21 Proms (18 page)

See Me

by Lisa Ann Sandell

“Ten for Matt Sarznick!”

“I have five more.”

“So, that's eighty-three in all. And Biggest Party Animal goes to good ol' Matt Sarznick,” Brian calls out.

The room lets out a breath. Everyone nervously starts fussing with the crinkly candy wrappers that litter the table, along with monstrous stacks of graph paper, ballots, rulers, pencils, and photos.

We're sitting in the yearbook room, which feels more like a very hot closet. By we, I mean the yearbook editors. And you would think, from the tense hush as the votes for senior superlatives were being called out, that we were hosting a UN summit. We've gotten through Best Eyes, Most Flirtatious, Biggest Kiss-up, and now Biggest Party Animal. I haven't gotten a single vote — not in any category.

I'm not sure why I'm invisible. Or how I got to be this way. I simply melt into the throngs of students in the hallway, the rows of bobbing heads in the classroom, the cheering fans in the bleachers — faceless and forgotten. My mother always tells me I'm pretty, though it's usually followed by a
you should cut your bangs, Katie, why do you always hide your face like that?
I know better than to take her at her word. I mean, she's my mom, after all. But the kids here at school, they just don't seem to notice me. Maybe it
is
my too-long bangs.

Now it's finally senior year. The end of everything familiar. The end of childhood, really. And all these kids I've been with for my entire life, well, suddenly the road is about to split, and everyone will go their separate ways. So senior year comes to be about remembering and being remembered — as the coolest, prettiest, cutest, funniest, smartest, baddest… .

We have the yearbook, pages of pictures with our names, so everyone can see one another in the days or years to come and remember. And we have the senior prank, senior superlatives, senior prom. The photos, the memories.

But to be remembered, you have to be noticed first, right?

 

A few hours ago, Brian Muller, one of my coeditors on the yearbook, asked my best friend, Melody Hines, to go to the prom with him. He asked her in the cafeteria. He got up real close to her — they were standing against the back wall — with his head bent down to hers. Mel was tugging at her fingers, twisting them so her knuckles turned white, twisting them like you wring the wet from laundry. It was clear he was asking her, because suddenly Mel's face lit up in this big, beautiful smile, and a big grin stretched across Brian's dopey face, and I was so happy for her.

Only there was this tiny gnawing voice scratching at the corner of my mind.
I'm happy for her. I am. It's just … who will go with me?
Melody is the only one who really sees me, hears me. Probably she wishes she didn't hear so much of me. She's the sounding board for my songs. No one else even knows that I write them.

After I watched Brian make his move, I looked around the noisy lunchroom; everyone was sitting in their usual spots, in their usual groups. Nerds with nerds, jocks with jocks, chic clique with chic clique, goths with goths, and so on. When you don't fit in with one of these boringly typical groups, how does anyone know who you are?

I spotted Dan Jacobs, sitting with his soccer teammates, laughing at a joke, and stuffing Tater Tots in his mouth.

God, I wish he would ask me.

Ugh, I'm such a loser.

Not in my wildest dreams.

It will never happen.

He's in my calculus class, my physics class, and my world history class. He sits beside or behind me in all of them, because of the way our last names fall alphabetically. But he's never spoken to me. He's never even looked at me. And I'm sitting in the cafeteria, eating alone.

 

Back in the yearbook room, I'm sifting through photographs. I'm the editor of the senior section, which means that I am the one choosing which pictures will go where. I select who will be seen and remembered in the years to come. It's sort of ironic, since I'm not in any of the candid photos that our photographers took. I'm invisible even to my own staff.

This is making me depressed. So I go back to counting more votes for senior superlatives. Ninety-nine for Alissa Thompson, Most Likely to Succeed. The whole thing kind of makes me want to throw up. Why do we feel the need to categorize ourselves — are we talking about the past, describing the present, or is it a forecast of the future?

Mel leans over and whispers to me, “You should ask Jason. Brian thinks he'd definitely say yes.”

“Jason? I don't think so,” I say.

“Why not?” she asks, her voice rising a note.

