Boy Toy (29 page)

And they don't know about my deal with Kaltenbach. Unless he's totally messing with me, I have to figure that Graves's interest means I'm in at Stanford. It's just a question of the money now.

Rachel drives to my house on prom night, where Michelle and Zik are going to pick us up in Michelle's dad's big Mercedes SUV. For a little while, things are cool at my house again—Mom's actually home on a Saturday, and she runs around like I'm two years old and just figured out the whole talking thing. Dad acts like I just hit my first single. They both scramble for cameras—Mom the still, Dad the video.

"So adorable together," Mom gushes, snapping away. "For God's sake, Josh, put your arm around her!"

I edge closer to Rachel and put my arm around her waist. Rachel sighs and leans into me.

"Turn this way," Dad coaches, filming away like a pudgy Spielberg. "Say something for posterity."

"My tux itches," I announce.

"Do the corsage," Mom urges.

I didn't know what Rachel's dress would be like, so I played it safe and went with a wrist corsage. It doesn't make for terribly dramatic footage when I slip it onto her wrist, but Mom and Dad are there to record the event for future Mendel generations anyway. Rachel pins on my boutonnière without jabbing me, even though Mom and Dad's constant exhortations to "be careful, careful, don't stick him!" make her hands tremble. We somehow come through without bloodshed or the need for an EMT unit.

Just when I've hit my boiling point for pictures being taken, at the exact moment that I'm about to scream bloody murder, a horn beeps. Zik and Michelle, waiting in the driveway. Thank God.

Once in the car, things go from annoying to bad. Because now we have to go to Rachel's house.

I haven't been to Rachel's house in five years. I haven't seen her parents since that day in the closet. The last time I saw them, Mr. Madison was pulling me out of the closet by my arm, bellowing,
What the hell is going on?
I saw Mrs. Madison for the last time as I was dragged out of the house; she stood in a corner, crying, holding Rachel.

Rachel wasn't crying. I remember that very well. Rachel's eyes were wide and confused, but she wasn't crying. Weeping, Mrs. Madison clung to her like I was a wild wolf ready to lunge.

I'm not looking forward to seeing them again, even though Rachel's told me all's forgiven.

Rachel sidles up to me in the back seat and squeezes my hand. "It's fine," she whispers, leaning in close. "Everything's fine."

Rachel's parents are standing out on the front porch when we pull up, waving. Michelle and Rachel are the first to get out. "Oh my God!" Mrs. Madison exclaims. "Michelle, you're a
vision!
We just
have
to get pictures of you and Isaac."

I figure this is my last chance to break free and run for the hills. But instead I sigh, square my shoulders, and come around the side of the SUV with Zik.

"Isaac, stand over here with Michelle!" Mrs. Madison says. Zik obediently lopes over to Michelle and throws his arms around her for a picture.

Mr. Madison meets me halfway to the porch. I experience a watery moment of unreality—five years ago, he seemed gigantic and powerful as he grabbed my arm and yanked me around the house. Now he's an inch shorter than I am. What seemed to be gigantic is now merely blubbery. I know I've changed. I know
he's
changed. The question is who's changed more, I guess.

"Joshua," he says, sizing me up. I feel guilty—he's the father.

He should have some sort of position of superiority here, but I'm pretty confident I could beat the crap out of him if I had to.

So I settle on giving him a little authority. "Sir," I say, as respectfully as I can muster, and extend my hand.

He shakes it. Good, firm grip. There's muscle under all that fat. Maybe I
can't
beat the crap out of him.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

—the hell is going on—

His eyes narrow. "Are you OK?"

Goddamn it! "Yes, sir. I'm fine."

"You haven't been drinking, have you?"

"God, no! Sir. We're still in season."

He nods cautiously, as if he wants to believe me, but can't quite bring himself to. "Nice corsage. You have good taste."

"Thank you, sir."

He sighs. I'm pretty sure it's the sigh of a man who is painfully aware that his daughter is eighteen years old.

