“Miss Hannigan, you have three seconds to get off school property or I will direct this officer to escort you. We will then press charges.”
“That’s it!” Ma shoved me to the side. “All right, you weasel. I’ve had a hard day. Shut your yap and listen.”
The crowd behind us went silent. Kids at Carceras can smell a good fight for miles.
“Madam, can I help you?”
Ma bellied up to Gilroy, got right in his face and let it fly. All those years of watching Court TV were not a waste. She told him we were to look for a frail, dying Alzheimer’s patient, that the police were on the way, and he was standing in the way of us saving her life.
The crowd started whispering.
Then she told him that he had been a creep when he was her Social Studies teacher back in 1988 and he was still a creep today, only now he was pathetic and twisted, too.
The crowd giggled.
Ma said that our lawyer was filing a lawsuit against Gilroy, Banks, the superintendent, and the school board for singling me out for cruel and unusual punishment. That she was going to see him fired and yank his pension. If she had her way, he’d be pumping gas by Christmas.
The crowd broke into applause. I almost did, too, but she shot me a warning look.
“Now.” She whipped out her extra-long Ma finger and shook it in his face. “You are getting the hell out of our way, and we are going inside.”
Gilroy stepped to the side.
A car screeched to the curb, the driver leaning on the horn. Everybody turned around to look.
“Oh, crap,” Ma said.
It was Dad’s taxicab. He leaned out the window and waved at us. “We found her!!”
Grandma Shulmensky leaned over, waved a can of ravioli, and blew kisses with her free hand.
“A touching family reunion,” Gilroy said. “Anything else you’d like to say, Mrs. Hannigan?”
144.
That’s when we should have left. Grandma was safe. We’d explain everything to Nat and her dad. If we were lucky, we’d figure out a way not to get sued by Gilroy for public humiliation and slander. I’d kiss and apologize at every red light and do other things with TJ to get him to forgive me. We still had the Caddy and I still looked fine. We could drive east to Atlantic City and sit on the beach until the sun came up, me still wearing my beautiful, strange gown.
Conversation started up again and the music in the gym got loud enough for us to hear at the door. The show was over; folks wanted in. The crowd behind us pushed forward, and the security guard started checking their tickets and letting them step around us and pass through the metal detectors.
The old Ashley, the normal me, would have walked away. Well, limped away, listening to Ma complain, helping her into the car, putting up with TJ sticking his tongue down my throat while my parents argued, and keeping Grandma out of trouble.
“Are you okay?” Ma asked. “You look kinda funny. Your stomach acting up? I’ll make you toast when we get home.’”
145.
Once upon a time there was a girl who decided to make it happen.
146.
“I’m going in,” I said.
“What?” Ma squinted and leaned forward. “What did you say?”
“I’m going in. I want to dance with my friends.”
“What about TJ?”
“TJ who?”
She stared for second. The crowd pushed forward again and blocked Gilroy’s view of us.
“You can’t go in there,” Ma hissed. “Gilroy wants to arrest you. Me, too, probably.”
“Seriously, Ma, I’m going in.”
She pried my right eyelid all the way open and stared at my eyeball. “Are you high? Dammit, Ashley, if you got high with TJ, so help me God—”
I stroked her cheek once and put my finger on her lips. “Straight as an arrow, Ma, listen. You always wanted to see me at the prom, right?”
“Been dreaming about it since you were born.”
“Here’s your chance. Plus, you get to use your acting skills in front of a huge audience. I need a distraction. You know. . . . ” I waved at her belly.
She put her hands on her back and stretched a little. “You really want me to do this? You won’t be embarrassed?”
“I didn’t say that. Just make a distraction.”
She sighed. “Lord knows I’m good at that. All right. Work your way over there to the left and hide the box of you-know-whats. The things we do for our children, I swear. . . . ”
I kissed her forehead. “Thanks, Ma. You’re the best.”
