Prom-Wrecked

by T. H. Hernandez

  While she’s busy, I glance around the store in a preliminary search for my prom dress.

  Jordon wanders to the front of the store, stopping at the mannequin in the window. “I like this one,” he says.

  I join him and take in the gold beaded formal with a halter top. It’s fitted to the waist and has a full high-low skirt that lands above the knees in the front but hits the floor in the back. The ombré beads cascade down the top, the spacing increasing the farther down the skirt they go, ending several inches above the hem. The entire back of the dress from shoulders to waist is delicate embroidered lace.

  It’s breathtaking. Fit for a Prom Queen.

  I reach out to check the tag. Out of my price range, but not my mom’s. She’d totally spring for this for her daughter, Prom Queen of Hamilton High. No doubt she’d frame the photo of me and hang it beside her own from thirty years ago.

  “I’m so sorry,” Ms. Baxter says, returning to the desk. “Where were we?”

  “Sponsoring the prom,” I say.

  “Right, right.” She puts on her reading glasses and studies her computer for a moment before glancing up and staring at us over the top of her specs. “How about a hundred dollars? Will that be enough?”

  “U-um,” I stammer, not sure how to tell her we were hoping for more. A lot more. Like ten times that much. At the same time, anything is better than nothing.

  Jordon glances around the now-empty shop. “Business slow these days?”

  Ms. Baxter nods. “Yes. Normally, we’d have a lot more bridal parties coming in this time of year, and…”

  “And girls shopping for prom dresses?” Jordon asks.

  “That, too.”

  “Be a shame if prom doesn’t happen this year.”

  I turn to stare at him. That almost sounded like extortion, but the playful expression on Jordon’s face and the blush creeping up Ms. Baxter’s cheeks make me think she doesn’t see it that way.

  “Yes, yes, of course. That would be…unfortunate.” She shoves her glasses up to her dark hair, which has gray nipping at the roots, and taps a few times on her keyboard. “Let me see what I can do. I need to run some numbers, but check back with me next week.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Baxter,” I say. “Really, anything you can do would go a long way toward allowing us to make this happen.”

  “Of course.” She turns her attention to me with a forced grin, orange lipstick on her teeth. “My senior prom was a night I still remember fondly. I understand how important this is to you kids.”

  Jordon leads the way outside, and once the door swings shut, I turn to him in awe. “I cannot believe you said that to her.”

  “It’s the truth. She knows it and now she’s fully aware that we know it, too.”

  Guy’s got a stiffer spine than I ever gave him credit for. And yet, he seems nervous on the walk back to his car, repeatedly running a hand through his hair, although it falls effortlessly back into messy place after each pass.

  “I’m sorry. About earlier. You’re right. We’re not friends, and I had no business prying into your personal life. I just thought…maybe you needed to be encouraged. You’re good and you only do one show a year, and you never try out for the lead.” He shrugs. “I didn’t know if you realize how good you are.”

  I pause mid-step and stare at his back as he walks a few more paces before noticing I’m no longer beside him. He stops and turns his head to look at me over his shoulder.

  “Do you really think so?” I ask.

  “Of course. I don’t lie.”

  I shake my head, not sure how to respond. Performing is my dream, but only a dream. With barely any support at home, doing just one show a year is a stretch as it is. While I get cast every time, I never really thought about whether or not I’m any good. I just love it. Everything about it. Which is why I do it. The fact that Jordon thinks I might be good enough to try out for Wicked means more than it should. Sure, although Ms. Perry already told me about the auditions, I just assumed she mentions it to all her drama kids.

  But Jordon’s good. Wicked good. He gets the male lead in every production. I hurry to catch up to him, and when we reach his car, I realize I need to say something. “I’m sorry. About before. About snapping at you. You’re wrong. We are friends.”

  He throws me a lazy grin before opening my door for me.

  Chapter Eight

  Riley

  Six weeks until prom

  The prom deposit money still hasn’t turned up. After retracing my steps at school about a thousand times yesterday, I drove home, dumped my backpack out onto my bed, and searched through every page of my binders and notebooks. No envelope was found. It’s really gone. How does five hundred dollars disappear into thin air?

