The Prom

by Saundra Mitchell

  And picture after picture, I searched for signs of Alyssa in them. I only found a couple, mostly with the gruesome twosome. But! There was one super adorable mommy-daughter picture from the photo booth.

  Mrs. Greene was auditioning to play the Joker in hers, her lips a slash of scarlet lipstick and her mouth full of hundreds of big white teeth. Alyssa’s smile was more pained, but it was there.

  Yep. She still had a smile left in her. At the absolute worst moment of my high school career, my girlfriend smiled for the official photographer of James Madison High’s actual real prom for actually real people.

  I tortured myself with that for a while, screenshotting the pictures and arranging them in their own album. Back and forth, just looking at Alyssa. Analyzing her face. I mean, I’ve been studying it for years, and I can tell she’s not having the time of her life. But I can also tell that she’s at the secret prom she didn’t tell me about.

  After a while, I turned off my phone and threw it at the pile of laundry in the corner of my room. And there it remains. Hence the Nan alarm clock and the engulfing silence in my room. It’s good. It gives me a chance to sleep. Sleep and I go way back; a growing girl totally needs eighteen or more hours a day of unconsciousness, right? Bring on the dreamless dark; I’ll just Rip Van Winkle my way through graduation and summer break.

  Except, I’ve slept so much the past couple of days that my back kind of aches, and I’m not tired at all. Instead, all the squirrels in my brain got into some caffeine, and my mind lurches from dead stop to top speed.

  It kicks in with all the things I’ve been trying not to consider, like what the hell is wrong with me that this stuff keeps happening? Was I a serial killer in my past life and that’s why this one sucks? Am I atoning for metaphysical mistakes? Or am I just cursed in this one? Maybe I ate some witch’s radishes and cabbages when I was a toddler.

  This is stupid.

  I roll out of bed and onto my feet. If I’m going to hate myself, my life, and everyone in it, I’m gonna need more ice cream. Pulling a robe over my pajamas, I studiously ignore the mirror. Y’all, I’m experiencing the sensation of my hair sticking up in a giant wing on one side and being matted flat on the other. I don’t need visual confirmation.

  My palms itch as I pass the pile of clothes where I threw my phone. My brain tells me to keep walking, there’s Rocky Road waiting in the kitchen. But my stupid, stupid heart wants to see if Alyssa ever replied. I stare at the pile for a second, debating what to do, but I already know what I’m going to do.

  I plunge my hand into a tangle of inside-out jeans and snatch my phone; I’m a bear in a salmon stream. First try, and I got it. A wide streak of nausea breaks through the numbness as I wait for my phone to turn back on.

  When it finally boots, it makes one chirpy text sound, and then it blows up. Text notifications scroll like it’s the latest Star Wars movie. YouTube sent me a ton of notifications, too. Oh, and voice mails—eight of those.

  Before I can start my deep dive, the phone rings. I yelp in surprise and almost throw it across the room. The ID flashes on the screen. Alyssa. Just seeing her name is a punch in the gut, and I consider rejecting the call. But my stupid, stupid thumb touches the green icon and I say, “Hello?”

  “Emma,” Alyssa says. Her voice is hoarse; it sounds like she might have been crying. “Are you there?”

  Sinking into my laundry pile, I struggle to speak. Finally, I manage, “Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Oh my god, are you all right??”

  I laugh. Seriously, I laugh. Is that a real question? “No, I’m great. I’m fantastic. I mean, sure, my girlfriend went to a secret prom with people she swears she can’t stand and left me hanging at A Ghost Town to Remember by myself, but it’s fine. It’s all fine. I’m so fine.”

  “I’m so sorry, Emma,” Alyssa warbles. “I swear, I had no idea.”

  Oh good. Anger just showed up to the party. I like anger. It’s nice and clean and specific. “How could you not know? Your mother was the host; you were on prom committee!”

  With a sniffle, Alyssa says, “They hid it from me. And then Kaylee and Shelby dropped a bomb on me. They figured out that we’re together, and they wanted to make sure prom happened. The whole PTA was planning behind my back.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Shock crackles on the line. “Do you really think I would do something like this to you?”

