Slow Dance in Purgatory

Johnny growled an expletive.

“I have never taken Chemistry before at any school, Mr. Marshall,” Maggie protested, seeing her grade crumbling before her eyes. “You can have the secretary check my transcripts! This is the first time I’ve ever seen this experiment!”

“My dear Miss O’Bannon,” Mr. Marshall snapped sharply. “Please don’t make things worse for yourself. You and I are both aware that you don’t read well enough to have completed this portion of the assignment in the limited time it took you.”

Maggie’s face flamed a hot, deep crimson, and she removed her goggles with shaking hands. It didn’t seem to matter that the other students had a partner to read them the instructions, or that the other students had someone to share the workload with– wasn’t that what she had done? Why was this teacher so intent on humiliating her?

Mr. Marshall turned away from her table with a small smirk and made his way back to his desk. Johnny was there waiting for him. Mr. Marshall made a great display of sinking back down upon his throne. Only…his chair had been removed at the very last second. Mr. Marshall’s head disappeared behind his desk as he fell to the floor with a girlish cry and a manly thud. The class burst into smothered giggles, snorts, and chortles.

Maggie’s persecutor pulled himself up gracelessly, smoothing his disheveled comb-over as he did. Gripping the sides of his leather chair, he again attempted to sit. Johnny shoved the chair forward violently, taking Mr. Marshall’s legs out from under him and sending him flying back into his seat. The momentum toppled the chair and the teacher over backward, wheeled legs and skinny ankles in argyle socks waving in the air. The giggles and snorts turned into guffaws and shouts.

Mr. Marshall rolled out of his upended seat in shocked bewilderment and, rising on wobbly legs, attempted to right his chair. As he leaned over, Johnny grabbed the waistband of his pants and yanked upward, showing the old bully how it really felt to be a pain the butt. Mr. Marshall shrieked and grabbed at the seat of his pants in mortification. Johnny released him, and with a little bump, shoved him back into his chair and scooted him into his desk as if the whole incident had never happened. Then, leaning down very close to Mr. Marshall’s ear, he spoke loudly and distinctly. Maggie marveled that she was the only one who could hear him. His voice practically reverberated through her head.

“You owe Margaret O’Bannon an apology.”

Mr. Marshall rubbed frantically at his ear and stuck his finger into the opening as if a bug had flown into his ear canal. His eyes met Maggie in stunned disbelief. She didn’t know if he had actually heard Johnny, but on some level the message had been received. Johnny resumed his place by her side.

They finished the experiment and the attached quiz in silence. As the class came to a close, and the students filed out, Maggie hung back, waiting for the room to empty. When Mr. Marshall saw that she remained behind, he scampered out, as if fearful that the whole embarrassing episode would repeat itself.

Johnny sank down on a stool and looked at her stonily. He knew she was going to scold him, apparently.

“You can’t defend me from the whole cruel world,” she said softly.

“True. But I can defend you in my tiny corner of it.”

“My knight.”

“My lady.”

Maggie smiled at his rejoinder. “Just…please… be careful. What if people start to talk?”

“About what? Ghosts? I’m not worried about that, Maggie.”

“Please don’t do that again. I almost felt bad for that awful little man.”

“That awful little man has been pulling stuff like that for decades, and his father pulled similar stuff for decades before him.” Johnny stood and captured her hands in his. “I can’t stand by while people are cruel to you. I can’t watch you suffer and do nothing. Don’t ask me to.” His expression was fierce and unyielding. They locked gazes for several long seconds. Maggie surrendered first.

“Will you kiss me, please?” Maggie whispered, lifting her hands to clasp them against the nape of his neck and pulling his glorious face to hers.

“Someone could walk in.” His mouth hovered just above hers, his breath tickling her parted lips.

“I don’t care.”

And at that moment, neither did he.





13


“PRETEND”

Nat King Cole - 1953