The Prom Read online

  “There’s still time. Call him back! Hey, do you know what? I’m so glad we went to Edinburgh to get your dress. You’re going to outshine everyone there. It’s just a shame you refused to run for the court. Kaylee will probably win now, and she’s not half as pretty as you are.”

  Carefully, I ask, “Does this means prom’s not canceled? For sure?”

  My mother’s laughter, light and airy, fills the car. She glances over at me, her smile perfectly fixed, her teeth perfectly white. She’s so perfect, she sounds like the fairy godmother from a Disney movie when she says, “As if I would ever keep my own daughter from her senior prom.”

  Wary, I look at her. Did I change her mind? I don’t know why, but I’m afraid to ask. It would be such good news if she just decided to give in. But I honestly can’t tell if this is surrender or if her break with reality just became permanent. I say nothing.

  Mom reaches over to take my hand and squeeze it. “I’d love to take pictures in front of the fireplace and under the swinging oak. Is he taller than you? If he’s not, it’s fine. You can wait to put on your heels. Do you know when he’s going to pick you up?”

  “Mom, I told you I canceled,” I say, schooling my voice to sound normal, as if any of this is normal. “He’s not coming.”

  “And I told you to call him,” Mom says, wriggling happily in her seat.

  I start to argue. Then I realize that it’s foolish to argue about my imaginary date’s imaginary social calendar. It’s easier to be quiet, and unsettled, and just feed my mother the nodding agreement she wants. It changes nothing, but it brings a bit of peace to the ride home.

  For now, peace is good enough.

  11. Wouldn’t It Be Loverly?

  EMMA

  For some reason, Nan wants to talk to the Broadway people.

  So we follow their tour bus to the Comfort Inn by the highway. I’m relieved that they didn’t end up at the Knights Inn on the other side of the highway. That one rents by the hour; truckers love it.

  The tour bus is parked at the back of the lot, and half the Godspell people are gathered in knots just outside. Two of the guys tangle in each other’s arms—I don’t think they’re trying to keep warm, either.

  Moving through them, I watch in amazement as one of the girls grabs the curve of one foot and raises it above her head. She just perches there on the other foot, arching her back and carrying on a conversation at the same time.

  “Put your eyes back in your head,” Nan says, amused, and ushers me inside. The foyer is more of the same, only this time with a guy sitting in a girl’s lap on the couch by the front door, and excited conversations exploding next to the luggage racks.

  But we’re here for two specific Broadway people; they’re standing at the front desk. Nan waves a hand, calling out, “Mr. Glickman! Ms. Allen!”

  Barry stops mid-monologue at the hotel clerk—surprise, surprise, there’s no sauna and no room service at the Edgewater, Indiana, Comfort Inn. Also, no suites. I mean, it’s only three stories high—what did they expect? He smooths the front of his jacket and walks toward us.

  “Emma, honey,” he says, and instead of shaking my hand, he captures it between his and squeezes. There might even be a little bow involved; I’m not quite sure. “What are you doing here?”

  “We wanted to thank all of you,” Nan says. She steps ever so slightly in front of me, a tiny, bingo-playing wall of protection. “I want to thank you, for coming all this way for my Emma. She’s had a rough row to hoe the past couple years.”

  “Farm metaphors,” Dee Dee says, turning her roller bag and snapping the handle closed with precision. “How charming!”

  Barry lets go of my hand and nods. “I never got to go to prom. Okay, correction, I went to fourteen proms—just not my own. And I—”

  “We,” Dee Dee interjects.

  Barry gives her a look. “We couldn’t let that happen to you. Not in this day and age.”

  “It’s tough out here for this little girl,” Nan says, ruffling my hair like I’m a toddler. Slightly embarrassed, I lean away. If she moves on to squeezing cheeks next, she’s going to have to grab Barry. Who knows? He might even be into that.

  I say, “I just don’t understand why this is such a big deal.”

  “It’s ignorance,” Dee Dee announces with certainty. “It’s backwater ignorance! These hayseeds don’t learn because they don’t want to learn.”