  “I don’t think,” I shout. “It happened. I saw the pictures. Nice tiara, by the way.”

  Alyssa pleads, but it’s laced with irritation. “What is it going to take to prove it to you? Because I didn’t know. My mother stalked me the whole night. I didn’t have my phone, and I couldn’t sneak out, and I’m so, so sorry, Emma, but I didn’t know they were going to do this to you. I’ve been shaking and crying for two days.”

  “Well, that makes two of us.”

  “Please, Emma. Please.”

  “Fine,” I say, because this hurts. It feels like an axe to the chest, splitting me right down the middle. Hearing Alyssa cry makes me want to comfort her. But knowing why she’s crying makes me want to scream. “Come see me. Tell me face-to-face, so I can look in your eyes.”

  “I can’t.”

  Ha. I ask for one thing, and it’s already a no. Thumping my head back against the wall, I ask, “You can’t, or you won’t?”

  Lowering her voice, Alyssa says, “My mom is here. I think she knows, and she’s doing everything she can to not know. She’s watching me every second.”

  Everything she just said is a slap in the face. All of this fighting, all of this negotiating for months about prom, and whether we’d go together, whether we’d tell people, and . . . she thinks her mom already knows? I can’t hide my frustration. If my hair weren’t so greasy, I’d pull it.

  “Oh my god, Alyssa, if you think she knows, just tell her! Tell her we’re in love! That was the plan, right?”

  “I can’t,” she says, plaintive and small. “It’s bad enough that Kaylee and Shelby know.”

  Oh. Oh wow. My anger keys up to white hot, so hot I barely feel it anymore. I have so much heat, I could punch through the atmosphere. I could boil oceans and scorch the earth.

  She’s been using her mom as the reason she can’t come out for months, and suddenly I realize, it’s not a reason. It’s an excuse. Yeah, her mom is obviously a bigot and a homophobe, but it looks like Alyssa’s carrying some of that on her own.

  Slowly, I repeat, “Bad enough?”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “And yet, that’s exactly what you said,” I snap.

  “Emma, I’m sorry.”

  What is she apologizing for, exactly? The wrong words? Or for the way she really feels about us? It doesn’t matter. I’m out of bandwidth. I can’t fake cheerful, but bitter works. “Okay, great. That fixes everything. Thanks for calling!”

  Then I hang up. I hang up on Alyssa Greene, the girl at the church picnic, my first love, my first kiss, my first everything. So true, on so many levels, because she was my first real secret, too. She was the longest lie I ever told. I wanted her to be happy; I didn’t want her to lose everything like I did.

  We’re so freaking close to college. She’s so close to being free from her mom and her mom’s neuroses, and I thought, I really thought that this time, she’d come out and we’d be together, for real, no more hiding.

  But all this time, I thought her mom was the only thing holding her back. Her family. Truly, I believed that until fifteen seconds ago when she said it was bad enough that Kaylee and Shelby knew.

  Now Alyssa Greene’s my first heartbreak, and I think I’m going to die of it.

  18. Five Hundred Twenty-Five Thousand Six Hundred Minutes

  ALYSSA

  I have watched the video Emma put up on prom night a thousand times.

  “This is how it went,”
Emma tells the camera, combing her fingers through her hair. There are still hints of makeup on her face, but she’s already changed into a T-shirt. Specifically, a T-shirt that reads: BEHOLD THE FIELD IN WHICH I GROW MY F*CKS, LAY THINE EYES UPON IT AND SEE THAT IT IS BARREN.

  Adjusting the laptop screen, she gazes down into its glow. “Well, it didn’t. I mean, yeah, the gym was decorated and there was music playing, but I was the only one there. It turns out, I was the only one who wanted to go to the inclusive prom. Everybody else, including—no, let’s just say everybody else—went to the secret, not-inclusive prom. But hey, at least I got to take all these cool pictures for my Insta story!”

  And then there’s this brief, awful slideshow that she set to the sad angel song from the dog commercial—pictures of the gym, empty. Of the chairs and tables, empty. Of the stage, empty. Of party favors and punch bowls untouched. The screen goes black, and this glittery font swirls across the screen: Happy Prom Night!

