The Prom

by Saundra Mitchell

  Five twenties fan out in my mother’s hand. She’s so proud; she hands it to Milo. “I’ve got that covered. And now, little missy, you have to give up this big secret you’ve been keeping.”

  Pinned to the floor in a panic, I say, “I’m not keeping any secrets!”

  With a practiced, carefree laugh, my mother plucks the clipboard off the table and a pen right out of Milo’s hand. With a flourish, she fills in my name, then fixes me in her gaze. “Your date, sweetheart? You’ve been talking him up, and now it’s time to reveal all.”

  My hummingbird heart beats so fast, it feels like it’s stopped. I have been talking up my date. Very carefully, without pronouns. I think you’ll like my date, Mom. My date’s so brave, so talented, so cute. You’re definitely going to meet my date soon. But I am not prepared to come out in the middle of the Hall of Champions, in front of Kaylee and Shelby. They have the biggest mouths in James Madison. They do not get to see my mother break. This will not be the next group-text intrigue.

  “John,” I say finally. What a nice, generic name. What a nice, nobody-you-know kind of name. Except my mother’s brows are arched; they’re question marks. That presses some primal button in me, the big red one that says, Answer her right now or ELSE! Stunned, I hear myself say, “Cho.”

  Oh no. I just told my mother I’m going to the prom with hot Sulu. My face stings; I wait for her to bust me. Instead, she simply lights up and scrawls his name beside mine. She doesn’t suspect a thing, because she asks with quiet delight, “How do we know John Cho?”

  My blush deepens, but I keep it together. “Model UN. I met him at Model UN. He was Australia.”

  “Oooh,” Mom says, pretending to fan herself. “He comes from a land down undah, does he?”

  From the weird accent to the expectant way Mom looks at me, it’s like I’m supposed to get something out of it. Well, what I get out of it is that I just set my plan to ease Emma into my mother’s sights back by three weeks, easily.

  Why did Mom have to be here at this exact moment? Why couldn’t she just stay at work and phone in her school interest like everybody else’s mom?

  I take the tickets from Breanna and force my smile wider. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Well, I can’t wait to meet him.”

  Is everyone in the Hall of Champions staring at me? It feels like it. It’s like someone turned a blinding spotlight on me and I forgot my lines. I shove the tickets in my purse and nod. “It’s going to be exciting.”

  “I bet,” Mom says. She starts to hand the clipboard back to Milo, but her expression changes. There’s a darkness in the furrow of her brows. She clutches the sign-up sheet a little harder and reads aloud the line just before mine. “Emma Nolan and Anna Kendrickson?”

  Please, please, floor, just open up and swallow me right now. I pluck the clipboard from her hands and try to return it. “Sounds about right!”

  “Two girls?” Mom lifts her chin. “The rules are very clear: no stag dates. There are too many people who want to come to prom and not enough tickets to go around. Couples only!”

  “Oh, that is a couple, Mrs. Greene,” Breanna helpfully supplies. She doesn’t sound the slightest bit mean as she informs Mom, “Emma Nolan’s gay.”

  Ice crackles around my mother. “Excuse me?”

  Milo has perhaps spent a little too much time breathing the fumes in the cattle barn. He can’t tell that my mother is about to get full dragon queen up in here; he thinks he’s just clearing up some lingering confusion. “Yeah, she came out freshman year.”

  My mother lands just shy of mocking Milo’s tone. “How lovely for her.” She starts flipping through each page, her eyes sharp and scouring. When she gets back to the front, she informs Milo and Breanna, “You’re done selling tickets for the day. Move along.”

  They look baffled, but this isn’t their first rodeo with my mom. They zip their lips, lock the cashbox, and disappear.

  An abyss swirls around me. It gets wider and deeper. The dark presses in from every side. I try to smile and lighten the moment and make this right. I’m desperate to make this right. “There’s still another half an hour left of lunch, Mom. You can’t close up shop early.”

