When You Were Young

Then she noticed the drop of blood on the carpet. She broke down the door and took the pistol from her jacket. "Dr. Herschowitz? Are you here? Are you hurt?"

She found him on the bed, a single bullet wound through the heart. A .38 caliber, she thought, examining the wound. The same type as she held in her hand. She felt for a pulse, but didn't feel anything. He was already dead. She had failed.

She sat down on the bed next to him, dropping the gun back into her pocket. Fitzgerald, then Judy, and now Herschowitz. "I'm sorry," she said. She looked over at his wrinkled face, the skin still a livid pink. His eyes drilled into her, just like the girl's in Tucumcari.

"You two have a good time," he says.

"Thanks, Mr. Herschowitz," she says. They step through the gym doors. She feels like Cinderella arriving at the ball to meet Prince Charming, except her prince is already here, his arm around hers.

She self-consciously runs a hand along her dress. "Do I look all right?" she whispers into his ear.

"You look beautiful," he says. He kisses the stray hairs behind her ear. Her face blushes with heat. She knows everyone is watching them, laughing at her. Who's that? someone is bound to ask. That's the gawky orphan girl who lives with that crazy old lady outside town, someone else will answer. What am I doing here? she wonders.

She shouldn't be here. She hates this dress. She hates its pinkness and its ruffles that make her feel three years old. She hates wearing her hair up like this with the flowers woven in, digging into her scalp. "You look muy bonita," Aunt Beth had said. "My beautiful senorita." She flashed one of her toothless smiles that made her cringe and laughed her wicked witch cackle that scared the neighborhood children away. Why did he have to ask her to come to this?

He guides her across the crowded dance floor, where everyone bops along to some ancient song. "You want some punch?" he shouts into her ear to be heard over the music. She wants to shake her head, but doesn't want to upset all the hair and flowers piled on top; he gets the message from her irritated glare. "How about we sit this one out," he says.

He leads her over to the bleachers where the dateless wonders and chaperones have gathered. He tries to put his arm around her, but she shrugs it off. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"Dances aren't really my thing," she says.

"You only get one senior prom," he says. "May as well have a good time."