“Please.” Tommy scoffs. “Prom is important. I’m sure Teri wants Bliss to have that tradition, and what could be more perfect?”
The boy with the number one on his uniform wipes his hand down his face. He meets my eyes for a second while the conversation continues, and there’s more sneaking than usual in his look. Thomas is playing his part, too, but underneath his laid-back smirk, triumph and satisfaction lurk.
“This isn’t a discussion,” Tommy finally says, smiling behind hands she holds up innocently. “You have to do it because I’m your mother.”
“You’re demented,” Becka tells her. “You need real professional help.”
Petey tosses his apple core at her. She catches it and throws it back while Thomas moves from where he’s leaning against the counter opposite us and steps forward.
We don’t touch, and there are no words, but I go from wondering to knowing this is all his doing when Dusty drops his hat onto my head and reaches behind me to steal my milk.
“IT’S NOT a date, Mom.”
I don’t raise my voice, but I want to. I’ve said it three times already, but I keep my tone easy.
She’s washing cherry tomatoes at the sink, and I’m supposed to be cutting cucumbers, but I’m focused on the very sensitive and intricate process of knowing what to say and how, and exactly when.
In the living room, Dad opens and closes the front door behind himself, home from work.
“We’re going as friends,” I tell her. “If I had a date, it would be Becka.”
Mom flips her hair back and gives me a side-eyed look. Her cheeks and nose are sun-freckled like mine, and our same green eyes look not quite believing and slightly pleading, like she’d really rather we not talk about this now.
Or ever.
Before I can continue my strategy, Dad comes in and kisses the top of her head first, then mine. Mom feeds him a tomato.
“Let me talk to your father about it,” she says, walking to the table and away from me.
I take a breath to keep every twitching-to-rebel nerve under control. If they talk about it alone together, they’ll never let me go.
“Why not now?” I ask, shrugging my shoulders.
“Leigh—” Mom starts but stops, visibly reconsidering.
I seize the opportunity.
“Dad.” Standing straight, embodying the candor he prefers, I look right at him. “I want to go to this dance with my friends.”
We’re positioned in a sort of triangle shape. He looks from me to Mom and back to me.
“Sounds harmless enough,” he says. “Who are your friends?”
“We’re going as a group.” Cool, calm, steady. “Me and Becka, with Thomas and Petey.”
This time when he looks from me to Mom, he holds her eyes. They have a silent conversation and are naïve enough to think I don’t understand every word.
As Dad turns his focus back to me, I brace myself and hope hard.
“So, when you say dance, you mean prom.” His tone matches mine, and he talks with his hands, holding his palm up for example. “And when you say friends, you mean—”
“Dad—” I gently stop him.
Don’t call my friends hoodlums, I want to demand. They’re good. We’re good. We’re young. Let me be young.
“You’re a sophomore, Bliss. Prom is for juniors and seniors.” He’s not mad. There’s no upset in his tone, just simplicity. These are facts as they are that mean nothing to him.
“Is it actually because I’m a sophomore?” I ask. “Or because we’re going with Thomas and Pete?”
Both of my parents look hesitant. Mom speaks first, but picks her words with slow caution.
“They’re not exactly models of trustworthy behavior, baby. And Thomas …”
My heart thumps defensively. I know better than anyone all the things Thomas is, and I don’t want to hear her say any of them.
“They’re just boys,” I say. “They’re like family, and Thomas has never given you a reason not to trust him.”
Not agreeing or disagreeing, they just look at me, and after too long a pause, I’m uncomfortable. It’s irrational, but their silence makes me wonder if they somehow know something I don’t.
But my heart knows better.
Mischief and misdemeanors aren’t what Thomas keeps from me.
Keeping my voice declarative, I push a little.
“Has he?”
Dad glances at Mom and then shakes his head.
“We want to keep you safe,” she says. Her voice sounds weak, like she knows she can’t do that forever and that fact is breaking her.
