21 Proms (9 page)

Want to hear something really funny? I've spent a lot of time driving myself crazy trying to make up some BS about how I want to hook up with Marci, just to piss Zack off and send him running into your arms. How fucked up is that? But the truth is, I love you, Rebecca. And I love Zack, too. I'm on your side, both of your sides! I just don't love love you. I don't love anyone that way yet. I never have, but I want the space to find that person. I don't want to lose you, either. Or Zack. I don't even know if I'm going to give you this letter. Maybe I'll reread it after I drop a tab later. Yeah. I think that's a good idea. Shit.

Love, DePaul

Rebecca glances at me upon finishing. Neither of us says a word. She neatly folds the letter and replaces it in the envelope, then drops the envelope on top of the sheets of Daffy Duck Blotter — and closes the drawer.

I sit on my bed. She sits beside me.

“So he
is
gay,” I hear myself announce after a while. “I thought he was … happy.”

“You can't be both?” Rebecca asks in a faraway voice.

“At this school? Are you kidding?”

“So does that bother you? That he's gay?”

“No — what bothers me is that he didn't tell me,” I mutter. For the first time in my life, I'm annoyed with her. She knows better. I shake my head, running over a thousand different memories and scenarios — some of which fall into place like easy fly balls, others of which bounce out of the glove without any explanation. (And why am I thinking in terms of baseball metaphors? I don't give a shit about baseball.) “He could have told me,” I finish. “He
should
have. He's my best friend. Why didn't he?”

“He was scared,” Rebecca soothes. “You said it yourself. You know how this school is. He was worried you'd get freaked out.”

I turn to her. “How about you? You seem to be taking this remarkably well.”

“To be honest, I'm relieved.”

“Relieved? How?”

“Because DePaul is right. Not just about him. About you and me.”

I open my mouth. It falls shut.

“Aren't you into me, Zack?” she asks, so quietly I can barely hear her.

“Yeah, of course. I mean, I almost told you once… .” I fight off the dizziness. “Remember that night we all got drunk on DePaul's boat, and he passed out? But I can't tell you now. I have a zit on my nose. I'm wearing a fucking rented tuxedo.”

She kisses me once, very softly, on the lips. “I don't care that you have a zit on your nose. And you can take your tuxedo off. Tonight can still be amazing. I want it to be amazing. Don't you? It's the Spring Ball.”

It is indeed the Spring Ball. So we talk about that for a little bit. We talk about how we're going to explain everything to Marci, and to DePaul, too. We talk about a lot of things, but the talk eventually grows fuzzy and pointless and peters out.

I stand and turn off DePaul's desk lamp. My knees are shaking. I know we're done with conversation for the evening, DePaul's desk lamp included; I know because my heart is thumping too hard to do anything but let Rebecca take control.

And when I return to the bed, she fumbles in the darkness, reaching into the pockets of her skirt — and I hear a soft plastic crinkling. And in that instant, I am both more frightened and more elated than I've ever been in my life, and she knows it, because her fingers intertwine with mine, reassuring me. And I don't have to lie or put on an act. I don't have to speak. I can be honest. DePaul
is
on our side.

 

THE END (CUT TO THE FULL CHORUS)

Glossary

Randy:
An adjective meaning excessively and inappropriately horny.

Bang and Olufsen:
A sleek brand of stereo, very popular in the eighties.

DePaul Adams:
Best friend, best man at our wedding; renounced hallucinogens and came out of the closet freshman year at Princeton; he and his partner, Norm (music professor at Columbia, sick piano player, disagrees with my classic rock musical tastes but whatever, jerk) are godparents to Harper.

Marci Wolf:
Ex-girlfriend, wife's best friend, maid of honor at our wedding, married a Kansas City weatherman who shares her penchant for heavy makeup.

Timothy Leary:
Deceased Harvard professor who believed that LSD was the key to salvation. Advised the sixties generation to “Tune in, Turn on, and Drop Out.”

AC/DC to ZZ Top:
Two grizzled bands (and every grizzled band in between) who wrote kick-ass guitar-driven classic rock songs, and who don't wear cover-up to this day. At least Rebecca and I hope they don't. But we know they do.

MTV:
Up until 1986, MTV
was
music television: no commercials, no “reality” programming, and no self-congratulatory awards shows. The downside was that they mostly played videos by bands like The Thompson Twins.

The Thompson Twins:
Google them. I won't go there. I still have some dignity.

Looking-Glass Porters and Marmalade Skies:
References to lyrics from the Beatles' psychedelic classic “
L
ucy in the
S
ky with
D
iamonds.”

