21 Proms (21 page)

“It'll be rubber chicken and stringy beef,” Austin said. “Your brother is right. We're better off here.”

I turned to Lubna. “You don't want to eat greasy burgers, do you? What if you spill something on your dress?”

“Oh, I'm not worried,” said Lubna. “And the food at the prom will be gross.” She leaned forward and asked our driver to stop.

Poor Lubna! She was such a great sport, pretending like she didn't mind.

We ordered takeout. Before we headed back to the car, Jett poured out half of each of our sodas and filled them with the rum he'd swiped from Dad and Martha's liquor cabinet.

As we piled back into the limo, my hand brushed against Austin's leg. It was torture not being able to curl up in his lap. Too bad I wasn't drunk, because if I was, I'd have a great excuse to jump his bones. Jett always said that drunken hookups are meaningless. At least, that was the line he fed Lubna this one time she caught him making out with another girl at the Roxy.

I've never actually been drunk, and there was no way I'd let myself do so tonight. Getting drunk before the prom was the ultimate prom cliché.

But then something occurred to me. I could drink a little and just
pretend
to be drunk, and then hook up with Austin and blame it on the alcohol.

Sometimes I was so brilliant I surprised even myself.

After wolfing down my cheeseburger and fries (and half of Lubna's double double), I drained my Dr. Pepper and rum. Then I finished Austin's root beer and rum.

I pointed to Jett's soda, asking, “Are you going to finish that?”

He frowned at me. “Don't you think you've had enough?” he asked.

“Let her have it if she wants it,” Lubna said.

Austin agreed. “Yeah, Jett. Stop being so overprotective.”

Jett leaned over me and shoved Austin. “Dude, just because my sister agreed to be your backup date doesn't mean you have to be nice to her.”

I screamed, “Careful of my dress, you asshole!” because he came so close to spilling his French fries on me.

Lubna and I locked eyes and I knew exactly what she was thinking:
Poor Austin's prom is ruined, and it's all my fault.

She told me to chill and handed me her drink. Obviously, this was her way of apologizing.

By the time we made it to the Beverly Hilton, I was feeling so completely relaxed. (Not that I was nervous before.)

Since my shoes were pinching my toes, I decided to leave them in the limo.

“You're going barefoot?” asked Austin, frowning down at my feet.

“Sure.” I wrapped my arms around his waist, but Austin pulled away, nodding to Jett, who was way ahead of us and not even looking back.

“It's okay because I'm drunk,” I told him.

“No kidding,” Austin mumbled. For some reason, he didn't seem all that excited about the prom, which was annoying, since we were only going because of him.

“No, it's okay,” I whispered. “I'm only pretending.”

Apparently, my brother has excellent hearing because he turned around and told me to shut up.

“I wasn't even talking to you, Mr. Jett!” I yelled. “And thank you for ruining the prom. For Austin.”

Lubna glanced over her shoulder, worried. I waved and then stumbled. It was hard, walking in a straight line. I guess because I was barefoot. I held on to Austin's arm, glad I had the fake-drunk excuse, in case Jett decided to turn around again.

He didn't.

Walking inside, I was truly astounded. The prom was the single most beautiful thing I've ever seen. The theme was Las Vegas, and the ballroom was completely splashed out with roulette wheels, and giant playing cards, and neon signs that read
Circus, Circus, Caesar's Palace,
and
The Mirage
. Blinking, shiny slot machines lined one wall. There was even a fake fake Eiffel Tower in one corner, and a small volcano in another. A giant, shimmering disco ball hung from the ceiling. It didn't have anything to do with Vegas, but I suppose that a prom would not be a prom without a disco ball.

It was magical.

If you're into that sort of thing.

I grabbed Austin and pulled him onto the dance floor. My arms were around his neck and his arms were around my waist and we swayed back and forth to a slow song. And then when the DJ played a fast song, we continued to cling to each other. It was so romantic.

“You are the best dancer in the world,” I said.

“Will you let go of me?” asked Austin.

“Sorry.” I pulled away. “Hey, how do you think they managed to make this room so bright and so dark at the same time?”

My words sounded slurry, probably because we were standing so close to the speakers.

“I can't believe you're this drunk,” he said.

It was just like Austin to go along with my plan even when Jett wasn't around.
He's so sweet!
I thought.

We danced for a few more songs, fast, without touching.

