Let’s say I’m shivering outside the school on a 100-degree day. Let’s say my body’s ice-cold because my daughter’s trapped inside her classroom. Let’s say John tied her to a chair after she said she couldn’t go to prom with him. Let’s say the boy has a butcher’s knife in his hand. Let’s say around me, flashing lights from police vehicles scream crime scene. Let’s say the police have John on the phone. Let’s say I see sweat running down his cheeks―I cannot, will not, accept those are tears. Let’s say I’m hoarse from terror-shrieking.
Let’s say these are the reasons John insists my daughter must be his prom date: he’s worked at a smoky, greasy, fast-food place to save for his tuxedo rental, for the corsage, for the limo, for the tickets. Let’s say his father left when he was three and his mother’s living with her boyfriend-of-the-moment. Let’s say my intelligent daughter should be in tenth grade not eleventh. Let’s say she’s sensitive, she’s kind, and she helped him with calculus homework. Let’s say he brought her offerings from the fast food place―soggy burgers, lumpy potato salad, partially-thawed slices of pie and melting candy.
Let’s say he believes-believes-believes, that my sixteen-year-old is the one and only person on earth who can make him happy. Let’s say my organs are quivering. Let’s say I want to grab him by the collar, shake him until his head lolls like that of a rag doll. Let’s say I want to holler-screech that he has no idea, no idea at all, that my daughter’s preferences might lie elsewhere. Let’s say strong arms hold me back. Let’s say I erupt a burst of volcanic energy. Let’s say I tear through the yellow police tape. ◆
You might also like
