The Prom

by Saundra Mitchell

  They talk at each other so hard, it looks like their jaws might fly off. It’s not natural, but they’re not doing anything. I try to warn with a dark expression, but I’m afraid it comes out plaintive instead.

  I turn back to the doors. My breath steams the glass as I lean on the metal frame. There’s no point in texting. Nan always puts her phone in the glove box. Therefore, I try telepathy. Nan, come on, please hurry.

  Then it happens.

  Something hard bounces off the back of my head and falls to the floor. Instinctively, I throw a hand up, but there’s no cut. No blood. Probably not even a bruise. It takes me a second, but I find the projectile wobbling to a stop on the floor.

  A quarter.

  Like, somebody has enough pocket change that they skipped the pennies and nickels and dimes and went straight for a quarter. Once again, I cast a look at the people around me. Once again, they’re coincidentally all craning in other directions. It doesn’t keep them from laughing, though. Little, trapped snickers escape them.

  Even as my insides turn to sick, green goo, I lean over and snatch up the coin. With a wave, I make a show of shoving it into my pocket. “Thanks. Now I have enough money to take your mom on a date.”

  Then I punch through the doors and into the rain.

  6. Camouflage

  ALYSSA

  Shelby Kinnunen opens the door for me, and I back into the gym with a giant box of cardboard.

  It’s reclaimed, from the recycling program the student council started this year in the cafeteria. Even though it smells like corn dog nuggets, it’s free, and it’s plentiful. Hefting the box a little higher, I say, “We’re going to make so many stars with this.”

  “Don’t know why we’re bothering,” Shelby says, twirling off the door and following me inside. There are people at work as far as the eye can see. The president and vice president of every single club at school have shown up to work on prom decorations. It’s tradition; it really makes the dance our own.

  “We’re making it nice,” I reply. “It’s more special this way, isn’t it?”

  Shelby rolls her shoulders lazily. She’s here as the cheer captain, but I feel like we’re friends. I mean, I feel like everyone here is at least friendly. It’s not a big school, or a big town, so we all have a lot in common.

  When I move to put my box of boxes down, Shelby leans in to help and whispers to me, “I heard it’s getting canceled.”

  An icy drop of panic falls on my heart. I’ve heard that, too—from my mother. Not directly, but she’s not exactly quiet on the phone these days. Her voice falls to a murmur, but I hear her campaigning with the other parents. They workshopped the new PTA prom rules together and celebrated when they sent them out.

  Somehow, they didn’t see it coming, that Emma’s grandmother would fire back. I could have told Mom. I’ve been secretly having dinner with Emma and Nan Nolan for three years now. When Nan decides to do something, she goes all in. She painted her house purple, I’m not even kidding. Actual, grapey, Jolly Rancher purple—with lime green trim.

  So if my mother had thought about it for even a second, she would have realized that bringing in the ACLU wasn’t just a threat—even though that’s exactly what it felt like. Oh yes. And then it made her even madder when Principal Hawkins said he agreed with Nan. Oh my gosh, Mom went from annoyed to red-flag-in-a-bullfighting-ring mad, baseball-bat-against-a-hornet’s-nest kind of mad.

  Since then, she’s been gauging support for a cancellation, and I think that’s my fault.

  I pointed out to her that if we can’t take outside dates, that means I can’t go with John Cho. (Let’s set aside the fact that he’s famous, grown up, and has no idea I exist.) Theoretically, Mom’s rule meant no perfect, perfect prom for me either.

  With a wave of her hand, she said, “Oh, Alyssa, you know that doesn’t apply to you.”

  “Uh no,” I told her. I actually stamped my foot, and felt ridiculous when I did it. “The rules are the rules. They apply to me or they don’t apply to anyone.”

  Mom walked away from me. And then the whispering started. The phone calls and frantic messages. Her fingers flew so fast, the chime of incoming texts sounded like an arcade. She talked to the PTA and everybody’s parents at our church, who, of course, told their kids, and that’s how rumors get started.