I was amazing, a dancing machine. It was as if the beats and rhythms inside the music were pulsing through my veins, causing my entire body to flail: arms, shoulders, fingertips, elbows, hips, legs, feet, even my head, all moving in different directions, yet at the same time, perfectly synchronized.

“Let's take a break,” said Austin. “You're totally embarrassing me.”

Poor guy was self-conscious that he couldn't keep up. “I think it's the sugar from all those sodas, giving me so much energy.”

“Uh-huh.” Austin nodded.

“Ooooh, let's play on the slot machines!” I darted toward the back of the room.

Turns out they were props and wouldn't accept real coins, not even after I tried jamming some into the slots really, really hard. Also, they weren't all that sturdy.

And yet, the prom was still the most fun I'd ever pretended to have.

Austin wanted to find me some water but I needed to pee, so I stumbled off to the bathroom, which wasn't tricked out Vegas-style at all. This sad fact made me want to cry. The committee could have decorated it a little, for all those people who cared about things like that. There was one empty corner, for instance, where they could have so easily constructed a miniature Hoover Dam. I went over to investigate, and then sat down because I felt tired.

A minute later Lubna burst into the room. “There you are!” she said. “I've been looking for you everywhere. We have to go.” Her eyes were all squinty and red, like she'd just been crying.

“But we just got here,” I argued.

“Jasmine, it's eleven-thirty. Austin hasn't seen you in over an hour, and Jett got kicked out of the prom.”

“What?”

“He stole Marcy Calloway's tiara and she told one of the chaperones, who called security. Jett got frisked, and they found his flask, which was empty, but still smelled like booze.”

So much information. But wait. “Marcy Calloway has a tiara?”

“Had. Jett threw it into the Hoover Dam.”

“No one gave me a tiara. How come Marcy got a tiara?”

“She's Prom Queen.”

I gasped. “Lubna, you were robbed!” I tried to stand up, using the wall to brace myself, but it was way too slippery.

Lubna shook her head. “You are so drunk, Jasmine. I wasn't even nominated. Now come on.”

“I'm just pretending,” I insisted as she pulled me up and half-carried me out of the bathroom and across the dance floor.

We were approaching the exit and I tried to stop her. “Wait! I still need to see the Hoover Dam.”

Lubna ignored me, which was unfortunate because I had so many questions for her: How big is the dam and did they use blue construction paper and glitter, cellophane, or real water? Where did I leave my shoes? When are you going to wise up and dump my brother? Why does he always have to ruin everything? Don't you think Austin looks like James Bond in his tux? Do I look pretty with my updo? And who turned on the spinning?

Once outside, we made a beeline for Jett and Austin, who were both leaning against the limo.

As soon as Austin saw me he grabbed my shoulders and peered into my eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, silly.” Giggling, I tugged on his bow tie, because I didn't know if it was real or a clip-on.

“Stop it.”

It was real.

The fresh air felt so fresh and the spinning had slowed considerably. I leaned into him. We were hugging and I was fake drunk and the way he stroked my hair made me not even care that his tux smelled like the mall.

“Someone had too much to drink,” he whispered into my ear.

“Oh, I'm just dizzy.” I buried my face in his neck.

“Next time you decide to get this dizzy, do you think you could warn me?” he asked. “Or maybe just not get quite this dizzy, and then disappear? I was really worried.”

“You two should get a room,” Jett said.

Austin's arms closed around me more tightly. “Shut up, dude.”

“That's what you get for going out with a freshman,” Jett said.

“What are you talking about?” I mumbled.

My brother laughed, asking, “What has it been, like two months now? You two must think I'm really dumb.”

I glanced at Lubna, who threw up her hands and said, “I never said a word, I swear. I didn't even know he knew.”

“How did you know?” asked Austin.

“You rented
Say Anything
. Why else would you bring over that dumb-ass movie, if not to try and impress my sister?”

“It's actually really good,” said Austin.

I broke away from him and glared at Jett. “That was months ago,” I shouted. “You knew this whole time? You knew and you didn't say anything? You ruined the prom for nothing?”

Jett grinned at me and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Ruined the prom? What are you talking about? I'm having an excellent time.”

Suddenly I felt all sweaty. My stomach churned. Then the slow spinning turned into a fast, dramatic tilting. I wondered if perhaps my body was pretending to be drunk, too. I was impressed with myself, thinking maybe this meant I'd make a good Method actor.

If only I could lie down.

I headed toward the limo, but Jett was blocking the door. If he and Austin and Lubna sat on one side, I could stretch out on the other and take a nap… .

