AT EASE

A 2009 World's Best Short Short Story Contest Finalist, From The Southeast Review Volume 28.1

My senior year of high school I went to the prom with a girl whose boyfriend had been killed in Iraq. Donald, the boyfriend’s name was. I’d met him a few times before he was shipped out. He’d come to school with Vicki (that’s the girl I went to the prom with, Vicki) back when we were juniors and he was away in training. Donald had worn his full regalia: razor-pleated pants, a stiff white shirt, shoes polished so thoroughly they looked like black glass. He stood in lunch line with us and let the cafeteria workers pile his tray high with mound after mound of terrible food. “Much appreciated, ma’am,” he said. Or, “Now that’s what I call cookin’.” You could see how much the workers loved him. I know; I was standing right behind him. Under the heat lamps, Donald’s skin exuded the smell of halved limes.

The night of the prom I drove to Vicki’s house. Her parents took pic-tures of us standing in front of the fireplace. A little white dog breathed hot air on my socks until Vicki’s mother scooped him up and deposited him outside. Vicki’s little brother, Raymond Jr., pointed at me like I was an intruder. “Donald!” he said, a second before Vicki’s father dragged him into the kitchen. “We’re sorry,” Vicki’s mother said. But she had already started to cry. Vicki looked away. I felt my face grow hot.

The prom theme was “New York, New York.” They’d decorated the gymnasium to look like the city skyline, including the World Trade Center. There’d been a debate about whether to include the World Trade Center or not; the school paper ran a million editorials. They’d strung the towers with lights shaped like crosses.

“Jesus,” Vicki sighed.

“Yeah,” I said. “Jesus.”

During slow dances I held Vicki away; she didn’t seem to mind. We sat out the fast songs, hanging out at a table with a group of friends. Someone passed around a bottle of Jim Beam. Vicki took large swallows like they were nothing at all. People gave me looks, but I wasn’t sure what the looks meant. Later, we danced another slow song, but this time Vicki pulled me closer. I could feel her breasts against my chest. I must have acted nervous because I thought I heard Vicki say something, but when I looked at her she had her eyes closed. At ease, she’d said.

That night I drove Vicki home. We sat in her driveway, not saying anything. All the houselights were off, the night starry. I put my hand to Vicki’s knee, her thigh. I’d never done anything like that before. I heard Vicki breathe. I permitted my hand to ascend. I’d never done that before, either. And it was like it all started when Vicki said those words to me.

Anthony Varallo's short story collection, Out Loud, won the 2008 Drue Heinz Literature Prize (University of Pittsburgh Press). His first collection, This Day in History, won the 2005 John Simmons Short Fiction Award (University of Iowa Press). He has received an NEA Fellowship in Literature, and his stories have appeared in Gettysburg Review, New England Review, Epoch, and elsewhere. Currently, he is an assistant professor of English at the College of Charleston.