A heavy bassline thumps through the concrete block walls, reverberating all the way out here. I can’t make out the song, but I don’t care. It’s prom night. It’s finally here.
“May I?” Barry asks, offering his elbow.
“I’d be delighted,” I say, taking it.
We walk up to the school together, Dee Dee outpacing us easily. The front doors are pushed open. I go here every day, but it’s different tonight. Bright and buzzy and . . . really weirdly empty. Everyone’s probably already in the gym. We’re supposed to stay in the gym during dances—no wandering the halls.
Allegedly, some guy named Winston McCarthy discovered the access tunnels under the school and ran an extremely (from what I hear) profitable casino down there. It lasted three whole semesters before he got caught. What a legend. It’s a shame he doesn’t have a trophy of his own in the Hall of Champions. Instead, he lives on in oral tradition, like all good folk heroes should.
“Where are we meeting your inamorata?” Barry asks.
“Inside,” I say. I’m strangling her bouquet. I’m afraid if I loosen my grip I might drop them. I’m about to see her face; we’re about to show the world we’re in love. Tonight, everything changes. Every step toward the gym feels like a step toward destiny.
We’re about to open the doors of the gym when I hear Principal Hawkins shouting from behind. “Emma! Wait!” He’s jogging down the hall toward us.
We turn, and to my horror (and delight, lbr), Barry whistles under his breath at him. I mean, Principal Hawkins looks really distinguished in a tux, so if I were into super old humans and also guys, I might whistle, too. Instead, I smile and call back, “Principal Hawkins!”
Except . . . he’s not smiling.
And he’s not alone. Nan is doing the scary speed walk she usually reserves for Black Friday sales. Her grim expression sends a wave of fear through me. I clutch Barry’s arm a little tighter. “What’s going on?”
“I tried to catch you before you left home,” Principal Hawkins says when he catches up. He’s not breathless; he just sounds broken. “Emma, I’m so sorry.”
Alyssa’s not coming. Of course she’d be responsible enough to leave a message with a trusted figure of authority. Of course she’d be too afraid to tell me herself. All the snaky butterflies inside me turn to ash. I have a prom, but I don’t have a date.
Dee Dee’s voice explodes behind us, filling the air. “What have they done?!”
Barry and I turn at the same time. Dee Dee throws herself in front of Nan so she can get to me first. She grabs my shoulders and drags me to her chest. Her comforting pats are like ninja death slices, all up and down my back. She keens, her voice echoing down the hall. “How could they? How dare they?”
Pulling myself free, I look at all of them. “How could they what?”
Dee Dee’s hesitation is the flicker of an eyelash.
Previously, I’ve mentioned that I’m not particularly athletic, but when the world grinds to a halt, it turns out I move pretty fast.
I burst past Dee Dee and run into the gym. It’s decorated with glittery moons and tinfoil stars overhead, with indigo streamers and flickering white lights. There’s a table with punch and cookies, and a photo booth with a box full of props like top hats and boas.
The stage is hung with silver streamers, but the DJ isn’t a DJ. It’s an iPod in a Bluetooth dock, blasting out somebody’s personal prom playlist. The floor is empty. The seats are empty. The gym is empty.
I’ve never wanted more to faint in my life than I do right now. But I’m not that girl, apparently. I’m the girl who keeps on standing, no matter how hard you hit her. I absorb those blows. I take those hits. The flowers slip from my hand, dropping to the glossy hardwood with a plaintive sigh.
The adults press in behind me. I hear their voices; I feel their presence. But it doesn’t matter what they’re saying. I thought I had imagined the worst possible scenario: that Alyssa wouldn’t show. I’d even prepared for it, a tiny little bit.
But this.
Who could have imagined anything like this?
“Pictures started showing up on social media about a half an hour ago,” Principal Hawkins says, from far, far away. “And I have a text from the PTA. They say they did their due diligence. They threw an inclusive prom for Emma. It’s not their fault if their children chose to attend a private dance at the Elks Club instead.”