"Well, let's get some pictures and get you on your way."

I hop the steps up to the front porch, where Mrs. Madison already has Rachel posed against one of the oak columns. The lighting is perfect. I bet Mrs. Madison spent the past three weeks scouting locations in the house and all over the property. That's just her.

"Hello, Mrs. Madison."

She leans toward me and instigates an instant heart attack by pecking me on the cheek. "Josh. It's so good to see you. Stand there."

Rachel's beaming as the guy who almost raped her five years ago stands next to her and—at the direction of her smiling mother—puts his arms around her. It's surreal.

"Smile, Josh," Mrs. Madison scolds. "Aren't you happy?"

Believe me when I say that no one is more surprised than I am to realize that the answer is yes. I smile for the picture.

Michelle's as good as her word and has not just gotten reservations at
Paradis,
but has managed a table on the exclusive veranda that overlooks an artificial lake and a golf course.

Michelle, of course, is breathtaking. She's wearing some sort of blue and cream gown that has straps going around her neck from the waist, the net effect being that her breasts are covered only minimally, with acres of cleavage as far as the eye can see. Her back is completely uncovered—she's been doing pilates for months, Rachel told me, and the result is an expanse of nothing but toned and sculpted back along with an exposed belly that is just the slightest bit rounded. I honestly don't know how Zik manages to keep from tackling her and dragging her under the table. The man's willpower is a marvel to behold.

Zik, meanwhile, looks like a refugee from a science fiction movie. He's wearing a metallic blue tuxedo to complement Michelle's gown, along with shirt, tie, and cummerbund in cream. I feel like I need sunglasses just to look at him, but somehow, when he stands next to Michelle, it works. Michelle had to have figured this all out; Zik's idea of high fashion is clean socks.

Me? I'm in the most boring standard black tuxedo you can imagine. The guy at the tux shop seemed a little disappointed when I rented it, as if he'd missed some opportunity to show the world something with some style. My tie and cummerbund match Rachel's dress.

Speaking of Rachel...

Well, she's just beautiful.

Honestly, as boner-inducing as Michelle is, it's still Rachel I can't stop looking at. I've secretly lusted after Michelle almost as long as I've understood what a penis is for, so her appearance tonight is nothing new. But
Rachel
... Rachel is a tomboy. Rachel is a buddy. Rachel is one of the guys.

Tonight, Rachel is a vision. Who knew?

She had her hair cut earlier today—it's too short for a pony-tail now, even the stubby one she usually has. Now it's swept up in back, short there, longer on top and in front, so that it hangs over her forehead and drapes casually to one side. Her dress is green—that much I knew before from the swatch she gave me. But it's got a subtle gold trim to it that almost makes it seem like the dress—and the body inside—are framed like a work of art. It's sleeveless and strapless, so her shoulders—strong, powerful, sprayed with a smattering of freckles—are bare, and some miracle of underwiring or internal scaffolding has actually blessed her with just the tiniest amount of cleavage. With Michelle across the table, it's sort of like a gully and the Grand Canyon, but to have the guts to wear that dress at all makes Rachel all the sexier in my eyes. It's form-fitting down to the waist, where it flares into a long tract of clingy green down the length of her legs. Complete opposite of her usual attire—focusing above the waist, hiding what's below. It's stunning, it's radical, it's beyond words.

It's fearless.

It's Rachel.

For the first time, I find myself thinking,
This is my girlfriend.
And the thought doesn't fill me with worry or with dread.

"...right, J?" Zik asks.

"Sorry, man. What did you say?" I snap out of it.

"I said, you're gonna put the Heat on ice, right?" Zik's leaning forward, eager.

"You've got as good a chance as I do of doing that."

"C'mon, J. It's gonna be you. Everyone's talking about it."

"They are?"