  It’s short, and Emma’s wrecked. I keep watching it because I’m hoping that . . . I don’t know. That the past will change? That the hurt will fade? That somehow it might end differently? I don’t know what I hope, but I hate that I see her heart break in real time.

  But I’m glad she didn’t come to school today. Everybody’s talking about her video, and it’s really weird. Some people are mad she won’t drop the issue; others have started to feel guilty. But all of them are obsessed with the number of views she’s getting and the semi-famous people who’ve shared the link—I’m pretty sure anyone who’s written a young adult novel in the last three years has tweeted about it, as have tons of Broadway people . . . and plenty of journalists.

  Which is why Principal Hawkins completely changed our end-of-day routine. We’re not allowed to go out the front doors like usual. We’re exiting directly into the student parking lot through the gym doors and going straight to our cars or buses.

  A fleet of reporters showed up just after lunch and set up in the front lot. They have cameras and glossy-haired reporters with microphones, and we’ve been told explicitly that we’re not allowed to talk to any of them without a parent present.

  Breanna Lo touches me on the shoulder. When I turn around, she’s holding up her iPhone. “I’m doing an episode of my podcast about the promtroversy, can I get a quote?”

  “It was unkind and unfair, and it never should have been an issue to begin with.”

  “Love it,” Breanna says. She scrolls on her screen, then asks, “And just for the record, we’re speaking to Alyssa Greene, our student council president. Alyssa, can you tell us which prom you attended?”

  My tongue fills my mouth, and I shake my head. I should have listened to Principal Hawkins—no talking to reporters of any kind.

  With as much grace as I can manage, I bail on Breanna and duck outside to get to my car. Even though we’re not supposed to be filmed, plenty of people are dragging themselves past the cameras, just casually making sure they’ll be seen.

  Mr. Thu comes out and starts to hurry people along, but there’s only so much narcissism he can tamp down on his own. I try to keep my head lowered as I pull out of the school lot. But as I turn toward home, I catch a glimpse of a car that looks just like—no, it is my mother’s.

  Craning around, I’m shattered with cold when I see her standing in the field across from the school, holding her coat closed and talking to a news crew from Indianapolis. Oh god, what is she saying now? Why can’t she just leave this alone?

  I look back at the road just in time to slam on my brakes. My whole body stiffens, and the shock pushes the breath out of my lugs. I almost hit the car in front of me. An accident, right in front of James Madison, is the last thing I need right now.

  Traffic crawls into town. This is ridiculous; I’m going four miles an hour. At this rate, I’ll get home next Thursday. I throw on my turn signal and pull into the Walmart parking lot. I don’t need anything, but it’s a good place to hang out. There are tables out front, and the Coke machines are cheap.

  When I pull in, it’s obvious I’m not the only person who had this idea. A bunch of the guys from the basketball team are slow-rolling their pickups past the entrance, leaning out of windows to holler at the girls at the table. It’s what this place looks like on a Friday night, except it’s full daylight and we’re all in our school clothes.

  “Heyyy, Alyssa,” Shelby calls as I walk up.

  Kaylee gives me a little finger wave. “Come sit, queen.”

  Inside, I feel hesitation, but my legs carry me right over. I don’t want to sit with them. I don’t even want to look at them, and yet somehow, my mother has reengineered my life. I’m back in elementary school, when she picked my clothes and my friends and dictated everything about my day. I’m a leaf in the wind, helpless to choose my direction, at the mercy of outside forces.

  “Did you know our school is on CNN?” Kaylee says, turning to let one of her sub-minions braid her hair.

  “What?” I say flatly.

  “Yeah, the home page.” She makes a sour face, then quotes the headline. “‘Edgewater, Indiana, overflows with bigotry.’ Like, seriously? They’re acting like we’re monsters.”

  Shelby bobs her head like a good hench-cheerleader. “Seriously. We gave her a prom, god.”

  I start to say something—I’m not even sure what—but there’s a quiet roar that runs through the people collected on the tables. Suddenly, someone shouts, “It’s Mr. Pecker!”