  Until it turns up, I need to trust Catherine. If there’s one thing I’m sure of about my ex-best friend, it’s that she gets things done. Even if it means crushing her competition like an ant crawling under her high-heeled leather boot. She’ll come through with a sponsor and save our prom. She’s tough, when she cares enough to be tough, and resourceful. She sticks up for what she believes is right, which is one of the things I loved most about her.

  My alarm goes off, ending a sleepless night. I slide into ripped jeans and a fitted black shirt, then shrug an unbuttoned plaid shirt on top, rather than wear a jacket. Breakfast is a granola bar, rushed down before I hop in my car, knuckles tight on the wheel. With the windows open, my loose hair catches the warm, early spring breeze. I park in the back of the student lot, where the only other car is a huge blue boat that must belong to a teacher. Dreading what comes next, I follow the smell of garbage to the dumpsters.

  If the envelope was lost inside school, there’s a chance someone picked it up without bothering to open it and tossed it in a trash bin. Pressing up on my toes, I count the number of black garbage bags inside the metal container. Some have split open, with ripped papers, gum wrappers, and debris from biology experiments leaking out. Yeah, no way—I’d sell everything I own before diving in there and facing extreme lunch leftovers.

  I’ll try one more run through the hallways. Maybe check the recycling bins in a few of the classrooms.

  As I turn away from the dumpster, Owen’s Jeep chugs into the student lot and parks next to my Kia. He jumps out and calls my name, asking why I’m here so early.

  My eyes dart back to the huge trash bins. “I was—”

  “Still looking for the deposit?” He jogs over and scans the top layer of garbage. “We’re not tearing through trash for prom. I’ll tell Slater it was my fault. That you gave me the cash to hold and I lost it.”

  A wave of relief practically knocks me to my knees. I don’t want Owen to take the blame, but it’s nice to know he’s willing to stick by me. “Thanks, but I think we can solve this without telling Mr. Slater.”

  “If you’re sure.” He kicks the toe of his expensive Adidas against the asphalt. Owen likes fancy sneakers. He’s the best at casual dress, and I love this about him, although I still want to see him in a tux at prom. That thought alone strengthens my resolve not to let the lost deposit money defeat me.

  “We can’t risk losing prom over this,” I say.

  Owen lifts his chin, eyes brightening. “We won’t. We’ll figure it out.” He pulls his phone out and swipes across the screen. “Cat’s working on sponsors. And if we still need money, I’ll pick up a few extra shifts at Super Foods. I stock shelves on the weekends.” He says this like I don’t already know about his job. In fact, Owen is the most well-known food store employee in town. Packs of high school and college girls frequent the canned goods section just to watch him flex his muscles.

  “Thanks, but this is my fault. I lost the deposit. I can’t take your money.”

  He aims a sharp look my way. “Why not? Do you think you’re the only person around here who cares about prom?”

  “No, but I promised Mr. Slater I’d take care of setting everything up. He trusted me with the money from the fund-raisers.” And I
totally screwed up the chance to do something great.

  Owen leans his shoulder against the brick wall, stopping me from entering the building. “It’s still gonna happen. One way or another, Project Morp is a go.”

  My eyes sting as I fight my rising disappointment. “But I want prom to be good. Fun. Memorable. Not a sucky Elk Lodge party with a balloon arch and plastic cups of fruit punch. If we don’t pay the deposit, we’ll have to cancel the barn cleanup day. We already had a big sign-up, and lots of people volunteered. How do I tell everyone I screwed up and lost our event site?”

  His arm slides around my shoulders, tugging me closer before he speaks in a low voice. “Stop worrying, Riley. We didn’t lose anything yet.”

  Breathing in his Owen-scent, I’m sucked into a time warp. He smells like a memory I don’t want to forget: the PB&J sandwiches we shared for lunch in elementary school, the grass in the field where we played tag for hours, and the crisp, sea-breeze shampoo he’s used for years.

  I draw in a long breath before shifting away and reaching for my backpack. “Thanks, Owen. Really, I’ll handle this myself.”