“Because I don't know him, and I would rather not,” I tell her. “Anyway, could you not scream it for everyone to hear? Come on, I'm going to lose count.” I don't want to have this conversation again. I'm not asking Jason just because he's Brian's friend.

“Kate —” Mel's annoyed now. “If you wait forever, everyone will already have a date.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I snort.

“That's not what I meant. Ugh, you're so difficult!”

“Whatever. Anyway, I don't even know if I want to go. The prom is such a stupid cliché.”

“What do you mean you don't know if you want to go?” she screeches. “Kate,
not
going to the prom is such a cliché. What's with you?”

“I just don't know if I want to go, that's all.” I shake my head and keep tallying. One hundred and eight votes for Christine Clark, Most Artistic. No surprise there.

“Kate —” Mel takes a breath, pursing her lips in that
I don't know if she's crazy or just trying to make me miserable
way of hers. “You might really like Jason.”

“And maybe I won't. Look, I'm fine. On my own. If someone asks me, great. Otherwise —”

“You mean if
Dan Jacobs
asks you,” Melody interrupts. “Katie —”

“Please, can we talk about something else?” I just can't listen to her tell me that Dan Jacobs is never going to ask me to the prom, especially when she already has a date.

“Sure, whatever. I just wish you'd consider going with Jason. It won't be half as much fun for me if you're not there.” Mel shakes her head and pulls over the yearbook spread she is working on. “Anyway, what do you think of this layout?” she asks. End of subject … but only for now.

 

As soon as I get home from the yearbook meeting that night, the phone is already ringing. I'm sure Mel wants to go back over all the details of Brian's proposal. I ignore the call, and help my mom make dinner instead.

“Who was that on the phone?” Mom asks.

“I think it was Mel … Brian asked her to the prom today.”

“Oh, that's so nice. When are you going to get a date, Katie?”

“
Mo-om!
Why can't I tell you this without you bugging me? I'll get a date when someone asks me.”

“If you just wait around, Katie, you'll end up sitting at home, alone. And then you'll regret it the rest of your life, like I do.”

My mother brings up the prom on pretty much a nightly basis. She never went to
her
prom, and she still regrets it. Every weekend for the past two months, she's asked me if she could take me to the mall to shop for a dress. I keep reminding her that no one has asked me yet. But it's like talking back to the television set, so we're going to the mall on Sunday. I can't wait.

I excuse myself and go back to my room to work on my newest song.

If I wear pink lipstick

and curl my hair,

will you see me?

If I wear this pink prom dress

and powder my nose

will you hear me?

In this I find my voice.

 

At school the next day Melody finds me by my locker and asks where I was — why didn't I answer the phone?

“I must have been in the shower,” I tell her, pulling out my books and slamming the locker shut.

 

My calculus notebook lies open on my desk. Formulas and equations are scrawled wildly across the page, framed by flower doodles, mindless scribbles, and snatches of verse. Mr. Cassian is giving a quiz next period, but I can't focus. The girls in front of me are whispering across the aisle to each other. Study hall is rarely used for studying.

Stacy sits directly in front of me, Tara to Stacy's right. Stacy and Tara are both in the Chic Clique. They don't know that
chic
is pronounced
sheek
. They say
chick clique.
No one has ever corrected them.

“I mean, he's the sweetest guy in the world, but he's positively clueless when it comes to colors! I'm sure he'll show up with red roses, but my dress is lavender!” Stacy whisper-wails plaintively.

“I know!” Tara whines softly, her voice dripping with sympathy. “Josh is, like, totally hopeless. He'll probably bring me spray roses.”

“Eew.” Stacy wrinkles her perfect pug nose, and the girls giggle.

A debate ensues: plum or rose-colored lip gloss? Hair up or down? Or both? False eyelashes or brown mascara? Liquid eyeliner or pencil? It makes my head swim.

I bet these girls have had dates for the prom since they were in their mothers' wombs. I'm pretty sure it's never crossed either of their minds to worry about not being asked. I just close my notebook, close my eyes, and wait for the bell to ring. I'll take my chances in calculus. Maybe Dan will notice me today.

