Mom is still really tired and feeling sick, but she said today was a little bit better than yesterday and she hopes tomorrow will be better than today. The worst is knowing she has to go through another round in three weeks, and another round three weeks after that. Apparently the effects are cumulative—so she’s going to feel worse each time. Ugh.
Mom says she just has to take it one day at a time and appreciate each little victory, like being able to enjoy watermelon.
“It gives you a real appreciation for the simple pleasures,” she says. “Like being able to taste your food properly.”
My appreciation of simple pleasures will be to have life back to normal again.
Ha! Normal. I’ve almost forgotten what a normal life feels like. Maybe abnormal is the new normal.
I do know this—life can never go back to how it was before the hack. Too much has changed. Friendships have changed. I’ve changed.
I was talking about this with Dad last night, and surprise, surprise, he had another Churchill quote to share: “There is nothing wrong in change, if it is in the right direction. To improve is to change, so to be perfect is to have changed often.”
I’ve decided if I had a time machine and could go back and meet anyone in history, I’d want to go back and meet Winston Churchill. The guy seems to have had said something for every single situation that comes up in life. He was like a one-man quote machine. How did he do it? Did he just walk around uttering these profound things all the time? He’d be so awesome on Instagram or Tumblr.
I wonder if he ever wrote embarrassing things in his diary? Luckily for him, they only post the smart things he said online, not the dumb things.
But Churchill didn’t get everything right, either. Just ask anyone in Australia or New Zealand about Gallipoli. Noah and I are going to watch that movie together once SAT is over. He said it was an antiwar war movie and I shouldn’t miss it.
Everyone’s got some kind of problem to get through. The important thing is to get up, keep going, and come out the other side.
Grandma Sally insists on taking me for a manicure the morning of Faux Prom, even though I tell her it’s not necessary.
“It’s necessary for me,” she says. “I had to wait a long time for grandchildren to spoil. Allow me to make the most of it.”
“It would be ungrateful of me to deny you spoiling rights, Grandma,” I say. “Go ahead. Do your worst. I mean, best. Spoil me to the end of the universe and back.”
“How about just to the moon and back?” Mom says. “I still have to parent this child.”
“Don’t worry, Helene. I’ll keep her civilized,” Grandma assures Mom. “You’ve got enough on your plate.”
Mom lifts her iced green tea in a mock toast. “I’ve actually kept a few things down from my plate today, so L’Chaim.”
L’Chaim. To Life.
I’ll drink to that. Well, orange juice, at least.
Pampered Nails is already crowded when we get there, which isn’t a surprise, considering it’s junior prom tonight.
“We probably should have made a reservation.” I sigh. “It’s not usually this crazy, but with prom …”
“Don’t worry. I’m in no rush. Go pick your color and I’ll find out how long we have to wait.”
There are so many girls around the polish shelves, I have to wait my turn to look.
“I thought you weren’t going to prom.”
It’s Margo. She’s there with Madison Maguire.
It’s also the first time she’s spoken to me directly since the day we fought after my journal was included in the data dump.
“What do you care? It’s not like you’ve done anything except bad-mouth me for the last month,” I say. “But as it happens, I’m not. I’ve got other plans.”
I don’t tell her what they are, and I think she’s about to ask, but then she closes her lips and shrugs.
“That’s too bad,” Margo says. “I know how much you were looking forward to it.”
Madison laughs. “The whole school knows that.”
“Actually, the whole world knows it, if you’re looking for accuracy in reporting, which clearly you aren’t,” I say. “But FYI, I’m looking forward to what I’m doing more.” As the words come out of my mouth, I feel their truth, and it makes me throw back my shoulders and smile.
“Have fun tonight,” I tell Margo, and without bothering to pick a color, I go over to Grandma Sally, who’s still waiting in line to give the owner our names.
“It’s okay, I can do my own nails,” I tell her. “Let’s just go to the drugstore and pick a color and then get some iced coffee.”
