It's Our Prom (So Deal With It)

by Julie Anne Peters

  She sighs. “I’m so sorry about everything. The prom you envisioned. Abandoning you.”

  “What? You didn’t abandon us. I’m the one who forced you to join prom com.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a couple walk through the door. It’s Desirae and her girlfriend. She spies me and gives a little wave. I don’t wave back.

  The smell of Mrs. Flacco’s wet wool coat precedes her. “Not a very good turnout,” she says.

  Can you go Duh without sneering?

  “Did you intentionally leave minimum bids off the sheets?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. Radhika backs away and I want to run after her, beg her to save me. Plead with her to come to prom, with or without me.

  “People are writing in bids of a quarter or fifty cents. Some of that jewelry looks valuable. You should’ve at least put a minimum bid of ten or twenty-five dollars on the expensive items. And everything should have a minimum of five dollars.”

  I forgot about minimum bids. It took all week just to get this stuff organized.

  Luke announces: “The first round of bidding is complete. Please pick up your items and pay the cashier.”

  People retrieve their items and a line forms behind Mrs. Flacco. I say, “Excuse me,” as I move around the table to collect money.

  The first few sales net us almost twenty dollars, which is pretty good, I think. Then someone with an armload of stuffed animals and games wants to pay with a credit card.

  Oh no. I never thought about people who’d want to pay with credit cards.

  “Mrs. Flacco,” I call. She comes over. “I have a credit card sale, but I don’t know how to do it without a machine.”

  “You might’ve thought about that earlier,” she goes. “Let me go grab a machine from the front office.”

  “Would you mind waiting a couple of minutes?” I ask the bidder. She steps back, but when she does, she plows into a person heading out the door and drops all her stuffies.

  I race around the table to help her gather them. Ra-dhika and Shauna both come to the rescue with bags to repack everything for her.

  Mrs. Flacco returns with an ancient credit card machine that I have no idea how to work. She says, “Why don’t you just let me collect money, and you go take that microphone away from Luke.”

  He’s having a good time playing auctioneer; in fact, he’s taken the initiative to auction off a bunch of the nicer items in a live auction. He’s blabbing nonsense, but people are gathered around him, laughing and bidding. We’re probably bringing in more money with his method than with my nickel-and-dime silent auction. I glance over my shoulder and see Mrs. Flacco glaring, urging me on with a flick of her wrist, and I have no choice but to ask Luke to hand over the mike.

  “It’s not me,” I tell him in a lowered voice.

  “Sorry, folks,” Luke says into the mike. “You’re all being arrested for indecent proposals.”

  I count the money we made on the auction six times. Each time it amounts to two hundred and five dollars. That won’t even pay for half a band. It’s embarrassing to let everyone know, and I consider waiting until after spring break, but maybe if I put it out there, someone will come up with more fund-raising ideas.

  As I’m logging on to Google docs, my cell rings. It’s Shauna. “Hey,” she says. “I just wanted you to know that I created a new Google docs for the prom com. A separate one, where the prom com can communicate without Mrs. Flacco knowing what we’re doing.” She adds, “I’ll gmail everyone to let them know the file name.”

  “I hope this works,” I say.

  “It will. I went through last year’s yearbook and found as many seniors as I could on Facebook. Then I invited them to join our Prom page. We already have almost two hundred people.”

  Wow, I think. She’s gone to a lot of trouble.

  She says, “We’ll have to keep Prom Central live for the people who aren’t on Facebook or don’t join the group.”

  “What about Mrs. Flacco?”

  “I told her my computer was broken, but that I’d take all the activities down as soon as I could. And that it might not be until after spring break.”

  That was a good idea, but Shauna can’t keep stalling her forever.

  “How much did we make on the auction?” Shauna asks.

  I hate to even tell her. “Two hundred and five dollars.”

  For a minute, she doesn’t say anything, for which I’m grateful. Then she goes, “Don’t worry. We’ll think of other ways to raise money.”

  It’s weird how she seems to be the only one sharing my brain waves. I want to say I’m sorry about Connor, but she’s so pumped, this doesn’t seem like the best time.

