21 Proms (6 page)

“Nice to meet you, Mr… .” Heller looks at me and shrugs. “I don't know your last name.”

Your father visibly balks.

“Let's just take some pictures,” you say quickly, and usher Hot Heller to the porch.

“You're not going to wear those shoes, are you, hon?” he asks as he hands you an all-white corsage.

“Sorry?”

“Don't you want to be taller? Why are you wearing flats?”

You look down at your pretty silver shoes. They're not flats. They have a heel. Sort of. “They're comfortable.”

“But you're way shorter than me. Whatever. It's your prom. If you don't care, I don't care.”

But you do care. You want to look your best. You know that as soon as Shane sees how amazing you look, how skinny and tanned and manicured and smiley you are, how taken you are with another guy, he will want you back. Seeing Heller will make his face turn a nice shade of Hulk green. He will want to push his slutty sophomore Model aside and play with your hair and whisper in your ear that he is sorry and that he still loves you.

You excuse yourself and change into your black three-inchers. What were you thinking, picking
comfortable
shoes? This is not about comfort. You hold tightly to the banister so that you don't slip down the stairs.

“Better, hon,” Hot Heller says.

You think you might dislike Hot Heller. But he is doing you a favor and you should appreciate it. “Thanks for coming with me,” you tell him.

“I don't mind. Although I almost said no when Jen e-mailed me that her friend needed a date. I assumed she meant her other friend, the one I met last spring.”

A large pit has lodged itself somewhere in your esophagus. “You mean Kyra?”

“The fat one with black hair.”

You're now quite sure that you dislike him. In fact, you're pretty sure you detest him. You consider taking your high heel and punting it into his crotch. Instead you say, “Kyra
isn't
fat,” and remind yourself that after tonight you will never have to talk to him again.


You and Heller stand there alone on the porch, not speaking. You have nothing to say to him. Nothing whatsoever. You look out the window and watch as the limo rolls down your street and parks in front of your house.

“The limo we had for our prom was much nicer,” says Heller.

You're not sure
detest
is a strong enough word.
Hate? Loathe? Abhor?

You calm yourself down, wave to your parents, suck in your stomach, open the limo door, dip your perfectly straightened hair inside, and say in your most demure voice, “Hello.”

You sweep your eyes over the four already-seated couples to locate Shane and The Model, who are pressed up against each other in the backseat. Shane looks adorable in his tux, as you knew he would. He's opted for a black bow tie, which he is already tugging. The Model is wearing a short gold dress that shows off her long legs. In your opinion, it's not quite prom appropriate.

You scoot onto one of the side seats and Heller follows behind. Then once you're sure everyone has ogled his hotness, you smile extra brightly and say, “Hi, everyone, this is Daniel Heller. Heller, Peter and Lindsay, Mike and Bonnie, Adam and Farrah, Shane and Reese.” When you reach the happy couple, you widen your eyes as though you are pleased to see them. You grip your leather seat as the limo pulls down the street.

Shane is studying Heller. Then he turns to you, and you feel his eyes on you, slowly, carefully taking you in. Eyes flickering with interest.

It's working!

You move your hand from your lap to Heller's knee, Shane's eyes following it like a bouncing ball.

He shuffles a few inches away from The Model. “Hey, Drew,” he says. “You look really good.”

“Thanks, Shane, that's really sweet of you,” you say in the most dismissive tone you can conjure up. Instead of looking at him, you focus on your date and pick a thread off the top of his jacket. “Heller, you look fantastic in your tux.”

“Thanks, hon.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Shane flush. He moves a little farther away from Reese. He's now staring at Heller. “Hey, man, what school do you go to?”

“I was at Farmington.”

Reese leans in. “Really? I have a ton of friends there. Do you know —”

“What college are you going to?” Shane asks him, interrupting.

Yes, yes!

“Yale,” Heller says, his chest inflating. “You?”

Shane scowls. “Oh. Rutgers.”

“Shane?” Reese says, nudging him. “Can you cut the tag in the back of my dress? It's scratching me.”

What, does she think he walks around with scissors?

Shane is too preoccupied with you and Heller to answer. “Shane? Hello?” she asks again, sounding annoyed.

Finally, you turn away from Heller's lapel and turn to Shane. He looks deep into your eyes. And you can't look away.

