21 Proms (15 page)

Or maybe he'll laugh and be glad he hasn't completely ruined everything for everyone.

Maybe.

6 days before prom

I go to Paul's in the afternoon and we make out in his bedroom for nearly an hour with the radio playing.

At some point, I think both of us feel like it's gone on too long and we don't know how to be finished and go do something else. I am relieved when his little sister bangs on his door and tells him he has to drive her to soccer practice. “Dad's not home yet so you have to do it. Mom said so.”

Paul throws a pillow at her and says no way, and she says, “Who's your friend, you moron?” and so I meet her, and her name is Rosie.

“Come on, Paul, let's drive her,” I say.

 

We drop her off at the soccer field. I watch her run toward her friends, not even saying thanks to Paul, pulling off her sweatshirt and dropping it on the bleachers.

“My little brother is in rehab,” I say.

“Harsh.” Paul is looking for a CD in the glove compartment. “What for?”

“Heroin.”

“Harsh,” he says again.

“His name is Toby,” I tell him.

Then I tell him everything else. How I knew but didn't know. How we'd stopped talking. How it had been before, how he'd snorted milk out his nose and played soccer, like Rosie. How he got sent away. How he never came back, and it was always one more month, one more month, and we came up here.

How very thin Toby is now. How very blank. How I finally wrote to him, and how I picture, over and over, a smile flickering across his face when he reads my letter.

5 days before prom

Paul runs off after French class. I don't see him all day.

4 days before prom

He won't look me in the eye. At lunch he sits with his friends.

I call him after school, but his mom says he's out and takes a message.

He never calls back.

At nine o'clock I call Ling.

“Don't feel bad,” she says. “It's not you. He's just white chocolate.”

“What?”

“Joelle came up with it.”

“Explain.”

“White chocolate. Intense, sweet. But not deep. Okay for prom dates or flings, but not to get serious.”

“Oh.”

“Milk chocolates are guys you could date for like a few months, and dark chocolates are for love.”

“Oh.”

“What, you thought he was dark chocolate? Paul Bader?”

“I don't know. I like white chocolate best, actually. For eating.”

“Wait,” says Ling. “Did something happen? Did something go weird?”

I tell her I told Paul about Toby.

Then I tell her about Toby.

All the same stuff. We talk so long, I lie down on the kitchen floor and put my feet up on a chair.

“Oh my god,” Ling says, “that is so, so sad. You must be so sad. I am so sorry.”

“It's okay,” I say. “I'm okay, at least.”

3 days before prom

The Eagle Eye
prints a Senior Gift List every year, around graduation time. The staff gives every senior an imaginary gift.

For Joelle, who's going to Penn on a fencing scholarship, it says, “To Joelle Glasser we bequeath … a spot on the Olympic team.”

To Ling, the editors give a “sock to stuff in it” — because she talks so much. To me they give “a mystery gift,” because no one knows me well enough to think of anything personal.

To Paul Bader, the staff of
The Eagle Eye
bequeaths … me. Paige.

That's what it says.

All day long, people are coming up to me — people I don't know — and making sweet jokes about me and Paul. How gorgeous we'll look at prom together. How adorable it was for the staff of the paper to do that. How romantic. How cute.

And all morning long, Paul can't look at me. He doesn't kiss me. He doesn't smile.

“What do you think about the paper?” I ask as we leave French class.

“The what?”

“What they wrote in the paper. Should we talk about it?”

“You're big on talking, aren't you?” he says.

Which is funny. Because I only just started talking. “I thought …”

“Rory's a good friend of mine,” says Paul. “But he doesn't always …”

“Oh.”

“They wrote that list up a long time ago.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Don't take it seriously. Rory's a goof.”

I shouldn't have forced it. Because now it's brutally evident that Paul hasn't been busy, hasn't been preoccupied, nothing like that — he's lost interest.

He lost interest the minute I opened my mouth about Toby. The minute I opened my mouth, really.

Now we have prom in three days and I'll have to go and fake smile and pretend to be happy with a broken heart and a boy who doesn't want to be there with me but doesn't have the guts to tell me so. And though I want Paul's face to soften, and I want to hear his brash laugh and taste his licorice lips and have him be my boyfriend — though I want all that, I say, “I need to tell you something.”

His eyes glance up at the clock. It is almost time for fourth period. “Lay it on me.” He is disingenuous. He thinks I'm going to keep talking about the Senior Gifts.

