Tim O'Brien - The Nuclear Age

She paused and massaged her temples. When she spoke again, her voice had a plaintive quality, mournful and bleak.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “Fluffhead. All beauty, no brains. People think we’re just glitz and glitter, nobody realizes how much crap we have to put up with. Christ, if—” She stopped and stared at me. Complex things were happening in her eyes. “I mean, just think about it. You ever see a cheerleader with fat thighs? All that cruddy cottage cheese—God, I hate cottage cheese, it’s like eating chalk—but do you hear me complaining? No way, because I care. Because I’ll go that extra mile.”

“A martyr,” I said.

She gave her head a quick, violent shake.

“Don’t mock me, man. Straight A’s, you can check it out. I’m smart . Body and brains, the whole package.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Smart,” she said.

There was a silence.

“What I despise,” she said quietly, “is condescension. I’m a human being.”

“For sure,” I said. “A smart one.”

“Yes?”

“It’s very clear.”

Sarah frowned at me. For the first time there was some warmth in the eyes, tiny flecks of orange and silver floating in the deep blackness.

The band was playing My Girl .

“Well,” she said, still frowning, her voice cool and wary, “maybe you’re not such a creep after all.”

“Maybe not.”

“But still—”

Again, there was that softening. She looked at her hands.

“Anyway, this is strictly a one-night shot. We’re stuck with each other— c’est la vie , et cetera—but to be perfectly honest I’d rather be down in Brazil munching on maggots. No offense. Just so we have an understanding.”

I nodded, then Sarah stood up and hooked a thumb toward the dance floor.

“All right, let’s jiggle it,” she said. “Hands off, though. I know every gimmick in the book.”

She looked like a starlet. Sleek and lean and smart. She danced with her eyes closed, ignoring the crowd and the music, ignoring me. Luck, I kept thinking. Between dances we talked about the old days at Fort Derry High, the time I’d passed out in geometry class, the way she’d cradled my head and fanned me with her notebook. “Bizarre,” Sarah said, and I smiled at her and admitted that I’d gone through a rough period back then. I described the headaches and constipation, that out-of-synch sensation, my sessions with Chuck Adamson.

Sarah listened carefully.

“In other words—” She waited a moment. “Bats? Breakdown?”

“Not quite. Ancient history, back to normal.”

“Right,” she grunted. All around us people were dancing hard to drums. “And this thing at the cafeteria? The bomb scare—that’s normal?”

“No,” I said. “Necessary.”

“Which means?”

“Nothing. Just necessary.”

Sarah made a vague motion with her shoulders.

“Maybe so, but it seems a little—what’s the word?—pretentious. Mr. Prophet.”

“War,” I said. “Vietnam. In case you haven’t—”

She stepped back. “I told you, I’m not stupid, so you can cut out the condescending crap. The prophet with his poster, it’s all very cute, I suppose, but very half-assed.”

“Just a symbol,” I said.

“Oh, lovely.” Sarah snorted and shook her head. “Take a look around. You think these idiots care about symbols? Fireworks, that’s all they understand. Bang for the buck. It’s a bad new age—symbols don’t make it.”

“And you could do better?”

“No worse. At least you’d see some pyrotechnics. Not that I’d ever get involved.”

Her eyes moved sideways. She started to add something, then thought better of it.

The music had gone mellow.

“Symbols,” she muttered, then reached out and slipped her arms around me and came in close. There was a new openness in her posture: legs separated, a subtle tilt to the pelvis.

For the next hour things were fine. No talking, just motion. It all seemed appropriate. The scalps and arrows and twinkling lights, and the way she moved, athletic but graceful, and the mood, and the romantic expression in Custer’s wide blue eyes. I recognized the compatibilities. When we danced slow, I could feel her breasts against me, the give and take. There were skin smells, too, and a perfume of roses sprinkled with spice—clove or cinnamon.

The perfume was what did it to me.

First a prickly stirring below my belt, then the inevitable laws of hydraulics. I shut my eyes and tried to force it down, but Sarah suddenly jerked away.

“What the hell’s that? ” she said.

“Nothing, it’s a—”

“I know what it is! Just keep it away from me!”

I was already wilting.

“An accident,” I said.

“Accident!”

“Look, I’m sorry, it’s like chemistry or something, those things happen. You shouldn’t take it quite so personal.”

Sarah winced.

“Never fails. Same old garbage—put on a letter sweater, guys automatically assume you’re Little Miss Easy Squeezie. Little Miss Huff and Puff.”

“Not me. I don’t think that way.”

“I’ve got feelings! ”

For a second it seemed she might spin away. Her eyes moistened. It was real anger, and a kind of sadness, but then she gave me a resigned half-smile, almost tender, and locked her hands around the small of my back. She kept dancing even after the music stopped.

Here, I realized, was a very troubled young lady.

After a time Sarah sighed and put her cheek against mine. “All right, you couldn’t help it,” she said. “Chemistry. You’re not such a bad guy, really. Under other circumstances—who knows? It’s just too bad about your rotten personality.”

“My mistake.”

“A queer duck, aren’t you?”

“Unique,” I said. “One of a kind.”

She smiled. A volatile person, I thought, but it was a genuine smile, crooked and friendly.

We danced flat-footed, barely moving.

“You know what I remember?” she said. “I remember back in high school—even junior high—you had this tremendous crush on me. Remember that? Not that I blame you. Thing is, you never made a move. Didn’t even try, for God’s sake.”

“A little bashful,” I said.

“Maybe. But it was like I wasn’t quite good enough for you. I mean, did you ever smile at me? One lousy little smile?”

I thought about it.

“I guess not,” I said. “I didn’t know you were all that interested.”

Sarah laughed. “Of course I wasn’t interested. I would’ve shut you off like a light. All I’m saying is you never gave yourself a chance. Gutless, et cetera.”

But again she smiled.

It was tempting. Partly a dare and partly something else. Sarah looked straight at me.

“The problem,” she said softly, “is I’m bad news. Too hot to handle. You’d get burned.”

“I suppose.”

“Seriously. Don’t mess with it.”

There was still that intriguing half-smile, like an invitation, it seemed. At the corner of her mouth was a small red blister, which inspired me, and there was that hard acrobat’s body, and that perfumed skin.

I was working my way toward an act of great courage when Ned Rafferty tapped me on the shoulder and stepped in and glided away with her.

It was too quick to process. No words, just a wave, then she was gone.

“Sure,” I said, “go right ahead.”

I felt the fuses blowing. Scalped, I thought. First my father, now me.

Hard to find meaning in it.

When the music ended, I began weaving my way across the floor, but things were jammed, and by the time I got there it was too late, they were dancing again.