Promposal

by Rhonda Helms

  “Seriously, don’t write him off so quickly. I know prom is out of the question, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still date the boy otherwise. We just need to step up your game. Come up with a plan to win him.” My phone vibrated, and I dug it out of my pocket to glance at the screen.

  Free to hang out tmrw night?

  My heart slammed against my rib cage. Ethan. I whipped my glove off so I could reply. You betcha! ;-)

  Camilla’s soft laugh wrapped around the two of us. In a singsong voice, she said, “Speaking of getting your man . . . I bet I know who that was.”

  I rolled my eyes and crammed my phone back in my jeans. “You don’t know shit.”

  “Ethan Dreyfuss, age eighteen, hottie senior at our school who looks amazing in tight jeans—”

  “Okay, okay.” I interrupted her with another eye roll. “Fine. I admit, you know some shit.” Of course she did. We only spent an hour or two every damn day commiserating with each other about Ethan and Benjamin.

  “When are you gonna get off your ass and ask him out?”

  “When are you gonna get off your ass and ask Benjamin out?” I retorted.

  We turned the corner and headed down the narrow side street where both our houses were, just a block apart.

  Camilla shoved that wayward lock of purple-streaked hair back under her black knitted cap. Her thick knee-high boots crunched along the snow-crusted edges of the sidewalk. “It’s . . . different.”

  “Sexist much? No, it’s not.”

  “This isn’t about gender, you douchebag, and you know it. The difference is, you have a chance with your boy, whereas I don’t.” She stopped and grabbed my arm. “Seriously, when are you going to tell him?”

  I sighed and pressed the bundle of roses to my nose. Inhaled. Donned a big, fake smile and aimed the gesture right at her. “Tell him what, dear? That I’ve been madly in love with him since middle school and I’ve just been waiting for him to realize I’m the guy of his dreams?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Precisely.”

  “I will when you tell Mr. Hotpants that you’ve had a dirty crush on him since freshman year,” I retorted.

  She scrunched her lips. “Then I guess we’re at an impasse.”

  I chuckled. “At least we have each other.”

  “Thank God for that. I’d go nuts without you.” She threaded her hand through my free arm. The smile on her face was genuine.

  Despite how much we busted each other’s balls, there was never any doubt of support. I appreciated that, depended on it. If I texted Camilla at one in the morning that I needed to talk, she’d sneak over and watch action movies with me while we stuffed our faces with ice cream and popcorn and sorted out my issues.

  We proceeded walking. When we hit her house, a two-story white colonial with a neat lawn, she took half the roses from me. “The rest are for you.” She smiled and pressed a cool kiss to my cheek.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have. If I were straight, I’d be all over you.”

  “I know. I’m hard to resist.” She gave me a cheeky grin. “If you and Ethan hang out this weekend, I want all the dirty details.” She paused, and her blue eyes grew serious. “But really, do think about what I said. You know he’s worth the risk. And with prom right around the corner . . . Well, don’t be like me and get yourself saddled with the wrong date.”

  On that depressing note, she spun around and headed into her house.

  I gripped the bundle and made my way to my house on the next block. Poor Camilla. Despite my ribbing, I’d been more than a little shocked when she’d told me what had happened. I couldn’t imagine how hard that had to be for her, forced to go to prom with some random guy who’d asked her out of the blue.

  Maybe she was right. Maybe I should take the bull by the horns and get Ethan before someone else did. Even if I framed it as a date among friends. Surely he’d be down with that. I could bring the topic up tomorrow night. My stomach lurched in nervous excitement.

  I swung a left onto my sidewalk. Old snow was still packed on the cement, up the two stairs to our front door. I needed to come out and shovel that—no doubt Dad, in the throes of drafting the newest novel in his thriller series, was drowning in words and had forgotten to even take a shower this morning.

  I strolled through the front door, dropped my bag on the floor, and headed to the kitchen to find a vase for the roses. They really were pretty, despite the circumstances. I fluffed and arranged them as best as I could and put the bouquet in the center of the kitchen table.

