she doesn’t know what happened to the one Bob had kept in his car and it’s too cold to take her jacket off. She sighs and sits down anyway, tucking her skirt under her thighs and hoping it’s thick enough to keep her legs dry.
The blanket in Bob’s car, she remembers, had been soft, a worn-in quilt that his mom or grandma had made that had spent years collecting dust in the linen closet until Bob liberated it. He insisted it was for practical reasons, like in case he’s stuck overnight in a snowstorm, and definitely not because the backseat was chilly when you were naked.
She smiles at the memory; She had never really believed him about that, she couldn’t remember the last time they got more than an inch or two of snow, and besides, the blanket had helped. She can almost feel it now, thin and threadbare in places, but as soft as Bob’s skin, and more than enough to keep the two of them warm in the space between being naked and being naked and up to something.
She sighs, blinking back tears. Her carton of milk tastes like nothing, like a mouthful of wet cardboard, and her egg scramble is hardly better, reheated rubber and dry ham.
In the distance, she hears laughter. She looks up to see couple classmates circling the parking lot in their shiny new cars. After a moment of watching she realizes they’re not trying to find parking but are just going around and around in circles, just enjoying the thrill of having a car to park at all. She wonders if maybe that could be her theme for her English essay, rites of passage, but the longer she thinks about it the less she thinks that’s what The Scarlet Letter is even about. Then she feels stupid, and stuck, and then sad again, so by the time the end-of-lunch bell rings, she dumps both the idea and her half-eaten egg scramble in the garbage.
Inside, Cherry makes a beeline for her locker. She swaps The Scarlet Letter with her Algebra textbook and checks herself in the miniature mirror hanging on the door. She sighs; Her cheeks are as red as her hair and her hair is frizzy and windswept.
She purses her lips and runs her fingers through her hair, trying to tame it. A couple minutes later, she huffs, unsatisfied, and slams her locker shut. Damn it!
Then she nearly jumps out of her skin: Marcia Thompson is right in front of her, leaning on the adjacent locker, grinning.
“Sooo, what are you doing tonight?” she asks, smiling brightly.
Cherry blinks, schooling her features into something neutral.
“What?”
“For your birthday!” she says like it should be obvious, “I had it on my calendar.”
Oh, right. Her birthday. She’s 17 today.
“I mean…” she stammers, reaching up to twirl a piece of hair around her finger, “Bob and I were going to…” she trails off. There were hundreds of things they’d said they were going to do. None of them mattered now.
Marcia’s eyes go wide.
"Oh, shoot,” she gasps, nodding rapidly. She purses her lips for a moment, thinking, “Well, hey, I’m free tonight! We could go to the movies, or bowling, or, ooh, the mall...”
Cherry blinks again.
“What?” she echoes.
“Oh, no, do you already have other plans? I totally don’t mean to gate-crash!” She wrinkles her nose in disgust.
Cherry shakes her head.
“No, no…” she hesitates. “Marcia…” She says gently, “All the other girls – I mean, you really want to hang out with me?”
“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I?”
She fights the urge to look around, at the stares she’s sure people are now giving them.
“Um…” She thinks about how to explain it – that none of the other Socs have talked to her since the trial, barely look at her now except to look away quickly and giggle behind their hands. But Marcia is watching her placidly, waiting, like she has no clue what Cherry’s worried about. It’s so unexpected that it startles her into saying, “You know what? Nevermind. I have practice until four, can you meet me at the gym then?”
The dark-haired girl beams.
“Great!” She leans forward and squeezes Cherry’s hands, “We’re gonna make it a good birthday, I promise.” The class bell rings, and she grimaces. “I’ve got to run, but I’ll see you!” she turns to leave, then looks back, calling out as she disappears down the hall. “By the way, I love the hair. I don’t know what you did, but it looks groovy today.”
Cherry is left with her bookstrap cutting of circulation to two of her fingers while she stares after her – friend? – who glances back and waves again before turning the corner.
***
The more hours tick by, the more Cherry is convinced that Marcia has something sinister planned, she just doesn’t know what it is yet; Last year, when Mary G. had missed Susan’s birthday gala, Marcia had been one of the people who ignored Mary for two weeks afterwards and then feigned innocence when Mary G. exploded on them. Cherry had done it, too. But this year Cherry did much worse than missing one birthday – she’d betrayed them, all of them, at the war council and the trial. She fraternized with the enemy. She broke the rules. There’s no way Marcia would let that slide.
So, what’s she going to do? Will she make a big show of driving up to the front of the school like she’s going to pick Cherry up, only to lock her doors at the last second and drive off? Will she let Cherry in, only to drive them down to the Ribbon, shove her out, and leave her to the greasy girls? Maybe she’s going to snoop around Cherry’s house for something incriminating to take back to Dan and his crew.
But, actually… come to think of it, Cherry hasn’t seen Marcia around Dan for a while. She doesn’t remember seeing her with any of the Socs, not since Randy dumped her; Sometimes when Marcia waves at her in the hallways she’ll be with Mary-Anne, a middle-class girl who she has some classes with. But otherwise… Otherwise it’s just Marcia.
She also realizes, while she’s wracking her brain, that Marcia always smiles at her when they pass each other in the halls, that familiar, beaming grin. She’ll compliment Cherry’s outfit or her hair on the days she’s not wrapped up in her coat or cheerleading uniform, and she does it while looking Cherry dead-on, like she doesn’t care who’s around or who sees.
Cherry swallows.
Could she really… just want to hang out with her? Help her celebrate her birthday? They’re hardly friends, but...
But.
In the locker room before practice, the other girls are whispering behind their hands, throwing glances her way every couple of minutes, as usual. But unlike most other days, Cherry finds she isn’t really thinking about it. She’s too busy brainstorming what exactly she and Marcia are going to do tonight, assuming they’re really going to hang out; It’s way too cold to sit at the rodeo for hours and not come home with a nasty cold, and the mall will probably be crowded with last-minute Christmas shoppers. Cherry’s not even sure she wants to be around that many people right now. Maybe they could just hang out, swing by Harry’s diner for some burgers,see if there’s anything good on TV. It wouldn’t be the most thrilling 17th birthday, but she’s not feeling the excitement anyway.
She stops thinking about it during practice, just focuses on getting her kick higher because Linda has made two comments now about how some people need to remember to pick up their feet, and should probably stretch their hamstrings more while they're at it.
As she kicks, she finds herself thinking for probably the millionth time: why is she even here? She’s freezing her face off because Linda insists on holding practice outside despite the weather, and Cherry can tell by the look on her stupid face that she’s going to make her the bottom of the pyramid today, just because she can.
Sure enough, a few minutes later Linda blows her whistle and makes them line up, picking out girls. She smirks when she points a thin finger at Cherry. Cherry holds back a sigh and drops down on all fours.
By the end of practice, she’s freezing to her bones, sweat rolling down her back, her wrists aching from holding up the weight for so long.
She forgets about her plans with Marcia until she spots her baby blue station wagon at the other end of the parking lot. Her heart jumps up to her throat. She pulls her coat tighter around herself, glancing over her shoulder at Kim and Patty who are watching the car with mild interest.
When she rolls up, though, Marcia catches her eye and waves, as cool-headed as ever, and Cherry swallows her fear.
The car is warm, like it’s been driving around for a while. The blast of heat feels good on her stiff joints. When she goes to sit down, she has to move a box off of passenger seat.
"That’s for you!” Marcia says cheerily, putting the car into drive, “I know you probably don’t want to do anything big, but I couldn’t not get you a gift! I was killing time at the mall before I came here, and, well – open it!”
She hesitates, but slides her purse down to her feet and puts the box on her lap. It’s slim, white cardboard with Cherry written on it in marker. She takes the cover off and peels back the tissue paper. Inside is a soft white cardigan with some sort of brooch pinned to the front.
She studies it; it’s a small ruby carved to look like a couple of red cherries.
"A cherry for Cherry!” Marcia says, glancing over at her when she reaches a stop sign.
Cherry feels a lump rise up in her throat, and it takes her several tries to swallow it.
“I-”
“I wasn’t sure what color you’d like, so I went with something neutral, I hope that’s okay?”
