My affirmation is a joke: “Be your true self in every way.”
I’m a phony. An impostor, a hypocrite. I want Shauna’s prom: the gown, the shoes, the hair and makeup. I want to pick up Radhika in a limo and pin a pink or purple orchid on her dress. I want a picture of us together, holding each other or gazing into each other’s eyes so that one day I can show my daughters or sons or grandchildren the most beautiful girl in the world, and tell them about how we danced all night, how prom was magical and mystical. I even want a stupid disco ball to shower us with a rainbow of sparkles as we twirl around the dance floor.
Luke calls and asks if I want to go to a movie or something tomorrow. Tomorrow’s Saturday, and I have to work. “Is Radhika going?” I ask. If she’s going, I’m calling in sick.
“No. I can’t get hold of her. Which means…”
“She’s studying,” we say together.
She’s the only person I know who studies on the weekend. “I guess that’s the price you pay to get into an Ivy League college.”
“Yeah,” Luke says. “It’s so cool, though. Our own Ra-dhika a Yalie.”
My Radhika, I think. “Has Connor called yet about checking out hotels?” I ask Luke.
“You’ll be the first to know,” he says. “Take that back. I’ll be the first to know. You’ll know by the heavy breathing on your cell like a woman about to give birth because I’ll be in the labor of love.”
Oh, brother. “Luke. Give it up.”
“Hey, you never know. He is in the Diversity Club.”
“Yeah, as a straight ally.”
“Or a mothball in the closet.”
“He smells better than a mothball.”
“You’ve sniffed him?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s always shoving his armpit in my face.”
We talk for a while about Luke’s play, until he says he really should hang up and work on it, especially now that his time is limited by the prom com, which is supposed to make me feel guilty.
“Oh, come on. Prom com gives you that special, special time with Connor Spears. Not to mention Mr. Rosen. So much testosterone in one room, I can hear your voice lowering as we speak.”
He snorts. “Off to pump iron.” We disconnect.
I wander out to the kitchen and Dad’s at the breakfast bar, drinking coffee. I pour myself a mug of his sludge, then stir in four teaspoons of sugar and half a cup of milk. I sit and rest my elbows on the counter, gazing into the middle distance.
Dad says, “Penny for your thoughts.”
I blink back to consciousness. “It’ll cost you more than that,” I tell him.
He quirks a smile and sips from his own mug. “A plug nickel?”
“Not even close. Did you go to your high school prom?”
He arches his eyebrows. “Are you studying ancient history?”
I sneer at him. “Just answer the question.”
“Sure, I went to prom. Junior and senior years. Why? Don’t tell me you’re going to your high school prom.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I snap.
“I just meant… Prom doesn’t seem like your thing.”
He’s right. I crank it down. “Everyone has this image about prom being a ritualistic coming-of-age event for straights with dates. A person who’s just a little off the social grid shouldn’t even bother to feel like they’re welcome. But I’m going to change that.”
“Oh?” he says, sounding worried, like I’m going to commit a felony or something.
“I’m on the prom planning committee this year, and we’re going to have an alternative prom.”
“Hoo boy. Look out, Roosevelt High.” Dad slides off his stool and yanks one of my little ponytails as he passes behind me. “I’d like to get your opinion on something,” he says.
“Okay. Quit your job and sell magazines door-to-door.”
He doesn’t hear me because he’s retrieving something from his desk. He returns and spreads out three printed pages. “Which one would you choose for me?”
It takes me a moment to read the header: MEET YOUR PERFECT MATE!!!
I gasp. “Tell me you’re not online dating.”
“I haven’t yet. I put in my profile and got matched with these three women. I hope they’re women. What do you think?”
“I think you’re crazy.” I gather the pages and slide them across to him. “Losers do this, Dad. Not guys like you.”
He gives me a long, hard look. “I’m lonely. Can you remember the last time I went out on a date?”
I think back. “That lady with no eyebrows. She had to draw them in, or she had them inked.”
Dad frowns. “Who?”
“You know. She laughed at everything you said, like you were funny or something.”