  “Dad, I’m home,” I hollered, and ducked my head in the fridge. My stomach was grumbling. I’d forgotten to pack a lunch, so I dug into the leftover Chinese takeout container and chowed down without bothering to heat it up.

  “Joshua,” Dad called from his office, “want pizza for dinner tonight?”

  I whipped the pantry open and checked out what we had left. “Um, how about I make something for us instead? There’s still chicken in the freezer, I think.”

  “If you want, sure.” I heard the soft clack of him typing on his laptop. “I just have to finish this chapter.”

  Famous last words. I probably wouldn’t see him before dinner. And no doubt after cramming in food, he’d run back to his computer to fit in juuust another page or two. I chuckled, set the chicken out to thaw, and then settled down to do a bit of homework.

  Which lasted all of five minutes before I tugged my phone out and flipped through my photos. I hadn’t seen Ethan today, since he’d had an impromptu Spanish tutoring session during lunch—our only shared time together this year.

  I pulled up a picture of him I’d snapped earlier this week during lunch when he wasn’t looking. Dark brown hair just a touch too long that swept across his brow. Gray eyes, thick lashes, the sexiest mouth, tilted at the corners as he laughed at something a guy at our table had said. Slender body with lean muscles honed from years of swim practice.

  My throat tightened, and that familiar ache welled up in my chest. Ethan was the perfect guy. Friendly, enthusiastic, funny, athletic but not cocky. Hot as hell. Everyone loved him.

  He and Camilla were my two best friends—the three of us had clicked back in middle school, when we’d been assigned to work together on a book report. The moment eleven-year-old Ethan had suggested we do our report on Flowers in the Attic, a book he’d snuck from his older sister and read, I knew I was gonna love him. Not to mention the fact that the three of us had spent more than one Saturday checking out and ranking hot guys at the mall.

  “Joshua,” Dad hollered from his office. “Which sounds scarier to you—being shoved in a tiny pitch-black room or in a metal-studded cage?”

  “They both sound awful. But I think not being able to see would be worse. The fear of anticipation will get you every time.”

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s true. Oh, maybe I can put the spiked cage in a pitch-black room. Yeah, that could really freak the girl out and make her talk.” I heard his typing pick up again.

  Dad had a disturbed mind. I still read all his books, though usually in a well-lit place and not near bedtime. Learned that lesson the hard way a few years ago.

  My tabby cat, Milkshake, wandered up to the table and started rubbing her tiny gray head along my calf. I reached down and scratched her furry neck, and she purred in delight. Then I turned my attention back to the books. Shifted in my chair. Got up to crack open a fresh can of Dr Pepper from the fridge. Eyed my notes without really seeing them.

  God, this was super boring. I shoved the material into my backpack. Eh, maybe homework tomorrow. Or more likely, Sunday night right before bed. I sipped my drink and then sent Ethan a text. Whatcha doin?

  My phone buzzed a minute later. Homework. :-P You?

  Attempting it. Blech. So what are we doin tmrw night?

  It’s a surprise. Be ready at 5.

  Tingles swept across my skin. Ethan was unpredictable, to say the least. I could only venture a guess on what he was planning. Maybe an outing somewhere
fun or a cool new coffee shop he’d discovered.

  My phone buzzed again; another message from him. Looking forward to talking to you—have important Q to ask.

  With that, my heart skipped a beat or two, then began a furious gallop in my chest. A big question? What could it be?

  Surely it wasn’t . . .

  No. Don’t go down that road, I chided myself. Just because Camilla got asked to prom didn’t mean Ethan was going to ask me. Our friendship was solid—okay, his side was solid, while mine was smoldering with unrequited love—but there hadn’t been any indicators Ethan was into me that way. To my eternal sadness.

  Then again, Camilla’s promposal had come out of the blue. It did happen sometimes. Why couldn’t it happen for me?

  Whatever it was, it was probably important. Ethan wasn’t one to mince words. My hands shook, and I fumbled the letters but managed to type out I’ll be ready.

