21 Proms (10 page)

I kneel down to scratch Franklin behind the ears, planning to ignore Brian's question. But something in me is itching to complain, to finally spill my sorrows to someone who isn't obsessed with cummerbunds and stretch limos. I glance up at my brother, who is regarding me from the fridge with a genuinely interested expression. Sighing, and not wanting to divulge too many dirty details, I say: “I asked this guy to the prom; he said no; now I'll never find a date. Happy?”

I feel as if I have just recited a haiku. On loserdom.

As predicted, the corner of Brian's mouth curls up in a wry smile. “Oh, shut up,” I say, before he can even speak. “I know, I know — lame Abby strikes again.” Brian spent his teen years vandalizing mailboxes and trying to sweet-talk girls into bed, so he thinks an adolescence spent any other way — say, going to the movies with friends, or actually attending school — is wasted.

“That's not what I was going to say!” Brian protests, knitting his brow, as if I have deeply offended him.

I let Franklin lick my hand; after all, he appears to be my only ally right now. “So what, then?” I ask Brian. “Do
you
know where I can get myself a date at the last minute?”

Brian grins, crossing his arms and leaning against the fridge. “
I
can go with you.”

I snort, and Franklin looks up at me, startled. “Uh-huh, Brian. That would be perfect, wouldn't it? ‘Oh, hey, everyone. Yeah, my prom date and I kind of look alike — so what of it?'” I shake my head, getting to my feet. “Great joke,” I tell my brother.

“Well, we don't look
that
much alike,” Brian says teasingly.

I tilt my head, studying his face; he's right — to a casual stranger, our resemblance might not even be noticeable. Especially not under the dim lights of the town country club. Suddenly, a flush spreads through my body.
Wait a minute.
I'm realizing that hardly anyone in Lake Serene even knows what Brian looks like now, because of his time away at military school. Only Iris has seen him in recent weeks, and I could swear her to secrecy —

Stop
, I tell myself.
What are you thinking? Are you really going to ask your older brother to the prom?

But as I stand there facing him in the kitchen, it appears that, yes, I am.

“Brian,” I say slowly, resting my elbows on the counter. “What if … what if it wasn't such a joke?”

Brian blinks. “What if
what
wasn't a joke, Abby?”

“What if …” I pause, weighing the situation. It wouldn't be so bad, I tell myself. I can say he's a friend from out of town, and even let him take off before the slow dances if he wants to. All I really need to do is show up with a male in tow, and silence the likes of Gloria. “What if you
did
take me to the prom?” I finish, flashing my brother a hopeful smile before I explain the whole crazy plan.

Brian appears to think it over, first with a frown, and then with a smirk. “What would be in it for me?” he asks, thinking like a true petty criminal.

I clasp my hands together, rising up on my toes. “Brian,
please
,” I say. My brother knows how much I detest begging, so he has to realize how important this is to me. “You don't know what it's been like … all my friends … I'll …” — inspiration strikes and I catch my breath — “I'll pay you,” I whisper.

So it's come to this. Abigael Cooper is bribing her brother to take her to the prom.

Brian hooks his fingers through the belt loops of his battered jeans and leans against the fridge, twisting his mouth in thought. “How much are we talking here?”

“Two months' allowance,” I offer, trying not to think about all the new clothes, sheets, and cute fringed lamps I want to buy for college. “And I'll cover the cost of your tux.”

Brian nods slowly, clearly digesting the deal. “When is it?” he asks, scratching the cobra tattoo on his wrist.

“June nineteenth,” I reply, feeling a tremor of panic as I realize how close the date is. “Saturday night. Seven o'clock.”

“Ooh.” Brian shakes his head from side to side, letting out a low whistle. “Sorry, Ab. Nadine's sister's getting married that night, and we've already R.S.V.P.'d and shit. Nadine will, like, cut off my privates if I bail.”

“Okay, gross and unnecessary,” I reply, shuddering.

