Prom and Prejudice (8 page)

“Sure. But maybe you should try one before you do—I’ve never made them before.”

The phone rings and I get it from the wall (we are the only people in the industrialized world to still have a wall phone in the kitchen) while Mom pokes a couple of the cupcakes. I manage to do this, I hope, without appearing to have been waiting all day for the sound of that ring. At least, I don’t rip the phone out of the wall when I grab it.

“Hey, Georgia, it’s Michael.”

“Oh, hi,” I say, and I hope I sound offhand and not like I have been wondering about his call yesterday when we got cut off.

“Can you come over around seven, to my house?” he asks.

I don’t hesitate. “Yeah, I think I can do that.”

“Great! I’ll see you then.”

“Okay. Bye.”

So I am still no closer to figuring out how he feels or what is going on, and, while I want to throw the phone out the window, Mom is looking at me again, so I just open the door to the oven to check on the cupcakes.

Just then my sisters walk in. Leigh is giggling and Cassie waggles her burgundy-colored nails at me and all their hair is piled high on their heads like they came to life and walked off the walls of the Parthenon.

“What did he want?” Mom asks me as she admires Cassie’s toenails peeking from her flip-flops.

“What did
who
want?” Cassie asks.

“Michael just called,” I say.

“Oooooh,” Leigh whispers, smiling.

“Told you,” says Tori.

“He wants me to come over around seven tonight.”

Mom and Leigh and Cassie are looking at me like I am about to produce a rabbit out of a hat while Tori grips my arms. “So you know what this means?” she says with restrained excitement lighting up her whole face.

“No, what?”

“That he is definitely
not
going to prom! Not with Darien—or anyone.”

Leigh squeals for a second and clamps a hand over her mouth. Her nails are pale pink and perfect looking.

“The prom is at eight, right?” I point out. “He could still go.” The oven timer dings and I take the cupcakes out, determined to not be hopeful. I am too afraid to be hopeful. Hope can be the first step toward spectacular disappointment.

“He’d have to change into his tux pretty quickly,” Cassie reasons as she picks the cupcake remainders stuck to the baking tray. For someone who used to scoff at my cooking, she’s very willing to risk third-degree burns to get some. “Mmmmm, these are good!”

“More importantly, George,” Tori says, “no one, except the most horrible person in the world, would invite you over to talk
one hour
before taking some other girl to the prom. You’re being ridiculous.”

Cassie laughs. “George used to think Michael
was
the most horrible person in the world!”

Tori takes my arm and looks me in the eye, saying calmly and quietly, “What did you tell me he said before the
Alt
meeting?”

“That there ‘is no other girl,’” I repeat dutifully.

“Exactly! So this it! If you want it to be.”

I look around the kitchen at all of their expectant faces.

“I do,” I say, and I feel my heart start to hammer against my ribcage like it wants to break out.

“Well, what are you going to wear?” Cassie demands.

“Something great,” Leigh urges.

“But not too much,” Tori advises, “not that you would ever do too much,” she tells me, with a nod toward Cassie.

“I’m gonna wear what I would normally wear anywhere. This might not be the big gesture you guys think it’s going to be, and I don’t want to stand there looking like I think I’m going to prom or something when he just wants to tell me he thinks I’m a nutcase and asks me to not talk to him any more.”

“
George
,” Leigh admonishes.

“Well, she doesn’t want to look like she’s trying too hard,” Cassie agrees, which shocks me. Cassie is, after all, the Queen of Trying Too Hard. She turns to me and says, “But you
do
want to look prettier.”

“Thanks, Cass.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You can borrow anything of mine, if you want,” Tori says. “You look fantastic in that Harry blue silky v-neck sweater of mine. And it’ll be cool enough in the evening for it.”

“That’s perfect,” Leigh agrees.

“You can borrow my skinny jeans,” Cassie offers.

“I am honored,” I tell her. And I am. She guards her clothes like a junkyard dog.

***

An hour later, I wash my hair and Cassie helps me blow dry it straight because she is a genius at that sort of thing and we all sit in my room and agree on the Harry v-neck and Cassie’s jeans but can’t decide on sandals or flats.

