Home By Eight

The day ended much as it began, with Martin Floyd sitting on the curb outside his home, staring into space like an idiot, completely alone.

Friday morning he sat waiting for Jack Lowery to pick him up, thinking about how he'd survive the humiliation of missing senior prom. Part of him knew no one would notice if he went to the prom or not, because he was a cypher flying under the social radar -- or rather, part of him knew that his life was a personal humiliation to everyone who'd made an investment in him, and missing the prom would be no less or greater a humiliation than the rest of his failures -- but Martin struggled with that narcissistic-slash-self-pity complex that so many lost teenagers enjoy, and it was this warped social creature that sat trying to figure out how to get into the prom. With a date, of course.

He had until the end of the school day to find a date for that night. Yes, that same night. Looked like nachos and X-Box awaited him for the twentieth evening in a row.

Jack picked Martin up five minutes after first period had started, and they drove to school without a word. Jack's mom knew Martin's mom, and the two women agreed that Jack and Martin could carpool together, with Martin paying for Jack's gas. All the gas, a full tank anytime Jack needed it, not just what was used to get Martin to school, out of Martin's pocket. Jesus. Every morning, Jack would stop a block from school, kick Martin out, then drive into the parking lot alone. On mornings when Jack was late, Martin was extraordinarily late. For this, and for his cool-ass name, Martin truly hated Jack.

"Martin, Jesus Christ."

These words, spoken by Martin's homeroom teacher, were the first human sounds he'd heard all morning. In Martin's home, no one ate breakfast together, no one passed in the wide halls of the large house, no one listened to music or talk radio. Nothing, no words. Now that he'd been griped out by his teacher, he could safely bet that no one would speak to him again throughout the day.

After second period, Martin stood in front of his open locker, pretending to look for something. If he closed the locker too quickly, he'd be the first to third period, and he'd sit alone with no one to talk to. Fuck that.

"Cut it out, asshole."

A girl down the hall was arguing with someone. No, not just a girl. The girl, Cindy Le Smythe, she of the perfect blonde hair, perfectly ironed cheerleading outfit, perfect knots on her sneakers. Hell, even her Anglo-Whatever name was perfect.

Believe it or not, Martin had very little use for her. Those in the lower social echelons knew better than to box above their weight, and Martin only liked to fantasize about girls who had been nice to him at some point -- those with a friendly wave, a kind question, some sort of human contact. Never had Cindy connected with Martin, and never would she. In a way, she was as much a cypher to Martin as he was to everyone else. Still, there's no way to keep from knowing the celebrities in your town.

"Cindy, I swear to god, you better not push me again," said Doug What's-his-name, starting first-string whatever and Cindy's obligatory homecoming king boyfriend. A fellow jock laughed at Doug's unfunny comments. Cindy had a cheerleading cohort standing nearby, waiting with books in hand.

"Then don't shove your books up my skirt," Cindy shouted shrilly.

Doug said, "Chill out, bitch. I'm just peeking at your bloomers. Nothing I haven't seen before." He grabbed the edge of her ridiculously short skirt.

Cindy pushed Doug hard in the chest. "I said cut it out! You ass face!"

"Goddamn, what is your problem!" Doug cried. "Is it that time of the month already?"

"Fuck you! Take your sister to the prom." Cindy turned and walked in Martin's direction. Doug followed her.

"Oh no way, bitch. Don't even kid. I'll drop you like a punt kick."

Cindy responded, "You aren't dropping nothing, Doug. Fuck the prom, fuck you."

Cindy's fellow cheerleader, the redhead Theresa with the too-large calves, shrieked in protest. "Cindy, you CAN'T not go to the prom! You'll ruin everything. We got the hotel rooms."

"Forget this," Doug said. "I'm outta here. Take that nerd, for all I care." He waved a dismissive hand at Martin as he walked away.

Cindy looked at Martin, and suddenly the world was a very strange and uncomfortable place to be. Cindy barely seemed to see him at all, and Martin could feel the dismissal that didn't even approach contempt, washing over him like a crashing wave, or an angry drink in the face. Did he hate her for it? How much hate did he have left inside of him? Wasn't there someone in the entire suburban school district who would reach out to him? In those stupid Eighties teen movies, there was always that slightly unpopular girl who took the nerd under her wing and taught him about life and music and dancing, and the nerd turned out to not be such a bad guy. In real life, the nerd was a reclusive wallflower who would never make the first move, and the resentment building inside that nerd pushed against the soul like a fissure in a river dam.