“Are you sure, dear?”
“One hundred percent sure,” I say. I don’t need a probability tree to figure that out.
We go to the drugstore, and Grandma helps me pick the perfect shade of shocking pink to match my dress.
“Who makes up these names?” she laughs. “Flame War Flamingo?”
“How about this one?” I say, giggling as I hold up a different shade. “Too Darn Hot Pink?”
We amuse ourselves trying to see who can find the most ridiculous nail polish name. But the color we get to match my dress is perfect: Back to the Fuchsia.
On the way home in the car, Grandma Sally compliments me on my careful driving.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, dear, I’m not. You drive very well,” Grandma says. “It’s a privilege for me to be chauffeured around by my granddaughter.”
“It’s easier to drive someone who isn’t clutching the door handle and criticizing me every thirty seconds,” I say.
“You’re talking about your mother, I presume,” Grandma says, giving me a shrewd sideways glance.
I plead the Fifth.
“You don’t have to tell me, Sammy, because I did exactly the same thing to her, and she hated it just as much as you do and swore she would never do that to her kids,” Grandma Sally tells me. “Which has made these last few years so … interesting … for me to watch.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Mom’s been better about the door clutching and criticism recently—I think she feels so awful after chemo that she barely notices my driving. But still.
“Are you telling me Mom’s a hypocrite?”
Grandma sighs. “Darling, why go for hyperbole? I’m merely pointing out the cycle of life. Someday, God willing, you’ll be lucky enough to have a smart, wonderful daughter, and I’ll put money on the fact that you’ll be in the passenger seat clutching the passenger door, just like your mother did to you.”
No way! I promise my hypothetical future daughter. I will not do that to you. I will never be that annoying.
“By the time I have a kid learning to drive, they’re going to have self-driving cars,” I tell Grandma. “So I won’t have to worry about that.”
“Self-driving cars? Oy gevalt,” she mutters, shaking her head in disapproval. “Computers are a wonderful invention, but they can never replace the human brain. It’s like putting your trust in a golem.”
“You mean the clay man that the rabbi in Prague made come to life by magic?”
“Yes, and guess what happened? The golem ran amok. These things never end well. The rabbi who created the golem had to destroy him,” Grandma says. “Wait till your computerized car decides it has a mind of its own. Imagine asking … what’s her name, Siri … to do something for you one day and only to have her reply, ‘I’m sorry, Sammy, I can’t do that.’ ”
“Don’t take this the wrong away, Grandma, but maybe you’re scared of technology because you’re older,” I say. “I’ve grown up with it, so it’s second nature. My generation is more comfortable with it.”
In the silence that follows, I wonder if I’ve gone too far.
“Tell me, my dear … how comfortable with technology were you when your journal was posted for the entire world to see?”
Ouch.
I never figured my grandmother would hit below the belt.
“Not at all,” I admit. “But it was people doing the hacking. Humans are the weakest link.”
“That’s where we have a fundamental difference of opinion,” Grandma Sally says. “Because while it’s true that we all have our frailties and weaknesses, I don’t believe a silicon chip and software can ever re-create the genius and creativity of the human spirit.”
“I hope you’re right, Grandma. Because if you’re not, then eventually, there’s not going to be much point to us, is there?”
I pull the car into the garage and turn off the engine. When I go to open the door, Grandma puts her hand on my arm to keep me in the car.
“Before we go in, I just want to say how proud I am of you for how much you’ve grown in the last couple of months. You’ve had a lot thrown at you, but you’ve managed to cope and still been a great help to your mom and dad,” she says. “You should go out and have a magical evening tonight. You deserve it.”
She fumbles in her handbag and takes out a small black silk pouch and hands it to me. “I want you to have these. Wear them in good health.”
I open the pouch, and a single strand of luminous pearls falls into my lap. “Oh my god, they’re so beautiful, Grandma,” I exclaim, picking them up and fastening them around my neck so I can look at my reflection in the rearview mirror. “Thank you! They’ll go perfectly with my dress.”
