Rather than his usual uniform sporting R2D2 or Luke Skywalker, he’s wearing an over large sweater vest and pants way too short for his height. As I’m assessing his wardrobe, my eyes land on Austin Macintosh, a pretty boy.
Good looks and talent on the basketball court don’t hurt his popularity with the ladies either. Hopefully, he’ll ask me to prom. I mean, it’s only natural for the starting point guard to ask out the soloist of the year, right? Deciding to be bold, I wink at him and notice a faint blush stain his cheeks and his eyes shift downward in nervousness. When he looks up he lifts his hand in a friendly wave and winks. Yes!
“Amanda Lewis!”
I hear my name. Why do I hear my name? Turning, I see Preston staring at me, and the entire audience seems to be waiting in suspense.
“What?” I ask in hushed tones.
The girl next to me tells me Preston had asked me to approach the front. Strange, but maybe I won an award? Without further hesitation, I walk up and smile brightly as people clap. The temptation to wave again is overwhelming, and I succumb, beaming as I receive another round of applause. Wow, I could get use to this kind of attention. Finally I reach Preston, but there’s no trophy. Bummer.
He grabs for my hand, and before I can pull it away, it’s already stuck in his grasp. He’s rubbing my thumb. This is awkward. “Will you go to prom with me?”
He’s kidding. I’m getting pranked. This can’t be real. Is this Candid Camera? Looking around, I notice that everyone in the audience is dead silent. Even my friends in the choir are sitting there with their mouths gaping open. This is social suicide.
As I take the microphone out of his hands, I feel the collective hush of people holding their breath. Somehow I manage to press on as gracefully as possible. “Wow, that’s so sweet to offer,” I say cheerfully. I see my mom has turned the video camera back on. We’ll have words later.
“But,” I say unsure, “I already promised I’d go with my cousin. Maybe if you had asked sooner…” This is my peace offering, a pathetic one.
“Prom’s in two months,” Preston replies, defeated.
“I know,” I say quickly. “But I wanted to get an early start. So sorry, Preston.”
He grabs the microphone and tries to smile. “It’s okay. You’re right. I should have asked sooner. Hey, let’s give another round of applause to the soloist of the night!” He backs up and claps for me, but I can see tears in his eyes. Humiliation, and it’s all my fault.
All I want right now is for the floor to swallow me alive. That isn’t an option, however, so I wave with little enthusiasm and find my seat.
A girl next to me nudges my knee. “That was close, huh?” Her eyes are laughing, like she’s making a joke, but I just want to cry. How cruel can a person be? People around me are muttering words like, ouch, harsh, bummer, and I fight the tears threatening to stream down my face. My throat constricts with a sudden onslaught of emotion as I watch Preston slowly move back to his seat and hang his head in his hands. I silently pray for him to lift his head and look in my direction. Instead all I see a single tear slide down his cheek then nausea overwhelms me. I just shot Bambi, and the worst part is, I can’t seem to find the strength to get up, walk over to his seat, and apologize.
About the Author
Rachel Van Dyken is a Graduate of Northwest Nazarene University, with a degree in Social Sciences with an emphasis industrial psychology and a minor in Spanish. She is also a Post Graduate of California Coast University receiving a MBA with an emphasis in Human Resource Management. She resides in Nampa, Idaho and counsels children. Starbucks is a daily must, spiders make her scream, and she loves chocolate but is allergic, of course. Nate, her husband makes her laugh so hard she cries and they share their home with a very loud snoring boxer named Sir Winston Churchill.
Astraea Press
Where Fiction Meets Virtue
www.astraeapress.com
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