"Um, yeah, yeah it’s fine. It’s good, I’ve been - needing a new sweater.”
She beams.
"Great!"
Marcia focuses on driving again, seemingly unaware of Cherry staring at her from the passenger’s seat, swallowing back unexpected tears.
She expects an awkward silence on the drive, like how it was sometimes on double dates with the four of them. At first, the silence was from nerves – Randy hadn’t dated much before and seemed excited about Marcia. But it wasn’t long before their drives home were tense with silence from whatever argument Randy and Marcia had managed to get into while on the date; sometimes they’d even argue beforehand and get into the car angry, and Cherry knew the whole night would be a bust.
This afternoon, however, it’s nothing like that. The conversation flowing easily, it seems like Marcia will never run out of things to say. She, like Bo- like Randy, is a senior, and college applications have been absolutely killing her.
“Seriously, I wish I was a guy so I could get drafted, then I wouldn’t have to write so many fuckin’ essays!” she says emphatically.
Cherry snorts.
“Yeah, but then you’d have to go fight in a war,” She points out.
Marcia just shrugs, “Eh. Still beats having Mr. Syme for English.”
“You don’t like him?”
She makes a face.
“He’s, like, fine, he’s just a stuffy old literature guy. I bet his head would explode if he tried to watch Muscle Beach Party .”
“The height of film,” she says sarcastically, “Muscle Beach Party .”
“Hey, it’s a good movie!”
“Sure,” she concedes, “It’s fun.”
“It is!” she says, flapping her hand, “Actually, he might like that one – lots of shirtless guys.”
Her eyes go wide.
“What do you mean?”
She glances over at her.
“I heard he’s a homosexual.”
“What? Don’t say that! He’s not – he’s not a pervert!”
“Come on, he totally could be.”
She purses her lips.
“Mr. Syme is a perfectly nice teacher!”
She chuckles.
“You’re just saying that ‘cause you had a crush on him your freshman year.”
She splutters. Mr. Syme is the freshman and sophomore English teacher, and Cherry had made such good grades that she was put in the sophomore class as a freshman. That’s right, she and Marcia had had that class together back then. She’d forgotten.
“I really needed help with my Romeo and Juliet essay!”
“Sure you did,” She says with a wink.
Cherry goes red, folding her arms over her chest.
“Whatever. Where are you applying, again?”
Marcia rattles off the names of a few schools, mostly in-state, but a few that are farther out West, some as far away as California. Cherry’s about to ask why she wants to be so far away from home, but then she has to direct her to not miss the turn to get into her neighborhood, and the conversation halts.
They’re quiet until they get to the foyer; Marcia toes off her shoes and Cherry takes her coat to hang up. The house is quiet, too, her parents still at work, but she hears Miss Ruth bustling around somewhere, probably dusting the curios in Father’s office.
“Ooh, is that real mink?” Marcia asks, pointing into the closet.
“Um, I think so?”
“Can I?” She asks, reaching out.
“Sure.”
She runs a hand down the arm of the coat, rubbing the strands between her first two fingers.
“Yeah, that’s real. Where did you get this?”
“My Father got it for my Mother last Christmas.”
“Wow,” she says dreamily, running her hands up and down the fur, “He must really love her.”
“Yeah,” she says with a soft smile, “I guess he does.”
She remembers, with a pang, the silver bracelet Bob had gotten her last Christmas. It’s sitting upstairs on her vanity; She hasn’t had the heart to wear it since – well, since.
"Are you hungry?" Marcia asks, leaving the coat and wandering in the direction of the kitchen. The lights are still on, because Mother never remembers to turn them off.
“I could eat," she admits, trailing behind.
When she gets to the kitchen, Marcia's already rooting around in the fridge, taking various Tupperwares out and sniffing them before putting them back.
"Do you get like, a super sensitive sense of smell when you're on the rag?" she asks, sniffing the leftover shrimp jello Mother made on Monday, making a face, and putting it away.
"Um..." she says, tucking her hair behind her ear, "Sometimes."
"I get crazy every month, it's so annoying. Like, God, I just want to eat some cheese without gagging - Ooh, actually, do you have cheese?"
"In the bottom drawer."
"Perfect."
She takes out a handful of containers and stacks them on the kitchen island.
“What are you thinking?" Cherry asks, coming over and separating the items into categories. Cheese, meats, and even two different, half-empty containers of pickles she forgot they had.
“We're going to make a cheese board!" she announces, grinning that infectious grin of hers.
“A what?"
"A cheese board! My brother got obsessed with them when he was stationed over in France. It's just, like, meats and crackers and stuff. Oh, and we can pair it with wine, if you have some!"
“Perfect.”
She goes back to rooting through the fridge and Cherry takes it as a cue to go to the wine cabinet in the dining room.
"Uh, Marcia?" She asks, looking over the rows and rows of dark bottles.
"Yah?"
"What do you pair with a cheese board?"
"A white!"
She looks the wine rack over. "We have uh... Char- chardonnay? Saw-vignon blank?" She grimaces; Even with French tutoring over the summer her pronunciation is still atrocious.
But Marcia doesn’t seem to notice, just shouts, "Either one!" from inside the refrigerator. So Cherry grabs the Chardonnay and goes back to the kitchen.
“Can you set the table? I’ll take care of this,” Marcia asks, gesturing to the assorted meats and cheeses on the island.
“Sure.”
Cherry does her best, moving Mother’s paperwork into the den and watering the flowers. Miss Ruth appears at her elbow and helps her out, wiping down the table with a practiced efficiency before getting the plates and silverware out.
“Can you grab the tray?” Marcia asks a few minutes later, gesturing over her shoulder.
“Oh, sure-” Cherry says, but Miss Ruth cuts her off.
“I’ll get it,” she insists, ducking into the kitchen.
“Thanks, Miss Ruth,” Cherry says automatically, taking a wine glass from Marcia.
Miss Ruth comes back in a moment later with a large white dish balanced on her forearms; It has cheeses on one side, meats on the other, and hastily chopped vegetables and dips in the middle. Marcia had even found the wobbly ceramic bowl Cherry made in art class and filled it with dijon mustard.
“This is so cute,” Marcia gushes, holding up the bowl.
“Thanks, um, its from art class. Primary school.”
“Adorable.”
Cherry blushes, biting back a grin. After a moment, she gets up and putsthe new Beatles recordon. It had been a birthday gift from her parents; she’d opened it last night since they had both had to get to work this morning. It goes well with the record player, which had been a sorry-your-boyfriend-got-stabbed present from a couple months ago.
The music plays softly, filling up the room.
“Is this the new album?” Marcia asks.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Outta sight! You know, I always thought Ringo was hot.”
Cherry bursts out laughing.
“Ringo? Really? His sideburns!”
“They’re cute!”
“If you say so…”
“Let me guess, you like George?”
She tucks her hair behind her ear.
“Paul.”
Marcia shakes her head.
“I’m not surprised.”
Cherry rolls her eyes fondly and sits back down. She’s about to take a bite of pepperoni and cheese when Marcia says,
“Wait!” and puts a hand out to stop her.
“What? What’s wrong?”
“We need to do a toast!” She announces, picking up her glass of wine and handing Cherry hers.
“Oh, um, okay,” she says, taking the wine.
“Who do you want to be?” Marcia asks.
Cherry blinks. “What?”
“Who are you going to be? I’m not just going to toast to your birthday, that’s so drab. It’s more fun when you can be someone else.” She purses her lips, staring hard at her wine glass for a moment as if it holds the secrets of the universe. “I’ve got it! I’ll be Lady Christine de Fromage, Dutchess of France!” she decides, affecting a rather horrible French accent.
Cherry barks a laugh.
“You can’t be serious!”
“I am,” she insists, “Who are you going to be?”
Protests bubble up under her tongue – this is ridiculous, they’re not children – but her eyes fall over the dinner spread again, at the inexpertly-folded meats and the crookedly cut cheese, and feels a surge of emotion well up in her. Marcia doesn’t have to do this, any of this, least of all for Cherry who she’s had maybe a dozen conversations with. But she did. She did, and now she’s looking at her with those big, blue eyes, completely serious. As if Cherry’s birthday dinner persona actually matters. As if Cherry actually matters.