“That’s what I thought when you texted me a picture of the dress,” Grandma says. “Those belonged to Great-Grandma Susan. I see so much of her in you: her spirit, her sense of humor, and her strength. She would be happy to know that her smart, loving, beautiful great-granddaughter is going to wear them now.”
Throwing my arms around my grandmother’s neck, I kiss her wrinkled cheek and breathe in the Chanel scent she wears.
“I love you, Sammy,” she whispers.
“I love you, too, Grandma,” I whisper back, a lump forming in my throat.
“You better go do your nails,” Grandma says in a brisk and cheerful voice. “I understand this is some kind of Faux Prom for social pariahs, but you still should be a well-groomed pariah.”
Laughter washes the lump away, and we go into the house so I can start getting ready.
At six, when I finally come downstairs all dressed and ready, there’s a crowd waiting in the family room: Grandpa Marty, Grandma Sally, Mom, Dad, and RJ.
“See that gorgeous girl?” Grandpa Marty says, beaming with pride. “That’s my granddaughter.”
“Don’t hog all the credit, Marty. She’s my granddaughter, too,” Grandma Sally says, smiling at me.
“I can’t believe my daughter looks so grown up,” Dad says.
“Ahem. I’d like to remind you all that I had quite a bit to do with the creation of this beautiful young lady,” Mom says from the sofa.
“Ew! Mom, can you not?!” I exclaim.
Mom and Grandma exchange a glance and start laughing.
“What goes around comes around, Helene.” Grandma chuckles.
“So what do you think, RJ?” I ask my brother, who is safe to ask because at least he can’t make any claims about his part in my creation.
RJ looks up from his phone. “Yeah, you look nice.”
“Just nice?”
“Really nice.”
Hopefully, Noah will appreciate the effort a bit more. Like a lot more.
The doorbell rings ten minutes later, and I order everyone to stay where they are so Noah and I can get our first glimpse of each other dressed up without the embarrassment of a family audience. Scruffles is the only one who is exempt, because I can trust him not to embarrass me.
Famous last words …
As soon as I open the door to find Noah looking incredibly hot in a pair of black jeans and a vintage tuxedo jacket, Scruffles sticks his snout right in Noah’s crotch.
“Scruffles, stop it! That’s so rude!” I shout.
Noah manages to deflect Scruffles’ interest with a gentle push and hands me a single, perfect, pink tea rose.
“They didn’t come in hot pink, so this is the best I could do,” he says.
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “This is beautiful.” I hold the flower to my nose, which is enveloped by velvet petals and fragrance. “And it smells glorious.” Then I carefully tuck the rose into my hair.
Noah grins in approval and says, “You look pretty amazing yourself.”
“So do you,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush.
I usher him into the front hall, and Scruffles follows like a shadow, tail wagging in excitement.
“You have to promise not to hold me responsible for anything my family says, okay?” I tell him. “You’re about to step on deck with a bunch of loose cannons.”
“Relax, Sammy,” Noah says. “I didn’t just emerge full formed from the primordial slime. I, too, have family members. And they are also prone to saying embarrassing things at inopportune moments.”
I throw him a skeptical glance. “Trust me, you don’t know embarrassing until you’ve met my family.”
“Maybe we should have invited my parents over,” Noah says, his eyes alight with amusement. “We could have had an Embarrass-Off.”
“Ugh, no! I concede!” I say, and I lead him into the family room for pictures and close familial scrutiny.
“Mom, Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, RJ, this is Noah Woods. Noah, these are my parents, my grandparents, and my brother, RJ.”
“Nice to meet you, young man,” Grandpa says, getting up to shake Noah’s hand. “Like your tux. Although in my day, we wore them with the pants, too.”
And here we go …
“Grandpa, it’s a Faux Prom. For the class outcasts,” I explain for what must be the fifth time. “So we’re not doing things the traditional way.”