“You really do look amazing,” he says.

“Thanks,” you say, your voice lowering.

Whispering.

It's the look. He's giving you the look.

Heller puts his arm around you, pulling you into him.

Shane flinches.

Everything is unfolding just the way you planned. By the time you get to the prom, Shane will be begging you to get back together. You should be happy. Ecstatic. This is what you want.

Isn't it?

“Shane?” Reese repeats. “Can you pay attention to me, please?”

Shut up
, you want to tell her. Not because she's interfering with your plan, but because she reminds you of you. The way your voice sounded when you'd call Shane, reminding him not to take you for granted. The way it sounded when you'd beg him to get back together with you.

It's getting hot in here. It's too soon for this kind of weather. Damn unreliable weather. It was supposed to be a cool evening. Damn long sleeves. And Heller's tuxedoed arm is starting to feel like a weight on your shoulder.

“Can I open a window?” you ask the group.

“What about my hair?” one of the other girls complains.

“I'll help you,” Shane offers, reaching across your lap for the window.

Sure he will. Tonight. But where will he be tomorrow? Shane wants you now because he can't have you. And then it hits you. Maybe you wanted
him
because you never really had him.

“Just turn the air on, hon,” Heller says.

Your arms are hot, your neck is hot, your face is hot. You're burning up. You play with the controls over your head, but it doesn't help. You can't cool down. You can't relax. Instead you're wondering, is Reese's name even Reese? Or is that just what Shane calls her? The way he named you Drew.

The air's not working. What kind of limo doesn't have air?

You are still turning the question over in your mind when you pull onto Mandy's street. And that's when you see it. It's huge. It's white. It's the Winnebago. And it is currently reversing out of Jen's driveway.

You bet your friends are having a blast. While you're just — hot. And uncomfortable.

Yes, you found a date. Yes, you're making the boyfriend who got bored with you want you back. But you're not sure you want him back anymore. The only thing you are sure of is that you never did like the name Drew. And you're not too crazy about “hon” either.

Before you can change your mind, you press the intercom button and tell the driver, “Can you pull over, please?”

“Mandy's house is farther down the block,” one of the girls snaps.

You exhale slowly. Your stomach juts out just a bit, but you no longer care. All you care about is spending the night with people who matter. People who always make you feel special. “I know. I'm sorry about this, but I'm going to have to bail.”

Everyone stares at you like you're speaking a foreign language. Can't compute.

“But the prom hasn't even started,” Heller whines.

“I know,” you say. “Unfortunately, you're not the right date for me. But feel free to enjoy the limousine. Here's twenty bucks for the cab. And I'm sure the driver will drop you off at home if you ask nicely.”

The limo pulls to a stop and you dash out the door. “Wait!” you scream, your arms flailing above your head, running toward the Winnebago, not caring about how crazy you look, not caring about the knives pinching and stabbing your poor feet.

Your friends' faces are pressed against the trailer windows watching you, their excited shrieks audible through the glass.

The Winnebago stops and the door swings open. And then you, the girl formerly known as Drew, climb aboard.

Off Like a Prom Dress

by Billy Merrell

It isn't that I want to look older, but that I don't want to feel so young.

Like all my life I've watched those movies, and
every time

the girl becomes the princess in the end. Either she was all along

or the dress transforms her. She's ringed in wind and music

and the prince gallops up with a ceremony and a kiss

and her childhood ends with laughter and some otherworldly light.

Now that's an ending! And all I have is a prom and the promise

of the kiss after. Maybe a party at the last second. And then nothing.

So when my mom said I couldn't take Jonathan dress shopping,

that it simply wouldn't be right if it wasn't a surprise,

I told him to come along anyway, afraid if he didn't choose it too

he wouldn't choose me. And maybe he'd gallop off

and the music would end and I'd be left sitting there

with a souvenir cup or a candle with the date stamped on it.

Mom drove me to the mall and Jonathan trailed two cars behind.

Once we were there he stayed out of sight until the last second

when he'd wave a thumb to show if I looked “hot.”

Satin and tulle, gray lace over burgundy blush — No.

Red amulet, white corset, and the billowing— No.

And of course everything I loved he loved and Mom hated.

My mom made my dress,
she reminded me. How could I forget?

