We Were Promised Spotlights

by Lindsay Sproul

  Corvis, who was DJing, tried to play Counting Crows, Phish, Goo Goo Dolls, and Guster, but the drunker my classmates got, the more they wanted her to play rap. She reluctantly switched to Eminem, Dr. Dre, and the Notorious B.I.G., and as I weaved through the grinding bodies of my classmates—many of them making out right there on the dance floor—I wondered for a moment why a bunch of kids wanted to dry hump in public.

  After a while, the music stopped abruptly, and I heard the murmur of over a hundred voices; everyone was anxious to see who would be voted king and queen. My classmates pulled themselves apart and turned to face the stage.

  Miss Donovan tapped the mic. There was a horrible screech when she turned it on. She held it too close to her mouth, so her voice was painfully loud.

  The crowns were illuminated on the folding table in the center of the stage, covered in the same paper we used for the red carpet.

  Miss Donovan announced the court members, boys first, and Brad’s name was called. He walked up and smiled tightly as Miss Donovan put the paper sash on him.

  I watched Miss Donovan’s mouth when she said that Scottie was voted prom king, and saw the lipstick on her teeth.

  Scottie untangled himself from Heather and ran onstage, pumping his fist. The crowd cheered. Some people whistled. I wondered where they’d learned to whistle so loudly.

  Then, Miss Donovan called Heather’s name for court, then Susan’s.

  Last, Miss Donovan called my name for queen.

  I got up onstage and stood there for a moment, looking at the rest of my grade, all in shiny evening wear. I was the only girl not in a dress.

  Streamers drooped from the ceiling, reminding me of the inside of a car wash. The room smelled of alcohol and sweat, mixed with cheap perfume and hair spray. Even with the sparkly clothing, butterfly clips, dangling earrings, and tuxedos, this was clearly still a gym.

  Honestly, school dances always smelled exactly like PE. The only difference was a false sense of excitement and the addition of vodka on everyone’s breath.

  I felt bad for my classmates. I mean, I just didn’t understand why they needed to keep me on top so badly. There was no point anymore.

  I grabbed the mic from Miss Donovan, even though you weren’t supposed to make a speech.

  “Congratulations, you fuckasses!” I shouted. I felt dizzy and weak, and the crowd in front of me wavered under the lights. I couldn’t see individual faces, just a bunch of made-up eyes and glitter.

  Everyone stared at me in silence. I’d had way too much raspberry vodka. My lips were moving, but I couldn’t control them.

  “You have your first gay prom queen,” I said.

  There was some chatter, people looking at each other, waiting for me to keep going. Miss Donovan reached for the mic, but I held on to it.

  “I’m leaving this fucking town,” I said. “I’m going to California. My dad is a movie star. Johnny Moon? Maybe you’ve heard of him? He’s my dad, and he’s taking me away. I’m never coming back.”

  Johnny Moon had only invited me for a visit, but I’d be so lovable, I thought, that he’d let me move in with him.

  There were gasps all around. More chatter. I couldn’t tell if my classmates thought I was delusional or if they believed me, or both.

  I spotted Mike O’Malley in the crowd—the kid I’d left on the dance floor back in middle school.

  “By the way,” I said into the mic, “Mike O’Malley doesn’t smell like cheese puffs, so you can all stop calling him Cheese Puff Boy. I just didn’t want to dance with him because I’m a dyke. He’s actually really nice, and he smells fine.”

  Miss Donovan tried for the mic again, but I gripped it with all the strength I had. Everyone was still staring at me, waiting.

  “Susan!” I shouted. I turned to her—she stood on the side of the stage, next to Heather.

  “Taylor,” Miss Donovan hissed at me.

  “Susan, I love you!”

  Susan looked horrified. She shook her head, reached for Brad’s hand. My stomach went sour. Susan didn’t need to go to California. She had what she wanted right here in Hopuonk.

  “I love you, Susan!” I cried desperately anyway.

  Someone finally dragged me off the stage.

  Corvis, at the DJ station, locked eyes with me. I thought I saw a hint of pride in her expression. To dissipate the tension, she blasted “Girls” by the Beastie Boys.

  The music blared, and I ran away as fast as I could. I tripped on the staircase leading out of the gym, but I kept going until I was in the parking lot.

  I sat down, which hurt.

  I was going to need another round of herpes-suppression pills. I was going to have to go back to the doctor who had given me birth control—the same doctor who gave me the prescription the first time—and she was going to inspect my body all over again.

  I could still hear the music inside the building. It sounded too hopeful, which made me even more depressed.

  The Spotlight

  I was still sitting outside in the parking lot when Heather came out and sat next to me.

  “Go ahead,” I said, pulling a cigarette from my pocket. One great thing about suits were pockets. “Make fun of me.”

  Heather had on a white dress that looked like it was meant more for a wedding than a prom.

  “Nah,” she said. “I’m sick of that.” She took a flask out of her bra, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to me.

  I took a sip, and whatever it was burned bad on the way down.

  “So you’re actually saying your dad is Johnny Moon.”

  “Yes,” I said. “My dad is Johnny Moon.”

