She Loves You, She Loves You Not... (27 page)
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Authors: Julie Anne Peters
Mr. Gerardi’s smile fades from his face. He doesn’t respond, so I go on.
“The tickets are seventy-five dollars, then you have to buy a dress and shoes you’ll probably only wear once, or rent a tux. There’s the cost of the limo, and probably dinner before or after.” Not that I’d know. I’ve never been to prom. “I bet it comes to three hundred dollars. I’d have to work for fifty years to make that much money. Even then, I wouldn’t go because right now I don’t have a girlfriend.”
I choke. TMI.
Mr. Gerardi must space my last comment because he asks, “If it was cheaper, would you go?”
“Not the way it is. I mean, the geeks, freaks, and uniques, like me, don’t feel welcome at prom. It’s a dance, but it could be so much more.”
“Like what?”
“Like… I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. Because nothing will ever change.”
He plasters on that fakey smile again. “What if I gave you a chance to make a change? Would you consider serving on the prom planning committee so the event would be more inclusive?”
“Are you serious?”
“It was suggested by the board. You don’t have to—”
“I’ll do it.”
He fidgets with a paper clip on his desk. “Your biggest problem is time. You’re going to have to organize this thing fast. It’s already January, and the prom’s in April. Mrs. Flacco, who usually sponsors the committee, has… dropped out. But I did manage to persuade another teacher to be the sponsor.”
He makes it sound like he had to beg, bribe, or torture a teacher to volunteer. “Who?” I ask.
“Mr. Rosen.”
My eyes light up. Mr. Rosen is cool. He’s young and has a ponytail, and from what I’ve heard all the girls are gaga for him. But not only the girls—Luke signed up for Mr. Rosen’s Life Skills class, even though Luke’s basically been living on his own for the past eight months.
“Can I ask people to be on the committee with me?”
“That’s up to Mr. Rosen. I’m not sure who’s already signed on.” Mr. Gerardi stands, brushes by me, and holds open the door.
“Thanks, Mr. Gerardi.” I head out. “Really. It’s going to be great. You won’t regret this.”
His smile is kind of jagged. Behind me, I hear him mutter, “I think I already do.”
Slipping into the unisex restroom, I text Radhika and Luke:
Guess what? They want us to be on the prom planning committee. Can you believe it? We’re going to PIMP THE PROM.
I catch the bus home, and by the time I get there, I haven’t heard back from either Radhika or Luke. Radhika, I can understand. She leaves right after sixth period and has to turn her cell off at home to study. But Luke? I call him as I’m traipsing up the drive to my house. “Didn’t you get my text?”
“Yeah, I did,” he says. “I just don’t know if I can handle another commitment. I have my play, you know.”
“Luke, this is what we’ve always wanted! Our prom. An alternative prom. The way we envisioned it, with everyone having a reason to come.”
He sighs. “I know. I’m just really busy. I haven’t even written all the music.”
“Did I mention Mr. Rosen is the committee sponsor?”
I picture Luke’s jaw dropping and drool sliding down his chin. “When do we meet?” he asks.
“I have to talk to Mr. Rosen first, but I’ll let you know.”
Dad’s getting ready to leave as I open the door and slip out of my leather jacket. “Do you need a ride to work?” he asks. “I’m going your way.”
“Going where?” I ask him.
He shoulders his holster, which means he’s going to the shooting range. He blasts human targets to work off stress. I hate that he’s a cop. Couldn’t he find a safer job, like Ponzi schemer?
“I don’t need to be there for another couple of hours,” I tell him. “I’ll catch the light-rail.” It stops three blocks from the thrift store near Exempla Hospital in Denver.
“Oh, and I downloaded the police scanner, so I’ll know if there’s an officer down.”
He tousles my hair before shutting the door behind him. I wonder if there is a police-scanner app. I’m always afraid that one night I’ll get the call, or the doorbell will ring, and the officer on the porch will inform me: “I’m sorry. He died doing what he loved.”
What does it matter if you die doing what you love or hate? Especially if the daughter you leave behind has to go live with her psycho mother?