But that was a long time ago, in Idaho, and she can't sew,

so why bring it up now? And of course we argued,

and of course the fun trip turned into neither of us speaking.

Jonathan shrugged and waved goodbye. And Mom

pretended not to see him.
What do
you
want?
she asked finally.

This shouldn't be about him. Unless he plans to wear it.

I want a dress that will change as I dance, or that will change me.

But I couldn't say that. Not really. The sun was setting

as we walked to the car. We drove west with it my eyes
.

I want a dress. And to be allowed to look as pretty as possible.

And that's it. It isn't about what the magazines say, or Jonathan.

Well, in that case, can you keep a secret?
And I could.

She turned on the light in the attic and we climbed the stairs

and I started to hear that music. She found an old box

and handed it to me to carry down. Once in
my room

we peeled back the old tissue and lifted the gown

like a sea-green sea, choppy and faint until it bloomed.

I stepped into it, let it up over my shoulders.

Looking then at the mirror I saw: moon over
midtown,

the small lights of the buildings off the water.

I love it,
I told her. Which was true. And its simple lines

and how I fit inside it perfectly. I began to dance

right there in the quiet as she put the tissue in the empty box.

I danced in place with my eyes closed and the sea settling,

thinking of Jonathan in a matching green tie, his eyes lit

by that odd light, and everything began to change.

“Mom called, she says you have to go to prom”

by Adrienne Maria Vrettos

It will be too hot to sleep in the attic room soon, and I'll move down to the screened-in porch that stretches along the whole left side of our house. If you look at our house from the bottom of our hill, it looks like either the porch is too heavy or the dirt is too soft. Either way, our house is sinking, porch-side first.

Philip and I set up on the porch in the summertime, on metal beds with pancake mattresses that smell like the summer camp Mom bought them from. We make them cozy with sheets and pillows from inside the house and use opened-up sleeping bags as blankets. The beds go on one end of the porch, with wooden crates for end tables, and ridiculous jangly lamps that Mom kept from when she was in college. On the other end is our Summer Living Room, with the overstuffed and flowery living room furniture we keep in the barn for winter, so we can wrap up in blankets and open the barn doors and sit on the couches and watch the snow come down.

For now, though, my room in the attic is made just cool enough by having all my windows open to a breeze that's woven with a late-spring chill. I'm happy. It's been a long time since me and my cat, Drox, have gotten to cuddle up together for a night of sci-fi and antihistamines.

“You're not supposed to have him up here,” Philip says when he opens my bedroom door and sees Drox attempting to burrow himself into the warm space between my neck and the pillow.

“I took an antihistamine,” I say, not looking up from my book.

While Philip digests this, he presses his big toe against the end of the loose floorboard in the doorway, making the other side of the board rise a full two inches before he lets it drop back into place. “Mom says that doesn't matter,” he finally says.

I shrug. “Mom's working overnights this week.”

“I know that,” Philip says, popping the floorboard up and down again. Then he yells, “Don't tell me things I know already!”

The reason my big brother yells things is because when he was born he didn't get enough oxygen to his brain. You could call him stupid, but that'd get you a punch in the mouth for being a liar. Call him slow and you won't get punched, but you will get spit on because even if it's sort of the truth, it's an asshole way to say it.

He's a normal pain in the butt like anyone else's older brother, he just can't do addition and sometimes you have to explain why a joke is funny. He can drive, and could live on his own if he wanted. And also he doesn't have a heart of gold or a way with animals. One day some girl is going to look into his river-water eyes and fall right in. And she's not going to care that he won't be the one to balance their checkbook.

We had to get Philip clinically diagnosed as slow before the school would pay for him to have special tutoring, because they just wanted to put him in special ed and be done with it. Even though we as a family have nothing against kids that ride the short bus, Mom knew all Philip needed was a little extra help. The school disagreed, so we sued them and Philip got tested. Knowing that those white-coats were trying to see if he was stupid did a number on Philip's self-esteem, but at least it got him his tutors.

Even though we won, it took them a while to get Philip what he needed. That's because back then Mom was still a tax evader and it was a sore spot with the town. They thought if she didn't pay taxes, her kid shouldn't get pricey extra help, and plus they were all still cranky they lost the lawsuit about the
no taxation without representation!
signs in our front yard. So Mom agreed to pay taxes and back taxes and forward taxes and the school board sped up the paperwork and Philip got his tutors. Once we're both out of school, though, we all agree Mom can get back to evading taxes, since she seemed to like it so much.

