Where I End and You Begin

by Preston Norton

  But we didn’t. Last second, we played it cool.

  “Cool,” I said.

  “Awesome,” said Holden.

  But we were screaming on the inside.

  My parents were kinda sorta amazing. When they tried.

  • •

  We arrived at Imogen’s house at 6:15 p.m. sharp. We were right on schedule. Dressed to kill—but a metaphysical killing, with our dashing good looks as the murder weapon.

  The door opened.

  Suddenly, my and Holden’s “dashing good looks” were equivalent to bird poop on the front steps of the Taj Mahal.

  Imogen’s gown was long and narrow and sweeping and white, touching the diamond texture of her glittering heels. She was statuesque, like a tree in winter, immortalized in snow. Her hair was straightened, a sandy waterfall, flowing down the heart-shaped curves of her face. Her makeup was minimalist and breathtaking.

  Wynonna’s dress was short and daring, strapless and electric blue. Lacy and crystallized on the top, rumpled and layered on the bottom, like the petals of a flower, pluming at the dawn of spring. Her legs were carved and powerful, showcased in cage-strap heels. Her makeup was bold, existential art that said, “I am here.”

  Her hair was cut.

  “Cut” actually wasn’t a strong enough word. It was short. Very short. Pixie short. Over the month that I had spent as her, her roots had grown devastatingly out of control. So, she cut her hair to the roots. Every strand of blue was gone. Her hair clung to the curve of her head, in delicate sweeping tufts, highlighting the gentle softness of her face.

  I felt bad. After all the extravagant hard work Wynonna and Imogen had put into themselves, Holden and I were left staring at the top of Wynonna’s head. It was unfair. It was also impossible to do anything else.

  Wynonna shuffled awkwardly. Self-consciously. “Do you hate it?”

  “What?” said Holden, snapping out of his trance. “No! It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

  I just nodded my head, stupidly. Quickly turned my attention to Imogen.

  “You look amazing, too,” I said. “I especially like the…um…” I absorbed her in one stifled breath. “Really, the whole thing is kind of perfect.”

  Imogen lifted her shoulders bashfully, her long fingers interlocked, her arms twisting together. “You look pretty snazzy yourself.”

  Suddenly, Wynonna took two steps forward, intercepting the space between Holden and me—completely moved on from awkward prom greetings. “Is that a limo?”

  “Whaaaaaat?” said Imogen. She also wedged herself between Holden and me. “A freaking limousine?”

  Holden and I exchanged a look. If looks could scream in falsetto, that would be the look we exchanged. But we kept our cool.

  “Yup,” I said.

  “Pretty sweet, huh?” said Holden. He pretended to be bored.

  Wynonna and Imogen screamed at each other, then they screamed at us—at which point, Holden and I could hold it in no longer, and we screamed, too. We all ran to the limo screaming. The driver—a dapper gentleman who belonged in a ’90s British sitcom—looked mildly alarmed.

  But only mildly.

  We piled inside. The interior was all plush white leather upholstery. The seating wrapped around one side of the limo, while the other side was a fully functional bar.

  Well, almost fully functional. There was no actual alcohol. (Holden and I checked.)

  “Where to?” said the driver in a disappointingly non-British accent.

  “To the prom!” Imogen exclaimed, giddy on limousine vibes. “And step on it!”

  “One prom coming right up.”

  • •

  “Wow,” said Holden. “I feel like I’m in Frozen.”

  The Activities Committee didn’t take their prom themes lightly. They Winter Wonderlanded the shit outta the place. Blue-tinted lights cast the gymnasium in an azure glow. Icicle lights were strung across the ceiling, filling an artificial sky with constellations. Fake, white, leafless trees lined the walls like ghostly forest sentries. An aurora borealis of sheer streamers flowed over our heads—blues and greens and purples. There were clusters of balloons, a range of every arctic hue between blue and white. White chairs with white tablecloths.

  And fake snow.