He shakes his head at me. “I think you’re talking about my cousin, Roxanne.”
My eyes grow wide. She seemed really into him, and not in a family way.
“It’s been more than a year,” Dad says. “A couple of guys on the force used this online site and met really nice women. So come on. Help me out here.”
He’s serious. I had no idea my dad was lonely. Mom left us when she ran off to Florida with her boss, but that was eight years ago. She’s married now with two more kids, which works for me, since it means she’s not on my case about coming down for “family time.”
Poor Dad. I understand what it means not to have a special someone in your life. It’s miserable.
I spread the pages across the counter and inform him, “You’re not a loser.”
He goes, “I never said I was.”
I begin with the first page. Lynda. No last names, only IDs. Her picture is far away and kind of blurry. On purpose? Hard to make out her facial features. I say the first thing that comes to mind: “Hasn’t she ever watched The Biggest Loser?”
“Azure!”
I hunch my shoulders. “Sorry.” She’s not really that heavy. “If you marry someone who can cook, I’ll walk you down the aisle.”
“I’m not marrying anyone,” Dad says. “I just want companionship.”
The first profile question is: What are you looking for in a partner? Lynda answered: Honesty, trustworthiness, humor, stability, a man who loves children…
“Uh-oh,” I say to Dad. “What if it slips out about your record of child neglect? Of course, I’d always testify on your behalf. If the price was right.”
He fake-threatens me with a fist. I read from Lynda’s profile, “She’s a third-grade teacher. Single mom with two kids, ages ten and twelve.”
Ugh. Do I really want stepsibs?
I admonish myself: This isn’t about you.
“She seems okay.” Kind of boring, I think. I take a look at the next profile.
Mercedes. A lawyer. “She’s pretty,” I say. Shoulder-length wavy hair, dishwater blond, a nice smile. It looks like a professional shot; she’s propping her chin on the back of her hand. “I like her funky glasses.” Round, aqua frames.
There’s not much warmth in her eyes.
“You hate lawyers,” I remind him.
“It doesn’t specify her law specialty. She might be a patent attorney.”
“True.” If she’s a defense lawyer, their first date will last approximately ten seconds. Dad thinks too many criminals go free over obscure loopholes in the law.
“She’s been divorced twice,” I say.
“One more than me,” Dad goes. “Practice makes perfect?”
Or there’s something seriously wrong with her. “She’s looking for a person who’s sober, employed, faithful, and doesn’t have an Oedipus complex.”
Geez. Poor judgment in previous relationships much?
I slide the page across to Dad. “You’re a match made in heaven.”
“You think?” he says.
“No. I’m appalled.”
“Cloud,” I read the final profile. “I like her name.” A massage therapist, belly dancer, poet, and singer. “Okay, I’m in love. She describes herself as a free spirit. Y
ou could use some fun in your life.”
Dad takes the profile from me. “She was my last choice.”
“Why?” I take it back from him. “She’s perfect.”
“You’re enough free-spiritedness for anyone.” He gets up and loads his cup into the dishwasher, then buckles his gun holster.
“So?” he says. “Lynda or Mercedes?”
“I think you should try all three,” I tell him. “At least take them out to dinner and see if you click.”
He makes clicking noises in his mouth as he heads for the door.
“One thing,” I add. “I’ll want a full report on how it all goes down.”
“Roger that, Sherlock.” He pulls a mock trigger finger as he shuts the door.
LUKE
Saturday morning I get up to find that Owen has left a trail of dirty clothes from the front door all the way to his room. Unless he’s into drag, he didn’t sleep alone. I sleep like a rock. If there was moaning and groaning going on, I missed it. I kick aside a bra and a woman’s high heel. Then I wonder if it’s my size and slip my foot into it. Only my big toe fits. “I’m up,” I call, hoping to startle Owen and whoever’s desperate enough to sleep with him. Muffled voices seep out of his room.
Since we have company, I head back to my room to get dressed. I check my cell to see if Connor called while I was sleeping. No such luck.
