Say What You Will

by Cammie McGovern

  “I WANT TO GO.” She peeked over and saw that he was smiling now.

  “You do?”

  “YES. EVEN SMART GIRLS LIKE ME CARE ABOUT STUPID THINGS LIKE PROM. I WANT TO GO.”

  “So okay. Let’s go.” Now he was really smiling.

  “BUT IF YOU’D RATHER ASK SOMEONE ELSE, THAT’S FINE. I DON’T WANT YOU TO FEEL OBLIGATED TO TAKE ME LIKE IT’S ONE OF YOUR ASSIGNMENTS.”

  “Okay.”

  “OKAY WHAT? DO YOU WANT TO ASK SOMEONE ELSE?”

  “No. I wanted to ask you. Now I have. Sort of. Except you did the asking, but that’s okay. We’ve gotten to the same place.”

  “WHAT PLACE IS THAT?” She felt a little light-headed and sick, as nervous as he looked in the throes of his panic attack last fall. Her throat was dry, her forehead damp.

  She couldn’t get over how calm he seemed. He even leaned over to whisper in her ear. “The place where we sit around and bore each other to death talking about what we’re going to wear.”

  They skipped going to yearbook completely. It was a beautiful, sunny day. If they were going to prom, Matthew said, they should start working on their tans. They found a patch of grass and he helped her sit down, then stretch out flat. She lay on her bad side, so it was less obvious.

  “I know this much. A tuxedo washes me right out. We have to start thinking about the pictures. We’ll look like ghosts if we’re not careful.”

  “SO WHAT ARE WE GOING TO WEAR?”

  “Funny you should ask,” he said, “because I already know. My father left behind a tuxedo with a cutaway jacket that fits me perfectly. I have to warn you, I look weirdly good in it.”

  She was starting to feel better. She laughed, one of her strange, barking laughs. “WHAT’S A CUTAWAY JACKET?”

  He stretched out beside her and closed his eyes. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  “WHAT SHOULD I WEAR IF I WANT TO CONVEY A SENSE OF IRONIC DISAPPROVAL ABOUT THIS EVENT?” These jokes took a little longer to type. Convey and disapproval weren’t on her word-prediction program.

  “You could try a trash bag.”

  She laughed again. “WITH HOLES?”

  “Or not. Maybe you could wear one of those tuxedo-decal T-shirts. That might make me look silly, but I don’t mind.”

  “YOU WANT ME TO WEAR A DRESS, DON’T YOU? YOU WANT TO SEE WHAT MY SKINNY LEGS LOOK LIKE.”

  “I know what your skinny legs look like, Aim.” He did—it was May and warm enough now that they’d all started wearing shorts to school.

  She rolled over onto her stomach to ask him a serious question. “WHAT IF IT’S TOO MUCH PRESSURE AND YOU GET ALL NERVOUS AND STRANGE?”

  He opened one eye and looked at her. “I’ll try not to.”

  They had to discuss this ahead of time. It could be a disaster if something happened, and they hadn’t. “WHAT IF I END UP SITTING IN THE CORNER WHILE YOU’RE IN THE BATHROOM FOR AN HOUR TRYING TO TAKE A SHOWER IN THE SINK?”

  “I’ll take a pill. Take the edge off. Thank you, though, for planting that idea in my mind.”

  “WHAT PILL? YOU DON’T TAKE PILLS.”

  “I have some very small pills I take. Prescribed by a doctor. For a while they didn’t do anything. Now I find they help me relax.”

  She couldn’t believe what he was saying. “YOU’VE BEEN SEEING A REAL DOCTOR?”

  He smiled and rolled onto his stomach, too. For a second she thought he was going to hold her hand. Instead he brushed some grass from her shoulder. “For almost six weeks now. It turns out you were right. Medication helps.”

  After that, a strange thing happened: Amy couldn’t stop her expectations from rising. She imagined herself transformed and beautiful, like Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink, with her homemade dress and mysterious lace boots. She pictured her hair in an upsweep of loose curls. In the fantasy, her prom face looked like the one she only wore asleep, loose and relaxed. She imagined a photographer asking her to smile and, for the first time in her life, being able to do it.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MATTHEW HAD GOTTEN THE idea of asking Amy to prom a few weeks ago, before he felt any change from the medication. He thought of it the first time prom tickets got mentioned in the homeroom PA announcements, and he saw kids around him poke one another and roll their eyes. He watched the shyer girls look down nervously at their hands. For the first time in years, instead of thinking about himself, he thought about them and wondered: Do all girls secretly want to go to prom?

