Free Fingerless Gloves by Nick Orsini

she did with some of the guys in key club and the captain of the debate team. Sometimes she did that in front of James just to see his reaction. He never got jealous…never said a word. They looked unbelievably classy in all the prom photos and they upped our limo’s credibility by a serious amount of points. James was the only other guy who brought a flask into the stretch and, although he didn’t finish it in two swigs like a madman, I remember envying him. His date didn’t care whether he was wasted or not. She was minding her business, ignoring the sour, medicinal smell of liquor. After prom, when I was fresh out of good spirits and moved on cheap beer, James was smoking cigarettes and still holding the flask, sipping on his father’s best scotch. He looked like some character out of a Jazz Era novel.
    My one real memory of prom is thinking how strange it was to dance on an uneven dance floor. I had to awkwardly bend my knees to compensate for the lumps in the hardwood. That was part of the charm of the Churchwood. None of us knew any steps, fast dancing or slow dancing. Fast dancing was reserved for the elite group of girls who could make hiking up a ballgown and gyrating uncontrollably still look sort of sexy and the guys who, even with their ties off and shirt half unbuttoned, managed to look like they were out of an Enrique Iglesias video. My prom party, sad to admit, was not comprised of those kids. Beth was just as uncoordinated as I was so, when it came time for that last dance, I remember just swaying and trying to not fall over from the booze and the Billy Joel. Her gown felt weird on my hands…I felt the smooth material but, at the same time, the harsh wires and zippers. Her hair was all curled and put up with pins. Her makeup was subtle enough to make her face stand out. The floor rose and fell under my ill-fitting tuxedo shoes. It was the last moments of a senior year that saw my entire class begin to figure out the adults they’d become. Some decided on majors and hobbies, while others knew, even beyond that moment, that they might never make it out of this town to the city’s lap water shore. The DJ gave himself one final promo and the lights came up. Girls tried to find bags and stray shoes. As fast as it all happened, it was over.
    There wasn’t a car in sight. There we no private parties, no birthdays, no weddings or proms. Some garbage was left out front and the wind was licking the ties on the tops of the bags. The town newspaper had reported that the Churchwood was set to close down due to the owner committing some pretty serious fraud and a heavy dose of tax evasion. The place was slowly being stripped to its bare bones. The wood columns had gone without touch-up paint. The glass on the front windows was smudged and scratched. There was still some evidence of grandeur, but the place was a far cry from what it once was. Beth’s headlights lit up the front staircase. I used to think those stairs were out of some eloquent period piece film. They had big, ornate banisters with lions and leaves carved into the wood. I imagined an actor on those steps, professing his love for his lady using SAT words and on-point gestures. Now, those steps just looked tacky. They were scuffed from the constant traffic of people disassembling the Churchwood. The front entrance, with its heavy door handles and exquisite glass, was the final façade. The Churchwood would always be all appearance and no real substance.
    We were parked right in front of the Churchwood when Beth leaned over to me and said, “You were the absolute worst dancer that night. Our prom song was ‘Here’s to the Night’ …by Eve 6…remember? And you almost fell over during the slow dance.”
    My head was still clogged and foggy. I didn’t remember the dance, or my lack of footwork. I guess I had been more hammered than I thought because I could have sworn I was a great dancer. My thoughts began to wander as a transparent spider tiptoed