  “You’re shitting me,” she said, shoving my leg with hers.

  I sighed. “Nope.”

  I pulled the plane ticket out of my pocket—it was the only thing in there besides a pack of Sandra’s cigarettes. I handed it over.

  “See?” I said. “He sent that to me.”

  Heather leaned back against Bridget Murphy’s rusty Bronco—the closest car—holding the plane ticket up to her face. She handed it back.

  “Wow,” she said. “You probably have about seven million half-siblings running around.”

  I shot her a look. I hadn’t thought of that, but I knew she could be right.

  “Think about it,” she said. “I’m just being honest. And there’s something else I need to be honest about.”

  I waited for a long time for her to say something, and when she didn’t, I lit my cigarette.

  “Spit it out, Flynn,” I said.

  “I would totally make out with you,” she said.

  “You’re drunk,” I said.

  “No . . . I mean, yeah. I am. But I’ve always thought you were, like . . . I don’t know. I don’t want to like you, because you’re prettier than me . . . but there’s something that’s just kind of magical about you, like you aren’t real.”

  “I’m not magical,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “You are. And I’ve tried to stay away from you, but I can’t. And I get it. I know I’m just another person out of about seven billion other people who say this to you all the time.”

  “Say what—that they would make out with me?”

  “No, that they like you. Because I do. I think I like you. I like you.”

  “What?”

  This was the last thing I ever expected Heather to say to me.

  She looked down, her shoulders slumping over. She wouldn’t look at me. Instead, she started chewing her nails, which, normally, she was morally opposed to. She slipped her feet out of her heels and, with her toes, pinched a few blades of grass that were growing out of the asphalt.

  Images of Heather flashed through my head: Her in the air, getting basket-tossed at halftime, her spirit fingers stained with nicotine. Heather dressed as a dead beauty queen on Halloween in
fifth grade, wearing wax-candy lips. Heather when she didn’t have time to put on makeup before work, when you could still see her freckles.

  I reached over and touched the tulle of her dress, pressing down until I could feel her leg.

  Heather pushed me away and waved her hand dismissively.

  “It’s fine,” she said. “I know you’re in love with Susan and not with me. I don’t know what crushes even are anyway, but everyone says they’re not real.”

  “A crush is a person who you always want around,” I said, “and when you see them, your stomach does a flip, and their eyelashes kind of make you want to cry.”

  “What I don’t understand is,” Heather said, “why Susan?”

  I didn’t say anything. I just drank more from the flask, and then I passed it to Heather.

  She took a long sip.

  “I used to think . . .” I stopped. “I guess I just . . . don’t really know anymore.”

  “She’s not good enough for you, Taylor,” Heather said.

  When I thought about it, Susan had never been interested in me as an actual person. She wasn’t even someone I could talk to. Suddenly, nothing made sense.

  “Let’s drink it all,” I said. “I want to be sick.”

  “So do I.”

  We did drink it all, and we waited to be sick but weren’t.

  Finally, Heather felt a little sick.

  “Where’s your car?” she asked me. “I need to lie down. It’s all spinny.”

  I pointed, and Heather walked over, weak-legged as a colt, opened the door, and sprawled herself across the back seat. I climbed in after her. We barely fit, and our faces were only an inch apart.

  “Prove it,” I said, probably a little too loudly.

  “Prove what?”

  “That you would make out with me.”

  Heather sighed and pressed her face into the door handle.

  “I can’t,” she finally said.

  “Why not?”

  “It’ll either make me fall in love with you and then you’ll leave, or it’ll make me realize I’m just experimenting and then you’ll get hurt. And you’ll still leave.”

  “Heather,” I said. “Didn’t you see what I did in there? I can’t stay here now.”

  “Well,” she said. “Your plan worked out.”

  “I guess so.”

  “I’m not, like, gay,” she said, trying to clarify. “This is just a weird stage or something. Don’t we all go through stages like this?”

  I thought of Heather’s entire demeanor, the way she wanted us to think she breathed sex and power. She had a perfectly curated character she presented to everyone, and she executed it well.

  We all had secrets. We did our best to keep our own, and to keep each other’s.

  “Come with me to California. I’m pretty sure I can convince Johnny Moon to let me stay with him, and you can live with us,” I said. “You don’t really want to stay here. What do you actually want to be?”

  Heather sighed.

  “Fuck if I know,” she said. A few moments passed, and then she said, “I want to be a makeup artist. Like, for famous people and models, okay?”

  I felt brave, so I took Heather’s hand and squeezed it, then kept it. She didn’t take it away.

  “You can be,” I said.

  “Yeah, right,” Heather said. This close, I could see a small freckle on her ear, and the scar from a cartilage piercing that was now closed-up.

  The streetlight shone directly on us, like a spotlight.

  “You’re going to get a shit ton of money,” she said. “Your life will be so fancy.”

  “I’ll buy you a pony,” I said. I was still holding her hand.

  “Taylor?” Heather turned to face me. Our noses almost touched.

  “Yeah?”

  “Not that this isn’t something you don’t already know,” she said, “or that it even matters, but Susan isn’t smart. In fact, she’s kind of an idiot. You need to forget about her.”