When I stumbled, Jett reached out to steady me. “You okay?”

I wasn't, but I couldn't say so. I gagged and clapped both hands over my mouth. It happened so fast, before I could stop it, although I didn't actually want to stop it. It had to happen and I didn't want to mess up my manicure so I dropped my hands and then I, and then I, and then I …

I pulled a Lucy, all over my brother's tux.

Jett tried to jump out of the way, but he was too slow. “Ah, Jasmine! Shit, Jasmine. That's disgusting.”

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. My stomach felt better but now my throat burned.

Austin and Lubna laughed and gave each other high fives. I don't know why.

“Wow, I feel so much better.” Clutching my stomach, I sighed. “Must have been from the In-N-Out. I hope you guys don't get food poisoning, too.”

But this just made them laugh harder. They were both red-faced, and Lubna was clapping and jumping up and down, happier than I'd seen her all night.

“I'll go get you some water,” said Austin.

“Dude, forget it,” Jett said, as he shrugged out of his jacket. “I'm taking it to the dry cleaners in the morning.”

Austin patted Jett on the back. “I was talking to my girlfriend, dickhead.” Then he headed toward the hotel.

I called out to him. “Austin, wait!”

He turned around, and there was so much I wanted to say: Actually, you're hotter than James Bond. I'm so glad we don't have to pretend anymore. And isn't it kind of funny that I threw up? Because now I'm your real date
and
your backup date, in the sense that my dinner came back … no, that wasn't it.

I lost my train of thought. It was all too complicated, and late, and I was tired, so instead I took a deep breath and yelled, “I love the prom!” Then I pitched my whole body forward, hoping to land in Austin's arms rather than on my face.

I think I succeeded but I'm not sure, because that was the last thing I remembered before I fell asleep.

Funny how everyone insists that I passed out. As if I could pass out when I wasn't even drunk.

When I woke up the next morning, I had a massive headache. My throat was parched, and my tongue felt too thick for my mouth. It's a good thing I hadn't gotten drunk, because a hangover on top of this flu would have been a nightmare.

Not to mention the fact that getting drunk and puking on prom night was the biggest cliché of all.

I am so lucky I didn't fall into that trap.

Lost Sometimes

by David Levithan

His name was Dutch. We weren't boyfriends, but we screwed all over the place. I'm serious — you name the place, odds are we screwed there. The gym. Burger King. His grandmother's house. We couldn't stop. We decided to go to the prom together to make a statement, and also to see if we could screw there, too.

There were a couple of other gay kids in our school — it was a big school — but all of the rest of them were, like,
sensitive.
With Dutch, though, everything was exactly what it was. We first hooked up at this Christmas party, senior year. You know, the kind you have with your friends a few days before everyone has to go stick it out with their parents. Anyway, the eggnog was ass-knocking. I kinda knew Dutch, but I had no idea what his story was. Me, I was a big flamer. In middle school, they wanted to cast a girl as Peter Pan but they decided to cast me instead. No real mystery there.

So it got to be about three in the morning and Dutch walked over and told me I was a little devil. I told him that he was a little devil, too. And sure enough, that's all it took for us to start making out in Kylie Peterson's little sister's bedroom. Her stuffed animals were on the bed, but we didn't care. I'd kissed guys before, but it had never been so
voracious
. I loved it. We didn't go all the way — we figured there weren't any Trojans hidden in the My Little Ponies, if you know what I mean — but it was clear we were already on the way to all the way.

It was a game. I mean, don't get me wrong — it was serious. But it was also a game. I'd say we screwed on our third date, but we didn't go on
dates
.
Dates
makes it sound like dinner and candlelight were the point. But the point was sex. The usual ways and places first, then getting trickier. We didn't want to get caught, but we wanted to come
this close
to getting caught. We wanted to see how far we could go before we got the shit kicked out of us. Sometimes we'd pass each other in the halls — arranging it so we'd walk by each other between every period, but not saying a word, just giving each other that
I'm going to have you soon
stare. And other times he would grab me right there by my locker and thrust his mouth onto mine, and we'd be tonguing it up for everyone to see. It was so screwed up, because the thing that made us the most powerless also gave us such power. We could make them turn away. We could bother them and challenge them and mess them up. You think people are afraid of two boys in love? To hell with that. What people are
really
afraid of is two boys screwing. And even though we weren't about to drop trou in the halls, we were going to let them know we were doing it whenever we could. We always played it safe, condom-wise. But location-wise? Safety was not the first concern.