“Not your Chuck Taylors,” Cassie insists.

“Definitely,” Tori agrees. “Borrow some nail polish from Mom, do your toes, and wear those sandals you got on Pearl Street before we moved.”

They all go off to get dressed and I watch, without feeling like a hopeless loser for once, as Mom and Dad take pictures and shake hands with the dates in the living room. Alistair looks quite cute in his dark suit and Cassie’s Rob seems perfectly presentable.

Tori and Trey leave the house last, on their way to an Italian restaurant in Netherfield before the prom. (I think Rob and Cassie are going to the Texas Roadhouse, and I don’t know what Alistair and Leigh have planned but I hope it’s nice.)

“Say hi to Michael for us,” Trey says with a wink as he guides Tori through the front door.

Tori takes my arm and pulls me onto the porch away from Mom and Dad. “Trey’s having a party after prom. You should come.”

Trey smiles at me. “Yeah, my mom and dad are staying over in Hanover. They’re bringing Brittany back from Dartmouth tomorrow. You should stop by tonight, and bring Michael. Around 11:30.”

“I’m pretty sure I turn back into a pumpkin by then,” I say, “but thanks.”

On their way out, Mom and Dad stop in the family room, where I am watching
Cupcake Wars
.

“Thank you again for the dessert, sweetie,” Mom says. She looks really fresh and pretty in a madras skirt and crisp pink t-shirt.

“They look delicious
and
elegant,” my dad says, and he leans over the couch and kisses the top of my head.

“You’re sure there’s food here? Because there were no leftovers from your chili last night,” Mom frets as she hovers in the doorway.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Go and have fun.” I don’t tell her that I have no intention of ingesting anything because I am reasonably sure it will make a reappearance in a disgusting way minutes later. I do not feel like eating, but I know better than to tell her that when she is in solicitous mom mode.

Because I can’t focus on anything on TV, I end up flipping through the channels and scratching Rufus behind the ears until it is time to go to Michael’s. I decide to ride my bike, though I have no good reason not to take the car. In fact, as I get a block away from his house, outside the faux Tudor manor owned by the family that owns a bus company in Netherfield, I realize that if Michael
is
going to say something that will devastate me, it would be much better to be able to jump into the car and speed away than to have to pedal myself home on my own lame power, but it’s too late. As I ride, I force myself to notice that it is one of those spring evenings that lets you know winter is finally over, for a good long time. It’s warm, birds are chirping, the air smells like the budding chrysanthemums and lilies of the valley. It’s one of those evenings that makes you almost feel like nothing bad can ever happen to you.

I park my bike near the wide front porch and step up to the front door where there is a note taped to it:

Georgia, I am out back –M.

This strikes me as odd, but I walk down the steps, around to the back of the house, and past the bench and the bushes where I had smoked pot with Michael and Shondra and Los months ago. The bushes are bursting with purple flowers now and their smell almost physically hits me as I walk past and see the pool and I catch my breath at the most beautiful thing I think I have ever seen.

The pool’s been transformed into an enchanted oasis. Lily pads float on its surface, some with white flowers on them and some with little candles that send paths of rippling light across the water as the sun begins to set behind me. There are potted ferns around the terrace surrounding the pool; they might always be there, or may be out now that it’s spring, but they make the whole thing look both magical and natural. Everything seems to twinkle and glow and I put my hand over my mouth because I have the humiliating feeling that I might burst into tears at that moment.

“Do you like it?”

I turn to find Michael behind me, and he is looking at me with the hopeful expression of a child who believes that since he has cleaned up the grape juice himself, it won’t matter that he spilled it.

“It’s...really beautiful,” I say, and he smiles and steps down to the edge of the pool with me.

“I don’t know...you and I are not the prom types, but I had the idea to do something special.”

“So obviously you are not going with Darien,” I say with a shaky laugh. I feel a little like my legs aren’t going to hold me up much longer.

“Of course not,” he says, and then he sits down at the edge of the pool and sticks his bare feet in. I roll up the edges of my jeans, kick off my sandals, and join him. The water is surprisingly warm after you get used to it.

