by Amy Martin
Chapter 20
Before I met Kieran Lanier, I didn’t care whether or not I ever went to a school dance, much less Prom. But since the night of our mutual birthday, the only thing I’ve wanted as much as walking into the Titusville gym hand in hand with him on Prom night is a State Championship. With the State Championship out of the question until next year, I should be focusing all my energies on Prom.
And I am. I’m focusing on the fact that now, I don’t want to go at all.
For the last two weeks, I’ve been a bundle of nervous energy, but not for the reasons most people would suspect. Every time someone comes up behind me at school, whether that someone is Kieran or somebody else, I jump out of my skin, thinking Frank Dozier’s come back or Morgan Levert’s finally shown up. In the meantime, I’ve had two more dreams, both repeating the familiar pattern—I’m dancing with Kieran, I’m watching everyone around us in the gym, and then the curtain of darkness comes down.
Whenever Kayla and I get a second alone, she assures me I’m just nervous about the dance and we don’t know whether or not Prom night will end in some sort of lights-out horror like something out of a disaster movie. I tell myself she’s right, but I can’t help wanting to end the torture and just skip Prom, locking myself in my house until Frank and Morgan are no longer a threat—whenever that will be. But I’ve got the dress, I’ve got the shoes, I’ve got the purse, and I’ve got a boyfriend who, in spite of whatever danger might be lurking, is so excited to take me to what is, for both of us, our first dance, that I can’t bear to let him down. So I suck it up and start getting ready at about four o’ clock on Saturday, May eighth, instead of calling Kieran and lying about having a raging case of menstrual cramps.
I sit at the dressing table in Mom’s room engaging in some final primping, the giant knot in my stomach dragging my shoulders forward and down. Exhaling a choppy breath through perfectly lined and glossed lips, I force myself to sit up straight, fluffing the curls lying against my collarbone. Fidgeting gives me something to do while Mom searches the jewelry box on her night stand for the earrings she’s sure will be the perfect complement to my ensemble.
“Got ‘em,” she announces, walking over to me with a pair of black beaded things that look like tiny chandeliers. “Lacy Donaldson made these for the store and gave me a free pair. Glad somebody’s finally going to have a chance to wear—”
She stops short, and I’m afraid she’s about to get all blubbery again, just as she did when she was doing my hair, just as she did after I put on my dress and she saw me in it for the first time. I ready myself for another round of “Boo hoo—my baby’s all grown up,” but she surprises me instead with “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” I echo.
“Yeah. You haven’t looked this terrified since that time you got lost in the Murray Farms corn maze when you were seven.”
I brush her off with a wave of my hand, but something inside me pushes things a step further, and the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I’ve got a really bad feeling about tonight,” I tell her.
Mom leans down so she can stare at both of us reflected in the round mirror framing the dressing table. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you watch Carrie so many times,” she says, shaking her head.
Her joke calms me a little, as I guessed whatever she’d say probably would. “I’m not talking bucket-of-pig’s-blood-on-your-head bad feeling,” I explain, rolling my eyes. “And I’m not even up for Prom Queen, so a whole Carrie scene wouldn’t happen anyway. It’s just that…” My voice evaporates because I don’t know how I’d explain what’s really going on even if I could. “Well, this is my first real dance, you know?” I lie without really lying, because I’d be nervous about tonight even without all the convicted felon drama hanging over my head—whether or not I look okay, whether or not I can fake my way through knowing how to dance… “I’m not used to getting all dressed up like this. I feel kind of weird.”
“You look anything but weird. You’re beautiful.”
“Okay, but what if I fall, though?” I ask, determined to sketch out some doomsday scenario for my mom, even if it’s not the one I wish I could share. “I can barely walk in these stupid shoes. I’m probably going to break my ankle and I’ll have to spend the whole summer rehabbing instead of training for next season.”
“You’re not going to break your ankle,” Mom says, her voice somewhere between comforting and condescending. “You fall, you get back up. Or you let Kieran help you get back up. Trust me, once he sees you in this dress, that boy’s going to do whatever you want.” I cock an eyebrow after her last statement, and she quickly adds, “Whatever you want, of course, that doesn’t involve drugs, booze, or any kind of behavior that might make me grandmother at forty.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Mom stands back from the dressing table. “Well, put the earrings on and let’s see how it all looks, shall we?” she commands.
I slide the hooks at the backs of the chandeliers through my lobes, the tiny beads rustling as they swing against my hair, and I stand up, placing my hands on my hips to strike a supermodel pose for Mom’s benefit. “Oh, my God,” she whispers, folding her hands over her chest as she starts to tear up.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Your little baby’s all grown up. Got it.”
“Stop making fun of me. I just can’t believe you’re such a…woman. Next year, you’re going to be leaving for college and it all happened so fast. It was, like, only yesterday you were throwing up strained peas all over your dad and—”
I hold out a hand to stop her before she runs my entire childhood highlight reel. “How about we take the fashion show and nostalgia trip in to Gram and Gramps before you completely melt down. And what time is it anyway?”