  Lots of fake snow. The floor was dusted in gallons of it.

  We slowly immersed ourselves in the swoony atmosphere of prom. There were some surprising couples. Sebastian O’Hara, for example, was with a boy I could only assume was the Oscar of urban legend. I’d never seen him at Piles Fork High School. But whoever he was, he clearly adored Sebastian. And Sebastian’s usual Dexter the Serial Killer personality melted, rendered into something sweet and innocent and nonlethal.

  Even more surprising: aspiring wizard Tucker Cook and Daisy Munk.

  I didn’t know when or where or how that happened, but suddenly Tucker was completely googly-eyed for Daisy—which he had to kind of crane his neck back to do properly. She was nearly a foot taller than him. You could tell Daisy’s guard was up; she hesitated to dance, to talk too much, to even smile excessively. But Tucker was kind of relentless in his adoration. Like a puppy.

  When Daisy and Tucker finally did dance, Imogen pressed her hands to her cheeks, smooshing her face like a giant stress ball, swooning.

  “Be still my heart,” she said.

  Wynonna, Holden, Imogen, and I danced ourselves silly. As a group, in pairs, by ourselves in moshing droves of sweaty bodies during the really fast songs. The ambience was magnetic. The air was pulsing, fueled by a thousand racing heartbeats. Even the fruit punch was on point. And that was to say nothing of the music.

  DJ Ziggy Donovan was in the house. I swear, the guy had, like, a billion hobbies, and half a dozen side jobs. Of course he would be our DJ.

  Prom was perfect.

  Imogen was probably the greatest dance partner in the history of the universe. She gave zero shits about how one was supposed to dance. She just moved, and I moved, and we had fun—a blast, even—and we couldn’t stop laughing, and she made me feel like I wasn’t the worst dancer on the planet. (Which I knew for a fact that I was.) She was more than I deserved. I couldn’t ask for more.

  I also couldn’t stop looking at Wynonna.

  For the life of me, I couldn’t.

  When she danced, she was moving poetry—reckless, electric, alive. The more I looked, the more I felt myself fading in her presence. She was water, and I was a dissolvable tablet. I broke apart, crumbled, disintegrated in her wake.

  The feeling was strange. I wasn’t, like, in love with her.

  I realized I was happy for her.

  I realized I had never cherished the happiness of another human being more than I did for her, right now, in this moment.

  I wasn’t in love with her. But I did love her.

  I felt a something trickle down my face.

  “Ezra?” said Imogen. “Are you okay?”

  I snapped out of my daze. Touched the part of my face where a tear had obviously snuck out. Wiped my face with my sleeve.

  “Yeah,” I said, smiling. “I’m just happy is all.”

  And I meant it.

  “Pictures!” said Wynonna. “We gotta get pictures!”

  The photo area was set up in an adjacent classroom, with posterboard signs and arrows guiding the way. The pictures were being taken against a painted snowy backdrop, framed between two fake frosted pine trees. The four of us agreed we wanted our picture taken together. Wynonna took the far end. I took the opposite end, forcing Holden and Imogen in the middle, paired with our respective dates.

  “Okay, on the count of three,” said the photographer. “One…”

  Flash.

  Suddenly, I was on the opposite end of our group, next to Holden.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I said, in Wynonna’s voice.

  “Two…” said the photographer. He looked immensely confused.

  Holden looked at me, and Imogen looked at Wynezra, who was rolling her head
back in exasperation.

  “STOP!” Imogen and Holden screamed simultaneously.

  They wordlessly swapped sides so that Imogen was next to me, and Holden was next to Wynezra. Imogen grabbed my bare arm and pulled me close, smiling.

  “I got your back,” she said, winking at me.

  Holden attempted to follow suit, wrapping his arm around Wynezra’s waist. Except that, since Wynezra was significantly taller, he leaned into her instead.

  “Okay,” said Holden, grinning. “We’re ready.”