When the dam burst, the results were unexpected to say the least.

"Hey Cindy," Martin said on a whim. "You wanna go to the prom?"

Cindy did a double-take before she finally saw who was speaking to her. There stood Martin, stewing in his own emotional juices, trying for once to look like a normal human being, trying to make a connection to mankind. And for what? Perhaps he was trying to invoke an emotion within himself, maybe fear or embarrassment. But nothing came.

Theresa looked at Martin with melodramatic disgust. His clothes were basic t-shirt and jeans, ratty shoes, nothing eye-catching. But Cindy did not look disgusted. Martin, not one who knew how to read body language, worked his mind to figure out why she hadn't spit on him yet.

"Why me?" Cindy asked.

Martin shrugged. "I don't have a date, and now you don't either. It's fate."

"Oh really," Cindy replied. Her response was sarcastic, but her eyes were not. "Well if it's fate, then I guess I have to be your date."

"Cindy!" Theresa shrieked. Shrieking was the only sound Theresa made. "What the heck are you doing?"

"Theresa, chill out, okay? God." Cindy looked back at Martin, about to speak, but no words came. She looked him up and down. What did she see? She finally asked, "What's your name?"

Oh fucking A, she didn't even know his name. Well NOW he felt embarrassed. "Martin," he said. "Floyd."

"Which is it?" Cindy asked.

"Martin Floyd," he said. "Floyd's my last name."

"Oh FUCK," Theresa said with amused disbelief. "Cindy, let's go."

The cheerleaders disappeared down the hall. Cindy did not look back. Martin went to class, laughing and shaking his head, or at least thinking about how he'd laugh and shake his head if he ever wanted to make any movement that actually drew attention. During third hour, he stared at the blackboard and thought about what a bullet he had dodged. What if she'd really said yes? Nothing could be more miserable. Once the incident was deleted from his memory, Martin spent the remainder of the day gratefully following his mindless routine.

After school, Martin walked down the block toward Jack's car. Suddenly, a BMW slammed to a halt beside him. Cindy sat in the driver's seat.

"I accept," she said.

Martin was at a loss for words. "Accept what?"

"You're my date tonight. Do you have a tux?"

Martin's fingers dug into the strap of his backpack. He felt a bit dizzy. "Uh, no. I don't have anything."

"What, are you walking home or something?"

Martin saw Jack looking through the back window of his car. What the hell would he be thinking? "Sort of," Martin answered.

"Do you have money?"

"Yeah," Martin said. Money was not a problem for his family, but permission to drive certainly was. What a bunch of tight-asses. No time to dwell on that now -- lofty events were in the air.

"Get in."

Thoughts flashed through poor little Martin's mind with maelstrom speed, but there was no time at all for thinking. There sat Cindy, head cheerleader, arm casually draped over the seat of her Beemer, waiting for him to get in so he could take her to the Jesus H. Christ senior friggin' prom. What was left to decide?

He opened the door and sat in the passenger seat. As Cindy drove past Jack, Martin waved hello. The look on Jack's face was one of unqualified astonishment. Martin hoped he himself didn't have the same look.

"You're cute," Cindy said as she took a neighborhood turn too fast. Soon she was on the urban thoroughfare, gaining speed, unimpressed by the yellow traffic lights. "We're going to cut your hair first, okay?"

Cindy invited no debate as she pulled into an expensive looking salon. She went to the counter and politely begged the cashier girl to put Martin in the chair right away, as he was taking her to the prom in less than four hours. The stylists and patrons started gossiping and congratulating the boy, offering several opinions about what could be done with his unimpressive hair helmet. But Cindy quickly took control -- as was her wont, Martin noted -- dictating the length of the bangs (and sideburns, for fuck's sake -- that made him nervous), the clipper settings, even how to thin it out. She wanted to see some dark red highlights against his brown locks, but there was simply no time. She had him shampooed and groomed -- everything but the collar -- and then they were off.

Next they stopped at the tuxedo rental store. Cindy talked to the salesman as though Martin weren't even there, or as though he were a mannequin being prepared for the storefront. Most of the tuxedos his size were already gone, and the only ones that remained were the high-dollar ones with pearl buttons and other upper-class accents. Cindy instructed him to pay without thinking about the cost, and he was comfortable with that. His wish had been fulfilled, and he was grateful. Besides, who needed another cartridge for his game system? He might get laid tonight, after all.