He said the message came from the PTA. But the PTA can’t text; it’s an organization, like the Klan or the Kardashians. No. That text came from Mrs. Greene, and that means she plotted this. Planned it. Executed it like a crime boss.
But I don’t understand, because I have texts from Alyssa. She’s been texting me, like, all day. Talking about her crazy mom, and last-minute crazy, and crazycrazycrazy. Texts that stopped . . . about an hour ago.
They planned this. Mrs. Greene planned this. Shelby and Kaylee and Nick and Kevin and everybody else in school planned this!
Flattened, Barry says, “I think I’m going to cry. They went behind her back? The whole town kept this from her?”
“How could they do this to us?” Dee Dee wails. “This was supposed to be an easy win! God, somebody wake me from this PR nightmare!”
Nan rounds on Dee Dee. “Excuse me, easy win?”
Principal Hawkins turns on her, too. “Wait. Is that why you came here? For the publicity?”
I look to Barry. Barry in his tux. Barry who brought me dresses I didn’t even want. Auntie Barry, Barry who swears he knows just what this is like. Sympathetic, sweet-talking Barry.
Numb, I say, “I’m just a publicity stunt for you?”
“This is what we’re going to do,” Barry says, ignoring my question. His face is pink, and his brow is starting to shine. “We’re getting right back in that limo, and we’re going to that other prom, and we are going to—”
“Stop it! Just stop!”
I shout it above the noise of the iPod DJ, above the sound of Barry’s and Dee Dee’s egos. This was never about me. Not for them. Principal Hawkins was just thrilled I wasn’t on meth. Nan fought the fight because I asked her to; I guess I never asked if she thought I should. And Alyssa . . . no. I can’t even think her name right now.
Barry reaches out. “Emma . . .”
I shove his hand away. “I don’t want any more help, okay? Go ahead and go to the other prom, Mr. Pecker. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble getting in!”
And then I walk away. I don’t even try to run. I walk, with my big dinosaur bones, and my big monster feet, in this stupid monster dress I never wanted to wear, right out of James Madison High.
Maybe for good.
16. The Nicest Kids in Town
ALYSSA
“Where are we?” I ask when the limo stops.
I have to ask that, because this isn’t James Madison, therefore, this can’t be prom. My thoughts spin like mad, trying to make sense of this.
Mom said something about one of my surprises. I assumed that a ride with people who haven’t really been my friends since third grade was enough surprise to last a lifetime. But no, now we’re at an undisclosed location.
Nobody answers me. Instead, Kaylee holds out her phone and goes cheek to cheek with Shelby. They hold up peace signs, trying to look as cute as possible before the flash goes off, and then Kaylee instantly pulls up the snap. Present-moment Kaylee smiles at digital, two-seconds-ago Kaylee.
“I hate to sound conceited,” Kaylee says disingenuously, “but even I would do me.”
“I’d do you, too,” Shelby chimes in. Then she instantly amends, “No homo.”
It will come as no surprise if I tell you that Nick and Kevin agree with all levels of hotness proposed by the girls who were very recently semi-permanent residents of their laps.
The guys spill out of the limo, leaving the three of us to see ourselves ou
t. Once we do, it’s pretty clear we’re all glowing under the light of the Elks Club sign.
All around us, people stream toward the doors. Each time they open, a blast of music escapes. Laughter drifts around us, excited squeals punctuated by the bright pop of phones on selfie sticks.
I put a hand out, holding Kaylee back on the sidewalk. “I’m not kidding, what’s going on?”
“Look,” Kaylee says, her voice a cauldron of pure, unadulterated nasty-nice, “realize that we’re doing you a favor and say thank you, Alyssa.”
“It’s okay that you don’t care about being popular, but we’re saving you from yourself.” Shelby nods, and her dangling earrings swing like pendulums. They catch the light: bright, then dark, almost hypnotic.
Leaning in, Kaylee whispers, “We know about you and Emma.”
Her words punch through me, knocking the breath from my lungs.
“You don’t want to be a messiah,” Shelby adds.
Jaw dropped, I hear myself correcting Shelby instead of processing what they’ve just said. “You mean pariah.”