  That night he asked his mother what she remembered of her own prom, and she smiled as she poured herself more wine. “Oh my gosh, I loved prom. I couldn’t believe it when Jacob Lister asked me. I’d had a crush on him for years and never understood why he didn’t date anyone. Then at prom he told me he was probably gay, which was sad in a way, but also brought us closer. I had a wonderful time.”

  “Do all girls wish someone would ask them?”

  “I don’t know if it’s changed,” she said. “But in my day, sure. Lots of people pretended they didn’t care, but they would have gone if someone asked them.”

  If that’s true, he thought, Amy should be asked, but even as he thought this, his stomach twitched nervously. When he told his mother what he was thinking of a few days later, she told him it was a good idea, but he shouldn’t do it out of pity.

  “No, it wouldn’t be like that. I feel like she’s my best friend. And this is something friends do for each other, right?”

  His mother looked unsure. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Isn’t that what Jacob Lister did for you?”

  “I suppose. Though if I’d had my druthers, we would have made out.”

  That was two weeks ago. Since the afternoon they spent lying on the lawn, he was surprised by how much fun the buildup was. The next day, Amy told him she was on a special diet to gain weight and grow bigger boobs by prom. “I DON’T KNOW IF IT WILL WORK, BUT IT CAN’T HURT TO TRY, RIGHT?”

  “Your boobs are fine,” he whispered, blushing. The medication had helped, but it didn’t work miracles. Some conversations were still too embarrassing to have without blushing.

  A week before prom Amy told him she’d bought her dress with her father, actually, not her mother. “MOM DOESN’T LIKE SHOPPING. PLUS SHE’S NOT SO INTO THIS PROM THING, I GUESS.”

  Matthew’s stomach twitched again. “Why not?”

  Amy didn’t seem to think it was important. “NO REASON. JUST . . . YOU KNOW . . . PROM IS A CLICHÉ. WANT TO HEAR ABOUT MY DRESS?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’M NOT GOING TO TELL YOU. . . . OKAY, I’LL TELL YOU THIS MUCH: IT’S NOT TIE-DYED. I THOUGHT ABOUT THAT AND DECIDED NO.”

  “Heels?”

  “NO HEELS. SENSIBLE ORTHOPEDIC DRESS FLATS. FLESH COLORED.”

  “Really?”

  “NO. BUT I’M NOT GOING TO TELL YOU. I DON’T WANT TO RUIN THE SURPRISE.”

  They talked about corsages (“I DON’T KNOW IF I WANT A FLOWER SO MUCH AS A BUTTON THAT SAYS, VISUALIZE WHIRLED PEAS. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?”) They talked about boutonnieres. (“I’m thinking a yellow rose,” he said. “Or else a squirting flag pin. Either one is fine.”) By then, they’d joked around so much that Matthew began worry that the actual evening might ruin the happy times they’d had leading up to it. With so many unknowns—driving, parking, dancing—who knew what could happen?

  At Amy’s insistence, they ruled out going to dinner beforehand. “IT’LL BE COMPLICATED ENOUGH,” Amy said. “LET’S NOT BRING FOOD INTO IT, TOO.”

  Indeed it was complicated. Beyond being the first time in ten years Matthew had left the house wearing uncomfortably dressy clothes, it would also be the first time he’d driven with someone other than his mother as a passenger. He passed his test (by the thinnest margin of two points), which meant he wasn’t a terrible driver, just a hor
ribly overcautious one. He traveled most comfortably ten miles below the speed limit, and overreacted to any movement in his peripheral vision. On the test, he lost points for swerving to avoid pedestrians he was nowhere near. He’d warned Amy a week ago: “My driving can be a little lurchy.”

  She said, “WHAT’S OUR CHOICE? A LIMO FOR THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS OR YOUR MOM DRIVNG US? I’LL TAKE THE BUMPY RIDE. I WON’T MIND, I PROMISE.”

  At the time, he felt grateful, but driving to her house, he wondered if he should have spent his savings on the limo. He’d forgotten the biggest problem with driving at night: headlights coming at you.