The first floor boys' room. The showers in the locker room when everyone was in class and we were skipping. The couch in the faculty lounge. The boiler room. The second floor boys' room. The lighting room in the auditorium, against the movie projector. Room 216, second lunch block. The roof of the cafeteria when everyone else was under us, chattering. The art room, with paints. The third floor girls' room. The 400 aisle of the library.

We were only caught twice. Once I said I was helping to look for his contact lens, which must have fallen on his fly. The other time the art teacher found us. I thought he'd been watching for a while before letting us know he was there, but Dutch said his shock was real. He didn't say a word to us. Just saw what was going on, turned red, and left.

We weren't exactly the popular kids. But we were damn popular with the unpopular kids. The girls especially, this army of goth older sisters — they didn't want to hear about us having sex, but they admired our spirit. We weren't the prom types, but as the time approached, Dutch said to me, “Wouldn't it be cool to screw at the prom?” and I said, “Yeah, I guess it would.” I kinda wanted to go anyway, but never would have told him that. I didn't want him to think I was taking anything too seriously. He'd already told me we were going to split up at the end of the year, because in college there would be new dicks to play with. He said it like he was joking, but you can't tell a joke like that without meaning it at least a little.

We weren't going to spend any money on the prom or anything cheesy like that. No limo, no tuxes, no tickets. We were just going to show up and do it our own way. While other couples were talking about flowers and cummerbunds, Dutch was telling me to wear button-fly pants. That night while biting his neck, I drew blood.

The prom was at some hotel, which made it very easy to crash. As everyone was pulling up to the front door in their gowns and their stretches, like it was the movie premiere of their new life, Dutch and I were smoking with some busboys by the service entrance. He was flirting, I was nervous, and when the pack was finished, the busboys pointed the way to the ballroom.

After we slipped in, I looked around the room and felt strange. It wasn't that it was beautiful — it was just a hotel ballroom, with round tableclothed tables and white balloons with our class year preprinted in orange and blue, our school colors. But seeing the room all decked out made me feel … sentimental, I guess. I had been to proms before, but this was the one that was supposed to be mine. This was a memory I was supposed to be having.

As I looked around at my classmates all dressed up, Dutch was scouting out a place to screw. He didn't want to start in the men's room, because that would be too obvious a choice. I insisted that going under one of the tables was a bad idea, since people would be sitting down soon, and then we'd be trapped. We walked back into the reception area. People didn't seem surprised to see us, or to see that we hadn't dressed up. They weren't disappointed in us, because their expectations had never been that high to begin with. It bothered me.

Then Dutch pulled me into the coatroom and made me feel a little better. You know what it's like to look at someone and realize they're hungry for you? The thing I loved the most about Dutch was that he never stopped grinning — even if his mouth was serious, his eyes were in on the joke. He enjoyed me, and that's what kept us going and going and going. He found the most expensive coat in that coatroom, then took it to the back, threw it on the floor, and led me on top of it. Button fly, yeah. Condom, nice to meet you. I could hear everyone outside not hearing us. I could hear the empty hangers pinging against one another as my shoulder hit into the racks again and again. Dutch would stop and smile, and I would smile back and keep quieter than usual. I'd feel his breaths catching, measure the distance between them to know he was close.

After we were done, he squeezed me tight for a moment and then said, “All right — back to the prom!” I made the foolish mistake I'd made at least a few dozen times already — I thought, for that one millisecond of hope, that this might be the moment, the occasion that he would say “I love you, Erik.” Even if he didn't really mean it. We'd been screwing around for long enough that I knew it was a conscious decision on his part to never use those words with me. And because he held them back, I restrained myself, too. The two times I'd slipped and said them, he'd just smiled and said, “No, you don't.”

Dutch was hungry again, this time for food. So we put our clothes all back in place and returned to the ballroom. We found our goth girls and their punk boys, and we ate off their plates, which they let us do because they thought that was punk, too. We were crashing, which was nothing new. But this time I actually felt like I was interrupting. When the DJ started spinning hip-hop and pop tunes, Dutch made fun of everyone who went to dance. I could tell that some of our friends had intended to dance, but now felt awkward about it. I kinda wanted to dance. The best I could do was lure Dutch away, so the goth girls could get down and the punk boys could shimmy to their punk hearts' content. I put my hand on Dutch's ass and whispered, “We're not done yet.”