She let out a groan. Then a louder groan. She clutched the guy in a hipster tux next to her. He backed off like she had smallpox, but Big Mike Whelan (looking very sharp in a bow tie) stepped forward and caught Ma as she fell towards him. Ma turned the groan up to a wail.
“The baby’s coming!”
I let the security guards and Gilroy rush by me, then slipped behind a group of girls wearing saris. I turned around just before I snuck in the door. Ma had Gilroy in a hammer-lock and was shrieking in his ear.
“The head! Mother Mary, have mercy! I can feel the head!”
She winked at me and I took off.
Hollywood lost a great one when my ma decided to drive a bus.
147.
No way. That is not the gym. Not our gym.
It was a miracle; Nat’s crazy pink notebook come to life. The bleachers, the basketball nets, the BEHAVIOR AND CONSEQUENCES poster—they had disappeared in the dark. The sky was filled with twinkling white stars, the walls covered with waves of purple and silver. There were rows of round tables (with white tablecloths!) and chairs to my right and to my left. The refreshment tables were along the back wall, with the English teachers, stars in their eyes, standing behind it. And in the spotlight at the center of the gym was the dance floor, with speakers at the corners and the DJ cuing up music at the back.
I looked behind me. No guards. No Gilroy.
I picked up my skirts and mingled with the crowd.
Nat must have rented a couple hundred out-of-work celebrities, because none of the people sitting, walking, leaning over to fix a corsage, flirting, smiling, sipping orange soda out of a plastic cup—none of those people looked like they went to school with me. They were dreams in suits and tuxedos, visions in silk and chiffon and lace. Skin glowed in the light from the candles and the stars, teeth sparkled, rhinestones turned into diamonds, and everybody was in love.
Monica was the first person to see me.
“You’re here!” she screamed. “You’re here! I got down to one thirty-nine and my dress fits! I’m so happy. Isn’t this awesome?”
“Look at you,” I said. Monica, who normally wore her shorts too short, shirts too tight, and earrings ghetto-big was gorgeous in a peach-colored gown that clung to her best assets—boobs and waist—and skimmed over the rest like it didn’t matter. Her hair was long and curly. I had never seen it out of a ponytail before.
“You like it?” she asked.
“You’re rocking the whole house in that thing,” I said.
She grinned and nodded. “Yeah, I know.” She touched her pearl earrings. “These were my mom’s.”
I swallowed hard, blinked away my tears and gave her another hug. “Gorgeous.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” she said, fanning her face. “I had to put on fresh mascara two times already. Damn earrings always make me cry. Come on!”
She grabbed my hand and dragged me through the crowd to a table in the back corner. The entire prom comm was there looking like beautiful flowers, the kind you see in expensive vases in hotel lobbies. When they saw me, there was screaming, hugging, jumping up and down, and a final round of screaming. I looked around, worried that Gilroy and his goons were going to notice the commotion and drag me away, but groups of girls were doing the exact same thing all over the gym while their dates stood back and watched.
“Look at that dress!” Lauren said.
“Where did you get it?” Juni
e asked.
Aisha tilted her head like she was doing mental math. “Where did you get the money for it?”
I explained that a neighbor sewed it for me. My cheeks hurt from grinning so much.
When they got done staring at me, they took turns showing off. I barely recognized any of them.
Lauren’s dress looked like a layer of gold skin poured over her. Aisha had on a short gray dress that sparkled in a million directions every time she moved. Junie had on an old-school prom gown: light blue satin, fitted bodice with spaghetti straps and a floor-length skirt plumped up by thick layers of netting. Lauren’s hair was pulled back in a sleek bun, Aisha’s was braided with thin silver ribbon, and Junie’s was crimped and oiled. I checked Junie’s left hand but she wasn’t sporting a diamond so I didn’t say anything about Charles.
The DJ started playing background music, not fast or loud enough to dance to. Around the gym, heads started bobbing, hips swaying back and forth.
