“I know, right?” BethAnn agrees. “It looks so dorky. But everyone does it anyway.”
“Because that’s what their parents did,” I point out.
“And that’s what their parents did,” Valerie says.
“And that’s what their parents and their parents’ parents did before that, and so on and so on back into the fog of time,” BethAnn says. “Why do we do these same rituals the same way, generation after generation? Why can’t we change things up a bit?”
“No good reason that I can think of,” Valerie says. “It is hereby agreed that we refuse to continue the time-honored prom ritual of wearing corsages on our wrists, because we no longer see the point. If there was any point to begin with.”
“This has epic potential,” BethAnn says. “I’ll ask my parents if we can have it at my house. My aunt Julie says it’s got ‘great flow for parties,’ and she’s in real estate, so she knows about that stuff.”
I wonder if my parents will be any more or less likely to let me go to a Faux Prom than the actual prom. Either way, I have to keep on being a model child so I can earn the right. The other wild card is Noah. He asked me to the real prom. I wonder how he would feel about a change in plan.
Noah meets me at my locker right before I leave to take my driving test.
“Good luck,” he says. “Text me.”
“I will,” I promise. “Listen, can I ask you something?”
“It’s a free country,” he says. “Shoot.”
I feel nervous asking, but then I realize it took more guts for Noah to ask me. He thought I liked some other guy. So I force myself to say, “How would you feel about not going to prom?”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth and I see the hurt expression on his face, I realize that I’ve just made a whopping great big mistake.
“Wait! That came out wrong. I don’t mean not go together,” I hasten to explain. “I mean not go to the official prom.”
“Oh!” Noah’s body seems to release a tension I didn’t even realize it was holding and he smiles in obvious relief. “I thought you were blowing me off. You know, that you’d got a better offer or something.”
Guys have always seemed like a foreign country, speaking a different language, inscrutable and often incomprehensible. But by letting me know that he’s just as insecure as I am, Noah’s just given me a piece of the Rosetta stone.
“Of course not,” I reassure him. “I want to go with you. I’m working hard to be good so I can. Can’t you see my halo?”
He searches over my head. “I think you might have to work a little harder. It’s a bit dim.”
I mock-glare at him. “Just wait till I pass my driving test,” I say. “If I pass my driving test …”
“You will,” he says, putting his arm around me and giving me an encouraging hug. I feel tingles where his hand touches my arm, which I don’t think have anything to do with static electricity. “So tell me. What are we doing if we aren’t going to the official prom?”
“Oh! So at lunch we got to talking about prom. BethAnn doesn’t want to go after how people treated her, and Omar was complaining about the cost.”
“Yeah, it is pretty pricey, when you start adding it all up,” Noah admits. “Not that you aren’t worth it.”
I laugh and strike a pose. Then say, “Well, what if we made our own prom? One that we did our own way? That’s the idea we had.”
A wide grin spreads over Noah’s face. “I like it,” he says. “And luckily, I didn’t buy prom tickets yet since we’re waiting on your pending parole.”
“Great!” I say. Glancing up at the wall clock, I realize my mom’s going to be waiting for me. “I’ve got to go or I’ll be late for my driving test.”
“Break a leg,” he says.
“Um, maybe not,” I say, laughing as I walk away down the hall. “ ’Cause that would make it pretty much impossible to pass my driving test!”
April 17
Guess who is now the owner of a shiny new driver’s license! Yours truly, that’s who. I always thought that when I got my license, the first thing I’d do would be to take a drive to Rosa’s, then Margo’s. Then we’d just drive around for hours, blasting music and rocking out. But they’ve both ditched me. I’m pretty much dead to Margo, although she doesn’t hesitate to trash-talk me whenever she can. Rosa’s not saying anything bad—she’s just not saying anything at all. At least not to me. So to celebrate my licensed driver status I ended up driving Mom to Lickety Splits and celebrating with ice cream. Mom only clutched the door handle once the whole time, and we didn’t fight about my driving at all! Imagine that! Proof that miracles can happen …
I was actually feeling really happy until Jamie and Geneva walked in. I told Mom I wanted to leave and she said not until she finished her ice cream and I said, “Please, Mom, can we just go now,” and she wouldn’t, so I said I was going to go wait in the car and left, because I wanted to try to hold on to the feeling of happiness for a few more minutes and I couldn’t if I was watching Jamie and Geneva hold hands and make out over ice cream. Gross.