  “I’m creating the Google docs now, so if you want to ask people about fund-raising ideas… Or I guess it wouldn’t hurt to do that in our old Google docs,” she says. “Maybe Mrs. Flacco has some corporate contacts. God, I can’t stand her.”

  “Is it her helmet hair?” I say.

  Shauna laughs.

  We disconnect and I wonder if, in another life, we might’ve been friends.

  Luke leaves me a text message that he’s going to Germany for spring break. He asks if I want him to bring me back some Wiener schnitzel. His text only reminds me how much it hurt Shauna when Connor rejected her via text. Sincere sentiments should never be texted or IM’d. I always thought Luke was really sensitive and caring, but now I’m questioning everything I thought I knew about him.

  I call Radhika to see if she wants to hang out over break, but she says her parents are taking a trip and she’s required to go. “They won’t even tell me where,” she adds.

  “Maybe it’s Disney World,” I say.

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s it. Can you see my dad at Disney World?”

  I wouldn’t put it past him to bribe her with an awesome trip.

  Radhika and Luke and I have always spent at least part of our spring breaks together. Things are changing too fast, and not only because of the tension between Luke and me. I wish I could just erase my feelings for Radhika and go back to where we were.

  Unfortunately, I’ve never figured out a way to control my heart.

  All I can think about is the prom without Radhika there—it’ll be meaningless. Not that it was going to be this cathartic event in my life. I wasn’t deluding myself—much. I just got caught up in the excitement and planning. What is prom, anyway? I don’t even know the significance of the word. Is it short for promise? Of what? A lifetime of longing?

  I schedule a bunch of extra hours at work to stay occupied. The hairpins Louisa saved for me are in the lockbox in back. I take them out and replace them in the jewelry case.

  “Change your mind?” Louisa bustles by with a collection of salt and pepper shakers.

  “Yeah.” Actually, it got changed for me. “But I do need an outfit for prom.”

  Since Desi’s girlfriend bought the blue dress I wanted, I need to find something else. I riffle through the formalwear in back and pick out three potential dresses. My favorite is a gray velvet, knee-length dress with a black lace overlay, and I also find a felt hat with a layer of beaded lace to pull over my eyes. I need shoes, too. Or boots.

  I check out the complete ensemble in the full-length mirror, and I guess it looks okay. I’d be a hundred times more enthusiastic if I could envision myself dancing with Radhika in my arms.

  Wow, I hate it when I feel sorry for myself. I have a lot of things to be thankful for: my friends—most of all Radhika—my dad, and my mom, insane as she is. I say to myself in the mirror what my religion means to me: “You are a beautiful creature of God. Now get out there and kick butt.”

  Dad had to work Saturday, too, so we delayed our handball game until Sunday, after I got home from church. It feels good to work off all my stress. After our game, Dad and I decide to go grocery shopping. “Lynda not only cooks, she’s a gourmet cook,” he tells me as we stock up on his favorite frozen Hungry-Man Sports Grill entrees: Grilled Southwest Style Chicken
and Grilled Bourbon Steak Strips. Like the meat in any of those meals ever saw a real grill.

  “I can tell,” I say under my breath.

  He frowns. “What does that mean?”

  It means I wonder if she’s exaggerating about that, too. “How much do you know about her?” I ask him. “For instance, is she a gold digger looking for a husband to support her and her two kids?”

  Dad’s frown turns into a laugh.

  “What?”

  “On my salary, she’d be digging for fool’s gold.”

  Exactly. “I mean, what are her real motives? She looks completely different from her picture.” I feel Dad’s narrowed eyes burn through me.

  He shuts the freezer door and pushes the cart forward. We don’t talk again until we get to the salty-snacks aisle, where I plan to select widely.

  I toss in a bag of sour cream and onion Ruffles and some cheese popcorn. Dad adds his usual corn nuts and sunflower seeds to eat at work. “I thought better of you than that,” he says. “Of all the people I know, for you to judge someone by their looks…”

  “I’m not.” My face flares because I totally am. But I say anyway, “Give me a little more credit than that.”