Deadhead:
Fan of the Grateful Dead; a smelly hippie who is often annoying or high.

Beat Street:
Break-dancing movie. Funny.

Sammy Hagar:
Replaced Van Halen singer/icon/legend “Diamond” David Lee Roth in 1985. Should be shot. (Original Van Halen
=
ONLY
Van Halen.)

College Rock:
The 1980s term for “alternative rock.” Is “alternative rock” even a term anymore???

Mr. Tambourine Man:
A Bob Dylan song, rumored to be about a proselytizing, pied piper druggie type (see
DePaul Adams
).

“Better Be Good to Me”:
Okay, it's not that horrendous a song. Listen to the lyrics if you ever read this story a second time. It grows on you. (The song, not the story.) Screw it; the song rocks, not that I'd ever admit that to anyone. DePaul insists on blasting it at every one of our anniversary parties — in front of
you
, Harper. Jerk.

Three Fates

by Aimee Friedman

I think I've made a mistake.

A month ago, in May, I was sitting in calculus class, scribbling a poem in the margin of my tattered notebook, when Pete DeSilva passed me a note that said:
You + me = Prom?
Because Pete writes in equations, and because he laughs like a coyote, and because I've known him all my eighteen years, the thought of him tying a sweaty corsage onto my sweaty wrist and leading me in a slow dance made me just this side of nauseous. So I bent over the sliver of paper and wrote
I'm sorry, but that would be mathematically impossible
. I knew Pete didn't have a crush on me — most likely his pushy mom had volunteered me while he was eating his oatmeal that morning — so I didn't feel the need to sugarcoat.

But now it's June, prom is two weeks away, and karma has not been kind to me: I don't have a date. All my girlfriends have theirs lined up, practically tuxedoed already, a row of eager penguins. And Pete DeSilva, who I clearly should have said yes to that day, has somehow lassoed the long-lashed Michele Martin into going with him. Everybody is pairing off, wearing the panicked look of third graders choosing partners on a field trip. And I'm the lame runty kid, the one with the shoelaces forever untied and the nose forever running, left partnerless. Alone.

“You'd better do something, Abigael — and fast,” my best friend, Iris, advises me as we walk home from school, book bags low on our backs and flip-flops slapping the sidewalk. I can tell she is serious by the way she uses my full name. The sunlight glinting off the flat surface of Lake Serene momentarily blinds us, and we squint at each other.

“Why can't I just go stag?” I argue, even though I hate that expression. I picture myself leaping like a horned antelope through a forest of girls in pink taffeta.

Iris groans as we turn onto Main Street, passing the bait and tackle shop her parents own, the bookstore
my
parents own, and the ice-cream parlor where her boyfriend, Ted, pours sprinkles onto cones. Growing up in a small upstate New York town can feel like a choke hold when you think about it too much. Thankfully, college — Boston, September, so close yet so far — hovers on the horizon.

“In an ideal universe — where, say, unicorns exist — it would be cool for you to go alone,” Iris declares, stopping in front of Serenity Ice Cream and crossing her tan arms over her chest. Iris is lucky; with her dark hair and complexion, she turns the color of whole-wheat toast the minute the sun comes out. I'm blond, curly-haired, pale-eyed, and freckled, so my skin goes straight to lobster. “But as you and I know,” Iris continues as she opens the door and lets out a gust of cold, conditioned air, “dear old Lake Serene High is not an ideal universe. Not even close.”

“Tell me about it,” I grumble, stuffing my hands in the pockets of my carpenter capris and trudging inside after her. “I knew I shouldn't have turned down Pete.” It had become my mantra of the past week. At our pom-poms-and-pride high school, even the stodgy chaperones raise their eyebrows if you don't have someone to grope you during the last song.

And the thing is, I don't
want
to go alone. I don't want my
mom
to pin the corsage on the strapless green dress I bought ages ago, or my dad to walk me out to the waiting limo, all teary-eyed. I don't want to squish myself into a corner of that limo and pretend not to watch as Iris and Ted play competitive tonsil hockey on our drive to the country club. And I don't want to dance in a lame-ass circle with the two other dateless girls, shimmying our hips as the sadistic DJ blasts “It's Raining Men.” I want, at the very least, a passably attractive boy who will lend me his tuxedo jacket when my shoulders get cold, who'll chuckle at my jokes about the way certain people dance, who'll — is it too much to hope for? — kiss me when the night is over.

