June, 1990
About a week after the furor of Nick’s foray into public-access mass media, his parents accompanied him to Deejay’s grad party.
They arrive, say, fifteen minutes into the start time and he went so far as to wear jeans and a button up shirt, after a lot of consternation, indecision, feeling silly about it all, then just dressing like he would to school but even on a warm day, then Ned made him drive at least so he could show up with hair on his knuckles.
He hadn’t seen her in months, chance meeting at a store, then before that they met at the fair last summer, seems a tradition had begun, but with senior year and stuff they just kept their cheeky exchange of greeting cards in the mail as a pulse.
As soon as they pull in he can see none other than Deej running toward the car, through the grass in a beige dress, stockings but no shoes. Nick parks and opens the door, and before he can grab her card from the dash she pulls him out, flips him over her back then pins him down on the ground with an elbow in his sternum, then stares him down, highly amused lipid eyes clearly fighting a laugh, she charges,
“You’re LATE.”
Nick can only squeak out, “May I pee my pants now, ma'am?”
She pulls his scrawny ass to his feet and lets him off the hook with one of those full contact squeeze-holds of hers as he hears applause from all around.
Well, a least it won’t seem awkward being here now.
The craziest part was the pic he snapped of her at the softball game glaring at him from within the obligatory collage, the very same 5x7 he had made at Kmart.