“I am really sorry, Michael, about all the stuff I got wrong about you. About leaving Pemberley, about hating my family, about...everything.”

“
I
should apologize to
you
. I was a jerk when I said that stuff about your sister, and I should have just told people about Jeremy instead of letting everyone take it out on Cassie. That’s why I wrote the letter.”

“What letter?”

He reaches out one foot and pushes a water lily gently to set it gliding across the pool. His legs are already tan—it must be from running.

“The letter to
The Alt
.”

I practically fall into the pool as I shoot up to my feet again. “You wrote that letter?”

He shrugs and holds out a hand for me to take and when I do and sit down again, he says, “Yeah. That was me. Things had gone on long enough. And when I saw what
you
attempted to do to fix the situation—well, someone had to take matters into their own hands.”

He’s grinning but there’s no malice in it, even as he teases.

“That letter was brilliant. And beautiful.” I splash the water a little with one foot. “It was exactly the right thing. Unlike my plan, which was exactly the
wrong
thing. It was, like, the most wrong thing in the history of wrong things.”

“You meant well. That’s what matters.”

I nod sadly and decide to change the subject. “Still, you can see why I was wrong about you and Darien. I mean, there’s what your dad said, and you went to the school show with her.”

Michael laughs now, and it’s a good laugh, deep and happy from low in his throat.

“I didn’t go
with
Darien to the school show, Georgia. She was just there—I don’t know why. I went because I knew
you
would be there.”

“Aha!” I cry and grab his hands. “Because despite making fun of me you were dying for a vegan cupcake, filled with pure unadulterated tofu.”

He shakes his head, releases his hands from my grip and puts one palm on the side of my face; all breath escapes from my body at his touch.

“You are impossible, Georgianna Barrett,” he says, and then he kisses me, and I kiss him back, and suddenly nothing else, nothing that has ever happened or will ever happen in the history of the world, matters at all. After a couple of blissful minutes, he pulls back a second and gives me that crooked smile that used to worry me so much. “You’re not going to run away again, are you?”

“No. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.”

I lean my head on his shoulder and he puts his arm around me, and we just sit like that for a long time. It feels really good. It feels right. I know that’s a cliché, but I guess clichés only become clichés because they capture some kind of truth.

“I wish my dad hadn’t said that stuff about Darien,” he says. “We wasted a lot of time.”

“I wish my mom hadn’t said
anything
that night. She is
way
more embarrassing than your dad, going on about her college days and her sorority. Ugh.”

“We almost had a decent conversation that night,” he says, then he smiles again, that lopsided smile. “So, you kind of liked me by then, right?”

“Yes,” I admit.

“I had a feeling, but it’s hard to tell with you.”

“We have that in common.”

He pulls me closer and we kiss for a while. My hands end up in his hair, pulling through his curls, and his hands are on my neck, my shoulders, tracing my back and the outlines of my hips.

“Are you thirsty?” he asks after he catches his breath. “Or hungry?”

I just nod and bite my lip.

“Okay. Wait here.”

He bounds up the stairs behind me and I notice then that in one corner of the terraced pool area is a fire pit—I should have smelled the wood burning—so I walk over to it and watch the flames dance in their black mesh cage until he comes back. He has two glasses and a green bottle with a gold top.

“Are we celebrating?”

“Definitely,” he says, and it takes a few seconds to get the cork off the bottle. It doesn’t pop or froth like it does in the movies. I don’t think it’s supposed to, actually. He hands me a glass. “Cheers.”

I clink his glass with mine and drink it. It’s champagne, and it is sweetish but not really sugary. It tastes much better than I thought it would.

“There’s more,’ he says. “Have a seat.”

I sit on one of the wicker chairs with its big, red, striped cushions and say, “Wow. You’ve thought of a lot.”

“Wait for it.” He has a bag under the other chair by the fire, and from it, he produces a box of graham crackers, chocolate bars, and marshmallows. “Ta-da!”

I clasp my hands and bat my eyes and cry, “S’mores! How romantic!”