  He got to Amy’s house at seven o’clock, where he was greeted by her father at the door. Matthew had only met Amy’s father once, at the first training session for Amy’s helpers. He was a surprisingly small man—shorter than Matthew—with a stern expression that Amy said was mostly for show. “HE PRETTY MUCH DOES WHATEVER MY MOM TELLS HIM,” she once told Matthew. “SOMETIMES IT MAKES ME FEEL SORRY FOR HIM.”

  “Max Van Dorn,” he said, holding out his hand. “You must be Matthew.” In the dim porch light, his hand looked greasy, as if he’d just had it in a bag of potato chips.

  I can’t touch that hand, Matthew thought. If I do, I’ll be washing that grease off all night. “Better not,” Matthew said, touching his tuxedo.

  “Right, of course. Come on in.” He stepped aside and let Matthew into the foyer, where they stood way too close to each other. “Look, I might as well tell you, Nicole is feeling a little anxious about this evening. I’m sure it’ll go fine, but anything that isn’t her idea to start with, well—she gets nervous.”

  That makes two of us, Matthew thought. “Okay,” he said.

  “Her mother keeps saying Amy shouldn’t stay out late, that she sometimes loses muscle control when she’s tired, but I say, hey! It’s prom, right? You’re going to give the girl a curfew on prom night?”

  In situations like this, the medication didn’t make Matthew less nervous. It only made him nervous, with side effects like dry mouth and an eye twitch. Now he tried to swallow, but couldn’t. He tried to imagine what her father was saying. Amy loses muscle control?

  “I say stay out as late as you like. I’m not worried about any curfews. I told Nicole, ‘This kid knows Amy. He knows her little quirks.’ Still, she thinks you should have a list of instructions and emergency phone numbers. I told her, ‘This is a school dance, honey. Not some medical procedure.’”

  Why did he say medical procedure? An image flashed in Matthew’s mind of operating on Amy, standing over her open chest cavity, unsure what to do. Finally he managed to end his own silence: “It’s fine. Instructions are fine.”

  Mr. Van Dorn laughed, then he leaned in and whispered, “Well, that’s good, because you’re going to get them.” His breath smelled like mint, as if he was trying to cover up some other smell. Alcohol, maybe. Or the disease he’d just transmitted to Matthew by leaning close enough to breathe all over him.

  “Is Amy ready? Because we should probably go.”

  “Yes, yes, of course! Just a few last-minute adjustments and then we’ll only need an hour to take some pictures. Then you’re free.”

  Apparently this was a joke, too, because they took no pictures. When Amy finally emerged from her bedroom with Nicole behind her, it was clear they had been arguing. Amy’s face was bright red, as were Nicole’s eyes. They both had damp cheeks. In the terrible awkwardness that followed, Matthew could think of nothing but leaving as quickly as possible.

  In the car, Amy sat for a full minute without speaking. Finally she typed, “YOU LOOK NICE.”

  “Thanks,” he said. He started the car and put on his blinker, though he hadn’t pulled out of her driveway yet. He checked his mirrors and looked up the street.

  “DO YOU WANT TO SAY SOMETHING ABOUT HOW I LOOK?”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  “NO.”

  A car drove past, which threw off his checking. He started all over again. “I’m sorry, Aim. You look nice, too. I wish I wasn’t driving. I have to concentrate.”

  “WAS THIS A TERRIBLE IDEA, MATTHEW?”

  “No. What do you mean?”

  “I HAVE A FEELING THE WHOLE NIGHT MIGHT BE A DISASTER.”

  For a moment he felt relieved just to hear her say it. This was why he loved Amy, if the word love could be applied to someone he was afraid to touch and sometimes didn’t even like looking at. He turned the car off. “Maybe you’re right. Do you want to go back in?”

  He had Nicole’s instruction sheet folded inside his pocket. He’d probably have to spend the first hour of the evening reading through it. With the prospect of that, plus driving this car that now felt like a giant tank, walking Amy back inside and calling it a night didn’t sound like such a bad idea.

  “NO WAY. I SPENT AN HOUR BUYING A STRAPLESS BRA FOR THIS. I’M GOING.”

  He looked over at the folds of her dark-blue dress, tight like a cummerbund around her waist, with a flared skirt that started around her hips. It was a lovely dress, not at all what he’d expected. It looked like a dress Grace Kelly might have worn, with miles of skirt that stopped below her knee and billowed a little when she stepped outside. She looked beautiful. Too beautiful for him to think about for too long or look at too closely. It would only make him more nervous. “What’s a strapless bra?” he finally asked.