Guilt pulls on my conscience, but it doesn’t out-twist my determination.
“I know,” I admit, allowing the smallest creak of honesty to soften my tone.
Dad leans away from the counter and grabs another tomato from the bowl. He stands next to where Mom sits, and we’re not in a triangle shape anymore. They’re on one side of the kitchen, and I’m on the other, and what’s happening has to happen. This can’t go on forever.
Mom knows. It’s in her tear-glassy eyes. She smiles and holds her hands up innocently, the exact same way Tommy did yesterday morning.
“Well, can I at least sign up to chaperone?”
THREE WEEKS later, I’m sitting at my dressing table, and Becka’s standing behind me. She has my hair high up on my crown and is brushing it all the way out. When she pops a grape scented bubble, I laugh.
“I hope you know if you drop your gum in my hair and I have to chop it all off, I’m shaving your head.”
“Oh shit, Bliss.” She freezes, teasing.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” she says, tugging my hair a little higher. “You’d look sexy with a mohawk.”
I roll my eyes, smiling while she does some more tugging. For someone who’s rebelled against this whole idea, Rebecka’s in a good mood.
And a dress.
Which makes two of us.
I play it as carefree as my best friend, but summer is in the air and excitement is in my veins.
I know this isn’t a real date. Thomas and I can’t be our whole selves, but tonight is something I never expected, and he’s making it happen. Kelly can’t blame anyone but herself for being grounded, but all Dusty had to do was bring that fact up in front of his mom.
Secretly, I swoon at the trickiness that brought us here.
After Becka twists a braid around the bun she’s pinned at the back of my head, I unroll the now cool hot rollers from her hair. She takes my place on the bench, and because her black cocktail dress is backless, I pin all her long blonde curls up before sitting down next to her.
Together in front of my mirror, I pinkie touch some blush to my lids and brush the smallest bit of shimmer across my cheeks while she smoky-blacks her eyes. I roll on lip gloss and lean back, content with subtle hints of luster and iridescence. My complexion is sun-loved pretty, and I don’t want to push getting told to wash anything off.
A glance at my desk clock tells me it’s almost seven, which means the boys should be here any minute. Eagerness I can’t show and am barely containing flips and flutters behind my ribs as I stand.
Grabbing my half-shrug from my bed, I pull it on and keep long, pale pink sleeves down around my wrists. I don’t intend on wearing it very long and hate that I have to at all, but my dress is strapless. It’s sweethearted low on my chest, and there’s a lot of skin that my parents don’t need to see.
Twirling a little in the mirror behind Becka, I watch short layers of chiffon that’s closer to vanilla than white spin out above my knees. She borrows my lipgloss before she stands up and steps into the neon green pumps waiting by my bed. I have one heeled sandal on and am lifting my foot to buckle the other when a low rumble I know by heart flirts with my anxious pulse.
I can’t hear any bass beats, but the sound of Continental doors closing is music to my ears.
While B plays with her hair, poofing what’s already pinned up higher, I con
tain excitement that’s only growing. I watch her in my mirror while I fasten tiny diamonds to my earlobes. Meeting my eyes, blonde on black smiles deviously.
“Let’s get stoned,” she whispers before there’s a knock on my door.
Standing straight, I say, “Come in.”
Dad opens the door about halfway, leaning on the handle.
“Your friends are downstairs,” he says.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I grab my clutch from my bed, and Becka taps her hands on the fronts of her legs. Dad’s still standing in my doorway, mumbling under his breath.
“What?” I ask.
“Are you sure you don’t want a sweater?”
Patting my father’s arm as we pass him, I say, “This is a sweater, Dad.”
When we get to the bottom of the stairs, Becka walks ahead of me. She opens the door and evening sunlight pours in.
Leaning against the wooden porch railing, Petey’s light blonde hair is parted on the side, and he’s holding a jet black tulip I know is from Tommy’s garden. He’s wearing his sunglasses and looks good in his black and white suit, but as I look out onto the side of the porch, Tweedledumb is no comparison for love.