  Heather’s breath smelled like alcohol and peppermint Altoids. She kept a tin of them with her at all times.

  “I have herpes,” I said.

  “Well,” Heather said, smirking. “Now I’m definitely not making out with you.”

  “It’s on my you-know-what, not my lips.”

  “Not convincing, Garland.”

  It felt good, telling someone about the disease I had. Since it was Heather, that meant everyone else in Hopuonk would know soon too. Surely, once the whole town found out, that information would mean that my reign was over—if I hadn’t already ended it at prom.

  “I am going to California,” I said. “All this time, I didn’t really believe it. The weirdest part is that even though he sent me a letter, I’ve never even spoken to him.”

  “I always knew you would go somewhere else,” she said.

  “How?”

  “This place is too small, and everyone expects too much. They can’t help it. It’s how they’re wired.”

  “If I can’t be here, which I can’t, then why am I scared to go?”

  “How could you not be?”

  “Why do I feel so guilty?”

  “You have to go,” she said. Miraculously, she put her arm around me. “You’d make a terrible dental hygienist.”

  “Heather?” I turned and pressed my nose into her neck. It smelled like Clinique Happy and sweat.

  “What?”

  “I really love you,” I said. I realized this only as I was saying it, but I meant it in a different way than I did when I’d said it to Susan. Heather was someone I respected. She was strong.

  “You’re a dildo,” she said.

  I felt like we were floating, like my Volvo was a submarine and the parking lot was the ocean. Heather fell asleep, and I listened to the sound of her small, shallow breaths. Her body relaxed into me. Her hand, still in mine, twitched. I didn’t move.

  Through the window, the moon looked like a coffee stain in the sky.

  The Shrinking

  A few days after prom, I got a phone call from Veronica Michaels, Johnny Moon’s assistant. I sat at the kitchen table squinting at the empty notebook in front of me, which I was trying to fill with an essay about Gulliver’s Travels.

  “It’s for you,” Sandra said, handing me the phone. I hadn’t heard it ring—I’d been daydreaming about changing sizes, changing personas.

  I looked at the paper in front of me and saw doodles of starfish and octopi surrounded by hearts, which I hadn’t been conscious of drawing.

  I took the phone from Sandra.

  As Veronica Michaels explained to me that Johnny Moon wanted to visit Hopuonk the following week for a photo shoot of us in Vanity Fair, I looked around the kitchen and noticed how shitty my house was. The windows let in cold air, the countertops were water-damaged and lumpy, and the refrigerator gasped like it was exhausted from running a marathon. I didn’t want him to see this house, even if he did buy it.

  “He’ll be flying from Vancouver on his two days off, which are Tuesday and Wednesday,” Veronica explained, “and they’d like to shoot you both on Humming Rock Beach, and several other locations around town, for a reunion piece on the two of you. They’ll also want to interview you beforehand. It’ll be great publicity.”

  “But,” I said, playing with my pencil, “we haven’t even reunited yet.”

  “It’ll be wonderful!” said Veronica, ignoring my comment. “He’s so looking forward to meeting you. He doesn’t want to wait until June.”

  My heart started pounding a little, and I thought of my secret plan to convince him to let me move in with him. I needed more time to figure out how to make myself more charming than I was, more like a daughter someone as famous as Johnny Moon would want to keep.

  I looked down at the plane ticket, which sat in f
ront of me on the table. I still had to wait until after graduation to use it.

  When I was little, maybe three or four, Sandra used to take me to Logan Airport for lunch, to watch the planes take off while we ate.

  We sat by the window, and while I took bites of a burger that was too big for my mouth, she would say, “That one could be going to London, or Florida, or California.”

  I realized now that it was a weird thing to do, to take your kid to the airport for lunch, then drive home.

  At first, I didn’t understand that people went on the airplanes— I thought they were just big metal toys. One day, though, I saw people waiting in a line outside, to board a particularly small plane—one that was too small to board from the terminal. I realized that the planes were full of people, that they were not toys but vessels that brought people from one place to another. This was terrifying to me.

  I watched the tiny plane take off, my hamburger uneaten on the paper plate in front of me. Just like the others, the plane got tinier and tinier, until it was invisible.

  Sandra noticed the look on my face—pure fear—the expression I’ve seen on children’s faces, or even my friends’ faces, when they finally get around to understanding something new.

  “What’s wrong, honey?”

  I looked at her. Then I pointed to a line of people waiting to board another plane.

  “Those people—is this when they shrink?” I asked Sandra.

  That fear I felt back then, when I watched those people shrinking into the sky, was how I felt right now as I listened to Veronica rattle off a bunch of logistics: Where Johnny Moon would be staying—a hotel in Boston, because Hopuonk only had one motel and it was dingy, though she didn’t say that. The name of his agent. The kinds of questions the Vanity Fair reporter would be asking me. She didn’t ask me if I had a biology final on that Wednesday, which I did, not that I cared.

  “But we haven’t even met,” I said. I wanted to ask if I could talk to him. I wanted to know when he would start loving me. If he would start loving me.