  “Oh, I can, and I am,” she says adamantly. She stares at the list again, disgust curling the arch of her lips. “I don’t know who this Emma thinks she is, but we have standards here. We have morals.”

  “It’s just a dance, Mom. It’s fine.”

  Summoning up her full height, my mother glares at me. “It is not fine, Alyssa. Nothing about this is fine! I don’t think so, and neither will the rest of the PTA, I guarantee you that.”

  “Why are you making a big deal out of this?” I ask. I already know what she’s going to say. I already know because I’ve imagined variations on this conversation for three whole years. No matter how I approach it, I could never make this, make queer, okay for my mental mother. And god, now that it’s happening for real, it’s like I’m being torn in pieces. “It’s one couple!”

  “It’s the principle of the matter!” Nostrils flaring, she looks away, some switch going off in her head. She points toward the office, thinking out loud. “I need to go have a word with Principal Hawkins.”

  Catching her by the hand, I say, “Mom, please!”

  A thread of suspicion wraps around her. “You seem awfully invested in this, Alyssa.”

  Here, I could confess: Because she’s my girlfriend! I could say, Because she’s my date. Because she loves me and I love her. Because there’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, there’s everything right with it! But I can see my mother’s fury and her fear. She grows with it, until she looks ten feet tall. She towers and glowers, all that stone wrapped around a heart of vulnerable flesh.

  I guess I’m a coward. Instead of making any of the arguments I could make, I say, “I’m not.”

  For a moment, I think Mom sees through me. It’s in the way she tilts her head to the side, in the angle of her gaze as it sweeps across my face. It’s like a strobe light goes off, and everything’s illuminated for her. Then the dark comes again, and she pats me on the cheek. “Good girl. Let me worry about this.”

  I really am the worst person in the world, because I say nothing as she walks away.

  5. Pitchforks Strongly Encouraged

  EMMA

  Thanks to Mrs. Greene, it’s Emma season at school.

  Of course she talked to Principal Hawkins. I don’t know what he told her, but Mrs. Greene then called an emergency meeting of the PTA.

  Never in the history of education has there been a PTA emergency. Like, omg, we don’t have enough crepe paper for Spirit Week, we have to hit the Walmart like the fist of an angry god and correct that immediately!

  Apparently, they also have to correct my existence.

  The day after I volunteered as tribute—I mean, the day after I bought prom tickets for me and a celebrity that I’m definitely not asking to prom on the internet in the vain hope she’ll actually show—the PTA sent an email to all the parents and students. It read:

  Dear James Madison Family,

  As you know, the PTA and the Future Corn Keepers of America host the annual prom for our school. Excitement builds all year long for this event, and it’s a highlight for our graduating seniors. We feel the need to remind everyone that attendance at prom is a privilege, not a right. As there have been questions, we want to clarify the requirements students must meet to attend:

  GPA of 2.5 or above.1

  Gentlemen are expected to wear a suit and tie.

  Ladies are expected to wear modest evening attire, with dresses no shorter than knee length, no strapless gowns, no gowns that show belly or feature slits in the skirts to reveal skin above the knee, no material that is see-through or transparent, no material that is designed to appear see-through or transparent, no unusual materials (i.e., no duct tape dresse
s), and nothing that is designed to be sexually provocative, which will be determined at the discretion of the chaperones.2

  Tickets will only be sold to boy/girl couples.3 Due to space constraints, there will be no individual tickets sold, and no tickets sold to friends of the same sex. We want to make sure that everyone who has earned the right to attend this event with their date has the chance to.

  Because prom tickets are limited, and because prom is meant to be a reward for our students at James Madison, only enrolled, eligible James Madison students4 will be permitted to attend. No outside dates.

  Thanks for your time, and we look forward to having a great prom this year!

  Sincerely,

  Your PTA

  Go Golden Weevils!

  So, uh, that letter, wow. Let me tell you, I tore it apart on YouTube, point by point, starting at 1, that GPA requirement.