“I know you know,” I say. “I'm just telling you that's why it doesn't matter that the cat's up here.”

“Oh,” he says. “So this is what you're doing tonight?”

“Yep,” I say, going back to my book.

“Well,” he says.

Wait a minute. I cock my head to the side and look at him. “Philip, why'd you come up here?”

“Well.” The floorboard is popped in and out of place a few more times. “Mom called, she says you have to go to prom.”

“Nu-uh!” I shout, jumping off my bed and stomping over to where Philip is now staring with intense interest at his toe. “She said if I went to graduation, I didn't have to go to prom! Philip!”

Philip looks at me. “I think that she might of changed her mind,” he says quietly, trying not to smile.

“It's no fair!” I yell. Then I yawn.

We stand there in silence.

“Do you have a dress?” he finally asks, eyeing my kitty slippers.

“She really said I have to go?”

“Yes.”

“Or what?”

“She didn't say.”

We both think about this.

“What do you think I should do?” I ask.

“You could go in a suit,” he says.

“No, I mean should I go to prom?”

“Do you want to go?”

I sigh at him.

He shrugs. “Don't go, then.”

I nod and picture Mom coming home tomorrow morning and tickling my chin until I wake up and tell her about prom. It's not that she's deluded, or in denial, or that she doesn't know exactly what school's like for me, she's just … terminally hopeful. She thinks that your own joy can be separate from the people around you, that things like graduation and prom are happy memories to be, even if you have no one to share them with. She's big on me participating in my own adolescence, so at least I'll have something to reflect on in the future.

I sigh. “Do we have any suits?”

He shrugs. “The one from school court.”

“I thought we burned that.”

“Oh yeah,” he says. “Maybe Mom has a dress.”

“All she has are pantsuits and scrubs,” I say, looking longingly to where my cat is now curled and purring around my book. “Could I just wear my nightgown? It's like a dress.”

“Let's see what Mom has.”

Mom has seven smart pantsuits and four sets of slightly mismatched scrubs. I decide not to wear either after we discover that I can actually fit my whole body inside a leg of her pants and disappear entirely by holding the waist up to my neck and ducking down. When I stand up straight again, Philip says, “It's like you're being born.”

Mom does have one dress. It's her office party/school court dress. It's royal blue and has a giant belt, but at least it's silk. I hold it up in front of me in the mirror.

“Try it on,” Philip says.

I go into the bathroom and put it on.

“It's a prom night miracle!” I yell to Philip from where I'm standing in front of the mirror.

Philip opens the bathroom door, looks at me, and laughs.

“Or not,” I say, spinning so he can see how the dress expands to almost eat me alive.

“It's big,” he says.

“Mom's big,” I remind him.

“Don't tell me things I know already!” Philip yells. I yell it with him, to keep him company and let him know I know.

Like I said, Mom's a big lady, so even when I use the last hole on the belt, it hangs off me.

“I'll get the staple gun,” Philip says, moving toward the door.

“Mom might get mad,” I say. “But it was a good idea. I'll wear it like this.” I stand with my arms akimbo, one hip thrust to the side.

“Sassy,” Philip says.

“How long do I have to stay?”

“She said two hours. And say good-bye to the principal before you leave, because she's calling him Monday to make sure you were there.”

I think of something and gasp. I gleefully yell, “Hey!” which gets Philip's attention. Then I yell, “I can't go to prom. I don't have a ticket.”

Philip looks at me.

“She bought me a ticket, didn't she?”

He pulls a thick triangle of folded paper out of his pocket and hands it to me.

“God, she's such a stinker.” I sigh. “Will you give me a ride?”

“You have to ride in the back.”

“Why?”

“I melted your part of the front seat.”

We say good-bye to Robert, who's drinking orange juice at the kitchen table, on our way out. He's the boarder who's lived with us for years. He has greasy glasses and a whole other family in Idaho that he doesn't see.

The passenger seat in my brother's truck is melted down to a lump. Strangely, or maybe not if you know my brother, everything else in the truck is perfectly fine.

I sit in the back, on top of a bale of hay he has tied down.

“It's prickly,” I say.

