It's Our Prom (So Deal With It)

by Julie Anne Peters

  Another reason I moved in was I thought I could help out with Owen’s business. I even got my chauffeur’s license and taxi driver’s permit. But not once has he asked me to pick up a client. The most I get to do is wash and wax, then equip the cars with magazines and water bottles, which any moron could do. Occasionally he lets me park the cars in the garage. Whoop-de-doo with a cherry on top.

  Oh, and let’s not forget scooping out cougar chunks.

  It’s not about the money, either. I could give Owen every dime from the fares and he still wouldn’t let me represent his firm by driving an actual customer. It’s me. I disgust him. He hates what I am.

  Dobbs makes a point of yanking the pillow out from under my head on his way out.

  Turd.

  Everyone leaves and I have the bachelor pad to myself. I log on to Facebook IM and she’s there. My pulse races. The only girl in the world who can turn me into butter with a smile. I think I’m in love with her. Take that back. I know I am. I type:

  Sup, Radhika?

  On the way to school Azure prattles on about all the awesome things we could do for prom. My head spins. I can’t process one thought as fast as that girl can talk.

  “I didn’t get to ask Mr. Rosen about meeting times because he was out sick yesterday,” she says, finally taking a breath.

  “Tell me about it. We had Flacco for a sub. Her only life skill is living to a hundred and eighty.” I stick out my tongue in disgust and Azure whaps my thigh. “Flacco actually taught us how to scrub toilets, like I haven’t been doing that since I moved in with Owen. I was seriously considering stabbing a pencil in my eye to get a pass to the nurse.” Azure laughs. Wistfully, I add, “I wish Radhika hadn’t dropped the class.”

  “She dropped it? When?” Azure asks.

  “After the first day.”

  “Why?”

  “Something about it not being approved by her parents as intellectually challenging enough.”

  “It’s only an elective. Can’t she take one class for fun?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Why didn’t she tell me?” Azure says. “She tells me everything.”

  She probably just forgot. Or Azure didn’t give her a chance. Anyway, Radhika could blow off this entire semester and still graduate with straight As. She’d win Miss Congeniality, too. I’ve known her since the first day of junior high, and she’s never said an unkind word about anyone. Smart and nice—a killer combo. Oh, and did I mention drop-to-your-knees-and-beg-for-mercy gorgeous?

  “About the prom,” Azure says. “I was thinking we could go all black. Black decorations, black clothes, black lights…”

  I tune her out. Not that I don’t care what she’s saying, but now I’m thinking back on junior high. Azure, Ra-dhika, and I were lab partners in biology. We just clicked. Seventh grade is hell anyway, and having Azure and Ra-dhika for friends got me through. Even after I confided my sexuality to them, they weren’t shocked or appalled. Azure because she had her own confession to make, and Radhika because she’s a guardian angel. I think we were treated with more respect in school because of Radhika’s acceptance and support.

  Azure goes, “I hope Mr. Rosen’s back today, because we need to get started ASAP.”

  I plug back in to her channel. I hate to tell her that my real fear about prom is that no matter what kind of event we put on, it won’t be my vision of perfection unless I can go with my dream date.

  “Who are you thinking of asking to prom?” I say to Azure as we pull into the parking lot.

  She gets out and hikes her backpack over her shoulder. She must not hear, so I repeat, “Who are you going to ask—”

  “We have a few minutes before the bell. Why don’t we go to the teachers’ lounge to see if Mr. Rosen’s there?”

  I have to hurry to keep up. The room’s almost empty, but Azure knocks on the doorjamb and sticks her head in. “Mr. Rosen?”

  He wanders over from the coffee area. “Hi, Azure. Luke.” At the sound of my name, I melt.

  “Did you get my note?” Azure asks.

  “I did. The committee meeting is at two thirty today, if you can make it. Sorry for the short notice.” His voice sounds nasally and he sneezes into his arm. He glances at me and says to Azure, “We already have five people. The bigger the group, the harder it is to come to a consensus. Sorry, Luke.”

  I thought it was a done deal that I was on the committee. I kick Azure’s shin.