  And if he didn’t ask me, I would take the chance and ask him—fate was giving me an opportunity I couldn’t let go. I put my phone on the table and tried to focus on homework. But all I could think about was him.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Camilla

  I hope you appreciate how hard I’m working,” I said to my mom as I put the last of the pasta in the pantry. “These shelves were heinous.”

  “Well, you are a good girl, and you listen to your mama,” she replied from her crouched position on the floor in front of the fridge. I could hear her huffing, the rhythmic sweeps of her scrubbing the interior.

  Saturday mornings and early afternoons were made for cleaning, according to my mom. Sadly, I disagreed and felt that time was much better for sleeping or giving in to my rare bouts of lazy time, but I wasn’t in any position to argue with her. Over the years I learned if I did a burst of activity for an hour or two, she usually backed off enough so I could spend the rest of my weekend how I wanted.

  Mom started singing an old Romanian song, and I found myself humming along. It was one she’d brought with her from the “old country” when she moved to the United States as a teenager with her parents and younger brother, my uncle Andre. Mom still had an accent, despite having lived here for so long, and when she got in a pissy mood, she’d speak a flurry of Romanian to me.

  Not that I always understood what she was saying, of course. Dad, who was American, only spoke English, so that was our main language in the house.

  “—college,” Mom was saying.

  I snapped my attention back to her. “Um, what?”

  She slit her eyes as she peered at me. “We need to pick which college you are going to attend. Time is running out to accept the offers.”

  “I know, I know.” Technically, we had until early May to accept, but Mom had been hounding me every week since December to choose which school I was going to start in the fall. I’d gotten accepted into three different colleges, but I was torn about which one would be right for me.

  There was a good state school twenty minutes from our house that had a great K–12 education program so I could follow my dream of becoming a history teacher. The second school was in southern Ohio, about three and a half hours away. And the third was in Chicago.

  “Well, we are all waiting on you,” she said. “I don’t understand what is taking so long. It’s not like you are picking a husband or anything.”

  I turned my attention back to the pantry and rolled my eyes. Her pushiness made me want to choose Chicago, which was a good seven-hour drive away from home. “I promise you won’t have to wait much longer.”

  “Where is Joshua going to go? Did he decide yet?”

  “Columbia University in New York City told him a couple of weeks ago that he got in.” I chuckled. “And that was the end of the search for him.” When Joshua had gotten his acceptance letter, he’d legit started tearing up in excitement. We’d both danced around his house for a full ten minutes. Doing music and living in NYC for four years? A total win-win.

  Though it was going to be so, so hard to be that far from my best friend.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Scrub, scrub. “Your father won’t be home until this evening. One of his employees called in sick, so he’s working late.”

  “That’s too bad. Maybe I can run him up some dinner later.”

  “You are a good girl.” I heard the smile in my mother’s voice. “He would appreciate it, I am sure.”

  My dad owned a small but thriving jewelry store in a bustling strip plaza. Five years ago, he’d declared to me and Mom that he was quitting his job at an accounting firm to start his own company. I’d assumed Mom would have a stroke when he told her, but she’d stayed surprisingly calm and told him she would support him in this. We both had seen far too many nights when Dad would come home tired and miserable.

  Now he was still tired, but I’d never seen him happier. My parents had stopped fighting as much, even. Crazy how taking a risk and following your dreams led to happiness all around.

  I straightened up the pantry a bit more, stalling. I knew Mom was going to tell me to tackle the bathroom next, and I so did not feel like scrubbing toilets. As I pondered how to get out of the task today, the doorbell rang.

  “Will you get that, please?” Mom asked.

  I glanced down at my clothes with a wrinkle of my nose. Stained sweatpants and a beat-up T-shirt. “But I look like ass.”

  She whipped her head around to eye me with a stern glare, and I instantly regretted the cuss word. “Language, miss.”

  “Sorry,” I said in a soothing tone. “That slipped out.”

  The doorbell rang again.

  Her eyebrow rose.

  With a sigh, I clomped my way to the door and whipped it open. There stood Zach, a broad grin on his face.

  “Hey,” he said.