  He stares at me as if he can see into my cold, cold heart. “Credit is something you have to earn,” he says.

  Thankfully, he turns and heads off toward the register. I feel like the judgmental jerk I am. But I want him to know I have his best interests at heart.

  “Dad.” I come up beside him in line. “Just do me one favor: Go out with Cloud. You owe it to yourself to take advantage of every opportunity.”

  He doesn’t speak. Great. Now he’s going to pout and get all pissy on me.

  We pack our groceries in our recyclable bags and carry them out. I can’t let Dad make a decision he might regret for the rest of his life. What if Cloud is The One? I cover my face and pretend to cry.

  Dad’s face falls. “Azure…”

  “Forget it.” I climb into the truck and buckle my seat belt.

  He sits next to me for a minute before cranking the ignition. Exhaling deeply, he says, “Okay. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll go out with Cloud.”

  I smile to myself. Men are so easy.

  Dad didn’t waste any time. He opens the door as I’m wrapped in a blanket, watching repeats of RuPaul’s Drag Race. The faint scent of L’Homme swirls around him as he enters the living room. “Lynda?” I ask.

  “Actually, I took your threat to heart and called Cloud.”

  I sit up. “I didn’t threaten you.” Much. “How’d it go?”

  He heads for the kitchen and I unfurl my mummified body to follow. He opens the fridge, takes out a bottle of Bud, and twists off the cap. “Dad.” I slide onto a counter stool, watching him take a long swig, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Come on. How was she?”

  Dad lowers the beer to his side. “I’ll never know. When she told me her special rate for online clients was fifty bucks, I arrested her.”

  My jaw goes slack.

  Dad lifts his beer to his lips and says, “Not a bad rate for a pro.”

  LUKE

  I glance up from unpacking my duffel after spring break to see Owen standing in the doorway. His arms are loosely crossed. “So, how are they?” he asks.

  “Same old, same old. You should’ve come. ‘It vas springtime een Joymany,’ ” I sing. I toss my empty duffel in the closet.

  “I have a business to run. And besides, I don’t remember receiving my invitation via satellite.” He wanders off.

  If he’d expressed the smallest desire to go to Germany, I know Mom and Dad would’ve sprung for the airfare. Some people are so stubborn.

  I remove my Roaring Twenties dress from its hanger and wriggle into it. I zip up the back, then pull the blond wig over my head. “They grilled me for all the sordid details of your life,” I call to Owen. Uncapping a tube of red lipstick, I stand at my full-length mirror to spread it on.

  Owen reappears.

  “I told them you couldn’t come because of rehab. And that the terms of your parole forbid you to travel outside the country.”

  Owen doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t leave, either.

  I catch the look on his face in the mirror. “What?”

  “What do you mean, what? What are you wearing?”

  “You like?” I adjust my wig a bit, pin it in place, and push up my boobies.

  “You’re not going out in public like that.”

  “Actually, I am. I’m wearing this to prom.” A pang of sorrow shoots through me. I wish we were having the drag show. I’d win, hands down.

  “You’re not going to prom in that.” Owen storms into my room. He yanks on the wig, ripping it off my head.

  I grab the wig back and say, “This is for the drag show at Rainbow Alley tonight. I’m wearing a tux for prom.”

  Owen throws the wig on my bed and vanishes again.

  I call to him, “A tux with sequins.”

  Through the living room, he calls, “You’re a freak. You know that, right?”

  I toss my feather boa over my shoulder. “Takes one to know one.”

  I realize I haven’t rented my tux yet, and prom is in two weeks. It’s early, four o’clock. The drag show doesn’t start until eight. I strip off my drag gear, leaving the makeup on, and scavenge around for the phone book. There’s one tux-rental shop near The LGBTQ Center. I tear out the page in the phone book and take off.