We walked into the men's room just as half the football team was peeing out the beers they'd tailgated. I thought,
We really shouldn't be doing this.
But Dutch's boldness carried me on. He held my hand and opened the stall door as if it was the door to Cinderella's carriage. When he closed it and locked it behind us, I could hear the jeers. One of the guys pounded on the door, and I jumped. Dutch looked ready to start fighting … but soon the jeers faded. The football players left. Other people came in, but they had no idea what we were up to — not unless they looked down and saw the two pairs of legs.

This time we just kissed and groped, and it was almost like the beginning. Only it didn't feel like the beginning, because I knew the beginning had passed a long time ago. Dutch was murmuring how hot I was, how great I was, how cool this was. Usually I could lose myself in that for hours. Usually that was how I knew I was okay. That being me, that doing this, was okay. I loved that he said these things, and I loved that when I was with him I could believe they were true. Which is different from loving him. But in some ways more powerful.

There was a spot on his back that caused him to shiver whenever I touched it a certain way. I loved that, too. I loved knowing his body that well. But it only worked when we were lying down, relaxed, quiet. When we were pressing against each other in a bathroom stall, there wasn't that kind of vulnerability, that kind of control. It was like we were now one thing, and everything outside the stall was another. As opposed to when we were truly alone together — then we were each one thing, and the wonder came from combining the two.

After a while our mouths and hands took their usual course. When we emerged from the stall, this kid I'd been friends with in seventh grade — Hector — was at the sink, washing his hands. He looked in the mirror and saw us emerge. And then he shook his head, as if to say,
What a waste.
And I thought,
You asshole.
I turned back to Dutch and gave him a long, hard kiss, right in that mirror. Us against the world.

Here's the thing — even if it was just sex, even if he didn't say “I love you,” even if I knew it wouldn't last, you have to understand that I would have been alone without him. I would have been so alone.

I held his hand as we went back into the ballroom. I couldn't get him as far as the dance floor, but we found friends to talk to, joke with, tease and be teased by. I could see a few teachers and administrators wanting to say something to us about our clothing choice, but as long as we held hands, it was like we were invincible. When the prom queen and prom king were announced, I half-expected it to be us. I was a little disappointed when it wasn't, because I would've liked nothing more than to have walked on stage with Dutch, to give him that royal kiss in front of the whole school, to prove that we'd been here, unafraid.

The DJ announced that there was only one more song until the prom song, and that couples should reunite and head for the dance floor. Dutch looked over at the DJ, then grinned and sparkled even wider. He held me by the hand and led me in the direction of the dance floor. Then, just as we were about to get there, he pulled me to the side, into the shadows. He pointed, and I saw what he'd found — a small crawl space under the stage, beneath the music. “Come on,” he said, hunching down, heading inside. I followed.

It was a maze of dust and wires and reverb. There was barely enough room to sit upright, so Dutch stretched out on the floor, staring up as if the bottom of the stage was full of stars. I crawled next to him, and he immediately rolled on his side and kissed me. His hand ran over my back, then down below my waistband.

The first sounds of “In Your Eyes” came through — the drum and the bell, the steady heartbeat. And then Peter Gabriel's first words —
Love, I get so lost sometimes
. I heard them so deeply at that moment. Even though Dutch was pressing into me. Even though I was turned on and warm and with him … I thought to myself,
I'm missing something
. I stopped kissing Dutch back, and the minute I stopped kissing him back, he knew it and he stopped kissing me. But he didn't pull away. He didn't let go. Instead he pulled back enough to see me. To read me. And I stared back at him, daring him not to move. I thought it again —
I'm missing something.
A few feet away, couples were dancing to their prom song, holding each other tight. I was missing that. And at the same time, I was here, under the stage, being held in this different way. Looking into his eyes. Having him look into my eyes. Staying quiet. Just watching. Feeling our breath, his hand still on the small of my back, on the skin. I realized I would always be missing something. That no matter what I did, I would always be missing something else. And the only way to live, the only way to be happy, was to make sure the things I didn't miss meant more to me than the things I missed. I had to think about what I wanted, outside of the heat of wanting.

I had no idea whether Dutch noticed any of this, or what he was thinking. When the song was over, we made sure we'd been hanging in the moment before a kiss, not in the moment after one. Then we crawled back out from under the stage and walked back to our friends. I forgot to hold his hand.

 

Later that night when we were naked in my basement, naked afterward, he said it to me. And even though it was too late, I didn't say, “No, you don't.” Instead I kissed him once, quietly. Then we lay there, and I let time pass.