“I can't go to prom with you,” I say. “I don't want to go.”

He breathes in quickly, as if he's going to speak, but stays silent. “Fair enough,” he says eventually. “I was going to take you even though things were —”

“Yeah,” I say. “But I don't want to go.”

He laughs, a little disbelieving. “I'm going to end up going stag to my senior prom.”

“Sorry,” I say, though I am not.

“Think nothing of it,” he says, and walks away down the hall.

2 days before prom

Toby hasn't written back to my first letter, but I didn't think he would anyhow.

After school, I put on my prom dress and invite Joelle over to do my hair. I wear heels and stockings and jewelry. Joelle uses Toby's Polaroid camera to take a picture of me in the dress.
I dumped my prom date!
I scrawl across the white space on the bottom.
But this is what I would have worn.

Then I put the picture in an envelope and write the address of the clinic.

1 day before prom

I return the red-and-black dress. Walk out of the shop with a palm full of cash.

Prom day

I go with Mom and Dad to visit Toby at the clinic. We walk around the grounds, all of us pretty silent.

We get cups of coffee and sit in the television room for about an hour. Toby is thin. He looks vacant. Like he's grateful for the stupid television show, filling up his head and blocking out his thoughts.

Mom chatters on about her garden, the way she always does, and Toby's not listening. I used to wish she'd shut up about her plants, because nobody cares — and certainly not Toby — but now I understand. She is letting him into her world, as much as she can. The little bit that she can.

We get more coffee in the dim cafeteria, between meals. Just to have something to do. Toby keeps rubbing his jaw, like he can't help it. Like he can't stop.

“I mailed you something,” I tell him. “A stupid little thing, but it should get here soon.”

He nods, but doesn't answer me. Only at the end of the visit do we go up to his room.

It must have just come this morning, in the mail: My prom picture is stuck to Toby's wall with sticky tape.

The day after

Joelle says it was magical. Ling says it was full of white chocolate cacti. Paul ended up taking Maria Rivington to the prom.

I bring Toby's Polaroid with me to the public pool the next day and shoot pictures of Ling and Joelle, vamping around in bikinis. Ling threatens to sue if I ever take them public.

“Can I mail one to my brother in rehab?” I ask her.

“Sure, whatever,” she tells me. “Give the kid a thrill.”

And so I do.
My girlfriends
, I write on the bottom of the picture.
I wish you could meet them.

A Six-pack of Bud, a Fifth of Whiskey, and Me

by Melissa de la Cruz

It was a month before the Senior Prom, and I had just taken a huge bite out of my tuna salad sandwich when I saw the Trio — the three most popular girls in our class — approach, their faces set in grim lines of determination. Sitting slumped against the wall of lockers, I felt trapped — cornered. There was no way out — I had to face them. I knew what they were up to, and part of me was elated, part of me was terrified, and part of me was humiliated knowing what was about to happen.

“Melissa,” said the tallest one, Luna.* She was one of the prettiest girls in our class — but odd, so odd that even her friends called her “Loony” behind her back. (It was rumored she'd once farted at a party in front of all the hottest guys at St. Ignatius.) Her face was a grimace of concern and pity. “Do you have a date for the prom?”

I chewed for as long as I could, swallowing that lump of tuna and forcing it down my suddenly dry throat. “Nuh …” I managed to choke out.

I didn't have a date for the prom. I would never, in a million years, have a date for the prom. I went to an all-girl private school in San Francisco, and there were only thirty-nine girls in my class. More than half of them were debutantes from the city's wealthiest, most prestigious families. And then there was
us
— the misfits and losers — scholarship kids, metalheads, foreign students, the scarily anorexic girls. I was one of the immigrant scholarship kids and hence a member of two overlapping loser groups.

Some of us in this unfortunate bunch had lives outside of our little private hell. They had boyfriends stowed away in Oakland, San Jose, or San Mateo. They had lives full of all the normal teenage fun — bonfires on Stinson Beach, double-dating at the movies, “ragers” at their homes when their parents went on vacation.
Those
girls had dates for the prom.

But not me.

I had heard that the Trio of Caring Popular Girls had made it their mission to make sure every girl in our class would attend the Senior Prom. This was part of their outreach — an act of charity on their part. They were Giving Back to the Community. Real bleeding hearts,
they only thought of those less fortunat
e
! So, one by one, they interviewed us losers to make sure that we had a date for the evening and that we would attend the dance.