  We all crane our necks, and then more people call out. It’s a hailstorm of Pecker!s, and I can’t believe that Mr. Glickman is walking out of the Walmart with a little bag clutched in his hands. I didn’t realize he was still in town; I assumed he and Ms. Allen packed up after prom night and headed back to New York City.

  “Say it!” Shelby yells, cupping her hands around her mouth to amplify it.

  Nick and Kevin bound out of the bed of a pickup to join us, and they chant it, too. “Say it! Say it!”

  Mr. Glickman takes a deep breath and rolls his eyes. Without much enthusiasm, he spits out Mr. Pecker’s signature phrase from Talk to the Hand. “It’s Pecker time.”

  Everybody roars and cheers. Kaylee nudges Shelby, pressing quarters into her hand. “Can we get you something to drink, Mr. Pecker?”

  He wraps a hand around his throat. “This . . . is a finely tuned instrument. I will not insult it with”—he takes a look at the cans on the table—“Diet Mountain Lightning.”

  Nostrils curling, Kaylee rolls a shoulder. “Fine, then.”

  Mr. Glickman takes a few steps like he’s leaving. Then he spins on his toe, coming back around to face us. It looks kind of practiced, but to be fair, everything Ms. Allen and Mr. Glickman do looks rehearsed. “You know, I think I’ve been unfair. Coming to your charming little hamlet, making demands.”

  “You made my mom cry rage tears,” Shelby volunteers.

  Mr. Glickman puts a hand to his chest. “Oh no, did I? How?”

  Shelby waves a hand around, “You know. Trying to make our prom all gay.”

  “I see, I see, I see,” Mr. Glickman says. He doesn’t catch my eye—he probably doesn’t even remember who I am. But his gaze seems to slide past me. Which is good, because I was right—this isn’t entirely spontaneous.

  I have a feeling he’s about to make an argument he’s made before—a performance pretending to be a conversation. This is exactly the way I talk to people who want the student council to make 4/20 a school holiday, or Domino’s the official sponsor of our cafeteria.

  Kaylee leans back on the table and eyes him. “So, are you sorry?”

  “Exquisitely apologetic,” Mr. Glickman says. “Do you object to me?”

  “Nah,” Nick says with a laugh. “You’re Mr. Pecker!”

  “Then could one of you darling little urchins explain to me why you didn’t want Emma at your prom?”

  “B
ecause, you know, it’s wrong.” Kevin says this like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. Then, to bolster his case, he says, “It’s in the Bible.”

  “And we believe in the Bible.” Shelby nods and nestles down beneath Kevin’s arm. Kevin stretches out his arm around Shelby’s back and subtly tugs on the cup of her bra. She giggles but doesn’t shoo him away. Charming.

  Mr. Glickman surveys them slowly. “I see. It’s in the Bible, and you’re true believers. If that’s the case, aren’t you afraid?”

  “Of what?” Nick asks.

  Ohhhh yeah. Here we go. I see where this is going now, and it surprises me that they don’t. Well, no, I guess it doesn’t surprise me.

  We all have Bibles with white leather covers, presents for graduating from Sunday school to Youth Celebration! But we’re not exactly encouraged to read from beginning to end.

  We have discussion guides that focus on certain stories, that tell us how we should feel and think about said certain stories. Usually, they’re parables and miracles, occasionally inspirational women or acts of faith. It’s not a deep dive by any stretch of the imagination.

  Gracefully, Mr. Glickman slides to sit on the bench. With a wave of his hand, he gestures at Kaylee’s foot. “Well, I see that this lovely young woman has a charming dolphin tattoo on her ankle.”

  Kaylee warms back up, now that the topic of conversation has turned back to her favorite subject. “Spring break, last year. The guy said I had the best ankles he’d ever inked.”

  “I bet he did,” Mr. Glickman says agreeably. “Too bad you’re going to Hell for it.”

  “Excuse me?” Kaylee yelps.

  “Well, it’s in the Bible.”

  Setting her face in a scowl, Kaylee says, “No it’s not.”

  “‘Ye shall not print any marks upon you,’” Mr. Glickman says. “Look it up, it’s in Leviticus.”