Code Name: Whatever

by Emily Asad

  Chapter 12: The Concert

  Statistic: Children whose parents divorced in their childhood or adolescence are likely to be afflicted with emotional problems such as depression or anxiety well into their twenties or early thirties.

  Whatever boost to our relationship I got from our time in the barn together was quickly shattered after Mom’s failure to attend my plays. I was more convinced than ever that I was nothing but a burden to her, and that she was ashamed of me. I was glad that I didn’t have to trouble her with the prom dress. I just wondered if she would come to my concert.

  The concert was on Thursday, so during my lunch hour that day I went to the costume room instead of juggling as usual. Two days before, I carefully perused the costume rack for something suitable. There were very few acceptable prom dresses, as most of the costumes were old and donated. I could not afford to be choosy, though, and the gown I ended up with was a hideous shade of yellow. At least it was my size, and it would stay up when I danced around.

  I entered the costume room and flipped on the light. That’s odd, I thought, I know I left it in that corner. I approached the rack but did not see it anywhere. Frantic, I checked the other racks. I found it – on the “To Be Dry Cleaned” rack.

  I pulled it off – and immediately recoiled in horror. It was covered with pancake makeup. Somehow, somebody must have bumped into the makeup table and knocked a big poof of beige powder onto it.

  I tried desperately to wipe the stains away, but the fabric seemed to absorb more the harder I tried. It was useless. There was nothing I could do. My dress was ruined.

  There was no time to call the garment rental place to reserve a gown, and even if they had one, I had no money and knew that Mom would not be able to help me. Mrs. Crofton had made it clear that she, too, was unable to help any student, and that acquiring the proper clothing had been our responsibility, not hers.

  Dejected, I stumbled blindly out into the auditorium to nurse my wounds. Usually it was empty. The only way to get in was if you had a key, which I did because I was claiming my dress. However, someone else had a key, too – Erika, who was making out heavily with her boyfriend in the first row.

  She scowled at me when she saw me there. “How did you get in?”

  I held up my key. I could have asked her the same thing, but I didn’t care. I was too miserable.

  She sat up, buttoning her shirt. Her boyfriend pulled away from her. They both noticed my wretched face. “What’s wrong?”

  I burst into tears. It was amazing. Whenever I had tried to cry before, the tears would not come; and now, in front of Erika and her boyfriend – both practical strangers - I couldn't stop.

  The intensity must have alarmed Erika, because she got up right away and climbed onto the stage, where I crumpled.

  Through salty bitterness, I managed to explain the situation, how I could not afford a dress and the only one I had been able to acquire was now destroyed. Worse, I blurted everything to her – Naomi, missing my cues, how Mom always skipped all my events, how lonely I was in school, how Darcy avoided me in the halls – and how that was embarrassing since she was even more unpopular than I was… everything. I mean everything, all the way back to second grade when someone spit their first spitball at me because I had freckles and stringy red hair.

  It was ridiculous, all the petty things I shared with her. Somehow, once the dam broke, it could not be plugged. It was a good twenty minutes before I was able to gain control of myself. I was lucky that I had an entire lunch hour, because I never would have been able to return to class in that condition. I was so embarrassed when I was done that I almost started to cry again, but Erika was surprisingly mature and sympathetic. Just having her listen was an amazing balm of its own.

  When my sobs had subsided, Erika pulled out a tissue from her pentagram purse. “Wipe your face.”

  I don’t know when he left, but Erika’s boyfriend had tactfully taken his leave and allowed me to expose my soul to her in complete privacy. I felt guilty for chasing him away.

  “I’m sorry for interrupting you guys,” I sniffled.

  “We have a key. It’s the Senior Key, that gets passed down to the next class when we graduate. You can’t tell anybody about it, though, but I’ll make sure you get it when your turn comes.”

  “I’m sorry for behaving like a big baby.”

  “You had a good reason. It sounds like you had lots of them.”

  I almost started crying again. “And I’m sorry I accused you of stealing my envelope of money.”

  “Oh, please!” she laughed. “Quit apologizing! You’re making me nervous.”

  I wiped away my tears and prayed that my red, swollen skin would return to normal before my next class.

  “Stand up real quick,” said Erika. “I want to see something.” She studied me critically. She even had me turn around so she could see my hips and rear end. “I was about your size in ninth grade. I think I have a dress that might fit you. You don’t have to worry – I’ll bring it to you before your concert. You’ll have plenty of time to change.”

  “You’ll do that for me?”

  “Sure. It’s just sitting in my closet. My mom wanted to sell it at a garage sale, but I wouldn’t let her. I’m glad I didn’t.”

  Erika’s boyfriend returned and whispered something into her ear.

  “Right now?” she frowned.

  The serious look on his face was enough to make her hurry off the stage. “I have to go. It’s another emergency. Don’t worry, though. I’ll bring you a dress before the concert.”

  When she was gone, I lay down on the stage and spread eagle. Only one light was on, so the atmosphere was pleasantly dim. I wondered what the dress would look like. Erika and I had completely different skin tones. Hers was a golden olive color that matched nicely with her hazel eyes. Mine was slightly pinkish due to all my sunburns. Very few colors looked good on me except for brown and dark green. From what I had seen of her wardrobe, I would probably end up doing the concert in a black miniskirt with pentagrams and garish silver sparkles. At that point, it made no difference. A prom dress was a prom dress, and Mrs. Crofton couldn't flunk me for trying.