Michelle rolls her eyes and sighs, making every portion of her anatomy dance and jiggle. "God, Josh, even
I
know that! It's all anyone's talking about—Josh Mendel versus the Heat. You'd think it was something
important.
"

Rachel and Zik light into her good-naturedly. Somehow, Michelle has managed to stick with us (and Zik, in particular) over the years, even though she's the farthest thing from a jock you could ever imagine.

"When Iron Man takes down the Heat, that's gonna put South Brook on the map," Zik says.

"I surrender!" Michelle waves her napkin delicately like it's a white flag. "Can we move on to another subject?"

"Are people really talking about it?" I ask Rachel.

She's confused, looking at me as though I just asked if she could dip her chicken cordon bleu into my iced tea for me. "Yeah, Josh. The whole school's buzzing about it. Don't you pay attention?"

Well, I always
thought
people were talking about me. Now I know. It's not the subject I thought it was, but it's something. Take
that,
Dr. Kennedy.

Despite the sudden ball of worry that's sitting in my gut, I actually enjoy dinner. It's fun being with Michelle and Zik and Rachel, cutting up, remembering the old days, the times before "Lucky thirteen"/"Oh, Bill." I barely taste the food, though, barely even
see
it, because I keep looking to my right. I just can't keep my eyes off Rachel.

"Do I have something stuck in my teeth?" She bares her teeth at me and
grrs
like a puppy for added effect.

"No."

"You just keep looking at me, that's all."

"I can't help myself. It's like there's nothing else in the room."

"Sweet talker."

"It's not ... I don't mean it as sweet talk. I literally can't help myself, Rache."

She strokes my jaw. "Well, I guess the dress is a hit, then, huh?"

"Grand slam."

"Nice to hear."

As dinner ends, Michelle and Rachel perform that time-honored ritual of scurrying off to the bathroom together. Zik offers me a breath mint from across the table.

"You're gonna smoke him, though, right?" he asks.

"What? Who?" I'm thinking of the way Rachel looked when she walked away, how the dress only
seemed
loose-fitting below the waist but when she moved it clung to every curve and line of her body.

"The Heat." Zik leans over the table. "The
Heat,
man! What's
with
you?"

"Sorry, Zik. Just thinking."

"C'mon. It's just us now. You feeling confident?"

"Yeah." And I am. Maybe that's just ego, or maybe it's earned. I don't know. But I feel pretty good about my chances against the Heat. "But, Zik, dude ... What's the big deal?"

"The big deal?" It's like I've announced I'm going to throw my cherished bat into the wood chipper. "Dude, were you
listening
before? This puts South Brook on the map!"

"So? We're graduating in a couple of weeks. What do you care?"

Zik pulls back like I slapped him. "J! J, man! It's our school. And it would get us attention in the second round. Don't you care about that? Don't you want to get drafted?"

"We're going to
college,
Zik. We're gonna play college ball. See what happens from there."

He stares at me and for a second, I think I see a flash of anger. "Well, yeah," he says, calming. "I just thought ... you know, it would be cool. To make that, like, a legacy, you know? Like our class's gift to the school—shut down Canterstown once and for all, make South Brook a stop on the scout's agenda..." He trails off. "Never mind, J. Just kick his ass when the time comes."

Michelle and Rachel come back to the table, not looking substantially different from when they left. Rachel leans in to kiss me and slips her tongue past my lips. We both taste minty fresh. Thanks, Zik.

"You boys ready to go?" Michelle unselfconsciously adjusts the front of her dress, causing her unencumbered breasts to bobble and collide. I tell myself that Rachel didn't see me look, but let's face it, I'm living in a dream world.

Fortunately, my girlfriend is forgiving. She hauls me out of the chair and kisses me again. "Let's go."

Prom is held at the Cantata Lounge, which is a big room at the local Hilton. The theme this year is "Over the Moon," so there are plenty of cut-out moons and stars all over the place, as well as a bunch of special decals of glowing stars pressed to the ceiling that light up when hit by the random sweep of a black light. I resist the urge to correct the positions of the constellations relative to the big papier-mâché moon.