  The one thing that keeps me from completely losing it is that everybody’s feelings are mixed when it comes to calling off the prom. It’s the usual seniors won’t get their senior year back; not fair to punish everybody because one person wants to break the rules kind of stuff. For once, entropy is on the side of good.

  So I feel comfortable telling Shelby, “That’s not going to happen. Prom is for everybody, and everybody looks forward to it.”

  Twisting the dark coils of her hair into a loose braid, Shelby shrugs again. “I get that. You get that. Why doesn’t she? Is it really going to kill her to stay home and not shave her legs that night?”

  Fire blazes in my stomach. She knows nothing about Emma. She doesn’t have the first inkling. There are so many beautiful things in Emma Nolan that we’re lucky to have her in Edgewater at all. Her heart is so big when she doesn’t have to protect it.

  I mean, she feeds the squirrels on purpose—she feels bad for them, because everybody else tries to keep them out of their yards. When Emma turns her attention on you, it will break your heart because you’ve never been so seen in your life.

  All these little people, with all their little minds, constantly spitting on her—for no reason. Because their pastors say so, because their parents say so. Not because they care, or think, or decide for themselves. And I want to say all of that, but instead, I sit on the polished wood floor and reach for the scissors. “That’s really mean.”

  “I’m joking,” Shelby says, not joking at all. “But I’m super sad, Alyssa! Kevin was supposed to prompose to me, like, the day after Nick did Kaylee. But they quit selling the tickets, and now he, like . . . wants to wait and see what happens. It’s like I’m personally being punished.”

  My whole life, I’ve been lucky that when I get mad, I don’t get hot in the face. The tips of my ears, yes. And across my chest, definitely. But I don’t look angry. The sound of it doesn’t come out in my voice. That makes it easier to try to talk sense to people who have completely lost the plot. “Well, she’s being punished, too.”

  Shelby stops, the glue she’s pouring into her paper plate still dripping. “How?”

  Calmly, I repeat, “Prom is for everybody. Emma included.”

  With disgust, Shelby puts the glue down and starts stirring it around with a broken piece of leftover cardboard. We’re going to slop that onto the stars I’m getting ready to cut out of nugget boxes and then dip them in the glitter tray. At least, we are if we can get through this conversation and back to work. “There are rules.”

  “Rules the PTA just invented.”

  “No, they were just unspoken rules before.”

  I sigh and catch Shelby’s gaze. “Did you care if Emma went to the prom before she signed up?”

  Oh. Oh, there it is. A tiny flicker of self-awareness; of course she didn’t. Before Emma signed up, all Shelby, and Kaylee, and everybody else cared about was getting their promposal and getting their special night. But instead of admitting that, Shelby stares me down. “I’m kind of wondering why you care so much after.”

  Danger! Warning! The heat spreads across my chest and down into my belly. Is she clocking me? Shelby’s never struck me as all that observant, but maybe it was an act. Can she look into me and see that I’m not just arguing for Emma? That I want this night for me, too?

  I cannot let that rumor start. Not now. My mother has to find out from me, at the right time, in the right way. Hands shaking, I put down the scissors. “I’m the president of student council. I work for every student, not just the popular ones.”

>   Out of nowhere, Shelby’s boyfriend, Kevin McCalla, slides on his knees and right into our pile of cardboard. At the last second, he ditches onto his back, like he’s crashing into a pile of autumn leaves.

  He thinks this is charming; you can tell by the way he cheese-grins at Shelby when he comes to a stop. He’s practically in her lap. That’s probably against some unspoken rules, too, and yet, there he is. “Why so serious, babes?”

  “Just talking about Emma,” Shelby replies.

  “You mean Ho-meo and Juliet?”

  My temper slips; I slap a hand down on the cardboard by Kevin’s head. Stray flecks of glitter leap up like fleas. “We have a no-tolerance bullying policy in this school!”

  He laughs, baffled. “I didn’t say it to her.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  Shelby looks me over again. “Again, you’re getting very LGBTOMG over this, Alyssa. Something you want to share?”