Well, what else can she do except play along?
She ducks her head and blushes, silent for a long moment before she whispers,
“I’ll be Princess Rhonda of, um, the Mountain Cloud Kingdom.” her face burns, “It’s who, um, who I would pretend to be when I was little.”
Marcia squeals, hugging Cherry around the neck and sloshing her wine everywhere.
“Perfect! Oh, that’s perfect! It’s sooo nice to meet you, Princess! Did you travel very far?”
She clears her throat and sits up straighter, like she imagines a princess would.
“Oh, it was dreadful. Cloud traffic is horrendous this time of year!”
They look at each other a moment, then burst into giggles. Marcia beams. Cherry finds herself smiling right back.
***
They’re laying on the parlor floor, the loose carpet fibers tickling Cherry’s nose. The music is beautiful and Marcia is beautiful and today, surprisingly, is turning out to be beautiful.
“Never have I ever… Gone skinny dipping!” She says.
Marcia scoffs, offended, and outs a finger down.
“That’s not fair, you only didn’t go ‘cause you had mono!”
She smirks.
“Still counts.”
Marcia huffs. “That’s not very Lady Rhonda of you,” she mutters.
“Princess. Princess Rhonda.”
“That’s not very Princess Rhonda of you.”
Cherry giggles.
“Princess Rhonda gets ruthless after a bottle of wine. Also, it’s your turn.”
She huffs, her pink cheeks puffing.
“Hmmm…” she hums, sticking her tongue out between her teeth. “Never have I ever… been in the Honors Society!”
Cherry puts a finger down.
“That’s so not fair! You didn’t join ‘cause hate English.”
“I don’t hate English, I just think it’s boring.”
“Same thing.”
“Whatever, it’s your turn!”
She tries to think, but the wine is making it everything slow and syrupy, so after a long moment she just says,
“Never have I ever had a crush on Ringo Starr.”
Marcia hiccups a laugh and holds up her closed fist,
“I lose!” she says brightly.
Cherry laughs so hard she starts to fall over. She catches herself at the last second, then props herself up on her elbows.
Marcia shuffles closer and hits Cherry lightly in the shoulder, then forgets to move her hand away so it rests there, seeping heat through the fabric of her new cardigan. It’s nice. It’s probably the most contact she’s had outside of cheerleading in a couple of months.
"Marcia..." She says after a moment.
"Hm?"
"Thank you. For tonight. This has been the most fun I've had in a while."
"Of course! You deserve a good 17th birthday!"
"I mean it,” she insists, “I don't think Mary M. and Jane would've done this for me if we'd still..." Still been friends, she doesn't say.
Marcia purses her lips, nodding.
"Good thing you have me now!" she says. She wriggles across the floor until she's right next to Cherry, then rests her head in the middle of her back. “I bet those two are dykes anyway.”
She bursts out laughing.
“What? What makes you say that?”
“They’re, like, obsessed with each other! I don't think I spent that much time with Randy ever."
Cherry winces.
“Yeah, well, you two couldn’t go one night without fighting.”
Marcia laughs. “Seriously.”
Cherry picks at the carpet for a moment before asking,
"How... How are you doing? With the breakup?"
She feels Marcia shrug, her shoulder hitting Cherry's ribs.
"Oh, fine. I dumped him, you know."
"What? He told me…”
Marcia shakes her head, static building across Cherry’s back.
"Yeah, no, he probably said that to cover his ass. Which is funny considering he’s spending all his time with that greasy kid now. But no, he got so boring! All he wanted to do was get high and talk about his feelings. Like, if I wanted a girlfriend, I'd hang out with Mary M.”
Cherry swallows her laughter, taking a moment to digest what she’s just heard.
"I don't know, I mean, he did lose his best friend," she defends, chewing on her bottom lip, "They’d known each other since they were five."
Marcia hums. Cherry feels it vibrate through her ribs.
"No, yeah, I get it," Marcia says, softer, "I know. It was just too much for me, you know? Considering I didn't like him all that much to start with.”
“Yeah, no, I get it.”
The lapse into silence, Marcia watching the lights on the ceiling and Cherry watching the fibers on the carpet. After a minute, Cherry shifts and tells her friend to get up.
"I have to pee," she says. But when she stands, the room shifts on it's axis and she stumbles, reaching back towards the couch. "Ohh, Marcia-" But the black-haired girl is already wobbling up to her knees, giggling and grinning.
"I've got you,” she says, grabbing her around the waist; When she stands, they're almost the same height, Cherry a couple inches taller, “Where's the bathroom?"
"Um, this way." She points down the hall.
Marcia grins. "Tally-ho!" she cheers, and together they take a wobbly step forward. Cherry smiles all the while, tucking her head into her friend’s neck.
She's feeling considerably more sober by the time she's done peeing. Marcia goes after her, and then they stumble back out to the parlor. Miss Ruth pops her head in and asks if they need anything before she leaves for the night, and they say no and wave her off.
The cook should be around soon to start on dinner, but for now, the two girls just sit on the floor in silence, listening to the record together, interjecting with a thought occasionally but otherwise just enjoying the music. At some point, Cherry leans up against the foot of the couch and Marcia curls up next to her, petting her hair.
“I wish I had hair like yours," she murmurs, "It's so pretty."
"Thanks," she says, bashful, "I used to hate it when I was a kid. The boys would all tease me about it."
She huffs. "Well, boys are assholes."
"They are."
"You really need a haircut, though,” she says, running her fingers through it, “It's split-end city back here!"
“Hmm,” she hums, twirling a piece around her finger. It is gritty. “Once we’ve sobered up.”
“Deal.”
They wind up playing a round of the Game of Life, giggling all the while. By the time Marcia slides into retirement, they've sobered up enough that Cherry feels better about letting her cut her hair, or at least, getting up the stairs to do it.
Her heart is pounding when they cross the threshold into her room. Marcia ooh and aahs, looking around.
"You got a lotta books!" she observes, her eyebrows disappearing under the blunt line of her bangs.
Cherry blushes, tucking her hair behind her ears.
“I like to read,” she says.
“Clearly.”
But she doesn’t linger on it, instead turning to Cherry’s vanity, where she swipes a lipstick on the back of her hand and inspects the way it shimmers in the light. Cherry straightens out the sheets on her bed, then goes to get her scissors and hairbrush from the bathroom. She feels a little dizzy as she moves her jewelry box up against the mirror to make room for the combs and brushes, but she figures she’s still a little drunk.
She sits down on her chair and Marcia wraps a worn bathroom towel around her neck, pinning it in place with a hairclip. The older girl brushes her hair, careful not to yank on any tangles, and pushes a comb down the center of her head, parting it. Then she picks up the scissors and does a couple of test snips in the air. Cherry’s breath gets caught in her throat.
“What about up to here?” Marcia asks, putting her two fingers on Cherry’s collarbone, “You’d look like Jane Fonda!”
Cherry she opens her mouth, wanting to agree, but instead what comes out is a high, wounded sound.
“I can’t,” she moans, “Oh, Marcia, I can’t.”
The tears burst out of her, hot and demanding, the knot in her throat hard and cold.
“Oh, honey, what’s wrong?” She asks, tossing the scissors away.
Cherry just reaches for her, grabbing at her neatly-pressed shirt and grasping it with both hands.
“Bob,” she murmurs, burying her face in Marcia’s shoulder, “Bobby—” it’s all she gets out for several moments, crying ruthlessly into Marcia’s neck. Her whole body shakes, her stomach constricting with sobs. At one point she thinks she wails, nearly eating the fibers on Marcia’s shoulder seam.
“Shhh,” Marcia says, rubbing slow, warm circles onto her back, “Hey, it’s okay, Cher, I’m here. I’m here.”
It just makes Cherry cry harder, wrapping her arms so tightly around her that it hurts. She doesn’t let go, though, and neither does her friend. After what feels like a year, she composes herself enough to pull off of Marcia’s neck.