“Look, maybe I can ask one of my friends —” Brian begins, taking a step toward me, but I move out of the way, balling my hands into fists. I know Brian's friends, and I can just imagine the toothless perv who'll pull up on his motorcycle and then try to cop a feel during the prim and proper dinner hour.

“Forget it, Brian,” I bark, and Franklin punctuates my statement with a growl of his own. “Just take all the food you want and leave me alone.” As I tear out of the kitchen and up the stairs, Franklin is on my heels, and though a part of me wants nothing more than to curl up with him on my bed and sob, I slam my door in his face the minute I get to my bedroom. Which makes me feel even worse.

“Why me?” I groan, collapsing into the butterfly chair in front of my computer. I gaze up above my desk at my neat, orderly bookshelves — Brian always mocks me for being the anal one — and study the spine of a Greek mythology text. I think of the three Fates: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, who spin, measure, and snip the thread of life. They control it all. So then is everything — prom dates and colleges and the colors of cummerbunds — out of our hands? Somehow this idea depresses me even more. I allow a few tears to leak out and slip down the sides of my face, but then I blow my nose and switch on the computer. I've never seen the point in crying, and I feel a little ridiculous getting all existential over what is essentially an overblown school event.

Knowing I owe Iris more of an explanation about Elijah, I log on to MySpace, which is our favorite means of communication. Iris is even more obsessed with MySpace than I am; her profile page is decorated with crazy pink and orange swirls and drawings of Ted, she updates her song daily, and she always has a new picture of herself displayed. Meanwhile, my page is pretty basic: no song, plain blue background, and a black-and-white photo of myself, standing on the shore of Lake Serene and laughing as I shield my eyes from the sun. Iris took it last summer, way before prom was something either of us cared about.

I quickly check out my page, then click on Iris's picture — she's the first of my friends in my Top Eight — and send her a message describing the Elijah horror in detail. When I'm done, I idly scroll through Iris's friends, mostly Lake Serene High kids, and then click on Pete DeSilva's picture, feeling my typical pang of regret about him.

One of Pete's friends, I notice, is a semi-cute Asian guy named Archie. When I click on his picture, I realize it's Archie Jong — the sandbox fiend from grade school. I smile for the first time that afternoon, feeling a flood of nostalgia. I haven't seen Archie in, like, eight years, and it's funny to study his photos, like the one where he's leaning against the deck of a boat, the wind messing up his black hair. He looks all chill, and confident, and … grown-up. I skim his list of favorites, impressed by his music choices — I, too, have the Subways and Death Cab on my page — and I'm about to survey his book selections when I notice the flashing orange icon telling me that Archie's online. I picture him sitting in a room in New York City, his windows looking out on tall buildings and taxicabs. Feeling spontaneous, I decide to send an Instant Message. I
never
do stuff like this. But whatever; it's just Archie.

Hey
, I type.
Remember me?

I wait, nibbling on my bottom lip and feeling stupid until Archie's response finally pops up.

Abby Cooper!
I grin and, for no reason, feel my face turn warm.
What's up, girl? Have u forgiven me?

For what?
I type back, enjoying the sound of my fingers clicking along the keys.

For being a beast back in the 1st grade
, Archie writes.
I have some memory of sandbox showdowns… .

I send back a smiley face.
All is forgiven
, I write, because suddenly it's true. And, suddenly, I know what I have to do. It's like MySpace is the portal to my fate, and somehow it's led me to Archie. Not in a true-love sense, of course — Archie still feels like a second, much-less-messed-up brother — but in a this-is-right way. Archie seems charming and presentable, and he'd probably be up for a trip back to his hometown.

I know this is going to sound weird
, I began, typing more cautiously now.
But any chance you'd want to experience the Lake Serene High prom?
I squeeze my eyes shut, press
send
, and then jump to my feet. I can't sit still while I wait, so I pace the length of my room, praying to the poster of Emily Dickinson above my wooden dresser. When I hear the small
ding
of Archie's response, I race back to my computer, breathless.

Would love to. Know it's the 19th, though, and I have something in the city that day. Bummer.