“Five minutes ‘til six.”
“We’re supposed to be at the Laniers’ at six,” I huff. “Get your shoes on.”
Mom slips into her Birkenstocks while I grab my purse and teeter down the hall to the living room, still unsteady on my high heels. I do a few awkward pirouettes for my grandparents, who applaud as I twirl, before I shoo everyone out of the house and into the Camaro for the seconds-long trip to the Laniers’, where Brad Wallace’s truck, washed and waxed for the occasion, sits in the driveway behind Kayla’s Jeep.
Kayla and Brad emerge from the shadows on the front porch as I’m making my way up the walk. The two of them could pass for dark-haired Barbie and Ken Super Special Prom dolls, Kayla in her body-hugging midnight blue strapless gown, her hair swept up and gathered into a knot of curls at the back of her head, and Brad in a tuxedo with a midnight blue vest, tie, and pocket square that perfectly match Kayla’s dress. As I get closer, I see a hand grasp Kayla’s bare shoulder, and Kieran steps out from behind her, walking to the edge of the porch and watching me with that grin as I approach. He’s opted—with Kayla’s guidance, no doubt—for a black tie ensemble with a vest instead of a cummerbund, and he’s holding a plastic container with a corsage of emerald-tinted white roses inside. When I stop at the foot of the porch stairs to take him in, he places the flowers on the railing and clutches his hands to his chest, staggering backwards past Kayla as if he’s having a heart attack.
“Oh, whatever,” I yell up at him, any nerves about the dance or other potential disasters miles away at the moment. “Cut it out.”
“I’m serious,” he says, walking forward and down the stairs to me, taking my hands in his. “You’re stunning. I have no words.”
“Well, thank Kayla. My mom, too. They did all of this.”
“They had an amazing canvas to work with,” he whispers in my ear, as my mother and my grandparents lurk a few feet behind us. Kieran turns, linking my arm through his and nodding towards the stairs. “Shall I assist you to the front porch?” he asks, all fake stiff formality.
“Why, how polite of you.”
“Dad’s been giving me chivalry lessons all day since I’m kind of new at this,” he explains as we clim
b the steps to join Kayla and Brad.
“So I guess you’ll be slaying a dragon for me later?”
“Probably. I’ve got a collapsible sword inside my jacket. You’d be surprised how roomy the pockets are in this thing.”
Jim and Carlie come out on the porch and offer compliments on my dress before joining my family down on the front walk. Kieran slips the corsage on my left wrist—I’ve switched the charm bracelet to my right wrist for the occasion—and the picture assault begins: The couples standing together on the front porch steps, the couples each standing alone on the steps, the two girls alone in front of a rose bush at the edge of the house, the two guys alone on the front walk. After every few shots, we all huddle up to view the results, and I’m surprised how relaxed and happy I appear in the photos, any anxiety about the evening apparently buried far below the surface.
“Brad, I’ll email these to your parents,” my mom offers.
“Thanks.” Brad smiles at her, revealing a chipped incisor I remember him getting in a football game against Tusculum his sophomore year when he took such a hard hit his helmet came off. I can’t help but dig an elbow into his ribs, seeing him all dressed up in a way he’s never been, at least not around me. “You clean up real nice, Wallace,” I tease him.
“You, too, McKee. Didn’t think it was possible. I figured you’d show up to Prom in sweats.”
“Don’t think it didn’t cross my mind.”
Kayla checks the time her phone and leans into Brad. “You know, if we don’t get going, we’ll miss the start of dinner,” she points out, so the four of us say our goodbyes to the adults and head for the driveway, our elders calling out commands of “Have fun” and “Be safe” to our backs.
We’d worked out beforehand that Kayla and Brad would drive separately from Kieran and me, so I can bring Kieran home if he’s too worn out and decides not to go to the after-party at the Stanley Farm. Plus, with Kieran and me in a separate car, we get the added perk of having at least a few minutes of alone time as we drive from place to place. Once we’re almost at the Camaro, Kieran races in front of me and opens the driver’s side door. “Your chariot, Miss,” he says, welcoming me to the car with a sweep of his hand.
“Totally unnecessary,” I tell him, practically falling into the seat as I’m not used to sitting down while having to keep my knees together at the same time. I can’t believe some women dress like this on a regular basis.
“It’s bad enough I can’t drive my girlfriend to Prom. The least I can do is open doors for her,” he explains.
He walks to the other side of the Camaro and gets in, and once he’s settled, I warn “You know, a girl could get used to all this special treatment. You might need to keep it up after tonight, I’ll be so spoiled.”
“I’ll spoil you for as long as you want.” He puts a hand on my bare knee. “Trust me—it’s not hard.”
He leans in and gives me a quick kiss, and I resist the urge to take his face in my hands and kiss him over and over right here in the driveway, our families just a few feet away. But since our parents probably don’t want to watch us make out, I pull myself together and start the car, backing down the drive ahead of Brad.
Our Prom night is officially underway, for better or worse.