But I don't even have a current crush on whom to focus my hopes. I absolutely cannot be into a boy who's dumped sandbox sand onto my head, like Archie Jong did when we were six. Archie himself moved to New York City in the fifth grade, but because most Lake Serene kids travel in straight lines from kindergarten to our high school's loving arms, I look at nearly all the boys in my class that way. My one boyfriend so far, Lyle Jamison, was a mop-headed, smiley college kid from Buffalo who worked part-time at my parents' bookstore. Our not-quite-burning romance ended the day my dad found Lyle rolling a joint in, fittingly, the Plant & Garden section. Since then, my luck with the opposite sex has been the kind that puts fortune-tellers out of business.

The ice-cream parlor is crammed with loud ten-year-olds hopped up on sugar. The instant we enter, Ted, who has been scooping out a curl of blackberry chip for a scowling little boy, leans over the counter to kiss Iris. The sullen boy and I exchange eye rolls.

“Baby, do you know anyone Abby can go to the prom with?” Iris asks as we sit on the two free stools. She keeps her voice low and discreet, as if I have a highly contagious disease.

“Hmm,” Ted says, tapping a finger on his stubbly chin. Despite his pink apron and the matching cap on his black-and-purple-dyed head, Ted still manages to pull off his hard-core look nicely. “How about Elijah Hayes?” he suggests after a minute. “He doesn't have a date yet.”

“He
doesn't
?” Iris and I ask at the same time, wide-eyed.

I'd considered Elijah — who moved to Lake Serene in the seventh grade, thus missing the sandbox stigma — as potential crush material, but he'd struck me as too aloof. He lives on my street, and I've seen him peeling down Wildwood Lane in his beat-up vintage car. He's also in my AP English class, where he sits in the back, shaggy brown hair falling into his smoldering brown eyes, strong jaw set, his long fingers twitching as if he is going through nicotine withdrawal — which he probably is. He hardly ever speaks, except to murmur some hit-the-nail-on-the-head comment in his scratchy voice. It was Elijah who pointed out that the green light in
The Great Gatsby
meant money, and that Edgar Allan Poe must have been smoking something while writing “The Raven.” Hot, smart, mysterious Elijah — it was no wonder that I'd assumed he had a serious girlfriend with red Botticelli curls who'd be flying in from, like, Paris for the prom.

Ted shakes his head, reaching under the counter for a waffle cone for Iris. “Today in gym, Cody asked him, point-blank, and Elijah said he didn't give a shit about the prom, which — duh — means he's been too chicken to ask anyone.”

At this, Iris nods wisely and shoots me an excited grin. “Go get him, Abby,” she urges.

I rest my elbows on the counter, pondering the matter. I've never officially asked a guy out, but the idea doesn't make me
too
nervous. It's just a matter of holding your nose and taking the plunge, feet-first-into-the-pool style. And now — with the prom clock tick-tocking — is the time for risks, desperate measures, and all those things that brave, stupid people do.

It's when Ted hands Iris her cone and she leans forward to kiss him on the lips that I make up my mind. No more of this watching-from-the-sidelines stuff. I'm going to take the steering wheel of my destiny and find myself a prom date.

 

The next day, in last-period English class, all those notions of me not being nervous fly out the window. My stomach is twisted into Boy Scout knots as I chew on my pen cap. Elijah Hayes is hunched over his desk in the back of the room, oblivious to the fact that when the bell rings, his life will be forever altered. Mine, too.

Our teacher, Ms. Tannen of the frumpy black suits, kneesocks, and lofty literary aspirations, writes the William Ernest Henley poem “Invictus,” on the blackboard. I focus on the words, realizing that they're weirdly timely — for me, in any case. “I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul,” I recite under my breath, ignoring the odd look that Iris shoots me over her shoulder.

When the bell rings, I'm up out of my seat so fast that I knock my knee into my desk and wince in pain. Uncharacteristically, I've worn a skirt today — a white skirt, a black tank, and my trusty flip-flops. Tossing back my hair, which I tried to tame with extra conditioner and a blow-dryer that morning, I hobble over to Elijah's desk. He is reclining in his seat, one arm flung over the back of his chair, and his free hand holding a copy of
No Exit
by Sartre over his face. It's obvious he thinks himself far beyond this class — beyond this
town
— and for some reason this gets me kind of hot and bothered. In a good way.

“Are you okay?” he asks without lowering the book.

“Yeah, why?” I put one hand on my hip as streams of classmates, smug and secure in their future prom dates, flow past me.

“You were limping,” Elijah replies, snapping the book shut and piercing me with his dark eyes. Clearly, he's got bionic powers. I like him even more now.