  Even though I live here, even though I mostly hate living here, my hackles rise. Dee Dee’s from New York, a magical fairyland where apparently you can make a living pretending to be other people onstage, and also, public transportation actually exists.

  She’s standing here talking about ignorance when she doesn’t even know that we have no hayseeds in Indiana.

  We don’t grow much wheat here. No wheat, no hayseeds, hello. We grow corn and soybeans; we’re dairy farmers and hog farmers. (Also, we export limestone and natural gas. You’re welcome.) It’s one thing if she calls us rednecks. People around here do get the backs of their necks sunburned working in the fields. But hayseeds? Not so much.

  And I can’t even believe I’m mentally defending this place, but I am. I live here. I know all our faults. If I want to talk Hoosier trash, well, bring the chicken and noodles on mashed potatoes, because I will. My trash is accurate. Dee Dee, however, is about to get an attitude adjustment, courtesy of this baby gayseed.

  “Can I steal this delightful little sugarplum for just a minute?” Barry asks.

  Nan looks him over, then glances at me. Touching her nose, she points. “I better be able to see you at all times.”

  So much for schooling Dee Dee. I’m still itching to mouth off to her, but my temper fades the farther we get from her. Barry and I end up in matching green chairs by the cookie table—after he shoos a couple of chorus kids out of his way. They look at him like he’s a god. I’m guessing a Roman one, who likes his feasts and libations.

  A tray of chocolate chip and snickerdoodle cookies sits beneath a sign that welcomes anyone to have a bite. No tongs, though. If you want one, you’re gonna have to grab it with your grubby hand like everybody else.

  Despite this, Barry takes a cookie and breaks it. He offers me half and fixes me with a sympathetic smile.

  “I’ve been exactly where you are,” he says, and his eyes are so kind as he glances toward Nan. “I mean, at least you’ve got your mother?”

  “Actually,” I tell him, “that’s my grandmother. She took me in when Mom and Dad kicked me out.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “Nan says she must have dropped Dad on his head too many times when he was a baby.” I shrug and offer a game smile.

  But instead of laughing along, Barry murmurs the most sympathetic sound. The regret on his face is so real and so present that I tear up. He’s still Mr. Pecker in my head, but he’s a better version of him. Sweet, sincere.

  Abandoning his half of the cookie, he rests his chin on his hand just so, then says, “That’s rough, kiddo. And . . . I’ve been there, too.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” He looks to the distance, but then snaps back to the present. “But I’m here to tell you, people like us? We get to choose our family. And when we see each other, across the room or across the country, we care. Instead of your uncle who tells racist jokes at Thanksgiving, you get me now.”

  “The uncle who pickets my school?”

  “Honey, the auntie who’s going to change your life.” With a flourish, he smiles; he snaps.

  He is seriously the gayest person I’ve ever met, and I’ve been to third base with my girlfriend. I guess I should say, he’s the most stereotypically gay person I’ve ever met? He’s the queeniest person I’ve ever met? I don’t even know!

  I might be showing my own internalized homophobia right now. Because Barry looks perfectly comfortable
in his skin, and I’m perched on a hotel chair with a cold cookie in my claws, a gargoyle too basic to make the grade for the church bell tower.

  “And do you know what?” Barry says, leaning toward me and lowering his voice. “There’s a way out of here. I watched the rest of the videos on your channel. You’re talented, Emma. There’s always room for talented people—session singing, background singing, overdubbing tuneless blondes in yet another Mamma Mia sequel? I’m such a petty bitch, pretend I didn’t say that last one.”

  I’m surprised by my own smile, my own sudden laughter. He’s saying all the things I want to hear. Here’s somebody who’s completely, totally on my side. Who’s been through what I’m going through now. Who made it to the other side. When they say it gets better, this is what they mean.

  “Barry . . . can I call you Barry?” I say, testing the weight of his name on my tongue when he nods. “I really appreciate you coming all this way. But after tonight . . . I’m not sure it’s a good idea to keep pushing. You saw how mad all the parents are. And when you showed up at school today, you literally interrupted a death threat in progress.”