  My eyes widened, and it was so hard not to just slam the door in his face and run to my room to change. Despite my mom’s huff of displeasure at my word choice, I did look like ass. In general, I preferred that people at school not see me in a state of assiness. Even Joshua knew better than to come over until later in the afternoon on Saturdays. “Um. Sorry. I’m in the middle of cleaning,” I said with an apologetic wave of my hand over my outfit.

  His gaze raked my form, and it didn’t seem like he cared what I was wearing. “No biggie. Need help?”

  “Who is at the door?” my mom asked loudly. She couldn’t see us from her spot in the kitchen.

  Zach peered over my shoulder.

  “It’s a friend, Mom.” I squeezed the door a bit closer around me. “Thanks, but I’m good. Did . . . you need something?”

  He cleared his throat, and a gust of brisk wind whipped his hair around. His cheeks pinkened, and goose bumps broke out on my flesh from the chilly air. “I came to talk about prom with you,” he said in a low voice.

  It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since he’d asked me. He already wanted to start talking about it? I’d barely accepted the fact that I’d said yes.

  “Invite your friend in, Camilla,” Mom hollered. “What are you, being rude? Leaving her standing in this cold weather?”

  It was hard to dampen down the sudden swell of irritation. “Please, come inside.” I opened the door wider and let him in.

  He sighed in relief when he stepped in, then looked around the room. Stripped his coat off and held it out to me to hang up. Make yourself at home, why don’t you. “Your place is great.”

  I hung his coat up. “Can I get you something to drink?” See, even pissed off, I could remember my manners.

  “What do you have?”

  Mom walked into the living room and stopped. “Oh, it is a boy, not a girl.” She swatted my arm, then fluffed her hair and smoothed the front of her shirt and pants. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a male guest?” By the hungry gleam in her eye, I could tell she was already planning our wedding.

  Zach thrust out his hand to her. “Hello. I’m Zach. I go to school with Camilla.”

  “Yes, he and I are in statistics together,” I int
erjected. I was so not ready for Mom to find out we were prom dates. Because, to be honest, part of my brain had been scrabbling since yesterday for ideas on how to get out of going with him. Which sounded awful, I knew, but I couldn’t help it.

  “Are you hungry?” Mom grabbed his arm and sat him down on the couch. Her smile was so big that she looked almost crazy. “Would you like a sandwich? Or I can make you some chicken or—”

  “Mom,” I said as I shot her a look.

  I knew why she was so excited about Zach being here. I never had guys over, ever. Well, except Joshua, but she’d stopped trying to matchmake us in seventh grade when we finally told her he was gay. Though she did try to point out attractive guys to the two of us when we were out in public.

  “I’m good on food, thank you,” Zach said. “But . . . maybe a soda?”

  With a quick nod, she ran into the kitchen.

  I sat on the chair opposite the couch. “I’m sorry,” I said with an awkward laugh. “She doesn’t get out of the house much.”

  “That is not true,” Mom called from the kitchen. “I have book club and movie club and wine club.”

  I gave a real laugh this time. “Okay, her social life is better than mine, if I’m honest.” After clearing my throat, I rested my clenched hands in my lap. I knew my discomfort had to be radiating from me, because my back was one big knot of tension, but Zach didn’t seem to notice. He just stared at me with a blasé expression.

  Mom gave him the drink, then stood behind the couch, eyeing us closely.

  “Thanks,” I told her.

  Awkward silence.

  “Well. I guess I will leave you two to talk.” She shuffled back into the kitchen, and I heard the scrubbing start again.

  “Um. So. What did you need to see me about?” I asked him.

  He took a sip of his drink, then put it on the coffee table. Twisted the cuff of his sweater. Sipped again. Was he nervous? “Well, I was talking to my mom—”

  “The newscaster.” Boy, had the woman looked excited in her segment last night. I’d watched it up in my room. Thankfully, it had been the ten o’clock news, and my mom and dad had already been sawing logs in bed. So they’d missed the hubbub, hadn’t seen my beet-red face and painful smile as I agreed to go to prom with Zach. Though it seemed like half the school had seen the segment and had blown up my phone and Facebook page with messages about it last night and this morning.