Standing with his shoulders back in front of a post, Thomas holds a peachy-pink tulip in his right hand. He’s handsome like I’ve never seen in a black shirt, black jacket, black skinny tie, and he looks so tall in straight-fitting black slacks. His shades and shoes are glossy brand new, and his skin is early summertime touched. He smiles like light that’s so bright it hurts to look at. Like trying to focus on a sparkler while it’s burning.
It makes me think of my first Fourth of July here. I’ve got a magenta-paper heart and his grin is the spark.
As Becka and I come out, our heels tap along porch wood, and Tommy and my mom both cover their mouths before coming to us. Luke speaks in low warning tones to his son while my moms touch my hair and caress my dress, and it takes effort to play my part.
Because all I can think is, Dusty’s holding a flower for me.
This tall, dark, and handsome boy, he’s for me. He’s doing all of this for me, and it makes my sparkler heart melt like a banana Popsicle.
Dad clears his throat as he steps onto the porch.
“Amendments four through eight don’t apply when it comes to my daughter,” he says seriously.
Luke rolls his eyes while my mother shoots my father a look that’s equal parts admonishment and support. Becka chuckles, and I fight the urge to scream.
Thomas doesn’t miss a beat. He takes his sunglasses off as he steps forward. Beautifully clear blue-eyed trouble stands exactly level with my father.
The whole thing is really strange for a second, but my boy’s relaxed posture is a comfort as he lifts his right hand.
Judge McCloy doesn’t hesitate to give it a firm shake, and rebellion in a new suit doesn’t balk.
Pete copies Thomas almost exactly, and Dad shakes his hand. Becka pats his arm, like I did upstairs.
“Don’t worry, Judge,” she says, smiling with her eyes and through her words. “I’ve got this totally under control.”
He looks from her to Thomas.
“Rebecka’s in charge,” Dad says.
I want to roll my eyes.
I want to laugh.
I want to get the fuck out of here.
Guarding his smirk with a sincere smile, Thomas glances at his sister.
“Rebecka’s in charge,” he agrees.
We’re all nudged together for pictures in front of the willow after that. I stand with Becka, and then we stand between the boys, and then we stand with them separately: Becka with Pete, and platonic as it looks, when Thomas approaches me and puts the tulip in my hand, heartbeats fill my chest. We smile for cameras, looking forward instead of at each other, but feeling the weight of his hand on my hip even as he keeps it light makes it hard not to lean into him.
Between flashes, we’re told to get back together as a group. Dusty places his hand on the small of my back and brushes his thumb over my tailbone where no one can see. I blush. I beam. It’s not for what anyone thinks, but I smile high like everybody else.
Except Dad.
While we edge apart, the boys listen to compliments and directions from Mom and Tommy, and Luke answers a phone call. My father hangs back. He’s silent, but there’s black and white conviction in his eyes.
After Mom pulls me close.
“You’re beautiful, Leighlee,” she whispers. “I love you, baby. Please, please be careful.”
“We will. I love you, too,” I tell her.
Tommy’s poofing Rebecka’s hair closer to God as I step away, beyond ready to get going. Pete opens the suicide door, and by the time she and I finally get in, I contain enough emotional adrenaline to light up the sky.
I wave from the window, and Becka leans over me, waving, too, and finally–finally–we’re moving.
Thomas puts his sunglasses back on and loosens his tie the second we’re off my street. Rebecka drums her hands on the back of Petey’s seat while he sets fire to the end of a blunt. The cab of the car fills with sweet smoke, and my butterflies soar.
Petey passes the Philly to Dusty as we turn onto a back road, and setting sunlight hits my boy’s profile from a new angle. In it, I realize his suit isn’t black. It’s nighttime dark gray, and noticing it feels like a secret.
“Turn the music on,” Becka insists, baby-fine tendrils of blonde blowing around her face as Thomas passes the cigar over his shoulder to her.