“Oh. Eh, I still don’t understand why a bright kid like you would be an outcast in the first place,” Grandpa says. “When I was in high school—”
“Dad, just say ‘Get off my lawn’ and be done with it,” Mom says. “Put the poor kids out of their misery.”
“My husband’s actually quite lovely when you get to know him,” Grandma Sally tells Noah. “Even if he seems like a strange old codger on first meeting.”
“I’m Samantha’s father,” Dad says, going in for the handshake.
“I know,” Noah says, grasping Dad’s hand. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper.”
And cue most awkward moment ever.
Noah, realizing what he’s done, turns bright red. “Oh. I’m sorry. I … uh …” he stammers.
“Relax, it’s not exactly a secret that I’ve become rather newsworthy in the last month or so,” Dad says.
This doesn’t appear to relax Noah at all. It’s so awkward. I want to take his hand and run out of here before any other mortifying incidents occur.
“Can we just take the pictures?” I say. “We’ve got a prom to get to.”
Dad gets the camera and we go to the garden. Mom directs from a chair on the patio. She and Grandma argue for five minutes over which shrub makes the best backdrop, until I remind them that we would like to get to BethAnn’s house sometime tonight. They finally compromise on the rhododendron, which is heavy with fat white blossoms. They decide that will set off the pink of my dress to perfection.
“Whatever,” I mutter to Noah. “Can we just take the pictures?”
“Okay,” Dad says. “Say fromage.”
We both smile and after Dad takes the first picture, I whisper to Noah, “See, we can’t even just say cheese like normal people!”
Grandma, Mom, and Grandpa keep suggesting different poses until my cheeks hurt from smiling.
“We’ve got enough now,” I say. “Otherwise the party is going to be over by the time we get there.”
“One more,” Mom says. “Noah, can you take a picture of us? The whole family?”
I’m about to complain, when I see Grandma put her arm around Mom and help her walk toward the rhododendron. Touching my great-grandmother’s pearls that nestle around my neck,
I say, “How about two more pictures? First, just me with Mom and Grandma.”
It’s worth it just for the smiles that light up Mom and Grandma’s faces.
After Noah takes a full family shot, Noah and I finally get clearance to leave. Dad walks us to the door and just in case I haven’t reached peak mortification already, he gives us both a short lecture about underage drinking, drinking and driving, and not making stupid mistakes.
That’s when I cut him off.
“Dad, please. Don’t you think I’ve learned enough about not making stupid mistakes in the last month? Can’t I just go have fun tonight?”
Dad looks shocked and I’m afraid he’s angry because I’ve crossed some invisible line. But then he laughs and gives us a rueful smile.
“I’m turning into Grandpa Marty!” he says. “Go on, you two. Get off my lawn and have a good time.”
“You’re so weird,” I tell him. “Lovable, but weird.”
BethAnn and her parents have decorated the shrubs around their front door with white fairy lights, so it looks like we’re walking into a magical bower rather than a gathering of high school prom misfits.
Omar has brought over speakers and he’s set up a DJ app on his laptop. He picks from our playlists and gives shout-outs to everyone whose list he’s playing from. It turns out there are more pariahs than we thought. Out of a junior class of 641, there are 34 of us here instead of at the official prom.
After downing some food, Noah and I join the crew on the makeshift dance floor. Omar plays one from my playlist, an Einstein’s Encounter slow song: “I’m Free Then.” I grin at the lyrics. “I’m free then keep these chains off, show me something that I can believe in, I know what to do right now, believing in you I finally put it all behind me …”
“Shout out to Sammy Wallach for this romantic ballad by Einstein’s Encounter,” Omar says. “Otherwise known as ‘the band it’s worth getting grounded for.’ There’s a strict prohibition on ruining Sammy’s enjoyment of this song by barfing on her,” he adds. “After the song is over, however, it’s fair game.”
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