“Oh—” she sniffles at the large stain of drool on her collarbone, “Your shirt—”
“I don’t care,” she asserts.
Cherry furrows her brow, but one glance at Marcia’s face tells her it’s true, she doesn’t.
She takes several deep breaths, trying to get them all the way down into her stomach.
“What’s wrong, Cherry?” Marcia asks again, softly.
Cherry swallows, taking another deep breath.
“Bob…” she sighs, clearing her throat, “Bob would…” she takes a long moment to find the right words, “When we were freshmen, he sat behind me in math, and every day he’d – he was always bothering me: kicking my chair, asking to borrow a pencil even though I knew he already had one, asking me questions during a test, things like that. Eventually he started throwing little wads of paper in my hair.
“I didn’t even notice them at first,” she admits, “Until I’d be at my locker with these little bits of paper falling at my feet. God, I must have walked around for an hour with those things in my hair! Then one day he came up to me looking all hurt, and he said, ‘you never called’, and I said, ‘what’, and he said, ‘I gave you my number.’ and I just looked at him blankly until he grinned – that damned magnetic grin of his - and he threw a wad of paper at me.”
Marcia gasps, “Oh, shit.”
“When I unfolded it, there was his number. Turns out he’d been writing it on those papers for weeks, and I never realized, I’d just been throwing them out.”
She smiles again, although this time it’s watery.
“God, Marcia, I think I was half in love with him by that afternoon.” She pulls her hair to one side, running her fingers through it. It’s coarse, reminds her of Snowball’s fur, “Thinking about cutting it – it just makes me think of when I would dump all those paper wads in the trash, not knowing what they meant, and I can’t – Marcia, I can’t -”
She starts crying again and Marcia leans forward and hugs her again, tight.
“Hey, hey,” she says, softly, “It’s okay. We don’t have to cut your hair.”
“I know it’s stupid,” she mutters.
“No. No, it isn’t. I get it. You don’t want to give up that part of him, that, that special memory you had together. It’s okay, Cher. It’s fine.”
She sniffles, then leans back, looking at Marcia’s face; her eyes are misty, too, but she smiles at her tenderly.
“Fuck,” Cherry murmurs, wiping her face with her hands, “Some birthday party this turned out to be.”
Marcia hiccups a laugh.
“Eh, not the worst one I’ve ever been to. You remember Mary L.’s thirteenth?”
Cherry huffs a laugh, putting her head down on Marcia’s shoulder and trying to ignore the gross damp of the fabric. She closes her eyes, feeling Marcia’s shoulder rise and fall with her breathing. After a moment, Marcia loosens her hold.
“Could we, like, move to your bed? My knees hurt.”
“Oh!” Cherry laughs, startled, “Of course!”
***
They lie down on Cherry’s bed for a while, Marcia running her fingers through Cherry’s long hair, not saying much. Cherry’s pretty sure she falls asleep for at least a few minutes, tucked up against Marcia’s neck, listening to her heart beat steadily beneath her ribs.
“Why… Why are you being so nice to me?” she asks at one point when she awakens.
“Huh?”
“Just – today, and when you smile at me in the hallways, why – I mean, none of the other girls will even look at me anymore.”
“Do I need a reason? I just like you.” she says, shrugging. After a moment, she wets her lips with her tongue and adds, “I’ve always liked you. I felt l bad that we could never talk on dates ‘cause I was too busy being pissed off at Randy.”
She huffs a laugh, holding her tighter.
“You two were so bad for each other."
“So bad.”
This, for some reason, sets them off into a round of laughter, and they don’t stop until their stomachs hurt.
Soon, Marcia’s stomach starts growling, and with a groan and a giggle they get up off the bed. It’s barely 6 o’clock, but Cherry slips into a nightgown and offers Marcia an old t-shirt and shorts to change into. Marcia insists on doing something with Cherry’s hair, so they head down to the kitchen and liberate some olive oil, pouring streams of it into Cherry’s crackly hair over the bathroom sink. Then they pin it back so it doesn’t drip onto her neck, and she keeps the towel around her shoulders.
Chef Phil is massaging some chicken on the counter, but he turns and smiles when they come back in.
“Little Miss! Happy birthday!” he says, using the nickname he used since she was little, smiling at her. He has a thick accent and a gap in his front teeth.
“Thank you, Mr. Phil,” she says, ducking her head.
“I’m going to whip you up the best birthday cake ever as soon as I’m done with this,” he says, gesturing to the naked chicken in the pan.
Marcia grabs Cherry’s arm.
“A cake?” she asks, “Can we make it?”
Cherry bites her lip, glancing at Mr. Phil.
“Be my guest,” he says with a wink.
Cherry smiles and gestures for Marcia to take a seat at the island. She pulls the Family Circle out and drops it in front of Marcia, who leafs through it.
While Marcia’s looking, Cherry gets out the basics, flour and eggs and whatnot.
"New England Upside-Down cake? It has cranberry sauce!" Marcia asks, grinning cheekily.
Cherry makes a face.
"Uh, no.”
She giggles and turns the page.
"Angel strawberry delight?" She shakes her head. "Ooh, there's a cherry skillet cake! Or cherry ice-cream cake."
Cherry glances at Mr. Phil, who shakes his head.
“No cherries, we’re out.”
“Damn.”
She purses her lips, thinking.
"There's a gingerbread cake in there somewhere that's pretty good, I think we had it last Christmas."
Mr. Phil verifies this and Marcia sets off on the hunt. After a minute, she points to one of the recipes.
"That's the one,” Cherry confirms.
They have everything except the raisins, but those are gross so they decide to leave them out. At one point, Mr. Phil asks if they want his help and they wave him off.
They have to wait for the chicken to be done in the oven before they can actually bake the cake, so they go upstairs and rinse Cherry’s hair.
In the meantime, Mother gets home, greeting her daughter with a tight hug.
“Happy birthday, Sherri,” she says. When they break apart, she seems pleasantly surprised to see Marcia hovering over Cherry’s shoulder. She studies her for a moment, “Thompson, right?”
Marcia nods.
“That’s right! Marcia,” she says, holding out her hand. They shake hands.
“It’s good to see you, dear.”
She grins.
It turns out there’s a reason the recipe calls for parchment paper in the cake tin, which they discover after turning it over and having nothing come out. They wind up hacking at it with spoons, but that just leaves them with a hot, cakey jumble, until Mother has the idea to mix white frosting in with the mess and stirring it together. They wind up adding a shitton of confectioners sugar, too, and rolling the whole thing into bite-size balls. Some they squash into shapes, like a Christmas Tree or a heart, but mostly they leave them as little balls of cake.
“Cake bites,” Mother suggests, popping one in her mouth.
Father comes home while they’re making the cake bites, and the four of them wind up eating half of them before dinner. Mr. Phil pretends to be offended about it, but Cherry catches him sneaking a couple, too.
It’s not a perfect birthday, and Cherry gets a little teary-eyed when Father reminds her that she and Bob made the gingerbread cake together last Christmas, but it’s still way better than she imagined it would be.
***
Marcia invites her out again the following Friday, to the mall this time.
“Marcia,” she says, staring at her friend.
“What?”
“It’s a week ‘til Christmas.”
She blinks.
“Oh! Huh, yeah!”
“So we can’t go to the mall!”
“Why not?”
She stares at her.
“It’s going to be packed! Everyone’s going to be doing their last-minute Christmas shopping!” She’s getting a little loud, and a couple people turn to look at them. She steels herself and tries not to let her face get red.
“Oh. Yeah, I guess,” Marcia thinks for a minute, shifting her weight onto one leg. “Is the Slash J still open?”
“The rodeo? I don’t think so.”
“Hm.”
They think for a minute.
“Um, but Snowball is staying there, we could probably go and see her.”
Marcia grins.
“Snowball! Oh, I haven’t seen her in ages! Can I brush her mane? That’s my favorite part.”
“Sure,” she says, rolling her eyes fondly.
Snowball the horse is happy to see them, flicking her tail intermittently while Cherry rubs the brush over her neck and back. Marcia puts half a dozen tiny braids into her mane, giving her little kisses on the nose and whispering sweet nothings in her ear. Her saddle is out for repairs thanks to an epic tumble Cherry had a few weeks ago, but they put a spare blanket on her back and walk a couple laps around the track anyway.