  “You know what I want to share?” I ask, pulling it all back in. Swallowing it all down. It’s ridiculous, but I literally feel like Elsa in Frozen, and how sad is it that a cartoon is the only thing I can think of to calm myself down? I can’t feel this right now. I can’t let it show. Kevin and Shelby aren’t exactly bloodhounds, but if I lose my temper . . .

  Talking with my hands, I say, “I want to share my prom night with anybody who wants to be there. Because I don’t want anybody to stand in the way of me and the dance that I have been thinking about since I was twelve. I already have my dress. I already have my tickets. I want to have this. And I want you to have it, too. I want us all to have it. Is that so wrong?”

  I don’t think Shelby or Kevin feels bad at all, but they both shrug. She says, “Whatever.”

  He says, “Whatever, who cares?”

  Twin whatevers in the face of something so monumental, and they can’t even see it. I’m glad they don’t see it.

  Yes, I hate myself for hiding it. But I’m doing what I can—as much as I can—to help this blow over. With all of the pushback Mom’s getting over canceling, I really feel like the PTA is close to deciding it’s not worth the fight. If the Shelbys and Kaylees and Kevins and Nicks of James Madison High decide they want their prom more than they want to keep Emma away, that helps.

  They’ll put pressure on their parents; Principal Hawkins will push back from the school. If we can just ride this out, just a couple days more, I really believe my mother and the rest of the PTA will give up on this. They just need to be able to step back quietly, without losing face.

  And the sooner that happens, the sooner I can sit my mother down and talk some sense into her. Or at least talk some understanding into her. I promised Emma that we’d go to prom together, and I meant it.

  I can’t be—I won’t be—one more person in her life who loves her then lets her down.

  7. Enter Stage Left

  EMMA

  One more day out on my own, ducking my head and making myself as small as possible as I move between classes at school.

  Alyssa thinks the rumors are dying down. I think she’s wearing the thickest, rosiest glasses in history. It’s easy for her to think it’s getting better. She’s basically in the next county, watching the tornado snake along in the distance. I’m the spinning cow, whirling around inside it.

  My back aches under the weight of my bag. Now that I can’t use my locker at all, I’m carrying around fifteen thousand pounds of textbooks, a conservative estimate. The diesel-sniffing mob around me doesn’t know that, though.

  So as I turn down the hall toward my locker, I feel eyes on me. It must be a Spidey sense at this point. I know when they’re lurking, watching, waiting.

  If they want to keep throwing quarters, I’m good with that. But no, apparently somebody taught them the value of money because that’s not what awaits me this time. People edge back from me; I take each step warily.

  “Gaybo,” someone mutters.

  Another whispers, “Lezzie.”

  The insults sink into my skin, tangling into a black knot that permanently lives in the pit of my stomach. I thought I was over caring what people say about me, but I guess not. The sad thing is, I don’t even want people to like me anymore. I just wish they’d leave me alone. I have a feeling that I would be very forgettable if I lived anywhere else.

  When I steal a look up, I see two red balloons bobbing above our heads. I don’t have to get closer to know they’re the X that marks the spot. But oh, what treasures await me?

  During Spirit Week, the cheerleaders decorate all the jocks’ lockers. It’s not unusual to see signs, balloons, ribbons, tiny awnings and faux gems, silk curtains and streamers. They’ve got this down to a science, with their perfect stick-and-bead hand-lettering and their eye for accessories. I’m sure all of these skills will come in useful later in life.

  But let’s be real, y’all. There’s just one locker decorated right now, and this may come as a surprise to you, but I’m not athletic at all.

  Voices drop; the hallway goes eerily quiet. Is this an improvement over the constant chatter of people three centuries shy of whispering burn the witch at me? I don’t know. What I do know is that whatever’s on my locker, I’m going to ignore it. They don’t get the satisfaction of a reaction.

  I lift my chin but look down and forward. I’m probably all Hunchback of Notre Dame right now, but so? Just breathe, Emma. Just walk, one foot in front of the other. I try to summon the picture of golden, sandy beaches, or even just the grayish-beige shores of Indiana Beach.