We end up beside a parade of limos on the two-lane into town, winding our way toward school. Some of the back windows are down in the limos, and I can see glimpses of oiled knees and suspicious-looking soda cans being passed around. There's also lots of shrieking. They don't see me, since Philip's truck has a wicked lift on it, and all they'd see if they looked out the window are the hand-painted blue flames that burn their way down each side. As we get nearer to the turn onto Schoolhouse Road, the shrieks get louder and Philip slows down so he's the last one in the train pulling onto the narrow road leading to school.

We don't follow the limos up the driveway to the school. Instead, Philip pulls over by the sign reading
prom tonight!
I climb out of the back and lean into the cab. We both look through the windshield at the school. I'm already working on forgetting its angles. Philip, though …

“Ten o'clock, okay?” I say to him.

He nods, still staring at the school.

“Don't wait here, though,” I say.

“Why?” he says, before yelling, “It's five hundred feet!” He points to the wooden marker Mom and I put into the ground to show him how close he could come to school.

“Because,” I say, “they'll come ask you what you're doing here, and we don't have bail money right now.”

“I'm not doing anything wrong.”

“You know that doesn't matter.”

“Did everybody laugh at me when it happened?” he asks.

“No,” I say, even though a lot of people did. I mean, it's funny, right? The slow kid bringing a potato gun to school for science fair and getting expelled because it's technically a firearm.

“Yeah, they did,” he says.

“Some of them did,” I say. “But not all of them.”

“Who didn't?” he asks, finally turning from the school to look at me.

“Your friends didn't,” I tell him, and he nods.

“And you didn't?”

“Not once. What time are you picking me up?”

“Ten o'clock.”

“Okay.”

I walk up the driveway. At the entrance to the school, couples are lined up, waiting to go in and have their pictures taken and then have a big entrance into the gym. In line there's lots of squeals and hugs and comparisons of suits and dresses and passing of badly hidden flasks. Every time the door opens you can hear music from the gym, giving people a twenty-second window to show off their moves, then the doors close and they look stupid dancing to the crickets.

I get in line behind Drew Barker, who's a senior, and his too-much-younger girlfriend. She's holding on to the crook of his elbow and trying to make nice with the senior girls who hate her.

My appearance sparks mild interest.

Behind me are two people I don't know. She is in pink, and he has a bow tie to match.

It turns out Drew and his jailbait date are friends with the pink people. They've all started talking to each other, first sort of over my head, then around either side of me. Now they've sort of surrounded me and are talking around me like I'm a campfire until it's jailbait 'n' date's turn to walk through the doors. The Pinks try to follow.

“I'm next,” I say, stepping in front of them and nodding at the gym teacher, who is on door duty.

“Whatever,” Mr. Pink says, trying to lead his date past me.

“I said, I'm next.” I step in front of them again. He decides to take this as funny. He laughs. It's an ugly laugh.

“What does it matter?” Ms. Pink asks, her voice more grating than I'd imagined. “Why do you need to get inside, anyway?”

All I say is, “I'm next,” as the gym teacher opens the door and I walk through.

Ms. Pink calls me a bitch. The door closes behind me before I can bark at her.

I know why the Pinks assumed I'd let them go first. It's because of embarrassment. They're embarrassed by me, and they assume I'm embarrassed of me, too. And if I'm embarrassed, then I won't ever want to make any sort of attention-grabbing scene, like telling the teacher when one of them takes my seat, or refusing to slink out of class because the teacher's run out of birthday cupcakes. No. I will stand there in front of the teacher's desk till she goes and gets me a HoHo out of the vending machine in the teachers' lounge.

They have the photography area set up in the front hall of the school. I wait till jailbait's done and then sit on the stool in front of the blue-sky-with-puffy-cloud backdrop.

The photographer looks at me for a second, then looks expectantly at the door.

“Just me,” I say.

“And you want your picture taken.”

“No,” I say. “I thought this was the bathroom. Was I not supposed to pee on the stool?”

The photographer blinks at me. I really don't want to have another fight with him. I know he remembers me from school picture day earlier this year, when he tried to get away with taking just one picture of me before yelling, “Next!” He'd given everyone else at least three shots each. That day I had stayed seated on the stool while we yelled at each other, until the principal came over and made the photographer snap two more pictures after whispering something involving the word
litigious
in his ear.