Cheerfully, Shelby links arms with Kaylee and shrugs. “Whatever. It’s prom. It’s our night. Let’s go and have fun!”
“No, wait,” I say sharply, staying them with a hand. “What do you mean you know?”
Kaylee rolls her eyes. Her thick, spider-leg lashes flutter as she shakes her head. “Anna Kendrick and John Cho? Two mysterious dates from other schools, one for the town lesbo and one for the student council president who thinks she’s subtle when she holds her hand in public? I mean, come on.”
“Plus, you’re always standing up for her,” Shelby notes casually. “And you let those weirdos from New York come to our meeting. It’s kind of obvious.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask, feeling faint and slightly sick.
Annoyed, Kaylee chooses her words carefully and speaks them very slowly. “Because we didn’t want your mom to cancel prom, dummy.”
“Yay prom!” Shelby says, throwing a victory hand to the sky. “Come on, it’s starting, let’s go!”
Cocooned in a numb haze, I go along as Kaylee and Shelby manage to hustle me inside. All this time with Emma, I’ve been careful; we’ve been so careful. Kaylee and Shelby aren’t idiots, but they’re the most self-absorbed people I know—and they caught on? My heart slips between beats and my ears ring as we walk inside.
Red and gold cover everything. Cardboard genie lamps hang from the ceiling. Big loops of red gauze ring the tables. Little paper camels scatter across the refreshment table. They graze among gold plastic cups and red paper plates, next to a massive plastic bowl full of jewel-red punch. Even the picture station is a vaguely Middle Eastern tent with a banner over it that says: 1,001 NIGHTS.
I’m mortified, especially when I see some of the basketball team wearing turbans. This is not the prom we’ve been planning since Christmas. This is some racist monstrosity, pulled from an alternate universe.
And Emma is nowhere to be found. I reach for my phone and realize that I don’t have it. It’s still on Joan’s station at the salon. Kaylee and Shelby peeled away as soon as we hit the door, which leaves me alone to search for Emma.
It feels like a funhouse in here, red lights pulsing across familiar faces, the shadows distorting them. The laughter is too loud, and it vibrates on a frequency that goes straight down my spine. No one’s touching me, but I feel pushed and pulled and shoved, fighting through the haze of a smoke machine and the sharp daggers of lights that flash on the floor.
I search everywhere: the dance floor, the bathrooms, even the kitchenette, where PTA moms are shoveling sherbert into a backup punch bowl at breakneck speed.
Breathless and panicked, I duck back into the main room. Leaning against the wall for support, I squint and stare, scanning the crowd over and over, hoping to see one face, that face.
None of this makes sense. This time yesterday, I was still helping set up the gym for A Night to Remember. My mother mentioned nothing about a change of venue; she was way more interested in waterproof tablecloths and signing off on the DJ’s playlist. I don’t understand when all of this could have happened.
Somehow, over the roar of the crowd, I hear my mother’s voice behind me. She must have gone in the side door and straight to the kitchen. When I turn to walk back inside, she fills the door. The worst, most devastating thing is, she looks happy. Like, genuinely happy, in a way I haven’t seen since before Dad left.
“What do you think?” she asks, waving a hand at the Arabian Nights around us.
“I think I’m confused, Mother,” I say. “Why did you move prom? When did you move it?”
“At the last minute. There was a problem that had to be dealt with.”
Well, no wonder she’s been on her phone all day. I’m afraid to ask when she started planning this move and how apparently everybody knew but me. Was it this morning? Last night? Suddenly, heavy lead melts into my feet, pulling me down. I feel so weighted that I could drop right through the floor. Did she decide to do this the night of the public meeting? When I pushed? Because I pushed?
Wait.
I look around again, and a needle of ice threads through my heart. New place, secret location, a problem to be dealt with. It’s agonizing to take a breath, but I have to. I have to open my mouth, and I have to ask.
“Mom, where’s Emma Nolan?”
My mother laughs lightly, without a hint of steel beneath it. “I’m quite sure she’s at her inclusive prom, Alyssa.”