Why did it even hurt so much? I was an idiot to think that Jamie would ever invite me to the prom. He just wanted me for my homework. (If Margo or Rosa were talking to me, I might be forced to admit they were right …)
It would have been bad enough if I had to know that in private. But my public humiliation is way worse.
Mom yelled at me when she got in the car. She told me I was rude and selfish and when your mom buys you an ice cream, the least you can do is have the courtesy to sit with her until she’s finished.
But then she noticed I was staring at the center of the steering wheel and she asked me what was going on. And I looked into the window of Lickety Splits and Jamie and Geneva were kissing, which set me off again. Mom followed my gaze and asked, “Wait. Is that Jamie Moss, the lacrosse guy?” I nodded and she said, “Oh no, baby,” and pulled me into her arms. And I cried and cried, and she stroked my hair and said that he wasn’t good enough for me, and I said, “I know he isn’t, he’s a jerk, but he’s still really cute.”
And then Mom started laughing and so did I, but I was crying at the same time, so snot came out of my nose, which was really disgusting and it got on Mom’s shirt, which I thought would have her freaking, but she was like, “Is this going to be your new thing? Destroying my clothes?”
I said it was cheaper than destroying the car, and she said, “I can’t argue with that. I know it’s hard, honey, but forget that cute jerk, sweetheart. As Grandma Sally used to say to me, ‘There are plenty of fish in the sea.’ And given how much you like sushi, I’m sure you’ll find a more suitable fish soon.”
I was like, “Seriously, Mom? You’re comparing boys to sushi? No wonder you and Dad get along so well—because you’re both ridiculously weird. He told me my hair smelled like vacation once.”
“That’s my Richard.” She laughed, and said, “Come on, Sammy the Chauffeur. If you’ve finished sliming me with snot, you can drive me home.”
Mom even let me listen to my favorite Sirius station and sang along with a few songs.
I guess I managed to hold on to some happiness after all.
BethAnn’s parents agreed to let her host our Faux Prom the night of real prom.
“They were so happy I wanted to anything remotely related to a high school dance ritual after the whole Gary incident that they even offered to pay for food and decorations,” she tells me.
“We can all chip in,” I offer. “We would have had to pay for a prom ticket anyway.”
“Let’s see how many people are coming,” BethAnn says. “If it’s not a lot of people, my parents will be cool with it. What else do you think we need, though?”
“Music, obviously,” Omar says. “I’m happy to DJ. Anything that means I don’t have to, yanno, dance.”
“But if you don’t dance, you won’t play dance music,” Valerie complains.
“That’s a complete fallacy,” Omar argues. “I
have a healthy appreciation of dance music. I just don’t want to stand in the middle of the floor, throwing my arms and legs around like an amphibian having convulsions.”
I burst out laughing at the mental picture, but Valerie still looks skeptical. “I know your taste in music, and it’s not what I usually dance to.”
“How about everyone makes a playlist as the price of admission?” I suggest.
“Or something else to contribute to the festive atmosphere if music isn’t your thing,” BethAnn says. “Because the whole point is for this to be the no-pressure, no-stress prom.”
“Sounds good to me,” I sigh. “I’ve got more than enough stress with AP exams next week.”
“I feel ya,” Valerie says.
“Don’t we all,” Omar groans.
“Yeah, but Sammy’s got stress on steroids because of her mom,” Valerie points out.
“But I passed my driving test!” I remind them. “One test down, only … like a zillion more to go!”