  You know why it’s that low? Because otherwise, half the basketball team would be barred from the prom. And that, of course, can never happen, because it would literally signal the Hoosier apocalypse. I’ve heard teachers aren’t allowed to let the players’ grades dip below that average, period. How lucky for them.

  Moving on to 2, way to enshrine the patriarchy and gender binary. Only guys can show up in any old jacket and tie, but woOooOoo, beware the specter of a girl (and only a girl!) in a dress that shows her knees. Can you believe this one? You should, because that’s the “classy, formal” version of the school’s regular dress code. Guys who were assigned male at birth? Show up in some clothes, thanks. AFAB ladies, let me unfurl the scroll of respectability and modesty. Other genders? You don’t exist.

  Don’t you love 3 and 4? Those rules are brand-new. And they are stunning in their elegance. I’m almost proud of the bigots in our PTA, who CYAed twice without even once saying no gays allowed! It’s almost like they know what they’re doing is wrong! I mean, built-in plausible deniability, Golden Weevils PTA, well done! I would applaud them, but I can’t. I’m too busy protecting myself from their demon seeds at school.

  See, their kids tortured me all through freshman year and most of sophomore year but kind of got over the everyday offensive until just recently.

  Recently, as in the minute this PTA letter was sent out and I got a bunch of online comments on my takedown. It’s my channel, so most of the comments were on my side, you know? Can’t have that!

  Also, since Nan informed the school that I would be attending prom with anyone I wanted to, and if somebody had a problem with that, she had the ACLU on speed dial (whatever that is).

  To be fair, she did ask me first. She only fights the fights I want her to—after I begged her not to go to the principal about the everyday awful stuff that happens because I knew it would make it ten times worse. But she gave my parents an epic talking-to, and when it made no difference, she cut them off like skin tags. While I cried in her arms, she promised to always be there if I needed her.

  So after the email from the PTA, she held my chin in my hands and looked into my eyes. She asked, “Is this something you want, baby girl? You know it’s going to be hard.”

  Maybe I hesitated, but not for long. My YouTube peeps are on my side, and that helps. And you know what? What I want doesn’t hurt anybody. I’ve put up with their abuse since ninth grade, and I’m tired of it. I want to say goodbye to senior year with my date, at prom, like everybody else.

  With tears in my eyes, and some caught in my throat, I told her, “I just want to dance with her, Nan.”

  She bobbed her head sharply. “Then we’re doing this.”

  And she marched into school with me this past Monday morning. Swept me into the front office and demanded to speak to the principal. Said she’d sit on the counter until he was available, because, well, Nan has a way of making a point when she wants to.

  Principal Hawkins, I need to tell you, is really nice. First, he listened. He covered Nan’s white hands with his brown ones and listened to every single word she said without interrupting.

  Then, when she was finished, he turned to me and said, “Prom isn’t sponsored by the school. It doesn’t come out of our budget, we don’t plan it. We allow the committee to throw it here for free.”

  “But the money goes to a school club,” I said. “It’s run by the PTA.”

  “And I’ll point that out in the meeting, Emma. You just have to understand that I only have so much power over this. If it escalates, I’ll go as far as I can. You just have to know that I can’t stop this all by myself.”

  It didn’t seem right or fair that the principal couldn’t make the rules about our school prom. But there it was. To be honest, I thought I should cry, but all I felt was numb. Nan reached over and stroked my back; it was like a ghost of a touch.

  Principal Hawkins waited a moment, then said, “I can warn them that their prom includes you, or they need to find another site. Hopefully, that will turn things around. Money’s pretty tight all over since the plant closed down.”

  “Okay.”

  “There’s still a chance it could make things worse. This is a big deal, Emma. Are you sure you want me to go forward?”

  Was I? I was. And yet, even though I got a rush of adrenaline, somehow, I couldn’t get enough breath to say yes. So I nodded instead. The deal was sealed. He promised to talk to the PTA, and I know he kept his word.

