By the timeI step back outside after the dance, I’m ready to call it a night. Heck, I was ready to call it a night three hours ago. But now I’mreallyready. If I have to watch one more couple having a sloppy makeout session in some dark corner, I’m going to lose it.
Just a quick stop by the statue, and then I can go home.
Juniper trots along next to me as we cross the parking lot, the littleclick-clickof her heels percussion against the whispering wind. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright, her skin glistening.
“Do you want my jacket?” I say as the breeze ruffles my hair.
“No,” she says. “Thanks, though. This feels good for now. It got hot in there, didn’t it?” She fans her face. Then she tilts her head to the side, drawing my attention to the smooth line of her neck, the delicate curve of her collarbone, all cast into exaggerated shadow by the parking lot lights.
“Hot,” I mutter, tugging at my collar. “Too hot.” I pick up my pace; no need to dawdle. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
“Thank you for coming with me,” she says, hurrying along after me. I slow down a touch—just enough for her to keep up in those heels—and nod.
“Ten minutes,” I remind her.
“Ten minutes,” she agrees. Her voice is a little breathy, and when I look over at her, she’s gripping her skirt with white-knuckled fingers.
“Nervous?”
“Of course,” she says lightly as we start descending the stairs that lead from the parking lot to the track below. “I’d be crazy not to be a little nervous.”
We step aside as we pass two of my coworkers coming up from the opposite direction—both of whom were supposed to be chaperoning the dance, by the way, but were clearly elsewhere. With Hailey and Bethany, I’m not surprised. Their dresses swish in the wind as they talk together, their steps hurried, their voices low. They don’t even acknowledge us aswe let them by; Juniper watches them rush away for a moment before turning back to our path.
I look at her and swallow, trying to figure out the most tactful way to ask my next question. “So your mom…”
But Juniper takes the matter out of my hands when she answers, even though I haven’t finished speaking yet.
“She never told me anything about my dad,” she says. “He was a one night stand she barely remembered. A random hookup.” She shivers, turning her head this way and that as we reach the bottom of the concrete steps.
“There,” I say, pointing straight ahead of us. Solomon the Spud is hard to see at this hour, but he’s just across from us on the opposite side of the field. I almost set off through the grass, but then I remember Juniper’s shoes. Those heels will sink three inches deep in two seconds flat. So I stick to the spongy red track instead.
The moon is playing peekaboo with the clouds, hiding and reappearing, and the wind rattles the leaves in the trees. Something about the whole scene feels eerie, though I couldn’t say why. I can tell Juniper feels it too, though, because she picks up her pace.
As we round the track, the shadowy figure of Solomon the Spud slowly becomes visible, looming in a way that only a potato statue can—bizarre and lumpy-shaped.?* He’s nestled right up against the forest, but every now and then I spot the dull glint of moonlight on metal.
When we reach Solomon, we stand there in silence for a second, looking up at him by the light of my phone flashlight. He’s depicted emerging from a vague, blob-like hunk of metal, and his arms are in the flyingSuperman pose.
“Interesting that they gave him a belly button,” Juniper says from next to me, her voice musing.
I sigh, embarrassed on behalf of the entire institution. “I know.” Then I stroll forward, my hands back in my pockets to keep them warm, and seat myself on the plinth of the statue.
“Let me know when ten minutes is up?” Juniper says. She’s turned away from the statue now; she’s so nervous that even a weirdly anthropomorphized potato can’t keep her attention. She paces instead, radiating that same tension I felt when we first read the note on the back of the invitation. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her topleasesit down, because it feels like all her nervous energy is trickling over to me, but I hold it in. She doesn’t need to hear from me right now.
“I will” is all I say, and then I watch as she continues to pace. She looks around almost constantly, craning her neck, searching in every direction.
But no one is here.
And no one comes.
The minutes tick by almost painfully slowly, and though I would never admit it, I actually don’t speak up until fifteen have passed. It’s getting colder, and later, and something feels…off.
What exactly is going on here?
“Juniper,” I say. My voice cuts through the expectant silence, and Juniper turns to me.
“Yeah,” she says breathlessly, coming to a halt.
I swallow. “It’s been ten minutes.” It’s been seventeen.
