Calamity and Other Stories by Daphne Kalotay Page A

shush, to listen up, and to think.
    “We need to put our heads together,” Madame Lipsky said. “I’m not asking any of you girls to be Carmine’s date, but we need to do some work here. I want you to go home and brain-storm, and let’s see what we can come up with.”
    But as quickly as the problem had arisen, it seemed to disappear. The gossip stopped, the chain of proposals ended, and there were no more Carmine-in-action sightings, no more stories of polite, shocked refusals.
    Mack supposed Carmine had given up; that was what Mack would have done. But Geoff said someone must have said yes.
    “Nah, you think? To Carmine?”
    “Someone must have.”
    “But
who
?” Everyone wondered. But no one was friends with Carmine, and so no one asked him.
    “What about you?” Geoff asked Mack one weekend, when they were out in the woods behind Geoff’s father’s house, smoking Mack’s mother’s cigarettes.
    “What about me?”
    “Have you asked her yet?”
    “Asked who what?”
    “Tilda. Don’t play dumb.”
    “Should I ask her?”
    “Why not? Prom’s in two weeks. We can all go hang out at Leslie’s aunt’s place on the Cape.”
    Mack tried to pay attention to the thoughts that came into his head. Some of them were images from when he was with Tilda: making that DNA replica for Mr. Bunuel’s class, or doing disgusting things with the soup at lunch. Some of them were things she had said to him when they were horsing around, and the times when she had made it obvious how much she liked him. There were images of her neck, which Mack sometimes imagined kissing, and her hips, which he sometimes imagined touching, and the way her cotton shirts sometimes clung to her chest. And then there was the rayon skirt piled across her freckled thighs. Not knowing what else to do, Mack said, “Yeah, I’ll ask her tomorrow.”
    When he did, the next morning, out by the flagpole before the bell rang, Tilda’s face dropped and her eyes lowered. She looked annoyed. “I already have a date.”
    “You do?” This possibility hadn’t occurred to Mack, and so he sounded even more incredulous than he felt. “But you never said you did.”
    “Do I have to tell you everything I do?”
    “Who is it?”
    “Carmine Bocchino.”
    Mack laughed. “No, really, who is it?”
    “I just told you.” Tilda’s face was red.
    “You’ve got to be kidding.” When she shook her head, Mack said, “You don’t even know him.”
    “He at least asked. He at least had the nerve to come up to me and ask. He didn’t wait a whole month because he was too lazy to get off his ass and do something that takes guts.”
    Tilda looked like she wanted to say more but suddenly turned and walked quickly away. The bell rang, and everyone funneled into the building for the start of yet another day.
    The morning was even hotter than usual, and already the classrooms were filled with that stuffy excitement that blows in with the end of the school year. The only thing left was final exams, and yet with weather so sunny it didn’t seem exams could possibly matter. Nothing did, this time of year, with flowers sprouting out all over the place and teachers sneezing from hay fever. The heat made it impossible to concentrate, and everyone smelled. All Mack could think about was Tilda. He spent all morning staring out of windows, the air filled with a melancholy scent. He felt something growing inside him, something uncomfortable, unbearable. He thought he might burst.
    That afternoon, in seventh period French, Madame Lipsky took the weekly tally—Whoever doesn’t have a date, raise your hand. She didn’t look surprised at the fact that Mack was the only one with his hand in the air. “What’s the problem here? Are you waiting for the moon to be at exactly the right angle? Are you waiting for a drum roll? Are you waiting for a sign from God?”
    Mack felt the heat in his cheeks. He said, “The girl I want to take is going with someone else.”
    He was