  “But you don’t have to. That’s why we formed a committee.” He pulls a remote key from his pocket. “I need to grab my baseball gear before we head inside.”

  After he hurries back to his Jeep, I set my shoulders and wipe the dampness from my eyes. So many people are invested in this prom, and I can’t handle the idea of disappointing them. I stare at Owen, the person I want to disappoint least of all, even if he’s going to the dance with someone else. From behind me, a shadow slides into view, extending over the asphalt.

  “What’s going on, Riley?” It’s Hunter. Sunlight catches her hazel eyes as they shift between me and Owen. “Are you two keeping secrets from the rest of us?”

  I swallow hard. “What are you talking about?”

  She jerks her chin toward Owen’s Jeep. “Why are you meeting Catherine’s boyfriend alone, before school?”

  “Because of Morp, I m-mean prom,” I stammer. “We’re on the committee together.”

  Hunter folds her arms over her chest. “So am I. And so’s Catherine.”

  All of a sudden, my cheeks feel intensely warm. “Owen’s my friend. We’ve known each other since kindergarten, and there’s nothing going on between us.”

  “Hmmm.” Hunter drags her eyes from my face to my worn canvas sneakers, then back. “I never said I thought anything was going on between you. Why would I think that?”

  “Because you’re Catherine’s friend and you found her boyfriend alone with another girl. But it’s not what you think. Not at all.” I throw my head back and fake a laugh. “Owen and me. Like that’d ever happen.”

  She dips her chin, nodding in agreement. “I’m sure it wouldn’t. You don’t seem like the type to go after other people’s boyfriends. But you’re right, Catherine’s my friend, so I had to ask.”

  When she ambles away, I duck behind the dumpster, doing my best to ignore the smell of garbage while I wait for my heart to stop pounding.

  After school, I strap on my headset and switch on my computer, ready for a quick round of virtual monster-eradication, my favorite way of avoiding my real-world problems. Before ESG pulls her sword from its sheath, a message notification scrolls over the top of the screen.

  HOL: Working two extra shifts this week. I’ll give you money for prom on Friday.

  ESG: I asked Mrs. Cleary for an extension, and she said yes. Barn cleaning to go on as scheduled.

  In the meantime, I need to press forward. Between Owen’s money and a few small contributions Catherine rounded up this week, we can give Mrs. Cleary what she wants by Friday. Food options are next up on the Project Morp agenda. During my study period, I’d scanned the collection of menus Jane stuffed in the prom committee mailbox. The only caterer in our price range is Ray’s Smokin’ BBQ. I return to Q-Chat and type a new message for Owen. Although Jessa won’t be happy, I need to make a decision about the menu soon, before Ray is booked. I doubt denim and plaid would fit in with Jessa’s suggested color scheme, but at least a barbecue goes with the barn theme.

  ESG: Morp menu to include hot dogs and hamburgers. Opinion? Yes/no/maybe?

  HOL: No one eats at a Morp.

  ESG: Jane says we need food. I suggest eating in reverse order. Dessert first, then barbecue. Sound good?

  HOL: Can we have ice cream?

  ESG: And party hats? We’re not ten.

  HOL: I like ice cream.

  ESG: What if it melts on your tux?

  HOL: U can lick it off.

  Heat blasts through my body, like a rocket took off inside my toes and shot up into my chest, sending my heartbeat into hyperdrive.

  ESG: Last time I checked, that wasn’t part of my job description.

  On the screen, HOL sticks his tongue out. I’m still laughing when I exit the game, email Barbecue Ray, and ask if he’s available.

  …

  “We’re good now, right?” Owen hands me a wad of bills on Friday afternoon before heading to baseball practice.

  I count the bills and stuff them in an envelope, then secure everything in my purse and zip it shut. “We’re a little short, but I’ll talk to Mrs. Cleary. Once we start selling tickets, we’ll give her the rest.”

  “I can go with you. Help explain the situation.”

  “Explain what? ‘I’m sorry about losing the deposit money, but you should still trust me to come up with everything we owe?’” I sigh. “Now I know why people turn to a life of crime.”