After the sales guy measured Martin -- as Cindy looked on dispassionately, odd sensation that -- Cindy thanked the fellow and beckoned Martin to follow her to the car.

"I have to get ready," she informed Martin. "Hair, makeup, push-up bra, all the fun stuff. You'll drop me off, then take my car back to pick up the tuxedo. The alterations should be done by then. Get extra cash for dinner, and pick up some condoms. I'm not going to my senior prom without getting fucked. And don't touch your hair, I mean it. I want you to pick up a bright pink corsage at the supermarket. Go to as many as you have to until you find one. Be at my house at 5:00. I want to eat and be at the dance by 6:30. Now, repeat that back to me."

Martin's palms went cold. "You… you'll get dropped off, I'll get the tuxedo and… and condoms, and a bright pink corsage, then come back to get you by five."

"And don't touch your fucking hair, asshole."

"Yes, thank you, I got it," Martin snapped, or whatever counted for a snap in his passive-aggressive world. He didn't want to piss off the girl he was going to make love to in a few hours.

Cindy pulled into her driveway (her house was smaller than Martin's -- why the hell didn't he have a car?). Martin got in the driver's seat and backed the Beemer into the street. Thank goodness for automatic transmission.

He ran his errands in a befuddled haze. What had just happened? The whole scenario seemed like a fairy tale, where the peasant wins the hand of the princess. But something wasn't right. He didn't know enough about how people dealt with each other to know what was wrong with Cindy's behavior, but everything he'd learned from television told him that things were progressing nicely. He'd run on instinct, he decided, until a more definite warning light came on. Why not give the head cheerleader the benefit of the doubt? Maybe she genuinely liked him. Wouldn't that be a pleasant surprise.

Martin put on the tuxedo when he got to the store; the time was 4:35. After he had it on, he looked at himself in the mirror. He'd never worn a suit, let alone a tie or all the other stuff. He didn't recognize the person he saw, and for that he was profoundly grateful. He simply looked fantastic, just the way he always fantasized. Maybe he really did deserve to go to the prom. Martin left his clothes and books in a locker in the back; he'd pick them up when he returned the tux.

Wearing the tux, he went into the Mobil station at the corner of Cindy's neighborhood. He picked up the rubbers and tossed them on the counter; he tried to act non-chalant, but he threw them too hard, and one of the two packs flew off the counter. The cashier picked it up and looked at him, annoyed. This is the point where this guy would announce to the other customers what I'm buying, Martin thought with horror. But the guy took his money without a word, and Martin sprinted to his car, with his purchase hidden in his pocket. He put the rubbers in the glove box. As he drove to Cindy's house, he kept looking at the glove box, as though terrorists had wired a bomb in there, set to explode at any minute. There was no rationale behind such thoughts; he was just damn nervous.

When he pulled up to the house, he saw a red Mustang in the driveway, so he parked on the street. Martin took the corsage with him to the front door and rang the bell.

Doug, the football player, opened the door. He wore a tuxedo.

"Oh HELL no." With no warning, Doug sucker-punched Martin in the gut. Martin doubled-over on the porch, crouched on his haunches, trying not to lie down in the umpteen-dollar tux.

Martin saw past Doug into the living room. There sat Cindy on the sofa, looking bored. A woman who must have been her mother stood shaking her head, a hand over her mouth. Next to Doug stood another man, Cindy's father.

"Now Doug, don't be a dickhead," the father said. "Cindy's made her choice, and that's final. Now go on to the prom, and she'll see you there."

Doug cracked his knuckles as he stepped past Martin. Neither he nor the old man seemed to notice Martin on the ground, trying to catch his breath. Suddenly Martin realized what part of the puzzle he had missed, or simply looked past -- Cindy had dropped her prom date the day of the event, but the guy still existed. What was it about Martin that kept him from seeing how people really were?

"Oh dear," the mother said, rushing to Martin to help him stand. "I'm Mrs. Le Smythe, Cindy's mother."

"Mar… Martin Floyd." His diaphragm was sore.

