David Levithan - 21 Proms

Table of Contents

You Are a Prom Queen, Dance Dance Dance

by Elizabeth Craft

I hate my dress (pale blue). I hate my heels (silver). I hate my size 32D underwire Chantelle bra (nude) that my mom and the saleslady at Neiman Marcus made me buy to go with the aforementioned hated dress and hated heels. Yet here I am, wearing all three, standing near the snack table at P.S. 182s Mardi Grasthemed JuniorSenior Prom.

And all the while, my best friend, Emilie Lang, whos nearly six feet tall and strong from four years of playing volleyball, is squeezing my forearm so hard I can feel a bruise forming. But thats okay. The pain distracts me from the hate.

Hes dancing with Madison Trimabali, Emilie moans.

He is?

Emilies been obsessed with this he since the middle of sophomore year when she was positive they shared a moment while filing into the auditorium for an assembly on the dangers of drunk driving. I glance in the general direction of writhing black tuxedos and pastel sateen gowns, trying to locate Madisons garish orange strapless number.

If Trevor doesnt ask me to dance, Im going to kill myself. I swear to God. Emilie jabs her finger in the air to emphasize how serious she is about the threat of suicide.

I still have half a bottle of codeine from when I got my wisdom teeth out, I offer. That and a bottle of Jack Daniels from your dads liquor cabinet will at least put you in a coma.

Emilie gives me a look. I note that the bright blue streak in her blond hair contrasts in a not good way with her aquamarine lace bodice. Why do I like you? she asks.

Theres no judgment in the question. Shes genuinely baffled.

I have TiVo in my bedroom, I remind her. And I get to drive my dads car on the weekend.

Right. She nods, our friendship falling back into place. A person less obsessed with TiVo than I am might be offended, but Emilie and I understand each other.

At least, we did. Before the prom season started in earnest, and Emilie decided that since its our senior year, we had to go. Apparently, eschewing traditional stuff like prom and basketball games is okay only to a point. Now that were approaching graduation, Emilie feels we need to embrace the high school experience. She says she wants memories. I tried pointing out that a last-ditch attempt to manufacture those memories by participating in activities totally foreign to us might defeat the purpose. But shes remained firm in her stance, and as a best friend, I feel compelled to support her.

My breath stinks, Emilie says, her voice rising a couple octaves above normal. It does, doesnt it? She leans in and huffs at my face.

Youre fine, I tell her. Crest fresh. Which is a lie. Her breath does stink, but being honest about it might breed hysteria.

Im gonna find Gavin, Emilie announces, referring to her date. Ill get him to dance, then Ill maneuver him close to Trevor.

I consider pointing out that scheming to dance next to ones crush might fall into the pathetic category, but similar to the breath situation, I decide against it. Maneuver next to Trevor. Check.

My own date, Adam Edwardson, is nowhere to be seen. Fifteen minutes ago, I sent him to the vending machines next to the guys locker room in search of a Fresca. I tried to drink a cup of the punch the prom committee provided, but in addition to being spiked with several kinds of competing hard liquor, I hate punch. Fresca, on the other hand, is very refreshing. I wonder if Adam decided hed had enough and snuck out of the prom. Maybe Ill get an apologetic message from him on my cell phone in the morning.

Wish me luck. Emilie gives my arm one more squeeze, then race-walks toward the crowd to locate Gavin, whos most likely too drunk off spiked punch to realize that hes merely a pawn in my best friends Machiavellian pursuit of true love.

I drift closer to the snack table and shove a fistful of broken Lays potato chips into my mouth. Theyre in a bowl next to a mangled King Cake, an apparent Mardi Gras staple. Too late, I remember I hate Lays potato chips. Aside from the grease factor, tiny crumbs stick between my teeth, where theyll probably stay until I floss two or three weeks from now. Fastidious, I am not.

I am, however, the kind of person who slows down to look at horrible car accidents. Its that instinct that compels me to turn my attention back to the dance floor. I see Emilie and Gavin, grinding to the Norah Jones cover the band is playing. As promised, Emilie seems to be subtly but determinedly guiding Gavin toward Trevor and Madison. I wonder if, in her zeal, Emilie has stopped to notice that Trevor and Madison are now making out.

My wondering is interrupted when I feel a presence behind me. I fantasize that the presence is a prom-hopping serial killer who has approached to put me out of my misery. Alas, I turn to find Adam Edwardson, slightly sweaty and holding a can of Fresca.

Sorry it took so long, he says, half-panting. The vending machines only had Pepsi so I ran to the 7-Eleven down the street. His expression borders on triumphant as he hands me the Fresca.

Thanks. Im sort of caught off guard by the lengths Adam went to in order to acquire my soda. Sprinting to a convenience store in ones tux qualifies as above and beyond. I hate it when people go above and beyond. It makes me self-conscious and a bit nauseated.

Then again, Adam is an above-and-beyond type. Hes one of those science-loving guys just close enough to being labeled a geek or a dork that he overcompensates by being so genuinely nice to everyone that they have no choice but to like him. I took his niceness into account when I asked him to prom.

Ayla? he asks. Its weird to hear him say my name for some reason. Maybe because Im still rattled by the heroic dash to 7-Eleven.

Yeah? I take a sip of the Fresca, its grapefruity goodness sliding down my throat in a way that makes me glad to be alive.

Doyouwannadance? The words are softly spoken and run together, but I manage to capture the sentiment behind them. Years of watching TV with the volume on low while doing homework has trained me for moments like this.

Thats okay, I tell him. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Emilie and Gavin. Theyre now a mere one couple away from the still-grinding Trevor and Madison, and Emilie is waving her arms wildly as she bops her butt in Trevors direction.

I turn my attention to a go raiders banner thats strung permanently across the gym. The fact that its sagging under the weight of brightly colored streamers depresses me. I hate streamers.

Adam looks around the gym, too, clearly hoping his gaze will land on something worthy of conversation. I know I should make an effort, maybe ask about his Fresca-buying adventure. But theres a lump of resistance in my throat. I feel any attempt at a good time will validate Emilies stance that the prom is an experience worth having. To atone for what an awful person Im being, I hold out the can of Fresca, offering him a sip.

He takes the can and gulps. Theres a weird intimacy to it. Someone watching might think were a couple. I hate couples. As far as I can tell, theyre always smug on the outside and miserable on the inside.

Lets get our picture taken, Adam suggests, handing the can back. His fingernails are extremely clean. I imagine his pre-prom fingernail-cleaning ritual. Itll be fun.