Their thinking was that since this was our “last” year together (sniff! sniff!) they wanted to make it a “class bonding” experience as reparation for all the mean, cliquey things they'd done over the past four years, so we could all sing the class song (the theme from
St. Elmo's Fire
, with the lyric “we laughed until we had to cry, we loved until we said good-bye”) with a clear conscience on Commencement Day. Their plan: renting buses instead of limos so that no one would feel left out when their date pulled up in a twelve-year-old Honda, and having a formal catered dinner hosted by one of the popular girls' families in their Pacific Heights mansion so that we poor ones wouldn't have to worry about shelling out for a hundred-dollar dinner at the Fairmont Hotel. The bonus: Everyone was invited to the after-party at some other rich girl's beach house in Marin.

“Do you want to go to the prom?” Luna asked gently.

I felt like a paraplegic. I wanted to say, I'm not disabled, just unpopular. As far as I could tell, that was not yet a disease.

“Yeah, I guess.” I shrugged.

“WE NEED TO GET MELISSA A DATE TO THE PROM!!!!” she suddenly yelled across the entire locker room, her voice echoing like a bullhorn.

Lord, kill me now.

 

A week later they gave me the good news. They had managed to scrounge up one Patrick O'Shanahan, a half-Filipino, half-Irish Joaquin Phoenix look-alike, a skater guy with an asymmetrical haircut and a sullen expression on his handsome face. Patrick was a junior at St. Ignatius and an ex-boyfriend to several of the girls in the popular clique — he was secondhand goods, but with a reputation as being a “great friend” and “the life of the party.”

Patrick checked me out at the Senior Luncheon that Saturday, when we girls got all dolled up in our white gloves and white tea dresses (hemlines mid-calf, no cleavage, sleeves). I had my hair pulled up in a chignon, with curls cascading down my forehead, and I wore a white lace dress with stiff butterfly sleeves my aunt had especially made in the Philippines — the whole outfit made me look like Imelda Marcos Junior. I still cringe at the photos. But apparently Patrick wasn't completely repulsed. He agreed to be my date.

 

Against my skeptical nature, I was actually pretty excited. I had spent four years of my life wishing high school over, and now that it was almost coming true (I had my escape ticket — an acceptance to Columbia University in New York City), I wanted to experience what having a social life was like for once instead of just sitting at home hanging out with my parents and younger siblings, watching
SNL
.

My mom and I bought my dress from JC Penney. Don't laugh — it was actually quite stylish, and I still remember it was $75, which seemed knee-shakingly expensive then. It was a sleeveless black silk dress with a drop waist and three tiers of ruffles — very 1920s flapper, which I wore with my mom's old Ferragamo heels (hey, we were rich once) and a black lace shawl that my mother made on her Singer sewing machine. Plus, my date was actually really cute, popular, and all mine. All I thought about was how Patrick was going to fall deeply, totally in love with me at the prom and give me my first kiss.

 

You can imagine my surprise when Luna delivered a message from him the week before the prom. “Here's a list of alcohol Patrick wants you to get for him for the night.” Apparently, as payment to be my date, I had to provide him with two six-packs of Bud and a fifth of Jim Beam. As my mind raced with the thought of how I would ever be able to ante up the desired bounty while being underage, Luna dismissed my concerns. “Don't worry, my maid is hooking us all up. You just need to pay me back.”

Sweet relief, and back to my daydreams once again …

 

Since we were all taking the same bus to the prom, it was agreed that Patrick would just meet me at the house where the dinner was being held. Stepping inside the bus was like making an entrance in a fashion show; everyone's date and dress were scrutinized upon arrival. I was thrilled when Caitlin Reardon, one of the popular girls, stepped in wearing a dress shockingly similar to mine — black silk, drop waist, tiers of ruffles. She even commented on it later at the party, complimenting me on my good taste. She told me hers was from Saks Fifth Avenue. Was mine? I shook my head demurely and gave her a vague answer. It was the first time I realized what
knockoff
meant.

 

When we finally arrived at the dinner party, I saw Patrick standing by the foyer, and my first thought was disappointment that he wasn't wearing a black tuxedo — he'd cheaped out and rented a blue smoking jacket instead. (It only cost $40, he told me later, rather than the $100 for the tuxedo, and he had the decency to apologize.) The second thought was that he looked even cuter than I'd remembered — like a rockabilly star, with his floppy black hair and bright blue eyes.