  “But, Emma! That’s exactly why we’re here!”

  “You don’t think this is going to make it worse?”

  Picking up his chair by the arms, Barry turns it toward me and drops it with a heavy thump. He catches my hands again. “Absotively not. We won’t let that happen. Between me and Dee Dee, this is going to be the most watched prom in the country. They wouldn’t dare.”

  “That’s really nice of you, but we still don’t know if there’s going to be a prom. And also?” I roll my shoulders ruefully. “Even if there is, I don’t think my girlfriend’s going to come.”

  Barry looks like he’s about to say something sassy and possibly inappropriate. He thinks better of it and rubs his hands together. His voice lilts, almost like he’s singing, when he asks, “Who’s your girlfriend?”

  Boy, do I appreciate the gobsmacked look on his face when I say, “Alyssa Greene, the student council president. Her mom’s the head of the PTA; she’s the one who hates my guts.”

  Scandalized, Barry asks, “Does she know?”

  “Nooooo,” I say. “Not about me and not about her daughter, and she’s not going to find out until Alyssa’s ready, got it?”

  “I’m here as an agent of Cupid, not a sower of discord, darling.” Barry nods firmly at that, then says, “You know what? You work on your date, and I’ll work on everything else. Leave it to me, Emma. There will be a prom, and it will be perfect. I’ll take care of your flowers, your hair, your shoes—you have a dress?”

  I stammer, “Uh, no,” but fail to say I had no intention of wearing a dress.

  “Oh, sweetheart, I’ve got so much work to do. Where’s the nearest Saks?”

  “We don’t have one.”

  He shudders but amends, “Macy’s?”

  I shake my head. “Sorry. We have a Walmart?”

  “Oh good god, you’re going to prom, not a hoedown. All right. Breathe. Center. Exhale. Good.” He claps his hands and ends his impromptu meditation session. “No Saks, no problem. Tony Award–winning costume designer Gregg Barnes owes me a favor or two. I’ll have him FedEx a selection and bring them by.”

  “To school?”

  “Your humble abode, Emma.” Barry considers, then asks, “If your grandmother won’t have a problem with a middle-aged man prancing around your bedroom.”

  We both glance at her at the same time. She’s petting one of the young picketers; his long, golden hair does look irresistible. I say, “She’s gonna make us leave the door open and keep both feet on the floor.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Barry jokes.

  My cell phone gurgles with a school alert. I pull it from my pocket, but I don’t look at it. My throat is dry and my heart is still. I tell Barry, “That’s something from the school.”

  “Read it,” he says. “If it’s a battle, we must prepare. Wouldn’t want to show up to a slap fight barehanded.”

  Unlocking the screen, I touch the notification. It takes a minute for my mail to load. Signal reception is hit or miss around here because of all the limestone, and also because we live in the middle of nowhere. The screen finally flashes white, and there it is. A letter from the PTA.

  “Regarding this year’s prom,” I say shakily, then read on. “After much consideration and consultation with friends, family, and the community, the James Madison PTA has decided to move forward with plans to host the prom at its original date and time. We will be in touch with more information as necessary. Thank you for your passionate advocacy. We are proud of our students and our class of 2019 Golden Weevils. Sincerely, Elena Greene, PTA president.”

  “We did it,” Barry says, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. Then he leaps up and shouts into the other room. “Dee Dee! Non-equity cast of Godspell! We did it! Emma’s going to the prom!”

  A roar fills the hotel foyer. Jazz hands and kicks-ball-change (kick-ball-changes?) break out everywhere. The news travels fast, shouted out the sliding front doors with ecstatic glee. There are so many bright, delighted faces around me that I can’t help but laugh. This is a mob scene I can appreciate.

  “Yay us!” Dee Dee shouts, throwing her arms over her head.

  Nan raises an eyebrow. “More like yay Emma.”

  “It can be them,” I concede. “Everything changed when they got here.”