Cindy stood and approached him. She looked him up and down, then straightened his tie, ran her fingers through the new bangs in his hair. "You look good," she said with a smile, then she kissed him on the cheek. Martin realized with a shudder that this was the first time he'd ever seen her smile, for any reason.

She was, in a nutshell, the most beautiful girl Martin had ever seen in person. Any girl could look beautiful with the right beauty products, Martin had always believed, but his theory seemed a bit hollow as he looked at Cindy. Could anyone but the head cheerleader fill out this particular dress so dramatically? She glowed like a perpetual firework in her sequined pink dress with the spaghetti straps, and she held a tiny hand purse to match. Her regal hair rose in waves like an elaborate seashell. Was she really going to fuck HIM?

Instantly he realized he hadn't told his parents he was going to the prom. They'd been hounding him about it for weeks. Oh well, screw them.

The four of them walked out to the car. Cindy's father shook Martin's hand as they walked, barely looking at him at all. He stared at Cindy with a genuine possessiveness, innocent enough for a father watching his most prized possession being taken from him. Only an idiot didn't know what the prom was for.

Cindy's mother cocked her head as Martin held the passenger door open for Cindy. "Martin dear," she asked, "is this… Cindy's car?"

"Mine's in the shop," Martin answered reactively. Why lie? But he sure had.

Martin pulled away from the curb. Cindy said, "Faster," then continued to look out the window. Martin stepped as hard on the gas as he comfortably could. "You lied to my mother, you fuckwad," Cindy said without emotion.

"Sorry," Martin said. "I felt a bit weird back there, especially in the gut area."

"Well, get over it. I want to have fun tonight. Please put your insecurities somewhere I can't see them."

Without knowing where he was going, Martin headed for the downtown area of the nearby metropolis. "Where do you want to eat?" he asked.

"I'm not hungry," Cindy said. "Let's fuck."

"Okay," Martin said. Because really, what more could he say.

"Go to the Ritz Carlton. I have a room. Are you a virgin?"

The steering wheel went wet in Martin's hands. "Define virgin," he said.

"Well, what have you done with a girl?"

"Nothing at all," he heard himself say, not consciously deciding to say it. Dumbass.

"Mm-hmm," Cindy muttered. She stared out the window yet again. Would she ever look at him for the rest of the night?

They parked and went up the elevator to the lobby, then found another elevator to the main floors. Cindy already had the key, so they went straight to the room. The sun was still up, so she left the lights off and opened the shades. "I'll wanna be on top so I don't mess up my hair," she said. "If that's alright."

Martin nodded.

Cindy pressed her palm against the window glass and looked out. She sure did like windows, Martin thought, but there was no denying the beauty of the view from this altitude, a vast concrete landscape scarred by gashes of greenery where the parks cut into the ground. In many ways, Martin preferred this view of humanity to any other, the view in which buildings seemed to have always existed, independent of the messy humans who hid within them. This, this night, this right here, this girl, this was why he hid. He had a bad taste in his mouth.

But then Cindy said, "Take off your clothes." Instantly, Martin's emotions became confused again. What choice did he have? Martin took off the tux and carefully laid it on the dresser. Soon he stood in his white briefs. And still Cindy did not turn to see him.

"Unzip my dress."

The zipper pulled smoothly down her spine, and just like that, he was looking at her black bra and bare skin. She didn't make a move, but only continued to lean against the glass. Martin felt something visceral compel him to push the straps off her strong shoulders. Cindy moved her arm from the glass, and the dress fell to the floor like a feather.

Nothing seemed real. He knew he should pull her to him, like they do in the movies, followed by a wonderful time of giving into his carnal motives. But emotions spun inside him like shades of paint melding together in a bucket, and he didn't know what color would be the result. Cindy stood like a goddess before him, a statue of muscle and toned flesh in black panties and high heels, a perfect example of the perfection of womanhood in the modern world. And yet, she seemed sad, for Martin knew not what other word to describe the apathy he saw in her, and that made him sad for her. Whatever else she was tonight -- popular icon, manipulating harlot -- she had very recently been a confused innocent kid with wrong ideas about how the world worked, just as he had been, or still was.

Martin turned the girl with smooth, gentle force so that she faced him. She did not protest. When he kissed her, she felt hard as steel against him. He had a new purpose, however, to melt her down to her base emotions for only a few hours, to make her feel that young innocence she had known before they met. Cindy responded to the softness of his kiss, to the patient caress of his hands on her sides.