“Here comes Nat!” shouted Junie.
Mr. Shulmensky rolled Nattie over to us. The whole screaming, hugging, jumping thing happened again, except that Nat couldn’t jump; she could only hop on her butt in her wheelchair. Mr. S. joined the English teachers at the cake table. Nattie’s eyes looked a little crossed. For sure she took that second pain pill.
We pushed Nat to the closest table and all sat down. I put the cardboard box under my chair. They fired a million questions at me about my dress and my foot (the slippers did stick out a little), and how I got in.
Finally Monica looked around and asked, “Where’s TJ?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care.”
Nat pumped her fist in the air. “Yes! She sees the light—woo-hoo!”
The DJ grabbed the mike.
“Are you ready to party?” he shouted.
Everybody rushed the dance floor. Charles, Ramon, and Jamel came to escort their ladies. The first beats out of the speakers were so loud they blew the hair out of my face.
A guy who looked like he could be an underwear model, with toffee-colored skin and hot fudge eyes, asked me to dance.
“She doesn’t dance,” Nat shouted. Monica pointed to my slippers. “She hurt her foot.”
I stood up, laid my hand on the very solid arm of the mysterious, gorgeous hottie. “Oh, no, I feel great. Let’s go.”
I danced. I really, really danced.
148.
After playing six of my favorite songs in a row, the DJ shifted from dance music to screaming thrash crap. My hottie was snagged by a girl whose dress was cut so low she was showing nipple. I couldn’t compete with that, so I limped off for something to drink. I waited in line, checking over my shoulder for Gilroy, got two cups of punch, and hurried back to our table.
Nat and I leaned our heads together and I gave her the whole story about how I wound up with the dress and how I snuck in. She cracked up when I told her that Grandma was the magic seamstress.
“That totally explains why she kept trying to fatten you up,” Nat laughed. “She kept saying your butt needed to be bigger and that I needed to make you eat ice cream.” She laughed again. “You are the only girl here who needed to gain weight for the prom.”
“I wish she would have told me,” I said. “I would have eaten more muffins.”
The music was slow now and a little sucky, to be honest, but that gave us a chance to sit back and check out the rest of our class.
Most of the girls looked great, but when I looked closely I realized there were some skanks mixed in, dressed like rejects from a Britney Spears video. Everybody had kicked off their high heels. The basketball team was wearing shimmering halter dresses that showed off the muscles in their backs. A couple girls were wearing dresses that looked like they cost a thousand bucks. Others were definitely dressed à la Wal-Mart, but they were smiling just the same and looking every bit as pretty. The goth girls had matching protest flowers, droopy dandelions tucked into black rubber bands around their wrists. Their dresses looked like they were stolen out of a graveyard, but they matched their boots, so it was all good.
The men of Carceras really came through for their dates, got to give them that. Fifty different kinds of tuxedoes, top hats, vests, waistcoats with watch chains, shiny shoes, and sunglasses. Something about a tuxedo, I swear. They all looked respectable, responsible, and hot, with their chins up, their shoulders back, the creases on their pants sharp enough to cut paper. I definitely had to distribute the condoms before midnight.
Nat finished her punch and tapped my shoulder. “Get a load of that one.” She pointed to Persia Faulkner, surrounded by her perfect popular posse, as usual. The rest of Carceras looked good. Persia and her girls looked like honest-to-God rap divas. Their dresses fit better, their jewelry blinged brighter, and their asses jiggled tighter.
“They’ve been drinking Chivas all night,” Nat said. “Only the best for the Queen Bitch.”
“Come on,” I said. “Cut her some slack. She’s not as bad as you think.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m serious. She helped make this happen, you know. She’s been nice to me all week. Watch.”
I got up and worked my way through the crowd to Persia. Nat was right. The whole group reeked of alcohol.
“Hey,” I told her. “You look great.”
