It was a cold November Friday night at Canyon High School, and the Frosch Dance had been in full swing. Freshmen and sophomores had packed the cafeteria, KC & the Sunshine Band’s throbbing disco beats pulsing through the linoleum and cinderblocks. Boys had huddled on one side, girls on the other, like oil and water at a chemically unstable mixer. You’d stood with Hewitt and Kaufmann, scanning the room for Liz Murphy.
Kaufmann had jabbed his finger across the cafeteria at a girl who looked like she could’ve started for the Raiders. Broad shoulders, neck like a redwood stump, and a forehead that could stop a speeding truck—she’d stood alone, her eyes glowering from opposite ends of her face like rival sentries. The dark pouches beneath them added to the haunted look. Her mouth, locked in a scowl, might as well have been carved in stone.
“Must suck to look like the lead singer of Meat Loaf,” Kaufmann had snickered.
“She’s known as the Tasmanian Devil,” Hewitt added. “Flashburger was yelling ‘Hit the deck! Tasmanian Devil on the loose!’ when she came near the quad. She’s got a twin brother. Both in special ed.”
“That’s gotta be rough,” you said. “Getting ridiculed every minute of your life.”
“You probably get used to it,” Kaufmann mused. “Grow a thick skin.”
“Or maybe you don’t,” you said. “It’s like that myth from Mrs. Hanson’s class—the guy chained to the rock getting his liver eaten every day.”
“Prometheus,” Kaufmann confirmed.
“What a hellish life. Constant Prometheus treatment.”
“Do we even know her name?” Kaufmann asked.
“Nope,” said Hewitt. “Just Tasmanian Devil. That’s it.”
That’s when Liz Murphy had walked in, burgundy top hugging her in all the right places, jeans so fitted they might’ve been sewn on. Her red hair flowed behind her like a cape made of fire, and her middle finger was braced, injured. She spotted you and made her way over.
“I almost didn’t come,” she said. “Emergency room after volleyball. Dislocated my finger. It swelled up like a balloon.”
Kaufmann cleared his throat. “Sorry on behalf of all the guys for being assholes to you in middle school.”
“We called you names we shouldn’t have,” Hewitt said.
“Like Giraffe?” Liz raised one eyebrow.
They nodded, shamefaced.
“Yeah, it sucked going home crying myself to sleep every night.”
“But look at you now,” Kaufmann said.
“Yeah, lucky me. But I wonder—what if I still looked like a giraffe? Would you still be assholes, or am I only off the hook because I changed?”
“I can’t honestly say,” Kaufmann mumbled.
“Be easy on us,” Hewitt pleaded. “We were barely thirteen, super immature.”
“Not like now?” she said, dripping sarcasm. She turned to you. “You never treated me like that.”
“Jeff was too afraid of girls to talk to them,” Kaufmann cut in.
“Diana Nesbitt asked Jeff to kiss her in seventh grade and he fainted,” Hewitt laughed.
“That’s exaggerated,” you protested.
“We had to revive you with smelling salts,” Hewitt said.
“I didn’t faint. I walked into a pole and got disoriented.”
“You fainted,” Kaufmann said. “We have over a dozen witnesses.”
“Jeff’s come a long way,” Liz said, slipping her arm around your waist.
“Wow,” Kaufmann said. “You guys going steady, or what?”
Liz studied your face. “I don’t know. We haven’t had a DTR.”
“A what?” Kaufmann asked.
“Determine the Relationship.”
“Holy crap,” Kaufmann said. “That would scare the shit out of me. Sounds like an FBI interrogation.”
The lights dimmed, and “I Hope We Get to Love in Time” started playing. Couples moved to the dance floor. Liz took your hand and led you to the center.
Kaufmann yelled after you, “I hope you’re blushing, McMahon, because if you’re not, I’ll blush for you!”
Two minutes into the song, a blood-curdling scream erupted: “Who crushed my face?”
The music stopped. Lights flipped on. Lori Walker was clutching her eye and shouting that someone had slammed into her. All fingers pointed at the Tasmanian Devil. She insisted she’d just been heading for the drinking fountain.
Mr. Reinhart rushed in, handed Lori an ice pack, and tried to calm things down. Lori jabbed an accusing finger, curses flying. The Tasmanian Devil ducked behind the soda machine and started crying.
Mr. Reinhart followed. “You can’t stay there all night.”
“Wanna bet?”
“I’ll call your father.”
“You do that.”
“Wait in front of the cafeteria. It’s not safe back there.”
“Why not?”
“All the electrical stuff. You get shocked, that’s a lawsuit. You hear me?”
She got up and followed him out.
The DJ apologized and cued up “For the Love of You.” Liz pulled you close again.
“I did something really stupid last week,” she said.
“What?”
“I found my father.”
“What do you mean?”
“I hadn’t seen him since I was little. My cousin found him. He’s in a trailer park in Union City. We went there, and I saw him through the screen door, shirtless, eating KFC, drinking beer, watching Kojak. He screamed at the TV, spit flying. I walked back to the car, told Susanne to take me home. I knew I’d never see him again.”
“Did you tell your mom?”
“Hell no. She’d kill me. After the divorce, things were never the same.”
“Speaking of divorce,” you said. “Something’s up with my parents. My dad took this so-called job promotion, but I think he wants out.”
“What kind of job?”
“Travel-heavy. Six months a year.”
“Oh yeah. He’s a goner.”
“Divorce City. I can smell it.”
“Stand in line, Jeff. Soon enough, you’ll be in the Kids of Divorced Parents Club.”
Cinemorphosis 
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