  How? Well, the PTA did not send out a new email. Instead, they whispered a rumor and made sure it spread like sparks in the night: if Emma Nolan insists on queering up this year’s prom, then prom is gonna be canceled. They can’t afford to host it anywhere else; this is all my fault.

  And you know, we don’t have a lot going on in Edgewater. I think you can probably tell. Sometimes a tent revival will come to town, and that’s exciting because people fall down and speak in tongues.

  There’s fair season, when everybody’s competing with prize calves and wedding ring quilts.

  And let’s not forget the wonder and glory of cruising the Walmart parking lot on Saturday night. (Yes, we have a movie theater, but it shows one movie at a time, and usually something super old.)

  Friends, Golden Weevils basketball games, and prom? Those are the social highlights of our limited calendar. And now everybody thinks one of them’s about to get canceled because of me.

  And that means all the abuse from freshman year is happening again, only this time, with purpose. The chanting is back—annoying but ignorable. There are worse things people could whisper at me, but I have to say, “Gay, gay, gay” offends on an artistic level.

  It lacks creativity. There’s a whole internet out there for people who can’t think for themselves; it’s literally a gateway to thousands of slurs with bite, with real shape to them. Instead, these doofuses pick the dictionary definition of me and croak it like a choir of narrow-minded frogs.

  Oh, and bow down, because I’m now the Moses of southern Indiana. Wherever I go, seas part for me to pass. Hall of Champions, English class, cafeteria, doesn’t matter: students who had forgotten they cared I was gay suddenly recoil again. I am my own personal cootie factory, open for business for the first time since kindergarten.

  Oh, and this morning, I had to relearn the importance of keeping nothing important in my locker. See, during freshman year, people squeezed packets of Zesty French dressing from the cafeteria through the vents and ruined my favorite jacket. To this day, I tense up when I smell sweetness and vinegar.

  I started using the locker again when things tapered in junior year. I didn’t store anything super important in it, but guess what?

  Today, the very clever students of James Madison High found a way to squirt lotion through the vents. When I opened it after lunch, I found everything coated in a thick, pearly layer of Jergens. Including a history textbook that leaves out the reason for the Civil War.

  I took it to the office to get a new on
e, and the secretary (whose desk Nan threatened to sit on) told me I have to pay to replace it. She didn’t care why it was ruined or who had a hand in it. My book, my responsibility. That’ll be eighty dollars, please.

  My nan doesn’t have that kind of money just lying around, so I’ll have to cash out my Patreon savings. So much for a new guitar this year.

  Through all of this, normally, I’d lean on my girlfriend for support. But outside of school, I haven’t seen Alyssa in almost two weeks.

  Once her mother started leading this particular mob of angry townsfolk, she ended up on lockdown. We text at night, stolen moments during econ homework, quick Snaps so there’s no evidence left behind. And, you know, I know why she’s hiding. Most of me is glad she’s safe in her invisibility.

  I just wish I didn’t have to be visible all alone.

  Principal Hawkins says he’s doing everything he can behind the scenes, Alyssa is heartbroken behind our screens, but that leaves me by myself, in front of them.

  I make myself go to school. I make myself show up for each class. Every day, each step is heavier as the clock ticks toward three, then I burst out of my seat the second the last bell rings.

  Seniors get to leave their classes first. We have a whole twenty-minute passing period—mostly so people who drive can get out of the parking lot before the buses leave. Car riders wait at the front doors, and this week, Nan’s been picking me up because . . . well, her forty-year-old car seems safer than a fairly new bus full of enemies and no way out.

  Today’s only different because it’s raining, and I have to wait inside. Arms wrapped around myself, I stare out the front doors while I watch for Nan’s blue VW Beetle. I have my Moses circle around me, isolating but safe, right? Then I hear something behind me. A weird shuffling, a concentrated rustle.

  Pushing up my glasses, I look back.

  Everyone’s eyes are turned away from me. I know all of these faces; they’re not even the most popular kids at school. They’re medium-ordinary. They just think they’re better than me because they’re straight.