  Laughing, Owen throws his hands in the air like he’s about to be placed under arrest. “C’mon, Riley. It’s not like we’ll end up in jail over prom. But I could use some extra cash…” He lunges forward, playfully grabbing for my purse. I stumble back, screeching, and ram my shoulder into a doorway.

  “Hey, I was joking. Are you okay?” He wraps his fingers around my upper arm, pulling me away from a metal hinge.

  “I’m fine.” I glance up and down the hallway. Thankfully, it’s empty. “But I don’t think we should be seen together like this.”

  He lifts his baseball cap and runs a hand through his flattened hair, which pops right back into its usual spiky-messy position. “Why not? We’ve known each other forever.”

  “Not everyone understands our friendship. I don’t want someone to pass along the wrong message to Catherine.” Because I really need her to come through with another sponsor. Or two. Two more would be nice.

  “Why would she care?” Owen asks slowly. “I talk to girls all the time. She talks to boys all the time. She even kissed Gordon Robertson in the play last year. She said he tasted like apple cider donuts.”

  Owen doesn’t get it. Did he really forget what went down between me and Catherine? I don’t know if they ever specifically discussed what happened in middle school, but he was the one who found me after I ran from the cafeteria the day she gave away my seat at the lunch table. He saw the shock on my face and the tears I tried so hard to hide.

  Keeping my hands tucked in the back pockets of my jeans, I press up on my toes and speak in a low voice. “Hunter spotted us alone together in the parking lot before school. She wanted to know why we were meeting alone. Just the two of us—without the rest of the committee. I tried to set her straight before she misread the situation.”

  Owen freezes. I watch the fear drop into his eyes. “Oh. Shit.”

  “Please, just…deal with your girlfriend if she asks about it. And remind her, without the extra sponsorships, she’ll never be crowned Queen of the Prom.”

  I’m halfway through a season-long binge watch of a new Netflix show when Jane calls and invites me to a party at Jeremy Davis’s house. “You need to have fun, Riley. You’re too stressed about this prom stuff.”

  But Owen might be there, and if he’s with Catherine, the night will definitely not be fun. I hate watching them at parties, where they’re more likely to let loose and pack on the PDA, showing the world they’re totally into each other. Thou
gh if Owen’s occupied with his girlfriend, he’ll be too busy to pester me about Project Morp. Which means Hunter won’t be suspicious. “I guess I could go out. Pick me up in an hour?”

  Rather than wear the stretchy black pants and T-shirt I put on for school, I change into a nicer outfit. Nothing too dressy—a loose skirt and a sleeveless purple top. I’m in charge of the prom committee, a leader of something big. For once, I deserve to look the part of a semi-popular kid who’s not trying too hard to impress anyone.

  I check my weather app and decide to bring a sweater along. Standing in a cold, dark backyard, pretending to like beer just plain sucks, but I’m counting on Jane to make the night fun. I slide my feet into sandals and dab on plum-colored eyeshadow to dramatically contrast the green in my hazel eyes, which never seem to shimmer like Hunter’s. My eye color is closer to a muddy greenish-brown or drab olive. I run a brush through my hair, pulling out some of the knots, before texting my parents, who left an hour ago to shoot a wedding in downtown Cincinnati.

  Driving to the party, Jane is a fountain of advice about prom fund-raising possibilities—and centerpieces, of all things.

  “We need flowers,” she insists.

  “Be happy that we have tables and chairs,” I say with a snort.

  “How about candles? Flameless or regular?”

  “What’s cheaper?” I ask. “That’s my pick.”

  Jeremy’s house backs up to an open field, and his closest neighbors are a quarter mile away. In other words, Party Central. A keg sits in a tub of ice in the middle of the stone patio. According to Jane, who tends to get invited to more parties through her student council friends, the crowd is small for a Friday night. Most of the guys are stationed in the backyard, tossing a glow-in-the dark frisbee. The girls are huddled in lounge chairs, gathered around a crackling fire pit. When Jane and I join them, their chatter trails off. I run my hand over my hair and tug my skirt down another inch, second-guessing my decision to dress up. Everyone, even Jane, seems to be wearing jeans.

  “I brought Riley, your senior prom committee chairwoman,” Jane announces. “And she needs a beer.”