  “But we need more people from the Diversity Club,” Azure says, kicking me back. “Is everyone in favor of an alternative-type prom? Do they even know what it is? Do they care about making it happen? If it’s just me against the world, we don’t have a chance in hell of changing anything.”

  Mr. Rosen looks from Azure to me. “You’re right. You’re welcome to join, Luke. You’ll be a great addition.”

  I feel my cheeks flame.

  The bell blares and Mr. Rosen says, “We better bust it.” He saunters over to a table to grab his backpack. Pivoting, he adds, “The meeting is in Art Studio 2B. If you’re going my way, I’ll walk with you, Luke.”

  We head down the corridor together, arms almost touching, and I swivel my head around, mouthing to Azure, Oh. My. God.

  Her eyes roll back in her head.

  AZURE

  Radhika slides across from me at lunch, immediately stimulating all my senses. She’s wearing a yellow cashmere sweater, which looks luscious against her dark skin and black hair. “Thank God you didn’t cut your hair,” I say. I want to clap a hand over my diarrhea mouth.

  “I was this close”—she spaces her fingers a quarter inch apart—“and I couldn’t do it. Don’t ask me why.”

  “There’s a reason for everything. Oh, wait. Someone told me that once.” It was Radhika, when my girlfriend Ami dumped me. Best thing that ever happened.

  Radhika smiles and my stomach breeds butterflies.

  “Have you had a chance to think about joining the prom planning committee with me and Luke?” I ask her. Please, please say you will. We need a leader. Luke’s good for support and all, but he’s not an organizer or a chief, and neither am I.

  Radhika takes a bite of salad, not glancing up.

  “I know you’re busy with your college prep stuff. This’ll be fun, though. It’s our senior year, and we can really make a difference by putting on a prom that includes everyone.”

  She still doesn’t answer. I wish Luke had the same lunch hour as us because he’s better than me at begging without it coming off as… well, begging.

  “I was thinking we’d go all black. Black clothes, black lights. Or if that’s too one-note, maybe rainbows. Rainbows represent diversity, which this is all about. What do you think?”

  Radhika finally looks up. “Whatever you do will be amazing.” She takes a gulp of Snapple.

  Not me. Us. “Will you join the committee, though? I really need you. I mean, we do.” I mean, I do.

  Radhika pokes at her salad, and I’m getting this weird vibe from her. “Radhika…?”

  “I can’t. Mom and Dad would never let me do something so frivolous.”

  “It’s not frivolous! It’s important.”

  Radhika grabs her tray and stands.

  “You could ask them, at least.”

  She casts her eyes down on me with a fierceness I’ve never seen before. It actually makes me flinch. There’s something going on with Radhika that she’s not telling me—beyond dropping a class, or cutting her hair. We’ve always shared everything. Why is she holding back?

  I watch her dump her half-eaten salad in the trash and think, This is so not Radhika. She’s always happy, or at least content. Rarely emo. She keeps me grounded.

  At the exit, she doesn’t even turn around and wave or smile. This horrible feeling comes over me that everything I’ve known is about to change, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  I’m startled when the final bell blares. My mind’s been on Radhika all afternoon, on how I shouldn’t have chall
enged her. Her parents have always been strict, and it’s not my place to force a stupid issue like the prom com. I know she’s under a lot of pressure to get good grades, and what she needs from me is encouragement. Encouragement and friendship.

  I call Radhika as I’m packing my gear at my locker after school, but she doesn’t answer. I can only hope it’s because she’s studying and not because she sees it’s me on caller ID.

  As I arrive in Studio 2B, Luke’s already there, working on his netbook. He’s alone in the room. “Mr. Rosen did tell us Studio 2B, right? At two thirty? Today?” I sit beside him.

  Luke says, “That’s what I heard.” He clicks away on his keyboard.

  Art classes must be doing pottery because the air smells like wet mud. I look at the vases and sculptures in various states of completion, feeling awed. Jealous. I wish I had an ounce of artistic ability. Luke got it all. He can draw, paint, sing, dance, produce, direct. “You’re so damn greedy,” I tell him.