I crank up my nano as loud as possible without my eardrums exploding. For English, we’re supposed to choose our favorite opening line from a list we got in class of the one hundred best first lines in literature. So far I have it whittled down to “Call me Ishmael.” Brilliant.
“I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974.” That’s from
Middlesex
, which I actually read and loved. Or, “Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.” My mind drifts and I think about prom. About what could make it the most magical night of my life. One word:
Radhika
.
How do you tell your best friend you’re in love with her without ruining the friendship? Or making it awkward, or scaring her to death because you know, you’re absolutely sure, she couldn’t possibly feel the same way about you? At the thought of her my palms sweat and all my pores swell. I can’t remember the last time I felt this
way. It’s been a while. Whenever Radhika’s near, I want to take her in my arms, kiss her until we’re both gasping for breath, then know—
know—
she feels the crush of passion I do. Even though she doesn’t, and she can’t, and she never will, because Radhika Dal isn’t gay or bi or even curious. She loves me as a friend, and it’ll never be anything more than that.
I see my cell light up and Radhika’s ID appear. My stomach vaults and I toss my homework aside. I have a voice mail, too. How did I miss that?
“Tell me about pimping the prom,” Radhika says.
I glance at my clock. Yikes. Time flies when you’re fanning the fire in your loins. I fill her in on Mr. Gerardi asking if we’ll plan an alternative prom as I sling my pack over my shoulder and rush out the door for work. “You’ll help, won’t you?”
She says, “What does it involve?’
“I don’t know yet. I’ve never planned a prom, not to mention an alt one.”
Radhika hesitates.
“Please. You have to. I can’t do this alone.”
“Can we talk about it tomorrow?” she asks.
“Sure.” I don’t want her to hang up, so as I’m sprinting down the drive, I say, “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I finished my homework a while ago and now I’m just waiting for Mom and Dad to go to bed so I can Netflix a movie.”
“Wish I could be there to watch it with you.”
The silence stretches, which is unusual between us. “What’s going on, Radhika?”
She expels an audible breath. “Mom and I had a fight.”
“Over what?” Radhika and her mom never fight. Unlike other mothers and daughters who can’t be together five minutes before they start screaming at each other.
“I want to cut my hair short like yours, and she won’t let me.”
“No!” I blurt out. Radhika can’t cut her hair. It’s gorgeous. Long and black and sleek as silk. “I’m still trying to grow mine out from the last time I butchered it,” I say.
“You didn’t. It looks…”
Hideous.
I hear the train in the distance and start trotting. “I think you should think about it.” Long and hard.
“It’s my hair,” Radhika says. “I should be able to do anything I want.”
She’s right. But still.
Radhika says, “My mother’s so controlling. I thought I’d have more freedom now that I’m eighteen. You know?”
I send her a mental plea:
Please, please don’t cut your hair.
“I left you a message,” Radhika says. “You can just delete it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Wait!” But the line’s already gone dead. The light-rail screeches to a stop and passengers surge out. I hop on board, grab a seat in back, and listen to Radhika’s message. “You didn’t tell me what your self-affirmation was for today.”
My self-affirmation. I forgot. I pull out the calendar
page and reread it: “Undertaking endeavors that seem beyond reach will grow you as a person from the inside out.”
Radhika gave me this daily self-affirmations calendar for Christmas. I love it. I’d love it even if I didn’t love it just because she picked it out for me.
Undertaking endeavors beyond my reach… That could be anything. That could be prom. That could be Radhika.
When did she leave this message on my cell? I listen again for the time. Right about when she would’ve gotten home from school. Which means she was thinking about me at the same time I was texting her. Karma? I save her message, the way I do all her messages, to play at night so hers is the last voice I hear before falling asleep.
Between Mom and Jo
Define “Normal”
grl2grl
It’s Our Prom (So Deal With It)
Keeping You a Secret
Luna
Pretend You Love Me
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Julie Anne Peters
Discussion Questions copyright © 2011 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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Second e-book edition: April 2012
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ISBN 978-0-316-17553-1