It’s a windy day. It takes Cherry a few minutes to realize just why she’s shivering so hard, until she realizes her collar is still down.
“Huh,” she says, feeling the fur of her collar between her two fingers.
“Hm?”
“It’s just –“ she swallows the lump in her throat, “I usually have to keep my collar up all the time, this time of year, and now - now I don’t have to.”
Marcia is quiet for a moment.
“Oh!” she grins slyly, “Bob liked marking his territory, huh?”
“Yeah, yeah, he did,” she admits, blushing, “Christ, I think I wore sweaters until April.”
“And here I thought you just really liked turtlenecks,” she teases.
Cherry smiles softly, looking out into the field on the other side of the fence, where a couple crows are hopping around in the frosted grass.
“It wasn’t bad, though, I mean, I think I wanted it just as bad as him.”
“Sure, I’d hope so.”
“You hope so?”
She shrugs, “Randy made me feel like such a skank sometimes.”
“Oh, really? Why?”
She shakes her head.
“He never wanted it, like, ever; I don’t think he even liked kissing!”
“Really?”
“Really. We hardly got past second base.”
She winces; They’d dated for almost a year.
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
They get back to the barn and Cherry looks back at the faint hoofprints they left on the dusty track. The sun is setting, bleeding orange and pink against the grey canopy of clouds.
“Do you want to ride a lap around? I can lead.”
“Oh, sure!”
Marcia holds the blanket with both hands and Cherry hops down, her boots squelching in the cold mud.
“Remind me we need to clean off her hooves before putting her back in the barn.”
“’Kay.”
***
Christmas is a quiet affair. Cherry is tucked up in her reading chair in the parlor, watching the lights on the tree twinkle. Mother and Father are on their third glass of wine each, leaning into each other’s space on the couch. Cherry watches the ornaments dangle for a minute, then pulls her bookmark out of The Bell Jar and tries to focus on someone else’s tragedies for a while.
A few minutes later, the phone rings. Cherry gets up and spots Miss Ruth, who is in the middle of buttoning her coat, close her eyes and suppress a sigh.
“I’ve got it,” she says, loud enough for Miss Ruth to hear her over the phone’s trill.
Miss Ruth doesn’t reply, just nods at her and goes on putting on her shoes.
“Hello?” Cherry asks, tucking the receiver into her neck.
“Cherry!” Marcia’s voice sounds tinny over the phone line. She has to shout to hear herself, voices and music overlapping in the background.
“Marcia?”
“I can’t talk long but I wanted to say Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas,” she says softly, a smile creeping onto her face.
“What?”
“I said, you too!” she says, louder this time.
Marcia laughs.
“It sounds really boring over there,” she says, still too loud so Cherry has to hold the phone a couple inches away from her ear, “Do you need me to come kidnap you?”
“No,” she says, looking into the parlor where Father is whispering something in Mother’s ear that makes her laugh, “No, I’m okay, really.”
She can almost hear Marcia shrug.
“Okay, well, call me if you change your mind. I’m at my Grandpa’s place, do you have that number?”
“I don’t think so.”
She gives it, and Cherry scribbles it down on the back of a scrap of paper from the junk drawer.
“Merry Christmas! Love you!”
She blinks.
“You – um, you too.”
But Marcia’s already hung up and the following silence echoes in Cherry’s ears. She smiles to herself as she makes her way back to the parlor.
“Merry Christmas,” Miss Ruth calls from the front door. The Valances chorus back their well-wishes. There’s a blast of cold air, and Miss Ruth goes home.
Cherry goes back to her book and manages to read most of a chapter before there’s a knock at the door. The three of them look at each other. Cherry shrugs.
Mother sighs and puts her glass down, straightening out her shirt and smoothing back her hair before opening the door.
“Oh, Carolyn! What a surprise!”
Cherry’s heart stops.
Carolyn – Sheldon? Bob’s mother?
The two mothers talk quietly in the doorway. The cold wind creeps into the parlor. Cherry stares down at her book, the words all running together. She feels dizzy, like she’s had too much wine, although she’s only had one glass and that was hours ago.
“Sherri, darling?” Mother calls from the foyer, her voice gone high, “Could you come here a minute?”
Cherry approaches. Carolyn Sheldon is a stocky woman with a wide stomach. She’s a bit on the short side. Upon closer inspection, tonight she has a cigarette clutched tightly between two fingers and she’s not even wearing a proper coat, just her fluffy house robe. The worry lines carved on each side of her mouth bend when she sees her, a parenthesis around a watery smile. Her makeup is smudged.
“Cherry,” she says, her voice thick with feeling. She opens her arms and Cherry glances at her mother before leaning in. Her robe is damp with the misting rain they’ve been having on and off all evening. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Sheldon.”
A beat passes, Mrs. Sheldon still clutching Cherry’s elbows and she feels the soft filter of the cigarette against her arm.
“Um, what are you doing here?” she asks finally.
“Oh! Of course! Silly me,” Mrs. Sheldon exclaims, rolling her eyes in a self-depreciating gesture, “I found something of yours in – when we were cleaning out Bob’s room. A gift.”
Her heart plummets down to her stomach. It reminds her of the time her family vacationed to Hawaii and climbed the Molokai Lighthouse.The wind had knocked her hat off and she watched it loop-de-loop down into the field beyond, and she realized with terrifying clarity that a thin metal railing was the only thing keeping her from falling and breaking her neck.
“A gift?” she echoes, her voice tight.
“Yes, darling.”
“From – from Bob?”
“Yes, darling.”
She looks around, but Mrs. Sheldon doesn’t seem to be holding anything but the cigarette.
“What, um, where is it?”
“Oh!” Mrs. Sheldon pats her pockets, digging around for a moment before pulling out a small – something – wrapped in red paper.Cherry’s hands close gingerly around it, the paper crinkling beneath her thumb. It's really horribly wrapped, folding oddly with corners that stick out, and way too much tape. On top is a tag. She blinks rapidly, opening it.
To: Pretty Woman
From: the President of the Universe
She doesn’t realize she’s stopped breathing until she feels her mother’s hand on her back.
“Sherri, honey, breathe,” her mother is saying, though she sounds a million miles away, “Breathe.”
She does, coming in hitches, in, out, in-in-out-out-out, until the buzzing in her fingertips stops.
“I’m sorry-” Mrs. Sheldon starts to say, reaching out for gift.
Cherry’s fingers close tightly around it.
Mrs. Sheldon stops, drawing back.
Cherry squeezes her eyes shut, breathing in-out, in-out, in-out, for a minute. When she opens them again, Father has sauntered over, one hand balancing him on the railing, the other pressing down onto her shoulder. A steadying weight. An anchor.
With trembling fingers, she tears the paper open. Inside is a small velvet box, not unlike the one Bob was buried in. She traces over the velvet with her fingertips. It’s soft. It opens with a click. Inside is a ring. It’s thin silver, a bright red rose in the middle with two shiny emeralds on either side. On the top of the box, nestled inside, is a piece of paper folded up twice. It reads:
‘Be my First Lady? You know, eventually’
“That’s not…” Mother wonders, a little reproachfully.
“It’s a promise ring,” Mrs. Sheldon informs her.
“A – a promise ring?” Cherry echoes.
“His old man helped him pick it out over the summer,” Mrs. Sheldon explains, “I forgot about it until I saw it in his desk drawer. I think he was waiting for your anniversary to give it to you. Oh, Cherry, he was so excited.”
She swallows around the sudden lump in her throat,
“It was – a couple of days ago. It would’ve been two years.”
The tears well up again and she reaches forward, clutching Mrs. Sheldon around the shoulders, leaning into her soft, doughy bosom. They hold each other for a while, both blinking back tears. When they pull apart, she clears her throat.
"After the holidays – we talked about, um, having me over for dinner?"
Mrs. Sheldon lights up.
"Yes! Yes, that would be lovely. We'll work something out, yes."
She leans back in, melting into the soft damp of Mrs. Sheldon’s robe against her cheek.
