Everybody Needs Somebody To Hate

[MethodicalSlacker]

Max absolutely would not object to Misty putting her arm around his back. Such was cordial, after all—the most polite, formal thing to do in this situation would certainly be to make contact, showing some Victorian sense of stateliness, chivalry, and forced intimacy. Under other circumstances, he might be more inclined to put his arm a short ways away from her, to hover his hand, so to speak, without actually touching her. Not out of any pathological, deep-seated paranoia or hatred of women—individuals of that subset were the one group most people could agree on as collectively below the rest of humanity—but out of respect for her personal space.

Tonight was different. Moonbeams would only illuminate the two of them in this configuration once. Were he to refuse to lay a finger on her when she had expressed intent, desire to share this night in an at least slightly intimate way, his floccinaucinihilipilification would not go unnoticed. The quintessential betrayal, to deny a girl of her age a wonderful prom, and a fruitless act of self-harm as well. He put his arm her waist and pulled her in slightly closer for the photograph. He smiled at the camera, with teeth.

Misty deserved more than an artificial flashbulb. Once, twice, thrice.

After the last camera flash, Max withdrew his arm from Misty's back. It was almost time to depart, but he'd let Misty decide when that would be. He rolled his head around and listened to the musculature in his neck crackle and pop with glee.

[MurderWeasel]

Click, click, click. Misty had read somewhere on the internet that phone cameras made that noise because it was required in Japan or some other Asian country because perverts liked to stand close to girls on crowded trains and surreptitiously take pictures up their skirts. She wasn't totally positive that was true but it sure sounded plausible.

This thought came to her seemingly unrelated to the situation at hand, but closer introspection challenged that assessment. There was something intimate about being photographed, especially while dressed up so nicely. Okay, it'd maybe be a little more special and romantic if the photographer wasn't her mom, but even as it was they were making something permanent here, an image that would no doubt be printed and posted to social media and shared around and eventually reminisced over, a reminder that they'd been here together, her and Max as a pair, and no matter what happened from here on out nothing could change that record of this one singular shared moment.

Max had not pulled away. He had pulled, but pulled her towards him, and Misty had done her best to stay proper and not just fold over onto him. Her parents being here helped for that, at least; their presence was good at keeping her just a bit on edge. Still, it felt nice, his hand on her waist. Proper. They really were going to prom together. They were here, all dressed up, like they were special people for one night. It was magical, and that wasn't something Misty thought casually. It was a wish fulfilled that she hadn't even known she was holding.

The moment passed, but it wasn't lost. The camera had made sure of that.

"I'll make sure to send it to your folks," Misty's mom said to Max. Her dad, meanwhile, swooped and beat her to the glass of water, scooping it up but not making off with it just yet, probably in case Max wanted it still.

"Don't let us keep you two too long," he said. "You do want to make sure you have time to enjoy the dance."

Misty nodded, smiled, said, "Thanks."

Then she turned and did the same again, this time to Max and with a different vocalization: "Shall we?"

[MethodicalSlacker]

"Thank you," Max enunciated, "I know my mother would very much appreciate it."

His father likely would, too. Perhaps he would shed a lonesome teardrop, and it would descend his bearded countenance, dropping to the ground without a sound, and then he would utter something that he would try and fail to make sound to Max's ears like something other than a platitude. A statement of pride, perhaps? Max did not believe such emotional displays needed to take place between father and son. A simple nod of acknowledgement and maybe a truly prideful smirk would be all that Max needed in order to feel as though he had done right by his father. His father, who had been incredibly reticent when Max had asked him how his own prom dance had been.

In the present moment, Misty was requesting to know the time of their departure. Max had nearly forgot the limo driver he had kept waiting outside. This was good for him, and bad for Max's parents. He charged an hourly fee on top of the initial payment they had made, and they were coming up on the first hour. The time rounded up; during a scenario in which they took an hour and one minute, they would be charged the two hour's fee. Rudolph recalled algebra class, and shuddered. Mathematics came as easily to him as any academic subject, but they were incredibly terse and ennui inducing.

