“Yacan’t do that,”Patrick growled up at his parents.
Mrs. Kinney crossed her arms over her chest,looking down from her parental high horse. “We can, Paddy, and we just did.”
“That means no prom,” Mom tacked on.
I had taken the stubborn approach in responseto that part of the sentencing, stating that I “never wanted to go in the firstplace.” But the truth was, underneath it all, I was heartbroken, and while Icouldn’t speak for Patrick, I know I cried along to my Sad Song Mix for a solidhour.
It was a week of silent treatments and sourpusses. A slice of teenage despair at what was supposed to be the pinnacle ofour youth. We clung to each other as much as we could during the school days,walking home with hands clasping hands, and slamming the doors to ourrespective houses before stomping upstairs to our bedrooms.
For five painstakingly endless days, that wasthe way things were—angry, spiteful. But then, the night of prom, there was aknock on my bedroom door.
Imagine my surprise when I threw the door openin a violent huff to find Patrick standing there, dimples ablaze.
I threw myself into his arms in all my teenage drama,as though I hadn’t seen him the day before in school. Those twenty-four hourshad been brutal, though, and we kissed in my doorway, warranting a groan from apassing Kate.
So much older, so much more single.
“What are you doing here?” I gripped his face,stroking my fingers over soft adolescent skin.
“Mam talked to your mom, and I think theykindafeel bad. We’re off the hook as of tonight.”
“Are you KIDDING me?” I nearly screamed, andshook my head. “No way. I can’t go to prom like this!” I gestured down at thepajamas I had been wearing for the last week, apart from school.
“We’re notgoin’ toprom,” he said with an even bigger grin. “We’re allowed to go out for a couplehours until curfew, but we can’t go anywhere near the little arseholes from school,Mam said.”
“Your mom didnotsay ‘arsehole.’”
“She definitely did.”
I laughed, finding it hard to believe Patrick’smom would ever curse, and hurried to throw some jeans and Chucks on, notwanting to waste a moment of those permitted hours.
We were dropped off at Harry’s HotDiggityDogs for dinner. We ate them on our bench at thepier, my head on his shoulder and his arm wrapped around me, and when the hotdogs were eaten, we wasted no time making out.
His hands in my hair, my arms around his neck.We kissed with deprivation, not caring about our hot dog breath or precision orwhere our hands landed, when our teeth crashed. It had been five days, and inour young lives, that had been an eternity, and we stayed like that, untilHarry cleared his throat.
“Alright, alright. That’s enough,” he scoldedlightly, shaking his head with the beginnings of a wistful smile.
“Sorry, Harry,” Patrick apologized for the bothof us, while I smoothed my hair down with the flush of embarrassment creeping upfrom the collar of my t-shirt.
Patrick threw our plates out, eyeing thefamiliar old garbage can next to our bench. He glanced at me, then over atHarry, while his lipspursedand his tongue poked athis inner cheek. And then, wordlessly, he pulled out the army knife from hispocket, and went to work on the rusted metal.
My eyes widened at his sudden stint withvandalism. “What are—”
“Shh,” he shushed me,keeping his eyes on his sloppy masterpiece. Scrape, scrape, scrape. Metal onmetal for all of three minutes, and then, finally, “Okay, done.”
I took a quick gander at the garbage can, notwanting to stare and look more suspicious than we already did. But when I sawour names—Patrick & Kinsey—carved into that garbage can, I couldn’t doanything but stare.
“You’re so lame,” I chided, but I held a handto my heart, wondering if it was at all possible to love him more than I did inthat moment.
“Maybe, but you love it.”
I did. Ido.
He pulled me up from the bench, and we walkedhand-in-handover to the park, where Patrick pulled theDiscman out of his pocket, along with a portable speaker.
“What are you doing?” I asked with anexasperated sigh, as he led me to the gazebo.
“I’mdancin’ with youtonight.”
