I don’t know what it was about that kooky white lamp-poised atop a Caribbean bar with the audacity of a fresh pimple that made me think of visiting Deneen Prezero’s house back in 5th grade outside Boston. Perhaps it was the sheer boldness of its presence- much like the sleek white Cadillac Deneen’s father pulled up in late on her first day of school. We all peered out at her from inside the classroom window- half in disdain, the other in pure fascination- while our teacher Mr. Wheeler, kept muttering, “My word! My word” as though his new student had pulled up in a gold chariot drawn by tigers. While we wore ribbed turtlenecks and fair isle swearers, Deneen sported pierced ears with dangling diamonds, multiple rings on each finger and- the piece de resistance- long painted fingernails which rivaled Cher’s. So you can imagine my best friend Holly and my thrill when Deneen threw a birthday party and we were invited. We clung onto each other’s wrists at recess chanting “We…get…to…go…to…Deneen’s…house!” Of course we weren’t gracious enough to invite this new girl over for a playdate but a party, at her place? It was like a personal invitation to Graceland and we were going to don our brightest and widest corduroy for the occasion.
Deneen’s house did not disappoint. Located in a nearby town we had never visited but knew existed by its mention on the train line that linked our little seaside town to Boston, my mother steered our drab station wary station up to the Prezero’s driveway alongside their white Cadillac. It was like placing a field mouse next to a snow leopard. We walked up to the door which announced a large sparkly “P.” My mother looked wary but Holly and I had disappeared behind the door before she could even say goodbye. Mrs. Prezero soon appeared, wearing a flowing silk tunic and colored mascara. She greeted us as though we were her guests at a cocktail party and explained that the magician would be coming soon and proudly asked if we would like a house tour. Would we?! The most parents ever seemed to ask us when we visited their children’s home was when our parents would be back to collect us. At Deneen’s, we were handed Coke in tumblers with ice and then followed Mrs. Prezero through the low ceilinged terrarium-like rooms that seemed bathed in an orange glow (or were they actually painted orange?) and dotted with bright spotlights. Dance music from invisible sources throbbed around us and gave us the thrilling feeling were in a night club. The houses we grew up in were rambling spaces filled mostly with faded furniture and natural light when it afforded. If music was played, it was in the car and it was classical. When Deneen pointed out a wall filled with cut-out fish tanks she might as well have been showing us rock samples gathered from a recent moon visit. The walls in my own home were filled stoic family picture or framed museum posters for a calming and neutralizing effect. Here, was flashy, unbridled, pleasure and it shook through my body with the naughty sensation I associated whenever I drank liquid chocolate straight from the bottle with the refrigerator door still open. I could feel it throbbing through the pores of the Prezero’s lacquered walls and the gills of the silver fish. The whole place seemed to chant “Get with it!”, “Get with it!” As we settled ourselves onto the giant bean bag chairs in front of the magician, I felt as though I was taking place on the sidelines of an orgy I knew, no matter how grown up, I’d never been able to participate in.
My upbringing had taught be to stay away from bad taste as though it was a hot flame yet the pulse of Deneen’s merry house stayed inside me for weeks after, as though a second heart beat.
As the Prezero’s Cadillac pulled up day after day and we pressed our noses to the window ready to comment on whatever pant suit Deneen would be debuting that day, I knew my other half longed to jump in the back seat of that white Cadillac and accept the ride home.