“A voice in the crowd erupted: ‘Now don’t you go forgetting
the skeen!’” Michael Pollan, Cooked: A
Natural History of Transformation, p. 101
"Don’t believe him,” Cherise whispered in my ear. “He used
to live in my neighborhood when I lived in San Angelo. I don’t care what he
calls himself. He was born and bred in San Angelo, Texas, not in Hispaniola and his
name is Dwayne Lee Skeen.” No, no, no, no. Cherise had to be wrong because
everything about Skeeter del Puente was so right. He had transferred to our
school in the middle of junior year and stole the hearts of nearly every girl
in the school. Even the teachers’ voices seem to soften and go up a little
higher in a flirty way when they talked to Skeeter. Well, I mean the women
teachers but I probably should include the chorus director Mr. Miller in that
group. Mr. Miller was a little . . . umm. . .light on the feet. Skeeter’s hair
was black as coal, almost like Elvis’s hair. His skin was nearly perfect except
for a couple of zits that I noticed on his neck, but he flipped up his collar
to cover them. His eyes were a dreamy golden brown and when he spoke to me, his
eyelids were half-closed. And when he spoke . . . that exotic voice, the voice
that only could have come from the prince of Hispaniola. I wasn’t sure where
Hispaniola was, but Skeeter del Puente said it was a beautiful island,
surrounded by the aqua sea, and there were wild parakeets in the coconut trees,
and the women were the most beautiful women in the world. When he described his
homeland to me, he said with his eyelids half closed, “One day I will take you
there. And you will be the most beautiful of all the beautiful women.” Oh,
swoon. Skeeter explained that he had moved here from Hispaniola to spend some
time with his aunt and uncle and to go to an American high school to perfect
his English. Besides, his father was taking an extended trip to Arabia to buy the
finest horses and his mother was busy learning her role for the opera and he
took the opportunity to live in a small town in America. When he said the word America it seemed like it had about 15 rs in it. . . Amerrrrrrrica. I thought maybe I was in love with Skeeter del
Puente. I couldn’t concentrate in class and I kept writing in my notebook: Mrs. Skeeter del Puente, Mary Margaret
Donnelly del Puente, Maria Margarita del Puente. I wondered what our babies
would look like. I dreamed of going to the prom with him and imagined myself in
a red dress, dancing the tango. Surely Skeeter danced the tango like all the
great Latin lovers. He would teach me and, even if the DJ was playing a Ricky
Nelson song, we would dance the tango. It would be so perfect. But Cherise was
jealous and she kept trying to spoil it for me. She would wave at him from
across the room and say, “Well, look, it’s Dwayne Lee Skeen! How’s things in
San Angelo, Dwayne?” Skeeter just looked through Cherise like she didn’t exist.
He was cool that way. So later in the term we had a junior class meeting on
plans for the prom. There were nominations for prom committee, and suggestions
for the prom theme. People suggested themes like Hawaiian and future in space
(that was Bernie Wojik, that nerd) and moonlight in Paris. The prom committee would
make the final decision. Then it came time to nominate junior class members to
be prom queen and king. I didn’t even want to be nominated for queen. Big deal—Vickie
Sterling and Barbie Knutz and a couple of others got nominated, all blondes who
had already grown chests. Then time for nominations for prom king. I was
sitting way up front. People called out names—Billy MacKenzie the football
player, Richie Stearns the baseball player. Then I heard her. I knew who it was
without even turning around. A voice in the crowd erupted: “Now don’t you go
forgetting the Skeen!”
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