“Mom, you didn’t . . .”
“I don’t like it when strangers presume to come to our community and tell us how to live. Our rules were a problem? Fine, fixing little problems is what I do. And now everyone is happy. She has a prom, and we have our prom.”
Stunned, I don’t know what to say. I had no idea my mother could be this cruel. Smoothing her hands down my arms, Mom looks me over again, her smile widening until it’s almost maniacal. “I wasn’t going to let you miss a night like this, Alyssa. This is for you. I did this all for you.”
“This is not—”
She interrupts me. “Now, you go have fun. I’ll be here to make sure everything is perfect.”
I back away from her, because I don’t know this woman. This calculating, manipulative person masquerading as my mother is terrifying. She stepped right out of Game of Thrones and into Game of Proms. And she won.
I have to get away from Elena Lannister Greene. If I look at her for one more second, I’m honestly afraid I might throw up.
When I whip around, I stumble onto the dance floor, into the throng. Since I can’t turn back, I have to wade through a sea of people having the times of their lives. Bodies crash all around me. The music, the voices, they fill my head until they beat against my eardrums to get out. Everything swirls and melts together like a nightmare; I wish I could wake up. I’m not even sure where I’m going—all I know is away, away.
Kaylee grabs my arm and jolts me back to the present. “We need to get our picture taken together.”
“No. I can’t. I have to go—”
“You’re part of the prom court, Alyssa. Don’t make me get ugly.”
My mother really has arranged everything. I can’t get away. I can’t call for help. I can’t even warn Emma. The urge to vomit lurches back up. I clap a hand over my mouth, just in case, and that’s all Kaylee needs to drag me off balance and over to the photo booth. The photographer crams me in the middle, with the couples on either side.
She tells them to smile, they say cheese, and a single tear streaks down my cheek.
17. Step Out of the Sun
EMMA
The good thing about your entire life imploding is that people stop questioning your poor choices. I’ve worn the same pair of pajamas for two days now, and I’m on a strict diet of melted ice cream and chocolate Teddy Grahams.
Today was supposed to be my first day back at school since . . . well, you know. When Nan looked in on me this morning, I didn’t even move from my perfect, lumpen position in bed.
“I’m not going,” I said.
She closed the door quietly and said nothing.
I know that Barry and Dee Dee have been at the house. It’s impossible to miss the reaching-for-the-back-row quality of their voices. Thankfully, Nan keeps sending them away. It saves me the trouble of getting out of bed to find heavy objects to chuck at them.
When I got home from prom, I posted a one-minute video on Emma Sings because I knew people would ask how it went. Then I called Alyssa four thousand times and left four thousand voice mails, in between googling Dee Dee Allen and Barry Glickman. Guess what I found out!
No, don’t guess. I’ll tell you.
Right before they showed up in Indiana, their new musical bombed. It bombed hard. It bombed so hard, even people in New Jersey hated it. I don’t know how long a play is supposed to be on Broadway, but I’m guessing that closing after one night is bad.
So, their careers took a header and they picked me as the poster child for their image-rehabilitation tour. Like, they did interviews about it—they did a photo shoot with the picket signs before they even left for Indiana.
In a way, I’m not surprised that Dee Dee wanted to use me. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she ate little baby harp seals for breakfast and washed them down with melted polar-ice-cap water—zazz!—but Barry’s betrayal exposed a nerve.
I can’t believe how stupidly, how easily I trusted him. I can’t believe I didn’t realize that none of that was for me. Or even about me. How could I have been so naive?
Oh, did Alyssa ever call back? Glad you asked, friend. She did not. But there are pictures of her reigning in the shadow prom court with Kaylee and Shelby. They all have tiaras, isn’t that cute?
Because I’m all about the pain, I scrolled through the #jmprom19 tag for a while. Real prom looked like it was banging, one of those clubs with the velvet rope and very selective guest list. Picture after picture, I studied the details. Memorized the faces. Made a mental inventory with a neat little tab at the top: enemies.
The Prom Page 10