“I'm fine,” I assure him, even though my twisty-turny heart tells me otherwise. I can practically feel Iris sending me goodwill vibes from where she is waiting in the hallway. By now, the big, sunny classroom is empty; even Ms. Tannen has departed. “Listen, I was thinking, or, rather, wondering” — at this point I am realizing that I should have prepared a script — “what you think about the prom,” I finish, then bite my lip. It's as good a start as any, I suppose.

“The prom?” Elijah repeats slowly, slipping his Sartre into his book bag. I have his full attention. “You mean that despicable 1950s-style conspiracy designed to brainwash the youth of America into buying overpriced formal wear, renting gas-guzzling limousines, and dancing to soul-deadening songs like ‘I Believe I Can Fly'?” He coughs into his fist. “I think that anyone who willingly attends prom is no better than a calf being led to slaughter.” Finished, he drums his fingers on his desk and stares up at me.

“… Right,” I say, my hands falling to my sides as my stomach drops with an almost audible
clunk
. But I can't back out now.
Master of my fate
, I remind myself firmly. “So,” I add, holding Elijah's fiery gaze as my face burns, “I'm guessing that means you wouldn't be, you know, interested in going with … me?” I'm cringing before the sentence is even out.

“Oh.” Elijah gives a start, as if someone has poked him in the back. His brown eyes seem to mellow as he studies me. “I didn't, um, know that's what you were …” He passes a hand over his face, looking as close to embarrassed as someone like Elijah Hayes can get. “See, it's not you, Abby, you're really nice and all —”

I've heard enough. “Gotcha,” I say, backing up in a hurry. “Thanks.” I wheel around, strap my book bag on over my shaking shoulders, and flee the classroom, amazed that it's possible to feel like you've been dumped by someone you've never even dated.

“Don't,” I mutter to Iris as she bounds toward me, all hopeful exuberance. “Disaster.”

“How bad?” she asks, wrapping an arm around my shoulder as I stumble down the hallway, still in shock. Above our heads, the purple banner reading
seniors: buy your prom tickets now!
taunts me.

“Like, apocalypse,” I elaborate as we near our lockers. Our friend Gloria is waiting for us there, her face glowing and her golden ponytail swinging as she hops from foot to foot, kind of like a third grader who needs to pee.

“Abby, Iris — look!” she exclaims, holding up a thick, shiny violet sash. Iris squeals but I raise my eyebrows in confusion. “It's a cummerbund,” Gloria explains, giving me a get-with-it look. “Cody's cummerbund. He got one to match my dress exactly. So now everything, including my shoes and his boutonniere, will be violet.” She sighs happily. I don't even know what a boutonniere is.

Gloria is the kind of a girl who keeps a binder filled with magazine clippings of what she wants her wedding dress to look like. And she doesn't have a boyfriend, let alone a fiancé. Cody was her lab partner in chemistry and randomly asked her to the prom one day when they both had their goggles on. Now poor, unsuspecting Cody has been sucked into her whirlpool of
Teen People
prom issues and violet cummerbunds. Obviously, Gloria is the last person I want to be around right now, so I grab my hoodie from my locker, tell a worried-looking Iris that I'll talk to her later, and beat a hasty retreat for home, trying my best not to cry on the way.

Since bad things happen in threes — first Elijah, then Gloria — my twenty-year-old brother, Brian, is in the kitchen when I get home. As I storm in, he's pawing through the fridge and humming “Pour Some Sugar on Me”. He straightens up, a slice of cheese in his fist, and his mouth full, ready to look guilty.

“Oh. It's just you,” he grunts.

“Love you, too,” I spit, dropping my book bag on the floor while our beagle, Franklin, trots in, whining. “Did you come for the food, or to mooch cash off Mom and Dad?”

Brian is what I like to call the brown sheep of the Cooper family; he was enough of a smart-ass growing up to warrant being shipped off to military school, but he's never done anything truly criminal. With his blond buzz cut, delicate features, and big blue eyes, he can almost pull off looking angelic — “Ab, your brother's
hot
,” Iris informs me on a regular basis while I pretend to hurl — but my parents and I know better. He just moved back to Lake Serene and is living with his bossy girlfriend, Nadine, who supports him while he writes his never-ending screenplay. Needless to say, the fact that I'm headed to college in the fall with good grades and no tattoos is a point of tension between us.

“You look like a truck ran you over,” Brian says sweetly. “What's wrong?” He shuts the refrigerator and watches me, chewing steadily. I roll my eyes. I hate it when my lunkhead brother pretends to be all “insightful.”