Damn June 19th! Who got together and decided to schedule every freaking world event that day? I let out a huge sigh and write back that I understand.

And I do, I realize as I sink deeper into my chair, sadness welling up inside me. Things couldn't be clearer. I've struck out three times in one day. If the fates exist, they are definitely telling me that it's time to pack it in. Give up. I'm meant to hit the prom alone.

Maybe another time
, Archie writes back, and this makes my throat ache even deeper.

Maybe
, I write back, grateful that Archie cannot see my teary-eyed expression. Then I log off and shut down. Game over.

 

Despite it all, I boldly purchase a prom ticket at school that week. “Just one?” Michele Martin, our class president and Pete DeSilva's unlikely date, asks, her voice breathy and incredulous. We're standing in the student council office, which is decorated with another purple banner that reads
june 19th: the night of your life
! Michele is behind the desk, holding a slim stack of tickets in one hand, while the other falters over the money I am handing her.

“One,” I assure her. “You know?
Uno?
The number that comes after zero? The loneliest number you ever knew?” My voice breaks a little on the word
loneliest
but hopefully Michele is too dense to notice.

She flutters her caterpillar lashes. “Abigael, I don't know how to break this to you, but …” She drops her head for a minute, her silky red hair falling over her cheek, and then stoically lifts her gaze, acting like a doctor who's about to tell me that the X-ray doesn't look good. “You're the only person who's bought a single ticket so far,” she whispers.

I hate the fact that these words make my heart sink. Hard.

“That's cool,” I bluff.
You will not make me crack, bitch
. “Thought I'd keep my options open on prom night, maybe play the field a little… .” I grin to show her how funny I find myself, but Michele only shakes her head grimly.

“Tell you what,” she says, finally accepting my money. “Don't say
anything
, because I could get in serious trouble, but I'm going to give you two tickets for the price of one.”

“It's not a money issue —” I begin, even though the price
is
way too high for a night of what is likely to be crappy food and worse music.

Michele hands me the two tickets, discussion over. “Abigael,” she says sternly. “Take both. You never know — you could still —” She pauses, but her meaning is clear.
You could still find a date.

Right. And balloons filled with diamonds could come pouring down on my head the minute I step out of the office.

I thank Michele for the secret ticket, walk outside, and realize that people only give you stuff for free when they pity you. I've become a prom charity case. I'm surprised random girls I pass in the hall aren't handing me extra dresses and shoes, their eyes wide and concerned.

But I already have a dress and shoes, which are two of the reasons I feel obliged to attend the whole mess in the first place. Over the next week, I am forced into that dress and those shoes many times, for what Iris calls “rehearsals.” There are three types of rehearsals: body (keeping the dress from slipping off my boobs, even when I move), face (Iris testing out different and equally garish shades of shadow on my lids), and attitude (sashaying in the strappy gold sandals as if I do it all the time). To keep me sane, I think, Iris comes over almost every day for these rehearsals. And when we're collapsed on my bedroom floor from laughter, our dresses pooling around us, I can almost forget the way Michele asked
Just one?
or Elijah (who I've been studiously avoiding all week) said it wasn't me. I am determined to walk into the country club on Saturday alone, head high and heels click-clacking in triumph. I am Abby, hear me roar.

By the time June 19th arrives, I'm feeling rather upbeat. The day is sun-drenched and breezy, and the thicket of trees outside my window are lit up emerald green to match my dress. There is something freeing and luxurious about getting ready with no one in mind. I eat a big lunch with my parents (who, aware of my dateless status, have been tiptoeing around me for the past two weeks), take a long, steamy shower, and start changing. I turn on Marshall Crenshaw as loud as he'll go, spray a cloud of Happy in the air, and spring through it as Iris taught me. I end up with a mouthful of perfume, but I'm feeling content as I cough. Lip gloss, liner, and shadow are all applied — sloppily, but still. Damp blond hair is brushed, then piled atop my head and secured with pins. A few tendrils escape onto my neck, but, hey, they look kind of alluring. Step into satin dress, zip it up, let it swish around my knees, reach for shoes, and —