“I’m going to start a closed Faux Prom group so we can send invites out,” BethAnn says. “And I’ll make all you guys admins, too.”
“Uh … I don’t think you should make me an admin,” I tell her. “What if I get hacked again?”
BethAnn laughs. “You’re probably the safest one out of all of us now. Your entire life already went viral. Besides, didn’t your dad get a security expert?”
“Yeah,” I admit. “But still … if I’ve learned anything from this, we’re never really safe.”
“No worries, Sammy. We’re talking about a party, not our social security numbers,” BethAnn points out. “Even if you do get hacked again, what are they going to do? Point out that we didn’t go to prom and had our own party? Call us losers? Boo-hoo! Compared to what’s already been said about me online, that’s nothing.”
She’s probably right. But I guess I’m still feeling Internet shy. We all have our public faces, the things about ourselves that we choose to reveal to the world. But like Mom says, everyone has secrets. They don’t have to be embarrassing, dark, or evil, just our little private pieces of self.
Is never expressing those thoughts, even using writing as a way to work out your feelings, or as a stress valve, the only way to guarantee that they won’t be made public, ever?
Is the only private place left inside my head?
Because if that’s the case, what do I do when my head is so filled with fears and anxiety that it feels like it’s about to shatter into a million tiny shards?
Writing is what helps me make sense of the world. It’s a safe bucket where I can vomit my feelings when they’re so intense they’re making me sick and dizzy.
I can’t give it up, even knowing the risks. I just have to figure out how to adapt.
It took many calls by Mom’s surgeon to the insurance company, but they managed to move up her surgery date since everyone on the Internet knows she has cancer. I told my parents there was no point in waiting till I was done with APs to reduce my stress.
“It would be better to get it over with,” Mom agreed. “Thinking about those cancer cells growing and dividing inside me is horrible. I want them out sooner rather than later.”
My dad takes Mom to the hospital the night before the surgery for prep because the operation is early in the morning. I want to go, but Mom won’t let me, because my first AP, English Lit, is tomorrow.
“You need to focus on your job, which is doing well on your exams, and I need to focus on my job, which is kicking this cancer,” she says.
“I’m postmillennial, Mom,” I tell her. “I was born knowing how to multitask.”
Dad looks at Mom, and the two of them start laughing.
“You think you have it bad, Helene? This is what I deal with from bright young sparks at work every single day.”
“Yeah, whatever, old man,” I tease. “Should I get your cane so you can wave it when you get mad?”
“Okay, she’s definitely staying home,” Dad says. “She called me old man.”
“If the shoe fits, Dad …” RJ says.
Dad ruffles my brother’s hair. “Et tu, RJ? Help me, Helene—the kids are ganging up on their old dad!”
“Emphasis on old,” I say. It’s nice to be joking with my dad again in this moment. This is the dad I know. Not the guy in the newspapers. Dad’s still living at the office these days, coming home early only for doctors’ appointments with Mom. And sometimes it’s so easy to slip into this comforting familiarity and forget that I’m mad about all the other stuff. But I can’t. Because I need to know who the real Richard M. Wallach is. Is it this dad, or the one in the emails?
“Don’t look at me, Dick,” Mom replies. “I’m having an operation tomorrow. You’re on your own, honey.”
We all will be while she’s in the hospital, though hopefully not longer than that. Hopefully not forever.
“Okay, let’s go,” Dad tells Mom. “I need to escape before I lose my self-respect entirely.”
Mom gives RJ a hug, and then me.
“Good luck tomorrow,” she says.
I don’t want to let go. I know people get mastectomies all the time. I know from the online research I’ve done that the survival rate for the stage cancer Mom has is 93 percent, which are way better odds than I ever really had of Jamie Moss asking me to prom. As much as I thought prom mattered to me, it doesn’t even register compared to how much Mom matters. She can’t be in the 7 percent. She just can’t.
“Don’t worry, Sammy,” she whispers, as if she can read my mind. “I’m going to be fine.”