I handed him his carnation boutonniere and pinned it on his lapel. Then I waited expectantly. All around me, all the other girls were sporting monstrously large flower arrangements on their wrists.

“Oh shit.” He grinned sheepishly. “I forgot your corsage at home,” he said, smacking his forehead with fake disgust. I knew he'd never even bought it. He'd agreed to be my date, but that was as far as it was going to go.

Still, I was elated. I was dressed up, I was out on a weekend night, I was going to the prom! I was with a date — he'd have to dance with me, right? He'd have to talk to me … right?

Wrong.

Patrick ignored me throughout dinner, asked
several times
if the booze he'd ordered was secured, and flirted with all the popular girls in the room.

He also spent the entire evening taking sips from a silver flask in his pocket, so that by the time we arrived at the prom, he was completely plastered, slurring his words and smelling like a liquor distillery.

But ever the romantic, I found all this extremely exotic and charming. I kept thinking,
When is he going to kiss me? Maybe when we say good-bye tomorrow morning? I can't wait!

 

Our prom was held in the ballroom at our school. It used to be the mansion of some rich oil family, and the public spaces were routinely rented out for weddings and fashionable society events. We were supposed to feel privileged that we didn't have to rent out some dumb hotel room for the event, but all I could think about was how we were “partying” in the same place where we had principal's meetings. Still, the marble floors shone, and it did look very elegant.

Patrick danced with me for a few songs and proved a capable and very suave dancer — he had a repertoire of 1950s Jerry Lee Lewis moves. I was starting to relax and think it wasn't turning out to be such a huge disaster after all, but when the DJ put on a slow song, Patrick decided he wanted to hang out outside in the cortile where the cool kids were hiding and smoking.

I sat next to him on the edge of the fountain for a while, watching as he said hello to everyone in his popular clique, feeling more and more like a useless appendage. It soon dawned on me that they had given me Patrick as a date simply to get him an in to the party. Everyone went back inside, and Patrick and I were all alone. I thought we would finally get a chance to talk to each other, get to know each other more.

And that's when he threw up on my dress.

Bleeuggh.

And I shook it off, disturbed but also kind of elated. He'd liked me enough to try not to get most of it on the skirt hem! He'd even turned his head and everything, when he saw what was happening.

I helped him to his feet and practically carried him back on the bus, wondering once more,
Does this mean he's going to kiss me tomorrow morning?

 

When we arrived at the after-party in Marin, Patrick proceeded to drink all twelve cans of Bud and the fifth of whiskey I'd bought him, laid down on the carpet, and promptly passed out. I sat next to him the entire evening, nursing my two wine coolers (you also had to put an alcohol order for yourself at the party) while the popular girls played a game of sticking beer bottle caps up their butt and attempting to see who could release them daintily on the empty beer bottles. Sphincter control — entertainment for all! I still remember one of the girls pretending to be drunk by walking around with a lampshade over her head. Seriously. She was stone-cold sober but just didn't want to be left out of the fun.

The party was the first time I got buzzed, and I was relishing my position as date to Totally Passed-Out Boy. I had to hold his head up to make sure he didn't choke on his vomit, and I felt like a true heroine — I had to keep my date alive!

The next day, my dad picked me up from the after-party. I had changed into jeans, and Patrick was still asleep. He was going to hang out for a while with all the other popular kids, but I didn't want to take any chances, I was ready to go home. I was still reeling from my first brush with teenage debauchery — The drinking! The vomiting! The butt-clenching! And I wanted to go home to be alone and think about everything in the privacy of my own room.

But I wasn't going home without getting THAT KISS.

“Hey,” I said, tapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks so much for taking me to the prom.”

“No problem.” He smiled, bleary-eyed. In the morning light, he already had a five-o'-clock shadow and his breath stank faintly of alcohol and puke. He obviously wanted nothing more than to continue to sleep, yet he lifted himself up on his elbows like a gentleman to say good-bye. I was touched. Even looking totally wasted, he was still a hottie.

He was about to close his eyes again and that's when I did it. I just leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

It was just a simple peck, but it mattered to me.

My lips had brushed the lips of an attractive boy. It wasn't a real kiss at all — but it was
contact
.

And to this day, I don't regret attending the Senior Prom for one second. I even proudly displayed Patrick's picture on my dorm room mantle and called him “my boyfriend.” If I saw Patrick today, I'd thank him again and present him with another six-pack of Bud for his troubles.

 

*Names have been changed to protect the popular.