In the kitchen I see the same thing I see every morning: a sink crammed with dishes, cartons of Chinese takeout, or a pizza box, or burger wrappers and soda cans. Without me, this place would be a pigsty. No offense, pigs.
I don’t even have to look in the fridge to know it’s empty, except for a twelve-pack of Coke. Owen’s addicted. I’m starving, so I check my wallet to see if I have enough cash to go to McD’s or Subway for breakfast. Without warning, Owen sweeps out of nowhere. He snatches my wallet out of my hand.
“Give it back.”
He holds it above his head. His gut sags over his boxers and his arms are flabby. He’s a disgrace to the male anatomy.
A girl wanders out of Owen’s bedroom, raking her hand through her brassy red hair. “Jean-Paul?” She yawns. “Where’d you go?” She’s wearing one of Owen’s football jerseys from Western State. He went there one semester, then dropped out. “Who’s this?” She peers around him to gawk at me.
“Tell her, Jean-Paul,” I say.
He tosses my wallet in the air toward me and I snag it. “My brother,” he mutters to the girl. He elbows me aside and kicks through the trash to the fridge.
“Hi.” She smiles. “I’m Saralee.”
I can’t help myself. “Nobody doesn’t like Saralee.”
She flips her hair over her shoulder. “Why does every guy have to say that? It’s so lame.”
She’s right. Her name probably isn’t even Saralee. “I’m going to go get a breakfast sandwich or something,” I say. “Do you want anything?”
Owen pops the tab on a Coke can. “Bring back three breakfast burritos from Twisters for me. Saralee, you want food?”
“I’m full.” She grins at Owen. He turns the grin on me.
I want to hork.
“Give me some money,” I say to Owen. He finds his jeans on the floor, digs in the pocket, and slaps a ten-spot in my open hand. “I know how much they cost, and I want the change,” he says.
Did I mention he’s a cheapskate?
It takes me forever to find the car keys in my backpack. Nobody-Doesn’t-Like-Saralee says to Owen, “Your brother’s cute. Why didn’t you tell me you had a brother?”
“Yeah, Jean-Paul. Why didn’t you tell her?” At last I find the keys on the coffee table.
“We try to keep the dirty laundry in the closet.” Owen offers her a Coke and she declines.
“What does that mean?” she asks Owen.
“He’s bi-beastial.”
He must think he’s amusing because he shoots me a crooked grin. I head for the door and Saralee says, “You mean bisexual? I love bisexual people.”
My hand freezes on the doorknob.
“What’s your name?” she says, strolling up behind me.
I pivot slowly and meet Owen’s eyes. “Pierre-Paul,” I say.
She runs her hand down my arm and I shiver. Peering coyly from me to Owen, she goes, “Do you guys want a three-way?”
Owen’s face changes from pale pink to bile yellow. Mine’s got to be raging scarlet.
“No, thanks,” I manage to croak before exiting. A shudder shakes me all over. I feel a little unsteady on my feet. I’ve always fantasized about a three-way, but not with my brother.
Blech. The thought of it sends my appetite south.
As I’m driving through Twisters, I have this flashback of Owen and me playing catch in a yard somewhere. We moved around a lot, being Army brats. Owen must’ve been about seventeen or eighteen because I was just a kid. He was coaching me: “Cover the ball with your opposite hand when you catch it in the mitt.” It was his mitt, and it kept falling off my hand. Owen didn’t laugh at me; he was patient. He did say, “You throw like a girl.” But every day after school we’d pitch and catch until I was good enough to join a rec league. Then we’d move and have to start all over again. We grew up. Owen graduated and I lost interest in baseball.
What happened to that brotherly love? I guess I know the answer: It died the day I came out.
When I get back to the house, Owen and Saralee are at it again. I leave his burritos on the table, hoping they’ll be stone-cold by the time he gets done. Still no call from Connor. I pack up my netbook to head to the library. On a whim I call Radhika to see if she’s free.
“Hi, Luke,” she says. “I was just about to call you and Azure.”
The sound of her voice makes me forget whatever I was remembering.
“You want to go to a movie or something?” she asks.
“Definitely!”