 

The calculus quiz isn't too hard. I'll probably get a B. Once it's done, I quickly lean over to pull out my notebook from under my desk, so I can pretend to take notes while Mr. Cassian lectures. Before I can stop it, my pencil rolls off my desk and comes to a neat stop right next to Dan's soccer shoe.

Oh my gosh. What do I do?

Dan leans over and brushes at the pencil with his fingertips. It rolls a bit farther, then he grabs it. As he straightens and moves to hand the pencil to me, he smiles, his green eyes lighting into my own.

I feel my eyes widening and then a warm blush snaking its way up my neck and over my cheeks.

“Thanks,” I whisper.

“No problem,” he mouths.

I can't believe it. I can't believe it. Dan Jacobs
does
know I'm alive. He was forced to acknowledge it right here. Today. Here in this very mustard-yellow-painted calculus classroom.

Maybe he'll ask me to prom… .

 

“Did you hear?” Mel blabs embarrassingly loudly as soon as I see her in the halls. “Dan Jacobs asked Anne Croft to go to the prom!”

“What?” I can feel all the color drop from my face. I've been so busy replaying the pencil-returning incident that I think maybe I've missed what Mel just said.

“Katie, what's wrong with you? Dan Jacobs asked Anne Croft to go to the prom with him! So now will you ask Jason?”

All I can do is stare at her.

“Oh, Katie, come on. I know you have this big crush on Dan, but you've never even spoken to the boy. Did you really think …” Her voice trails off. I can feel her shock setting in. She's watching me and marveling at how pathetic I am. “Kate … I'm sorry,” she says.

“It's okay.” I sigh. “I'm just … never mind. I'm fine.” The pencil exchange is private; it's mine. “I don't think I'm ready to ask Jason yet, okay?” I feel my eyes wander over to Jason Kemp. He was new to the school this year. I don't have any classes with him, so I've never really gotten to know him. I've never even spoken to him.

Could he like me?

Why doesn't he ask me himself?

Why do things have to be so complicated?

 

It's Sunday morning. The prom is four days away. My mom is waiting downstairs for me, the car engine running. It's PD Day — Prom Dress Day at the Weatherbrook Mall. When we arrive at the first of the two dress stores in town, my mom strides up to the clerk and says proudly, “My daughter needs a prom dress!”

She announces it like she's declaring peace in the Middle East. I want to die. Suddenly I'm in the center of a maelstrom of puffy dresses. Blue sequins, gold taffeta, red satin, Pepto-Bismol tulle. Ugh, it's too much!

“Mom, I think I'm done,” I tell her, wiping my hand across my brow.

“What do you mean? You've only tried on four dresses. Here, try this one on.” She thrusts a soft pink blush —
dusty rose
, Stacy Clark would probably call it — slip dress toward me. I finger the material; it slides through my hand like a whisper.

“Okay, I'll try this one on,” I answer. “But that's it. Then I'm out of here.”

As I pull on the dress, feeling it glide over my body, brushing my skin so lightly, suddenly I know what it means to
want
to look perfect.

“It's gorgeous,” my mother breathes.

As I twirl in front of the mirror, I have to admit, I agree. It's stunning and totally me. Or the me I wish I were.

 

It's the day of the prom, and I don't have a date. I have shoes, a dress, even a handbag and a hairstyle picked out. But no date. And you'd better believe there's no chance I'm going stag. My mother seems to have convinced herself that I have a date. Even though I've told her no such thing. And every chance Melody has had this week, she's hissed that it's not too late to ask Jason.

Why doesn't he ask me?
I keep wanting to growl.
Doesn't he know that I have a beautiful dress and it's just waiting for him to ask?

Seniors don't have school today, because, even if we did, the girls would cut anyway so they could spend the day getting ready for prom. My mom made an appointment for me at her hair salon. I can't seem to get the words out of my mouth,
I don't have a date, Mom.
Rather, I let her lead me around like a show dog and try not to think about what will happen tonight when she realizes that I have nowhere to go.