  The rental place is on Broadway, squished between a used bookstore and a Persian restaurant. There’s no parking in front. I turn in to the alley, where there are a few reserved slots open. The shop is crammed with guys and girls checking out the dressed mannequins and getting fitted. There must be a wedding or bar mitzvah, because all these little kids are running around. I recognize a couple of guys from Roosevelt. Their girlfriends are with them, helping to match cummerbunds and bow ties with their dresses.

  Prommies, as Azure would call them.

  Mollie’s here, which means Haley might be, too. I forgot to get the skinny from Britny on Gabe and Haley, so I call out, “Hey, Mollie.” I give her a wave. She turns her back on me.

  Whoa. What’s that about? I approach her and place a hand on her shoulder.

  “Don’t talk to me,” she says, shoving me away. She stalks toward the exit.

  What’d I do to her? Oh, to be hardwired into the social grid.

  Suddenly, I see my tuxedo, my vision, on a mannequin near the back of the store.

  “May I help you?” a woman asks behind me.

  “That one,” I tell her, pointing. “Can you put it on hold for me?”

  She says, “We can’t hold it. But I don’t think you have to worry about anyone else wanting it.”

  Without the alternative prom, I’m guessing she’s right.

  “I’ll take it,” I say.

  I have to honk three times before Azure comes sauntering out of the house. She gets in, buckles her seat belt, and says, “I’m only riding with you because I don’t have correct bus fare.”

  What is her problem? The word beeotch comes to mind. I still don’t know where, when, or how I pissed her off.

  We ride in silence for a while until Azure turns to me. “Did Radhika tell you where she went for spring break?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Disgusting,” Azure goes.

  Actually, Radhika didn’t tell me. I only said that to make Azure jealous. Now I’m dying of curiosity.

  “Do they think that’ll change Radhika’s mind?” Azure says.

  “I know. How could they? She hasn’t, has she?” I have no idea what we’re talking about.

  “Of course not,” Azure snaps. “She’s not weak, like you.”

  Now I do know what we’re talking about. “Look, I’m two hundred and twenty-two percent behind you on this alternative prom. But we can’t do everything you want. You heard Mr. Gerardi. And Flacco scares me. She looks at me and I go wee-wee.”

  “You’re such a wuss,”
Azure says under her breath.

  “I don’t want to wear Depends to school. They give me diaper rash.”

  She goes, “If we figured out a way to do it, would you be in or out?”

  “In, of course. If I didn’t have to repeat my senior year.”

  A smile curls Azure’s lips. “Shauna has a plan. Wait’ll you hear it. There’s more to that girl than meets the eye.”

  I gasp. “Is she a lesbo?”

  Azure goes to slug me, but unfurls her fist before it makes contact.

  “Just stick around after the meeting,” she says.

  I’m first to arrive in Studio 2B, with my notes sorted and stapled for Flacco. Shauna and Azure arrive together. They sit next to each other. If I didn’t see it with my own eyes…

  Connor rushes in, breathing hard. “Am I late?”

  I think he must have the Fear of Flacco within him.

  Mrs. Flacco bustles in and sets her folder on the table. “Here are the notes,” I say, passing them to her.

  She takes them, not even reading them or admiring the font I chose and how I italicized the heated debates. “I see you haven’t removed the offending activities from Prom Central, Shauna.”

  “I still don’t have my computer up,” she says.

  “Use one in the library. I want it cleared out by tomorrow.”

  Shauna’s lips purse.

  I raise my hand. “I printed out the notes,” I remind her.

  Flacco asks Azure, “How much money did the silent auction bring in?”

  Azure says, “I don’t know exactly. Over two hundred dollars.”

  “Is it two hundred or three hundred?” Flacco asks. “Although it doesn’t matter, because you still can’t pay the band or the photographer.”

  “We don’t really need a professional photographer,” Shauna says. “Azure was right. We could ask someone from the photography club to do it.”

  “Absolutely not,” Flacco says. “Do you want your prom photos to be amateurish?”

  That sounds familiar.

  “Also, since you haven’t provided me with the song lyrics from this band—what is it called?” She flips through the pages of Mr. Rosen’s notes. “Putrid Wixen.” She makes a sick face. “You’ll need to cancel the band and find a DJ.”