"Thank you," he said to Misty's father at roughly the same time as Misty, not wanting to let her awareness of the situation go unacknowledged.

What would be the courteous, proper way of proceeding, here? Was he to thank Misty's parents once more and then exit the house, or wave good-bye to them and lead Misty by the hand outdoors? Would he ha—

Max, just go with your gut.

—ve to hand it over to himself, because his instinctual feeling was often correct about social decisions.

"If you're ready, then let's go," he said, himself smiling and reaching his hand out to Misty, "you're going to just love the limousine."

[MurderWeasel]

"I'm sure I will. Let's go."

Misty reached out and took Max's hand in hers. It felt simultaneously natural and daring, an exciting moment of further connection and togetherness yet also the proper progression. This was it. The formalities were taken care of, her parents seemed generally onboard and unconcerned, and the evening's events were about to begin in earnest. The carriage awaited, all ready to whisk them away.

"I'll text if I'm going to be back especially late," Misty added, this time to her parents. This was a reminder and a reassurance more than anything else; they'd already had a nice chat about safety and expectations, and in general they didn't keep Misty on a particularly short leash. As long as she wasn't getting into too much trouble (or, more realistically, as long as news of the trouble she was getting into didn't make its way back to them), they were content to leave her to her own devices. The biggest thing they'd drilled into her was to be very very careful about who she got in a car with, because there were bound to be people drinking.

She'd been waiting for days for something else, something more, some platitudes about not drinking herself or some awkward lecture about birth control and responsibility or something like that, but nothing had ever manifested. Her parents had always been open on such topics, surprisingly so compared to many of her peers, but more often than not the conversations had been started by Misty asking questions or expressing curiosity. Maybe they figured she'd do what she did on prom night no matter what they said. Maybe they trusted her to know what was best for herself. She chose to assume the latter.

Hand in hand the two of them went, out the door and towards the limousine Misty still couldn't quite believe was parked in front of her home. She took one last glance backwards, at her parents standing in the door, waving at her.

"Have fun," her mom called.

"Be safe," her dad added.

"I will," she called back. "I'll see you later. Love you."

Then her attention was turned fully to Max, to the limo, and to the night ahead.

((Misty Browder continued elsewhere))

[MethodicalSlacker]

Hand in hand. Max had been living under the pretense that he was unlikely to hold a girl's hand for at least another several months until long after graduation, during his first semester of the collegiate years of his education. He had not truly anticipated this, and yet it still failed to catch him off his guard. Preparation, on levels mental and physical, had been undertaken. Any good practitioner of recreational rhetoric such as himself would take great care to rehearse speech in front of a mirror whenever an impression of prime quality was to be made. Whatever happened, he could not let the night end in hostility or indifference. Misty taking his hand was a good sign that his preparations would pay their dividends.

As Misty called back to her parents, Max smiled. Their display of affection was fairly heartwarming, and Max wondered why his own parents had not given him similar well wishes as he embarked on the night's crawl. He wondered silently what Misty expected from the night. Max was willing and able to cover any expense that Misty may require, be they for dining purposes or for later, party related means. And Max was willing, tonight, to let loose. In the waning months of his secondary education, Max recognized that letting his guard down at least slightly was appropriate. It helped that he was starting to lean away from the books. He was not all too likely to start many new books in the months leading up to the move to college. Max did not intend on bringing much with him from home.

As they strode through the door, however, college was far from his mind. In his line of sight he saw the sunset, a gleam that drew him slightly further from his proverbial shell. The limo driver saw them exiting the house with hands intertwined and moved to start the engine, for their destination awaited. They would, of course, be slightly late. Max had taken care to choose a route that got them to prom quickly, though not quickly enough that the wonders of the limousine could not be appreciated and that conversation would be impractical. An indulgence, but a necessary one, he felt. An indulgence that he was seconds away from taking part in.

Max got to the door of the limousine and pulled the handle, holding it open for Misty to step inside.

"After you," he said.

[Max Rudolph continued elsewhere.]