The Persia Posse looked me over top to bottom and laughed at my slippers. Some people are so ignorant.
“I love your dress,” I tried.
Persia blinked. “You talkin’ to me?”
“I just wanted to see how the ride turned out for you guys and to say thanks for helping. You know, the tickets and everything. . . .”
“Who are you?” asked one of the Persia wannabes. The rest of them snickered like little dogs.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” I told her.
Persia leaned forward on her heels. “You’re not talking to me neither. Get out my face.”
The little dogs in their rhinestone chokers and press-on nails howled.
I limped back to the table.
“What’d she say?” Nat asked.
“She loves my dress,” I said. “More punch?”
149.
The next two hours flew by. In between dancing with my girls, my guy friends, my friends who were guys, and a couple potential dates I gave my number to, I helped Nat deal with the behind-the-scenes crap.
Everybody who had a problem came to us. Some needed “official” action. Nat called security about the fight in the courtyard and the rumors of scumbags from a rival high school trying to plant smoke bombs in the boys’ room. The little problems were easier: too much orange soda, not enough diet, a cake that wound up on the floor, complaints about the music, girls whose boobs kept popping out of their strapless dresses. We dealt with it all: a few phone calls and five cases of soda were delivered, the custodians cleaned up the cake in a flash, and the girls with the wandering boobs were told to keep their damn arms down—duh. Oh, and I personally yelled at the clueless ho going down on her date behind the bleachers. I mean puh-leeze, have some dignity.
The biggest problem was avoiding Gilroy. The girls let everybody know that he was trying to bust me and ruin my night. It wasn’t that I was popular or anything, but everybody hated Gilroy so much they wanted to piss him off. So I had a couple hundred spies watching my back. I got used to having my arm pulled to drag me out of sight, or a big guy stepping in front of me, or a total stranger throwing her arms around me to hide me from the vice principal of pain and torment.
The English teachers were way more awesome than I thought they’d be. First, they looked fine, for old people who don’t earn much money. They cleaned up real good. Second, they were cool about not interfering with most of what happened on the dance floor and in the dark corners of the room. They let us act like normal teenagers, but didn’t let anybody put on a porn show, know what I mean? In fact, it was that really hot teacher who told me about the ho blowing her boyfriend’s mind und
er the bleachers. He thought it would be better if I broke it up than if he did—not so embarrassing for the girl. I didn’t think anything could embarrass her, but it was sweet of him to think that.
The third cool English teacher thing was, they didn’t narc on me to Gilroy. They didn’t like him any better than we did.
One unplanned teacher showed up; our weird old Math sub. I ran into him when I was taking delivery of the diet soda at the loading dock.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Trying to sneak in,” he said. “I’m not sure how much longer I’ll have a job around here. Gilroy’s a real jerk.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Here, let me give you a hand.” He loaded the soda cases onto the cart for me. “I promised some of your classmates I’d give them my business card. They’re potential clients.”
We pushed the cart towards the gym. “So you’re here to get people thinking about insurance, is that it?”
“Exactly right, Miss Hannigan. You can never be too careful.”
I thought about the cardboard box of you-know-whats hiding under the table. “I have something you could hand out with your card. Trust me, people will remember you. They’ll thank you, too. My generation believes in insurance.”
150.
After I turned over the condoms to the Math sub, I saw Gilroy headed my way. I hurried over to the photography corner to hide. The photographer had set up with his digital camera and big lights, taking pictures of couples for a little cash. I stood behind the background curtain until I got the signal that Gilroy was gone.
The music stopped. “Okay, okay, okay,” the DJ said. “I need everybody to clear the dance floor please, except for, ah,” he checked a piece of paper in front of him, “Charles Fournier and Junie Yoo.”
“Here.” The photographer passed out disposable cameras to me and the other kids standing near him. “I heard this was going to happen. Use these for candid shots. Give them back to me at the end of the night.”
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