  He looks at me. “Huh?”

  I point to a shelf. “Did you make that?” It’s a miniature sculpture of a nude buff guy. I guess that’s where the term sculpted abs comes from.

  “No,” Luke says. “But I plan to steal it.”

  A pair of giggling girls bounces into the room, interrupting our conversation. The Zeligman twins, Mollie and Haley. I’m not in their social orbit, but Luke is. Or was. Haley was his girlfriend for all of three weeks until she dumped him for Gabe Hightower. It took Radhika and me three banana splits to pull him out of his funk.

  “Hey, Luke,” Mollie says. They both dump their junk on the floor, ignoring me. “We’re having a prom committee meeting in here.”

  Luke shuts his netbook. “We’re on it.”

  They widen their eyes at each other. “Suh-weet,” Mollie says. “It’s going to be so super awesome.” They take seats opposite us.

  Mr. Rosen hurries in. “Sorry I’m late.” He sets a folder on the table and blows his nose. “We’re not all here yet.” He opens the folder. “We’re missing three people.”

  Haley goes, “Gabe decided he had other priorities.”

  She sounds pissed, but I see Luke’s shoulders relax.

  The last person swaggers in as if out of GQ magazine, and Luke gasps. It’s Connor Spears, aka Fabio. Not only because his bleach-blond hair is long and wavy, but also because he’s a gorgeous specimen, as Luke would say. If I were into guys…

  Mollie says in a singsong, “Hi, Connor.”

  “Hey,” he says in his deep voice. Luke literally hyperventilates. Connor scans the room and decides to sit on the twins’ side of the table. Which is for the best, because if he’d pulled in next to Luke, we’d have had to resuscitate him.

  Another person walks in and I throw up a little in my mouth. Shauna Creighton. I predict after graduation she’ll have her own reality-TV show called Bitch Intervention.

  There are stools stacked along the wall, and one empty chair next to Luke. She doesn’t even move toward it; she just stands behind Mr. Rosen with her arms crossed, leaning against a shelf of pottery.

  Mr. Rosen says, “Take a seat, Shauna. We need to get started.”

  “I’m fine,” Shauna says.

  “Please.”

  She expels a weary breath and walks over to pull out the chair next to Luke. She leans away from him like he’s contagious.

  Mr. Rosen kicks back in his seat, intertwines his fingers behind his head, and says, “This is going to be the most memorable prom Roosevelt High has ever known.”

  Mollie giggles.

  Shauna says, “What does that mean?”

  I answer her question: “We’re having an alterna-prom.”

  “A what?”

  “An alternative prom. Nontraditional. A prom that embraces inclusiveness and diversity.”

  Shauna slit-eyes Mr. Rosen. “Nobody told me that when I signed up this year.”

  Good, I think. Maybe she’ll quit. I turn to Mr. Rosen. “What exactly do we have to do?”

  Shauna answers for him. “Only pull off a miracle.”

  Mr. Rosen says, “I’ve never put a prom together, so I’m not going to be much help. Where do we begin?”

  Shauna says, “We need to elect officers.”

  I sigh. “Do we really have to? There are only six of us.”

  “If we want organization and delegation of duties, then yeah,” Shauna snipes. “We have to.”

  I know for a fact she’s bucking for president. But this isn’t her prom. “What’s the next thing?” I ask.

  “The theme,” she says. “If we don’t have a theme by this week, we’re screwed.”

  “Oh, really? So I guess you’ve run the prom com before?”

  “I was on the junior prom committee.”

  BFD, I think. That makes you a prom pro.

  Mollie says, “Last year’s prom was so super awesome. Everyone loved it.”

  “Since we’re in a time crunch,” Mr. Rosen says, “maybe the first thing we should decide is how often to meet.”

  Luke says, “I have play practice on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays.”

  On the days he has practice, I take the bus home or to work. “I have to work after school, but I can probably change my schedule around our meetings,” I say.

  Connor says, “I have soccer every day, but it doesn’t start until three fifteen.”

  Mollie and Haley go, “We have dance squad on Mondays and Wednesdays, and gymnastics on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  “Holy macaroni,” Mr. Rosen says. “Would it be better to meet in the evening? Or before school?”