“I know,” I say, even though the number seven weaves itself in my brain like Kaa in The Jungle Book.
She kisses my forehead and then bends down to say good-bye to Scruffles.
“Keep a good eye on my babies for me, Scruffs, okay?”
Scruffles licks her face, but his tail is between his legs. He knows she’s leaving, and it makes him sad, too.
After Mom and Dad walk out to the garage, I give him a treat.
“Don’t worry, Scruffles. Mom’s coming back.”
“Is she really going to be okay?” RJ asks.
I have to push the python seven out of my head and try to believe in odds of ninety-three enough to sound convincing for my brother.
“She will, RJ,” I tell him. “Hey, do you want some ice cream? I need something to keep me going for studying.”
He nods, and we watch the Science Channel and eat ice cream, with Scruffles curled on the sofa between us, until I have to force myself back to my books.
I’ve done two rounds with the flash cards when I get a text from BethAnn.
think the parental units are more into faux prom than we are! they just came back from home depot with enough boxes of fairy lights that orbiting satellites should be able to see our yard!
I love that her parents are so into the alternative prom we’re throwing. I haven’t asked my parents about going yet. We’ve all been so preoccupied with Mom’s cancer. But helping to plan it keeps me distracted from the number seven.
awesome. what can i do?
study for your APs and take care of your mom, BethAnn texts me. valerie, noah, and omar are helping with stuff. you don’t have to do anything unless you feel like it, okay? we’ve got this.
After all the whispers and the stares, after getting the cold shoulder from my best friends, knowing that there are people in my life who care brings a lump to my throat.
thanks. <3 I text back.
wait. you DO have to get an outfit of some kind from goodwill. clothes are NOT optional. :p
I laugh out loud. For real.
When Dad gets back from the hospital, my brother and I go down to get a report on Mom.
“She settled in well,” Dad tells us. “She sends her love and said to tell you not to worry.”
RJ looks at me and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, like that’s a possibility,” he says.
The kid has a point, one that even Dad is forced to acknowledge.
“Asking you not to worry is unreasonable,” he admits. “How about we just try to keep the worry in check the best we can. Because the prognosis is really good.”
Or as good as it can be for cancer.
“I’ll get you guys off to school in the morning, then go to the hospital,” Dad says. “Mom will be in surgery by then.”
“You should be there before she goes into surgery to give her moral support,” I tell him. “RJ and I can handle getting ourselves to school, right?”
RJ nods. “Definitely. You should be at the hospital.”
Dad hesitates. I know he wants to be with Mom, but he probably promised her that he’d be here looking after us.
“But your AP exams start tomorrow, Sammy,” he says. “I don’t want you to have any additional stress.”
RJ gives me an Is he serious? glance, and I snort.
“Dad, the Additional Stress Train left the station three weeks ago,” I tell him. “We can handle getting up and eating breakfast, right, RJ?”
“With our eyes closed,” RJ agrees. “Go keep Mom company.”
Dad relaxes, visibly. “Okay, if you’re sure. Mom’s putting on a brave face, but I know it’ll make her feel better not being alone.”
He gathers us for a group hug. “It’ll make me feel better to be there, too.”
We stand in his embrace, both giving and drawing comfort as we offer silent prayers for a good outcome.
I text Mom a selfie of RJ, Scruffles, and me doing a thumbs-up before I leave for school, even though I know she’s already in surgery. Well, Scruffles isn’t doing the thumbs-up; he’s doing paws-up. I write:
we got dressed, ate breakfast, and left for school ALL BY OURSELVES : ) we LOVE YOU. :x :x :x
Who knows when she’ll see it? But at least she’ll know we’re thinking of her and that everything went okay.
The AP starts at seven thirty. Even though we’re normally in school this early, it seems like cruel and unusual punishment to have to take a test that really matters for college at this time in the morning. So much for the research that says teenagers need more sleep. Why let science get in the way of Very Important Tests?
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