Advantage

It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the gloom of the bar, but there she is, the ever distinctive Heather, wedged in the corner behind a railing. Things are pretty much in full swing already and I have to fight my way to her through the crowd.

"Hey, Heather," I say. "Funny, but I never pictured you as a wallflower."

Her glance flickers over me before returning to the dance floor. "Whatever. I’m just not getting into this."

Most of the old crew’s out there, her former running mates, Tekla as polished as ever, looking like a newly revised edition of The Preppie Handbook in her plaid pants, short jacket and white turtleneck, while Kathy, on the other hand, with her severe hair cut, striped button down shirt and corduroys suggests nothing more than a dyke gym teacher, an impression strengthened by the arm she’s draped carelessly around Sallie, who, as usual, is dressed in an extremely fashionable way that’ll seem dated in a year or two.

"I don’t know," I say. "Looks like people are having fun to me."

"Hmmmm." Heather sways a little as she turns to face me, those great grey eyes blinking, and I can tell that she’s already pretty wasted. "You. What are you doing here anyway? You’re not our year."

"Ah, nothing. I was just in the neighborhood and I thought I’d drop in and see what you crazy kids are up to."

"Hmmmm." She tips the glass to her lips before realizing it’s empty, then stares dowm, rattling the ice cubes. "Fuck. Buy a girl a drink, will you Charlie?"

"Sure thing, Heather."

"Vodka tonic." She stretches back to the rail, handing the glass out crookedly and I almost drop it. "Careful now."

The room’s even more packed and it’s an effort just to get across. Standing at the bar, waiting, a twenty between my fingers, I look back at Heather, and it’s strange to see her standing there, alone above the welter of the dance floor. Sure she had her moments of lassitude back in the day, but I remember her most vividly in motion, tearing down the hall, madly headed somewhere, or, indeed, dancing at a party. She was probably the best dancer I’ve ever seen off a stage – she’d do this move she called the jump back jack, which would leave us all literally openmouthed.

But she’s not dancing now, and in fact there’s something disconcerting about her stiff posture, stolid and immobile as the indirect bar light crosshatches over the fixed curves of her body. It’s not that she doesn’t look great in her black tank top and patterned skirt an inch shorter than anyone else’s, those still breathtaking legs shimmering in black stockings – buy yet – there’s a time when a girl like Heather’s clothes can’t be too tight and a time when some things are better left to the imagination.

I weave my way back through the buzzing swarm, holding the drink protectively over my head.

"Finally." Heather immediately takes a long sip as a new song starts, another oldie from someone’s attempt to create a nostalgic soundtrack. "Disco," she snorts. "Like we ever listened to disco."

The vodka and tonic soon disappears, followed by several others, and I seem to spend as much time making my way to and from the bar as I do with Heather. She’d always been something of a party girl, but what she’s doing tonight doesn’t seem much like partying.

Eventually things calm down a little and people start circulating, a few of them finding their way to a glowering Heather, and soon, no doubt, regretting it.

"I’m so sick of this bullshit," she says as the latest turns away. "I am so out of here." She suddenly lurches for the door, stumbling almost immediately.

"Whoa there, Heather. Watch yourself," I say, stepping in front of her. "Don’t you think it would be a good idea if maybe I gave you a ride home?"

"Yeah, maybe." She squints at the smoke obscured exit sign. "At least give me a hand."

I take her elbow and half-steer, half-support her past the knots of people, some of whom call out to her.

"Yeah, all right, I guess that ride thing’ll probably work," she says when we finally reach the sidewalk. "Just don’t go taking advantage of me, O.K.?"

"Sure thing, Heather," I say, then add in my pallid Jimmy Stewart imitation "There are rules about that."

"Yeah, you were always kind of a pussy about it, weren’t you?" She laughs, holding on to the car door with both hands when I open it.

Even after I’m in the driver’s seat turned the key she still hasn’t gotten in. "Heather?"

"Yeah, yeah." She sort of pivots, squirming her way onto the seat, her tight skirt riding up to the top of her stockings.

"Heather, the door."

"All right, all right, give me a chance, will you?" She leans out unsteadily and slams it shut. "Jesus, Charlie, chill out."

"You still live on Hickory Hill?"

"Yeah, oh yeah." She works her finger through a hole in the upholstery. "Nice ride, dude."

"Hey, it’s getting you home." We’re out over the bridge and into the suburbs soon enough, no streetlights, the regular lines of trees on both sides flickering past like frames in a silent movie. "Pretty lame reunion, huh?"

"No shit." She lays her cheek on the window, eyes rolled up to the dark sky, humming softly.

We continue on in silence until I pull into the driveway. "So." She hasn’t moved, seemingly unaware that we’ve stopped. "You need a hand?"

"Yeah, for real, that sucked. And you know the thing is…" She lifts her head to look at me, leaving a smear of make up on the glass. "They were just so old, you know? Everybody was so fucking old."

We sit there, Heather swaying as if the car was still moving.

"You know what?" she says finally. "I changed my mind. Please do."

"Do what?"

"Take advantage of me."