  “LIKE A TOURNIQUET FOR YOUR CHEST.”

  “Can you breathe if you’re wearing it?”

  “BARELY.”

  He worried. There were so many ways this night could go wrong. How many teenagers died every year in car crashes going to and from their prom? Or something else could happen: Amy could have a seizure or choke on a cube of ice. She could die from wearing a dress that required such a torturous bra. “Do you want to take the bra off?” he asked.

  She smiled, one of her wide-mouthed smiles. “DO YOU REALLY MEAN THAT?”

  No, he couldn’t say. Of course I don’t mean it. Taking it off would require his help, and his hands were shaking too much.

  “NEVER MIND. LET’S JUST GO. YOU DON’T NEED TO BE NERVOUS. IT’LL BE OKAY. I PROMISE.”

  He smiled. “Look, I’m sorry. I am nervous, but mostly about driving this stupid car. Not about you. You’re the least of my worries.”

  “GOOD.”

  They sat for a moment, quiet. “Are you nervous?” he finally asked.

  She didn’t answer. She was looking out the car window, back at her house. He wondered if he’d already wrecked the whole night. “You do look beautiful, Amy. So beautiful it made me nervous seeing you just now. I never do well in unexpected situations.”

  She pulled her board in front of her face without turning around. “YOU DIDN’T EXPECT ME TO LOOK GOOD?”

  “Well. Not like this. Not this good.”

  “DOES IT SEEM PATHETIC? ME TRYING LIKE THIS?”

  “No.”

  “MY MOTHER THINKS THIS WAS ALL A BIG MISTAKE. FINE TO BE FRIENDS. BUT NOT . . . THIS.”

  “What? We are friends.” He had a speech he’d wanted to tell her tonight, about how much their friendship meant to him. He’d planned to save it for the end of the night, but he changed his mind and decided to say it now. He’d finally gotten the car out of her driveway, but now he pulled it over to the side of the road and turned it off. “I had this dream about a week ago; do you want to hear about it?”

  “OKAY.”

  “In the dream, you and I were swimming in a pool that had lights and fountains and was beautiful, except the tiles were pieces of broken pottery. They hurt to walk on, so we had to keep swimming. When I got closer to you, I realized you were swimming without a bathing suit on. I asked why and you said, ‘I never wear a bathing suit. My body rejects them.’ Don’t worry, I couldn’t see anything in the dream except that you looked beautiful and you swam perfectly, better than me. I just wanted to keep following you around the pool and get stronger myself. That’s what I kept thinking in my dream: just stay close to her,
keep swimming, and you’ll get stronger.”

  “DO YOU KNOW WHAT WATER SYMBOLIZES IN DREAMS?”

  “What?”

  “SEX.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “I DIDN’T THINK THAT UP. FREUD DID.”

  He pressed his sweaty chin to his bow tie. “Well, I don’t think it was about that. I think it was about seeing what a strong person you are. You aren’t afraid of things and you’re always true to yourself and I’ve learned a lot from you. You’re the first person I’ve ever talked to about my problems, and it’s made a big difference. Telling you about my fears made them more real, but more manageable.” Talking like this made him feel as if a weight was lifting off his shoulders. “I want us to be friends for the rest of our lives. I feel like you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” He felt light-headed hearing himself. He knew it might sound silly to her. She might roll her eyes and call him sentimental. Knowing her, she’d probably make a joke to break the tension of the moment, but he didn’t care. He’d said what he wanted to. His shirt was wet through, and it was over.

  He turned and looked at her, surprised to see tears in her eyes. For a long time, she didn’t type anything. She started to, and then stopped and wiped her eyes. Was she crying from happiness? Impossible to say. “Amy? Are you okay?”

  Finally she typed: “WHY DO YOU THINK I WAS NAKED IN THAT DREAM?”

  He sat back as a chill passed through his wet clothes. That was the problem with the speech he’d just delivered. He couldn’t explain that part at all.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  AMY KNEW THE TRUTH. Her mother didn’t have a problem with prom. She had a problem with Matthew. Amy had never told her mother about Matthew’s problems, but she figured it out.

  After her speech, Nicole asked which of Amy’s peer helpers she was talking about in the speech. At that point, Amy was so worried that Matthew might never speak to her again that she told her mother the truth, a mistake she regretted every time her mother raised a skeptical eyebrow at the mention of Matthew’s name.