“You heard the Judge, I’m in charge. Turn it on and turn it up!”
NEXT IN line in a long corridor of bathrooms, Becka crosses her legs, straining to hold it.
My girl and I are more than a little high.
Pop music and crowded conversations filter through the walls and down the hall, but we’re both silent. The faint smell of gardenia and pear blossoms decorate the ballroom and mix with the scent of tropical hairspray and expensive perfume, dank smoke and the spring breeze.
A door opens a few down from us, and while Rebecka goes, I adjust my dress in the mirror and re-tuck my tulip bloom into the side of my bun.
I wanted to save my flower, but even if I kept track of it all evening, in a few days it’s going to wilt and get all brittle, and eventually crumble apart. But tonight, it’s perfect. I left the stem in the backseat of the Lincoln with my sweater. My bare arms, shoulders, and chest feel warm-wind kissed from when we finally cracked the car windows, and my heart is still echoing rhythm-beats from riding with them up so long, and keeping all the smoke inside.
I want to find Thomas and tell him to feel my pulse. I want to put my hand over his and see if it’s the same.
B tugs my attention while she washes her hands.
“I know it’s really early to be thinking about this,” she says, pinkie-smoothing out her eye shadow.
Next to her in the mirror, I roll on fresh lipgloss.
“California,” she says. “We should go to California.”
My smile drops open. “What?”
“For college,” she explains. “I know it’s really random and still forever away, and I know your parents will take some convincing, but …” She closes her eyes before speaking again, sounding like she’s talking about the best dream she’s ever had.
“Sunshine every day,” she’s nearly whispering, like something might snatch away this dream I didn’t know she had. “And the Pacific, and surfer boys, and skater boys, and don’t you just …”
This girl opens her blue, blue eyes and we’re holding hands. She’s holding mine in hers, and she looks more hopeful than I’ve ever seen her.
I’ve always taken the idea of college for granted. Of course I’ll go, but I’ll be with Thomas. I’ve never considered the specifics. I’m not ready to think about things that far ahead.
“Think about it,” Becka says.
“Okay,” I tell her, squeezing her hands. “I will. I promise.”
Because we do that.
/>
“Not tonight though,” she insists, shaking seriousness off. “Tonight is for dancing.”
IN THE ballroom, everything is silhouetted.
Golden with votive candlelight and glinting under a disco ball, the people dancing look like a kaleidoscope of bright dresses swirling between black suits. Between black tables and along black walls, everyone shimmers and glows in the dark.
After a few seconds of looking around, Becka points toward the boys, but I’ve found mine.
Thomas shoots me a smile from across the room, and my Fourth of July heart flickers in my chest. I hold his eyes, giving all that I can and wanting more as his sister leads me to the dance floor.
Syncing my heart into the beat and moving to it with my best friend reminds me how deeply I love her.
Between songs about great heights and settling down, my partner fans her face. I touch the back of my head to make sure my flower is still in place and look over when she points again. Thomas and Petey are leaned back in their chairs, and Ben has joined them. There’s no date by his side, but it could easily be any of the girls here.
Heated and heart-racing, we make our way to the table where two cups await us.
Becka downs hers in three quick chugs and blows out like it burns. As she sits next to Pete, I take the chair between her and Thomas, and slowly sip my some-kind-of-spiked punch.
“Who are you here with?” Rebecka asks over the music, looking at Ben.
He smiles, sheepish and tipsy. His friends chuckle, and I raise my eyebrows while B holds her empty cup under the table. While Pete refills it, I glance at Thomas and he nods toward a blonde girl across the room who’s wearing a knee-length floral print dress and sheer lavender tights. Her back is turned, but I know who she is right away.
“No way!” Leaning behind Thomas’ seat, I cup my hand around the side of my mouth.
“Daisy!”
The blonde in sparkling pink ballet flats turns around, and she has contacts on instead of her glasses. With a smile and a wave, she points toward the bathroom line, signaling she’ll be right back.
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