***
The rest of winter break goes by in a haze. Her parents are hosting their annual fundraising gala at the country club in the days following Christmas. Normally, Cherry loves the gala, getting dressed up and eating finger foods and the spirit of giving all around her. But this year, she just wants to curl up in bed and sleep. So, when her father appears in the doorway of her room and tells her she can stay home if she’s not up for it this year, she accepts immediately. He opens his mouth and looks like he wants to say something else, but doesn’t.
She spends the rest of the day and the night in her room, forcing herself through The Collected Works of Emily Dickinson which is due back at the library in the morning. She sleeps. When she wakes, she stares at the vast darkness of her closet, trying to pick out each sweater and blouse from the shape of their shadow. She even thinks about doing her homework, but she isn’t quite that desperate yet.
Miss Ruth brings her dinner, leaving it on a wooden tray on the chair in front of her vanity. She comes over and touches Cherry’s forehead, then runs a hand through her hair.
“Not sick, that’s good,” she murmurs, “Do you want me to read to you?” She hasn’t read to her in almost a decade.
Cherry forces a smile.
“No, thank you, Miss Ruth.”
“Mm. Okay, ring the bell if you need anything.” The dark-skinned woman grunts and turns to go.
“Happy New Year,” Cherry calls after her.
“And to you.”
She’s slurping up the last of her chicken soup when the phone rings.
“Hullo?”
“Cherry!”
“Marcia?”
“I didn’t see you at the gala, your parents said you weren’t feeling well! Are you sick?”
“Oh, no, just – I just wasn’t feeling it this year.”
“That’s a bummer.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I don’t blame you, though, if I had an excuse to get out of these stuffy things I would. So many old people!”
She huffs a laugh.
“Hey, those are my parents you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey, if you’re not actually sick – I’m going to a New Year’s Eve party tomorrow night at the Slash J, do you wanna come with?”
“Really?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. Marcia and her priorities.
But then her friend quiet for a moment, a soft crackle over the line.
“I miss you,” she admits softly, “I haven’t seen you, like, all week.”
Oh. The sincerity in her friend’s voice shocks her and her breath catches in her throat.
She thinks about it. The rodeo is technically neutral territory, meaning a couple Socs can go to a party there and not totally ruin their rep. Cherry had only ever been to one, right after her first rodeo when one of the stablehands offered to buy her a drink. Then he'd almost immediately started a fight with a lanky cowboy with a missing front tooth, and Cherry decided she could get her kicks elsewhere.
Also, honestly, going out with Marcia sounds a million times more fun than the gala, and a billion times more fun than spending another night alone.
“Sure,” she says eventually, “Why not?”
Marcia squeals.
“Perfect!”
Mother raises her eyebrows the next morning when Cherry announces she’ll be ringing in the New Year with Marcia instead of 500 of her closest acquaintances, but eventually Mother relents and lets her go.
“Just… be safe,” she says, one hand clutching at the pearls resting daintily around her neck.
“I always am,” she says, rolling her eyes fondly.
Cherry is about to tear her hair out in frustration when Marcia pokes her head in.
“Knock knock!”
“Hey,” she says flatly, not looking over. She pulls out a dark green dress with a white lace collar, “Is this too formal?”
“Way.”
Marcia bustles over, gently pushing Cherry to the side and diving into the closet. Cherry sits on her bed and runs a hand through her hair. Marcia still has her coat on, a slim black pea coat.
“Is that new?”
“Yeah! I got it from Daddy.” She turns around and twirls, the ends of the coat fluttering out.
“Marcia!” Cherry says sharply and Marcia jumps, “Do you have anything on under that?”
She chuckles, her face going red.
“Keep your voice down! But yes, yes I do.”
Cherry raises an eyebrow.
Marcia glances to the door, which is mostly ajar, rushes over and closes it, and then unbuttons her coat. She has on a white shirt and a deep purple skirt, which would be unremarkable except the skirt is tight and stops above her fingertips, and the shirt is so see-through that Cherry can clearly see the outline of her bra.
“Marcia!”
“What? It’s cute!”
She gives her friend a look, and Marcia deflates. She takes a step closer, leaning in.
“Look… I’m actually meeting someone there. At the party. So I want to look, you know, hip.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“Meeting someone? Who?”
Marcia looks away, chewing on her thumbnail where the nailpolish is chipping off.
"Um, Keith. Keith Mathews."
"Who?"
"You know..." she sighs, "Two-Bit, the greaser."
Her eyes go wide.
"The fat guy?"
"The funny guy," she corrects, biting her lip, "But, yeah, him. He was there the night…"
“Yeah," she says quickly, turning to face her window, "I remember.” She chews her lip. He was also there the day Cherry went to see Dallas, to tell them about the war council. He was the one who stopped them from jumping her. She has no clue if Marcia knows that or not, “Are you - what, going steady with him?"
A pause.
"No. I mean, I don't think so. He's just - he's just fun to be around, you know?"
"Alright," she concedes finally, "Well, at least let me get you a shirt that doesn’t make you look like a skag."
Marcia laughs.
“Fine, but I’m doing your hair and makeup.”
“Deal.”
Cherry winds up in a deep green sweater and khaki slacks, which feels kind of formal for a greaser party, but way too casual for a Soc one, so she figures it’s good enough. Marcia braids her hair, pinning it up so it stays off her neck, and does a light line of kohl around her eyes. Then, true to form, Cherry picks a tight black turtleneck for her friend to wear.
Marcia turns around in the full-length mirror a couple of times.
“Okay, yeah, this is good,” she says, inspecting the shape of her butt, “Classy, with a hint of trashy.”
Cherry laughs, then glances down at her stocking feet.
“So, you really…” she starts, then trails off.
“Hm?”
“You really don’t mind? Being seen with a greaser?”
Marcia snorts.
“Nah,” she shrugs, then thinks for a moment, “I mean, I know making the right connections and all that junk is important. But like, they -” she waves in the general direction of the rest of the neighborhood, “have thought I was weird since I was, like, five. I know most of the parties I get invited to are because of Daddy. Susan and Kathryn and all them don’t ever talk to me unless they think they can get something out of it.” Cherry cringes, because she knows exactly what she means. But then Marcia smiles, a little shy, “So I figure, if I wanna be liked for more than just who my Daddy is, maybe it shouldn’t matter who his daddy is neither.”
She mulls this over.
“Huh.”
“Besides, it’s not like we’re going steady or nothin’. It’s just fun,” she shrugs, but her cheeks are still red.
Cherry smiles. "Well, I guess I've got to go to the party now. I need to size this guy up!" she says, though she’s pretty sure she already approves.
Marcia just laughs.
***
They park down the block from the roadhouse, and even from here they can see the lights flickering and hear the music pulsing. They meet a few people on the walk, one guy throwing up in the bushes and another singing some Elvis song at the top of his lungs. Cherry glances over at Marcia with a you sure you want to do this? look, but Marcia just giggles into her scarf and plows on ahead.
It’s hot when they step inside, the windows fogged up from everyone's breath. It's a pretty big place, a kitchen off to the right and a pool table and some couches off to the left. The walls are wood paneled, with hunting trophies hung up next to framed photos of horses. It’s mostly greasers from what she can see, but there are a handful of Socs, too. One guy looks like he just came from a gala; he’s wearing a full tuxedo, his cummerbund slung over his shoulder as he snorts a line off of the arm of a chair.
Marcia spots who she’s looking for and waves, then grabs Cherry’s hand and drags her along.
“Hey there!” the greaser – er, Keith, er, Two-Bit, says. Sure enough, she recognizes him: he’s big in every sense of the word, tall and barrel chested, with thick red sideburns and a wide grin. Marcia giggles when he kisses her on the cheek. “Lemme take your coats,” he offers, holding out an arm, “Nice coat like that is liable to not last long in this crowd.”
Cherry blinks, startled at the implication, but Marcia just laughs.
“You’d know, wouldn’t you?”
He laughs, too, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He’s no hunk, but he’s cute, freckles lightly dusting his nose.
“How you doin’, Cherry?” he asks, giving her a crooked grin.
