Sightings

Sightings by B.J. Hollars Read Free Book Online

Book: Sightings by B.J. Hollars Read Free Book Online
Authors: B.J. Hollars
everything with my father’s credit card. Sasquatch’s lifelong career of hunting and gathering hadn’t converted into much in terms of U.S. currency, but he offered me a few pinecones and berries and a trout, so we decided to call it even.
    â€œThanks again for the lovely corsage, Sasquatch,” Becca repeated as we walked back to the car.
    It
was
a lovely corsage, and one that had set me back $17.00 (three pine cones and a trout after the conversion rate).
    But the truth was, I felt awfully good about being able to give him the prom he deserved, and judging by the enormous erection floating around his trousers, he was feeling pretty good, too.
    I couldn’t blame him; we were talking about Becca Marsden after all. My own date, Jenny Rabin, was an incredible girl in her own right – my faithful, metal-mouthed girlfriend of two years – but all the hairspray, make-up, and push-up bras in the world couldn’t transform her into Becca.
    Becca in her peach-colored strapless dress.
    Becca with breasts like balloons.
    A goddess. A vision. Someone fit for magazine covers other than
Orthodontia Illustrated.
    Throughout the week, I’d done all I could to catch Sasquatch up to speed on all things prom-related. We’d dedicated an immeasurable amount of time on “date etiquette,” and while he now knew the proper procedure for ladling Becca a cup of punch, it didn’t occur to me until we entered the gymnasium doors that he didn’t yet have the slightest clue how to dance.
    After hours of arbitration, the illustrious and all-powerful prom committee had settled on the “Under the Sea” theme, and the walls were coated with what appeared to be blue plastic wrap, cellophane seaweed, white lights blinking up and down the walls like tiny bubbles.
    I could hardly pay attention to any of it, far too preoccupied with Sasquatch’s initiation into the brutality of high school romance.
    â€œWant to dance, Teddy Bear?” Becca asked, pushing back her hair. Sasquatch looked to me for guidance, wondering whether he was supposed to get her the punch like we’d practiced, or, as Dave Malton had coached, if he was supposed to take her into the back of the Winnebago.
    â€œShe wants you to dance,” I repeated, demonstrating a few moves myself. He imitated my one-foot shuffle, though his actions only managed to magnify my own uncoordinated efforts.
    She rolled her eyes, so he stroked the front of her face with his palm as nature dictated.
    â€œHey! Don’t be a brute,” she joked, reaching for her compact and eyeing herself in the mirror. Upon spotting the damage he’d wrought she turned serious. “Damn it, Squatch. You smeared my foundation.”
    We watched her stomp into the bathroom, trailed by her entourage, and when she finally returned ten minutes later she didn’t return to us.
    Becca – who had found Sasquatch so endearing just minutes prior – was quickly tiring of his inability to be a proper date. Upon their return, we wandered back within face-petting distance of our dates, though this time – rather than continuing where he’d left off – Sasquatch began massaging Becca’s scalp, instead. She started shooting S.O.S. looks to her friends; the message received by all the homo sapiens in the room.
    â€œMaybe you want some punch?” I asked Becca, hoping to get Sasquatch back on track or at least momentarily out of her hair. She shrugged as if she didn’t much care either way, so I started toward the punch bowl, Sasquatch trailing.
    â€œNow look,” I shouted over the music, watching as Sasquatch shoved through the punch line, leaving a few linebackers sprawling. “Becca’s going to want to dance with you, so you’re going to have to dance with her to keep her happy, does that make sense?”
    He was so preoccupied fitting the ladle into his gigantic palm he didn’t hear a word I

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