  With that, Barry sweeps Dee Dee up in a very choreographed waltz (I’m guessing—how should I know? This is Indiana 2019, not Versailles 1719—although there is a Versailles, Indiana, and guess how many of those Ss and Ls we pronounce. Spoiler: all of them).

  As people cheer around me and burst into song—they’ve been here a minute, and I’ve already noticed that happens a lot—I bask in stunned silence. My phone weighs a million pounds, but I’m as light as air. I’m going to prom.

  I’m going to prom!

  12. Something Begun

  ALYSSA

  I push open my car door, and Emma jumps in.

  Throwing my arms around her, I kiss her. I kiss her hard and fast; I kiss her softly. I kiss her until our lips are sticky and my windows are fogged. She tastes like bubble gum and electricity, a sweet summer storm that rolls through me and rumbles on and on.

  Even though we’re still parked in her grandmother’s driveway, I kiss her again and again, apologies and promises, greetings, but no goodbyes for once. Not yet. Not tonight.

  When Emma pulls back for a breath, she presses her brow to mine. Her fingers slip through my hair; I shiver. She’s familiar and constant and untouchable all at the same time, and I feed her my relief on soft caresses that fall on her skin. We’ve been so far away lately—I was afraid we might not snap back together, but we do.

  We fit, my hands in hers, my lips on hers, my heart against hers. A little trill runs through my chest, and I’m dizzy for a moment. She makes me dizzy.

  “How’d you manage a prison break?” Emma asks, her lips teasing in a smile.

  “Tunneled out behind a picture of Ruby Rose on my wall.”

  Laughter fills my car, and she hugs me fiercely. When she pulls back, she leans her head against the headrest. She plays with my fingers between hers. Her fingertips are rough from playing the guitar; they create their own kisses on the palm of my hand. “Seriously, though?” she asks.

  “Seriously? Her manager at the Red Stripe threatened to write her up if she missed any more shifts.”

  “Yikes,” Emma says, furrowing her brow. “I guess when you get into the grocery deli game, it’s hard to get out.”

  My laugh is soft; my eye-rolling amused instead of annoyed. Even though my mother has made Emma’s life exponentially harder, she doesn’t hold it against me. She’s not cruel about her, and sometimes—especially lately—I really feel like she kind of has the right to be.

  My
mother is a complicated disaster, but she’s my complicated disaster. And she’s really all I have. My grandparents retired to New Mexico; my only aunt lives in Des Moines. They exist solely in Christmas and birthday cards, on Facebook and text message. My dad . . . well, you know all about my dad.

  “I’ve been thinking,” I say, and my skin goes hot as soon as I say it. “The prom is back on, and obviously, that wouldn’t be the case if Mom hadn’t softened a little—”

  “What, you don’t think it was the Broadway invasion that changed her mind?”

  “Emma.”

  “They’re doing a number at the truck rally this weekend, just to make a point. Can you imagine the looks in that crowd? Sunday, Sunday, Sunday! We’ll sell you the seat, but you’ll only need the edge, edge, edge—and a taste for show tunes. I tried to warn them.”

  Covering my face with my hand, I shake my head, “Why, even? They got what they came for.”

  “The show must go on?” Emma says, more like a question. She shrugs, and then her face changes—her tone, too. To something soft, almost wondrous. “Barry’s calling in a favor from a costume designer. For my outfit.”

  “You’re on a first-name basis now?”

  Emma nods, her dark hair bobbing, her glasses slipping down her nose. “Apparently I am. And I think his idea of formal wear for me doesn’t match my idea, but . . . we talked for a long time last night. It was really nice.”

  Guilt coils inside me. She’s doing this all alone. Worse, this is all my mother’s fault and she’s doing this alone. Mr. Glickman and Ms. Allen seem a little . . . intense, but I guess I can’t blame Emma for embracing them. I make myself smile and ask, “Was it?”

  With her gaze out the window, something plays out on Emma’s features. It’s like she catches herself up in a memory. She sounds wistful when she says, “Yeah, it was. It’s like he’s the very first person who really gets me.”

  My smile falters. “Ouch.”