  Think about holding Alyssa’s hand at Holiday World. It’s small and soft; she feels delicate next to me. She’d want me to smile and nod; I don’t think I can. Namaste and pray to get the hell away from here, that’s the best I can do. There’s a Greyhound ticket in my future. I don’t even care where it goes. Focus on that. On freedom and escape and—

  Yes. Good. Breathe. I’m breathing, and I’m not listening, and I’m not looking—not, not looking except I just caught a glimpse. Now I can’t tear my eyes away.

  This time, it’s not lotion or dressing. It’s not even graffiti for the custodians to scrub clean. No, it’s two red balloons to mark the hanging of a rainbow teddy bear. Somebody took the time to make a noose. They took the time to string it through the locker vents, so a pride-flavored Beanie Boo could bite the dust.

  I can’t breathe through this. I reach out and yank the noose free. I feel small and sharp and brittle, cutting looks at the people around me. They hold back like a wave. They want to crash over me, but they don’t dare. They’re cowards, every single one of them.

  “Nice,” I say, waving the Beanie Boo at them. “Real nice.”

  Breaking free from the crowd, Kaylee washes up against me. With a sickly sweet smile, she asks, “Do you like it? We got it just for you.”

  “Yeah, you know what? I’m pretty sure this is one step past breaking school rules, Kaylee. This is a death threat.”

  Kaylee’s eyes widen with disingenuous sincerity. “It’s our way of saying thank you, Emma!”

  Now that Kaylee broke the seal and spoke to me, her centurion Shelby steps up and adds, “Yeah! Thanks for canceling prom!”

  When I wave my shaking hands, I feel myself lose balance. My backpack is too heavy, my heart is too broken, my brain is too fried. My voice cracks when I say, “Prom isn’t canceled!”

  Just then, Alyssa appears. At once, it’s like the sun rises, and hope fills my heart. She’s trying to save me, even though she has a secret. Even though she risks exposure when she takes my side. Her gaze slides past mine, but she steps between me and Kaylee. “That’s enough. Leave her alone.”

  “We’re just talking,” Kaylee says. She looks around Alyssa, threatening me with a smile. “Right, Emma?”

  I don’t say anything. I refuse to degrade myself. I refuse to be complicit. But it’s like my presence answers for me. Just by
standing there, I’m making them angry. Just by breathing, I make it worse. I want to grab Alyssa and run away with her, far away from here, somewhere we can just be. Instead, I stand stock-still and try not to cry.

  “Walk away,” Alyssa says, gathering the full mantle of the student council presidency around her.

  “Oh, is that how it is?” Cocking her head to one side, Kaylee sounds the slightest bit hurt. That dissipates instantly, converted into pure primary school bile. “So you’re on her side.”

  “No,” Alyssa says, a shot right through my heart. “I’m just not in third grade.”

  A muffled roar laps the hallway. Someone is two seconds from yelling, “Fight, fight!” Then Nick and Kevin melt out of the mob like twin grease stains. They back up their girlfriends in a way that I, if I were their girlfriends, would dump them for on the spot.

  Nick says, “Kaylee. Babe. It’s okay. She can bring her queerbait girlfriend to the prom if she lets us watch.”

  With a leer, Kevin nods. “Add some memories to the spank bank.”

  Suddenly, a voice booms out. My knees go out from under me in relief. Principal Hawkins stalks down the hallway. Students peel away and disappear as fast as they can. Recreational felonies are only fun if you don’t get caught.

  “Gentlemen,” Principal Hawkins says, then, “Ladies. I don’t know what’s going on here, but it’s over.”

  Kaylee shrugs and goes to walk away. She makes a wide circle around Alyssa, just so she can “accidentally” bump my shoulder. With a purposeful whisper at my side, she says, “Oh, Emma. Unlike your social life, this is not over.”

  Whither goest Kaylee, so goes her ragtag nation of troglodytes who are going to peak in high school. Shelby vines herself around Kevin, and Nick throws an arm over Kaylee’s shoulder. When they finally drift around the corner, I exhale and collapse. Though I know they’re on my side, it’s hard to face Alyssa and Principal Hawkins.