“Good, thanks, and you?”
“Not bad,” he says. He has a faint bruise on one side of his mouth, probably from a punch if Cherry had to guess, but otherwise he doesn’t look like he was permanently marred by the beating he got a few months back, “Not bad at all.”
The girls shuck off their jackets and hand them to him, and he goes off to put them wherever. He comes back a couple minutes later with an unlit cigarette between his teeth.
“Man, Two, I don’t know what table you’re talking about—” a voice says from behind her.
Cherry turns around, recognizing the voice before she even sees who it is: Randy. His hair is getting long, almost down to his shoulders now with a bit of a curl. He’s dressed down, in jeans and a madras shirt that isn’t tucked in. He smiles at Cherry, but then registers who’s beside her and his face drops.
Marcia tugs her skirt down an inch where it’s begun riding up. Randy pulls on his earlobe, and it’s then Cherry notices the hand-rolled joint he’s stuck behind his ear.
“Randy,” Cherry says quickly, about to ask where she can find a bathroom, but it turns out she doesn’t have to, because another guy comes over and taps Randy on the arm.
“Hey, pool table’s open,” he says. It takes Cherry a moment to place him before realizing: oh, it’s Ponyboy. He’s a little taller than she remembers, and his blond hair has dark roots maybe an inch long. His eyes go wide when he sees her. She opens her mouth to say something, but then Randy’s cuts between them, sauntering off towards the pool table.
“You comin’, Pone?” he asks.
“Yeah,” he says, his gaze lingering on Cherry for a moment before turning away.
Cherry watches them disappear into the crowd, then turns to Marcia to say something, but finds her and Two-Bit sucking face like they’re the only two people in the room. Well, so much for that.
“I’ll find you later, ‘kay?” she says instead.
Marcia doesn’t reply, just winds her arms around Two-Bit’s neck.
Cherry sighs and wanders off.
All around her people are dancing, grinding, laughing. It doesn’t seem to matter who’s a greaser and who’s a Soc, not tonight, not at this party. Over by the pool table, Randy is watching Ponyboy set up the game with an expression Cherry can only describe as fond.
“Is that your shirt?” she asks, coming up behind Randy. Ponyboy is wearing a crisp yellow shirt that’s maybe a size too big for him tucked into his jeans.
Randy glances over to her, scratching the back of his neck.
“Uh, yeah. It didn’t fit me any more, so…”
“Hm,” she muses, “It’s a nice color on him.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
They lapse into silence, watching Pony line up the cue.
“Hey, Cher,” Randy says suddenly, “You’re welcome to stay and watch, but, um, we’ve been waiting on the pool table for like an hour, so…” he looks sheepish.
“Alright,” she says with a smile that’s only a little forced, “But find me later?”
He grins.
“Yeah, sure.”
Randy strolls over to the pool table and Pony glances up at him, grinning.
There’s beer and some mystery punch on a table in the kitchen. She isn’t a fan of beer in general, but she’s a little terrified of whatever is in the punch. One time someone spiked the punch at Leroy’s birthday party and she only realized it when she was hurtling towards the toilets. She barely made it in time.
She chews her bottom lip. Maybe the greaser beer won’t be as bad as -
"Keep it movin', Red," a voice calls from behind her.
"Oh! Sorry, I'm just - sorry," she stammers, moving off to the side.
The voice, belonging to a tall, skinny girl with a pound of kohl around her eyes, doesn't even look up as she pours herself a cup.
"Either drink it or don't, no one’s else is gonna give a fuck."
Before Cherry has time to react, the girl turns and goes, disappearing into the throng of people.
She doesn’t drink the mystery punch, but she has half a can of beer, makes small talk with a girl she sort-of recognizes, and dances to a few songs. At one point she finds herself in a game of beer pong against - Terry or Tony or something. Some greaser.
She's wishing she brought a different shirt, she’s sweating her pits off, but settles for pushing her sleeves up. Her vision's blurring a little; with how watered-down the beer is she can't tell how much she's had. Trevor-or-whoever is making a joke she can’t hear over the music, and then there’s a pause as the song changes to -
"Pretty woman, walking down the street. "
Cherry nearly drops the ping-pong ball.
“ Pretty woman, the kind I’d like to meet.”
The first time she had heard this song, Bob was belting it out from the passenger’s seat while she drove them around town. He used an unlit cigarette as a microphone and she was scream-laughing, nearly running a red light with how distracted she was by his stupid, magnetic grin and awful monotone baritone.
If Bob were here now, she thinks, he'd be laughing at her. He’d be laughing at her for drinking lukewarm piss beer, or for her stupid sweater that's way too hot in a crowd this big, or for the fact she's doesn't even remember the name of the guy she's playing against. If he were here, he'd lean over and whisper in her ear, something about showing her how to have a good time, a real good time, and then he'd wrap his arms around her from behind and hold her tight.
But he won’t do those things. He can’t, because he’s not here, because he’s -
"Hey, Red," a voice says from beside her, "I found those cigarettes you wanted."
It's the same dark-haired girl from earlier, holding up a crumpled pack of Kools.
"Huh?” she blinks, “I didn't-"
"Come on," the girl says, grabbing her arm and pulling her towards the door.
"Aw, fuck you, Sylvia, I was winning," the guy she's playing against says. The girl - Sylvia - just flips him off and pushes her outside.
It's shockingly cold out, the chill immediately biting through her sweater and down to her skin. But it's a good sort of shock, the kind that sobers her up fast even with how much she's been drinking. The girl eyes her, holding out a cigarette.
"Thanks," she says, taking one.
The girl shrugs and puts one between her own lips.
Cherry takes the lighter, too, when it's offered. She takes a drag, a long one, tasting the bitter, minty tang of the menthol - much stronger than she usually smokes. Not that she usually smokes.
"Better?" Sylvia asks after a half a cigarette.
"Um, yeah," she says, shyly, tapping the ashes out into the wind, "Why did you…"
"You looked like you were gonna puke.”
"Oh." Somewhere, barely audible over the sounds of the party, a dog barks. She sighs. "It's just - if you'd told me last year I'd be ringing in the New Year with a bunch of gr- I mean, I just never expected-"
"Red," Sylvia cuts her off, "It's just a party."
She falls silent. There must be a look on her face, though, because Sylvia softens, blowing smoke out the side of her mouth.
"I get it, though. Everything's changin'." She takes another drag and glares out into the distance, at the tiny houses floating on the horizon.
Cherry wants to say something, anything, but just then the door squeaks open and Randy comes stumbling out.
"There you are!" he says, beaming at her. He’s definitely had a few, though whether it’s of beer or grass she isn’t sure.
The greaser girl glances at him and doesn’t bother to hide her eye-roll. She drops her cigarette, crushing it under her boot, then brushes past him and yanks the door open. Cherry wants to thank her, or tell her to have a good night, or something, but the girl is already pushing her way inside and Cherry hears her shout, "Hey, Tommy, are we fuckin' or what?" before the door bangs shut.
Back out on the porch, in the relative darkness, Randy scratches the back of his neck.
“You want some grass?" he asks, fishing around in his shirt pocket for a lighter.
“Um, sure.”
There's a rickety swing on the porch that could be white or grey, it's hard to tell in this light, and they both sit down on it. He takes a hit and passes her the joint. She takes a puff and passes it back. The swing is a little damp. In front of them is a railing with chipped paint and a couple loose railing poles that have gotten kicked in, exposing their splintery centers.
She puts her foot out and holds it against the broken railing pole, “Do you ever feel like screaming?” she asks, “Like you can't open your mouth because what would come out is just a scream? But even if you did, it feels like no one would hear you?"
Randy is quiet for a moment.
“There's no way one hit did that to you."
She huffs, folding her arms. "I'm being serious! It's a serious question!"
"Yeah," he says, taking a drag and blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth, "Yeah. Sometimes I'll be sitting in the lunch room and feel like everyone's been replaced by space aliens and I'm the only real human left."
"Fuck, exactly!" She puts her other leg up, tucking it against her chest, "I feel like there's a glass wall between me and everyone else. Ever since…"
"Ever since Bob died?"