“Great. Come and rescue me now.”
“I’m already in the car,” I tell her, hustling to the Seville.
It’s starting to snow lightly as I pull up to the gate and get buzzed in. Radhika comes out the door. Mrs. Dal’s behind her. “Hello, Luke,” she says as I climb out to usher Radhika into the car. Under her breath, Radhika goes, “Quick. Drive.”
“Um, hi, Mrs. Dal.” I hate to be rude. I shut Radhika’s door and stand there, jingling my keys.
“What are you going to see?” Mrs. Dal asks.
“Uh”—my eyes cut to Radhika, then back to Mrs. Dal—“we haven’t decided. A bunch of movies start around one. We should be back by four or four thirty at the latest.”
“Well, have fun.” She bends down and waves at Ra-dhika. Radhika is facing forward and doesn’t wave back.
As we pull away, Radhika says, “You’re saving my life, Luke. My dad’s out of town and my mother wanted me to spend the day with her at the art museum.” She wrinkles her nose.
“Horrors,” I go, even though I could spend a year at the art museum. “What do you want to see?” I ask.
“Nothing, actually. Let’s just go to the mall. I’ll call Azure and see if she can come, too.”
“She has to work today,” I say.
“Oh. Well, I guess it’s you and me, then.” She turns on that radiant smile of hers and I feel the sizzle under my skin.
It’s a blast from the past hanging out at the mall with Radhika. We try on sunglasses and jewelry. She sits and watches while I get my colors done at Macy’s. We decide to play a game of black-light putt-putt and Radhika beats my ass by about a million points.
“You know I let you win,” I tell her. “I hate to see girls cry.”
She goes, “Just for that I’m letting you pay for lunch.”
It’s long past lunchtime, but by now I’m starving. And since I’m the one who paid for the putt-putt, I’m officially broke.
“I would, but…” I pull out my wallet and show her it’s empty. “I might have a quarter in my pocket. I could get you a gumball. Or we could shoplift a ski mask and h
old up the ATM machine.”
She looks at me and bursts into laughter.
“Okay, I’ll pay,” she says. “But you’ll owe me.”
“And I always pay my debts.”
She links her arm in mine and tugs me close. “I know you do.”
I veer toward the food court, but Radhika says, “Let’s get out of here. I’ve been dying for something really greasy, like Sonic.”
The snow has deposited a layer of white crystals on all the trees. It looks like a scene from Disneyland. Being alone with Radhika makes it even more bedazzling.
The closest Sonic is down by Sloan’s Lake, about fifteen minutes away. When we pull in, there are only a few empty slots.
“Weird,” Radhika says. “It’s not even lunch- or dinnertime.”
“It’s always time for Tater Tots,” I say.
We call in our orders and I turn up the heat because I see Radhika shiver. She says, “You’re lucky your parents aren’t here controlling every minute of your life.”
“Yeah, well… Owen brought home a”—I glance sideways at Radhika—“rhymes with Poe.”
Her eyebrows arch. “No way.”
“Her name was Saralee.”
“Not seriously.”
“I almost asked if she was gooey.”
Radhika covers her face. “You’re so bad,” she says in a smothered laugh.
Our orders come and I hand over Radhika’s hot dog and Tots, then take a sip of my limeade Chiller.
“Owen’s such a douche,” I tell her. “Here’s the best part: Saralee wanted to do a three-way.”
She chokes on a cheesy Tot and I have to slap her back to help her get it down.
“Did you?”
I screw up my face. “Girl. I am not that desperate. Yet.”
A second stream of cars rolls through the Sonic with guys and girls hooting and squealing. “There must’ve been a game or something,” Radhika says. One car passes behind us and pulls into the adjoining slot. My stomach flutters when I recognize the driver.
“Luke,” Radhika whispers.
“What?”
She thumbs at the window.
“Yeah, so?” My heart’s crashing like a bass drum. It’s Connor.
Radhika doesn’t go on; she just gives me a coy smile. She’s been talking to Azure. I am not in love with Connor Spears.
It's Our Prom (So Deal With It) Page 4