  “Not before school!” Everyone starts whining about how early their first classes start.

  Mr. Rosen holds up a hand. “Let me think about how to schedule this and get back to you.”

  “It better be soon,” Shauna says. “Or we’re up shit creek.”

  On the way out, I say to Luke, “Promise you won’t give Shauna a paddle.”

  On my way to work I call Radhika, but her phone goes directly to voice mail. I tell myself it’s because she’s studying. She’s not mad at me. She’s never been mad at me. Is there really a first time for everything? I don’t get why her parents are making her work so hard. She’s already been accepted to Yale, yet she’s carrying a full load of classes on the college track. Luke’s going to art or theater school, and me? I’ll be lucky to get into community college.

  Every time I think about the three of us splitting up to go our separate ways, my stomach hurts. Luke, Radhika, and I are tight. They say blood is thicker than water, but it’s not always true with friends as close as we are. I wish time would freeze so we could stay together forever.

  Maybe that’s why I want this prom to be a major blowout, something we’ll remember for the rest of our lives.

  As I approach the door to the thrift shop, I leave Ra-dhika a message that I’ll call again when I get home from work. At the end, I say, “Love you,” and hang up. One of these days I’m going to add, “I really do love you. And I mean that with all my heart.”

  Louisa, my boss, greets me. “Hi, Azure. I got a box of bona fide vintage clothes in today, and before I put them out, I thought you’d like to look through them.”

  “Seriously? Thanks.”

  Louisa adds, “Use your discount,” then heads back into the donation room.

  I don’t agree with Louisa’s policy that employees and volunteers at the thrift store can buy whatever they want for half price, and she knows it. Even if most of what we sell is discarded junk that would’ve ended up in a landfill or at Goodwill, the profits from the thrift store go to Kids with Cancer. How can anyone with a conscience steal from sick kids? I mean, what if it was my full-price purchase on a piece of junk jewelry that led scientists to discover the cure for leukemia?

  As I’m arranging all the jewelry that came in sometime over the weekend, I spot these two ornate hairpins that I know Radhika would love. Sometimes she twists her hair in back, keeping it in place with scrunchies o
r bobby pins. Hair she absolutely cannot cut. Louisa priced the pins at $125 each, or $230 for the pair. Ouch. As she passes behind me with an armload of clothes, I ask, “Are these real silver or something?” I point out the hairpins.

  “I had my jeweler friend look at them, and he told me what collectors are paying for these old sterling silver pins from the turn of the century.”

  I imagine brushing Radhika’s lustrous hair, curling it around my hand and pinning it up. I must be looking at the hairpins longingly because Louisa says, “Rethinking your half-price perk?”

  “No way.” I set them back on the velvet display card.

  Louisa shakes her head, but smiles. “I’d be happy to put them on layaway.”

  Layaway. I glance again at the pins, visualizing Radhika’s eyes gleaming when I give them to her. I make a decision. “Okay,” I tell Louisa.

  My cell jingles a text message and I sneak a peek at the caller ID. My heart leaps. The mountain of clothes in Louisa’s arms begins to topple, so I rush over to catch them before they hit the floor. “Let me get these,” I say. “I’m pretty good at pricing clothes.”

  “Don’t price too high. And replace some of the older stuff on the front racks with new things so it looks like we have a bigger turnover.”

  I dump the load of clothes on the sorting table in back and read Radhika’s text:

  Sorry if I caught you at work. Don’t want to get you in trouble. Call later.

  As I begin a text to Radhika, I remember when I first started working here, six months ago. I thought all the rooms smelled like musty old closets, so one day I brought in Glade air fresheners. Louisa beamed. “Thank you,” she said. “I never even thought of that.” Why wouldn’t you think of that?

  She really liked me after that. Before, I think, she had her doubts because of the way I dress and stuff. I mean, I have my own style, which combines glam, vintage, shabby, and chic. It’s easy to make assumptions about people based on their style. My favorite color used to be black, but I’ve lightened up. Now it’s dark blue.