"Yeah."
Silently, Randy hands her the joint. She takes another long puff and her head starts to swim.
"How do you deal with it? I feel like I'm going crazy."
He sighs and looks at the joint burning between his fingers for a moment, then raises his hand and eyebrows pointedly.
She scoffs.
"I'm not gonna get high all the time," she says primly, even as her vision starts to tunnel.
He laughs again.
"The kid helps, too," he admits quietly, "Ponyboy, I mean.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. He just - gets it, you know? He takes me as I am. I don't - I don't gotta try to be someone I'm not with him."
"Hmm," she muses. Maybe it's the grass talking, but Randy looks better now than he has in a long time. He seems relaxed, at ease with himself.
“I think I heard Two and Marcia going at it in the coat room,” he says a moment later. She’s startled by the sudden sound.
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
He laughs.
“Eh, at least they have someone to kiss at midnight,” he says, a strange, nervous note in his voice that she’s too high to really linger on.
“Yeah.”
As if on cue, from inside they hear a countdown, the voices booming and off-key.
"10, 9, 8, 7," the crowd inside chants.
Randy’s face is in shadow. He glances over at her, then darts his gaze away. She clears her throat and pulls at a piece of her hair that’s curled up around her ear.
“3, 2, 1 -”
Randy's tongue is a strange, wet animal in her mouth, tasting of ash and grass and beer. She expects some sort of elation, some tingle of excitement anywhere in her, but when they pull back and look at each other, a line of spit breaking between their mouths, all Cherry feels is like she’s going to puke.
Randy looks in her eyes and laughs, long and hard.
“No?” He asks, eyebrows raised.
“No,” she confirms, shaking her head.
He slumps back in his seat with a sigh.
"I'm sorry," she says, pulling at a lock of her hair, "I'm sorry, Randy, it's not you, I just can't – I mean, you're a lovely boy, and I love you, I just…"
"Don't worry about it, Cher," he says, nonplussed.
"Really? Are you sure?"
He's quiet, glancing back into the house, where several people are now necking out in the open.
"I think I'm queer,” he says after a moment.
"Oh!” she gasps. Randy, a fruit? “It’s not – I mean, it wasn’t because of Marcia...”
He cuts her off with a laugh.
"No. No, God, Marcia had nothing to do with it,” he says, shaking his head. His hair falls in front of his eyes. “It's just - me, you know? I could never picture myself with a girl, really, but I went along with it, because, you know, it's just what you do."
“Just what you do…” she echoes.
“Yeah,” he muses, taking another hit.
“And now you don’t want to?”
He shrugs.
“Why bother? If going with the crowd just gets you a -” he winces and glances over to her, “- a dead best friend. What’s the point?”
She mulls this over, and through the grass haze she can’t find fault in his logic.
“Mmh,” she agrees eventually.
She wants to say something else, to thank him maybe, but the grass is hitting strong now and she feels like she's half in her body and half not, so instead she keeps her mouth shut and they sit together in silence.
"I should go find Pony," Randy says a few minutes later. He slaps his pockets and stands up. The swing rocks back hard at the loss of him. "Don't be a stranger, okay, Cher?"
She finally finds something to say: "Okay.”
Then the screen door slams shut, leaving her alone in the dark.
***
She's damp with mist and sweat because practice is outside, even though the blacktop is still wet from the freezing rain. Linda is saying something about how some of them are clearly more dedicated than others, and Cherry wonders once again what she’s even doing here. Why is she here when the entire team hates her, when she’s freezing her fingers off, when there are a million billion better things she could be doing right now?
So, when she brings her leg down on her next kick, she keeps it down. She hesitates, looking out at the sun that’s slinging low in the sky, already beginning to burn the world orange in late-afternoon winter light.
She starts walking.
She walks, ignoring the wind and the way Linda’s shouting questions at her, ignoring the way her heart is pounding with fear.
She walks around the building and out onto the side of the highway. She starts to feel a little stupid by then, wearing nothing but a thin sweatshirt and cheer skirt, but she knows if she turns back, the spell will be broken, so she keeps going. Along the way, she gets some honks and some weird looks, and even one guy with a salacious offer that has her flipping him off before she can think better of it. Thankfully, he just calls her a flaky whore and speeds off.
She doesn’t realize where she’s walking to until she’s cresting the hill over the parking lot. The West Side Covenant Church with the graveyard out back.
The gravestones are dusted with snow, although the ground is warm enough that the grass has absorbed the snowmelt, leaving it a mushy wet marsh. The grave she’s looking for is fresh, smooth and unweathered, unlike Mr. and Mrs. Johnson from 2 stones over. It’s decked out with gifts: baskets of funeral flowers, a 6-pack of Blatz, even a miniature American flag waving in the weak wind. She’s always found funeral flowers kind of creepy, especially now that they’re browning and crinkled like old tissue.
Robert “Bob” Sheldon
Beloved son, friend, lover
G one too soon
"Hey, it's me,” she says, brushing some snow off the headstone. She sits down cross-legged, pushing her cheer skirt down between her legs out of habit more than anything; She doesn’t care if she flashes him, “Do you - ” she clears her throat, “Do you remember freshman year, when you would call the office and tell them my mom forgot I had a dentist appointment, and we would sneak me out of cheer practice early and go for a drive?” It had been two, maybe three months into dating, and they'd drive around until neither of them could stand it any more and Bob would pull over and they'd neck until the windows fogged. "It's no wonder Linda hates me. You really couldn't think of a better excuse, huh? The dentist, really, every week?"
She huffs a laugh, picking at a wilting blade of grass.
“God, you were a pusher. Such a pusher! It drove me fucking nuts sometimes! But Jesus, Bob, you were going places. That’s why you were gonna be the President of the fucking Universe! But you -" she breaks up, her voice cracking, "now you aren’t. Now you can't be and I – and I hate you for it. You know that? I fucking hate you for it, Bobby." A couple of hot tears slip out, only to be stolen by the freezing wind.
She looks down at her promise ring, glittering gold in the late afternoon light.
“I love you. I never told you that, but you must've known.” Her throat tightens, “I love you so much and I want you to be here so bad it makes me sick. Bobby - Bobby -"
In-in-in-in-out. In-in-in-out-out. In-in, out. Out. In. Out.
“What am I supposed to do now? Who am I supposed to be now that I'm not gonna be F- First Lady of the Universe?"
She takes off her ring and cradles it in her hand. She thinks about chucking it, but doesn’t, just clutches it in her palm and lets it dig pink grooves into her skin. She looks up, at the sunset cutting gold stripes through the trees, silhouetting Bob’s headstone.
“Maybe I could do it,” she whispers, “Be President of the Universe. I hear the position’s open.” She huffs a laugh, letting a couple more tears slip out. She leans forward, pushing through the mass of flowers, and presses her lips against the headstone, skin on stone.
“I love you.”
She stands up, her legs muddy and numb with cold, and starts the walk home.
There's a payphone by the entrance to the church and some kind soul has left a couple of quarters next to the receiver.
"Hullo?"
"Marcia! Are you busy?"
“Cherry? Nah, just homework. Aren’t you at practice?”
She huffs a laugh, squinting out at the sunset as it sinks from orange to purpley-red.
“Yeah, I’m sort of cutting right now.”
“Cherry!”
“I know. But listen, I was thinking about that haircut…"
***
She's out sick for two weeks, because of course she is, walking four miles and sitting in a graveyard in nothing but her cheerleading uniform in the middle of January was a stupid fucking idea. But after half a month of hacking her lungs right out her mouth, she can walk a flight of stairs without panting, so she decides she’s good enough to go back to school.
The lunchroom is loud with chatter. She tucks a loose piece of hair behind her ear; It’s up to her shoulders now and she feels much lighter. Across the room, two boys are sitting together at an empty table. Cherry fingers her promise ring, which is hanging on a thin chain around her neck, and murmurs,
“President of the fucking Universe,” to herself.
She takes a deep breath and marches over to the table in the corner, not once glancing around.
"Hey, Ponyboy," she says with a smile, "Can I join you?"
Pony looks bewildered for a moment, then grins back.
"Sure you can."