  Wynezra’s anemic complexion had turned magenta.

  The photographer—perplexed but not perturbed—took our picture.

  We looked great. Maybe even Happily Ever After-ish.

  As we exited the room, Imogen and I were arm in arm. Holden and Wynezra were hand in hand. And then we crossed paths with Jayden and Thad—faces still swollen and purplish—and their respective dates. I didn’t know either girl, but I had half a mind to lean into both of their ears and tell them to run.

  They didn’t pay much attention to Imogen and me. They were far more interested in Holden and Wynezra holding hands.

  “I knew it!” said Thad. “I knew you two were a couple of queers!”

  Wynezra unlatched from Holden’s hand. Strode up to Thad, fists compressed, arms swinging at her sides like a pair of wrecking balls.

  “Oh shit,” said Thad. He turned and ran—abandoning his date, scampering around the corner.

  Wynezra turned on Jayden.

  “Whoa, hey!” said Jayden, lifting both hands in the air. “I’m cool. My dads are gay.”

  It was a good thing Jayden’s face still looked like a sack of plums. Otherwise, I might have hunted down Mr. and Mr. Hoxsie and told them what misogynistic pieces of shit their son and his homophobic best friend were.

  Back in the gymnasium, everyone was sweaty and out of breath. Even teenagers were no match for Ziggy’s affinity for EDM. Ziggy read the crowd and decided to show a little mercy. He strung several slow songs together—slow songs with just enough innuendo and sexual tension to keep things interesting without alarming the authorities.

  Imogen and I danced silently. Leaned into each other. It wasn’t romantic so much as it was…relaxed. My hands wrapped around the small of her back, hers around my bare shoulders. But she seemed distracted. Distant.

  Not terribly distant. Just enough for me to notice it. To recognize that it heightened every time she was facing the southwest corner of the auditorium.

  We rotated slowly.

  And then I saw her.

  I knew her from a few of my classes over the years: Kimiko. A small-framed girl with hair the color of the darkest part of night. She was bubbly and smiley, and had a habit of whispering hilariously inappropriate jokes at the most inopportune moments of class. The sort where you either laugh or you die trying to hold it in. Tonight, however, she was wearing a bright red gown, and she was sitting all by herself, and she had clearly been sitting that way all night. She was wearing defeat like a burial shroud.

  I looked at Imogen as we slowly rotated.

  She was entranced.

  It wasn’t long before Imogen realized I was looking at her looking at Kimiko. And then she turned pink.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Just…lost in my own thoughts.”

  “You should ask her to dance,” I said.

  “What?” Now she was as red as Kimiko’s dress. She hastily stole a glance at Kimiko, then lowered her head, embarrassed. “No, it’s not what you…C’mon, Ezra. I came here with you.”

  “And you’re here with me.”

  “I mean…I asked you here.”

  “And here I am,” I said, clapping my hands to my sides. “And I’ve had a wonderful time.”

  I looked at Kimiko.

  “And there she is. And she’s really pretty, and smart, and funny, and she looks like she’s had a rough night. And I can’t imagine anyone in the world making it better than you.”

  Imogen bit her lip—practically gnawing it—in a moment of romantic crisis.

  “One dance,” she said. “One dance, and I’m coming back here.”

  “Hey,” I said, hands in the air. “You do what you need to do. I’m not counting.”

  Imogen hugged me—a surprisingly intense hug that caught me off guard.

  Then she turned, and click-clacked to the southwest corner of this perfect, fake-snow-dusted winter wonderland. She lifted a single finger straight into the air like a promise.

  “One!” she said. “One, and then I’m coming back!”

  I resolved to give Imogen and Kimiko a little privacy. Wandered to the northeast corner, closer to the stage, and the speakers, and the noise, and the sweat of a thousand teenagers misting the space. It was actually kind of gross, but I guess this was the human experience. Oh well.

  I adjusted my dress and placed my hands in my lap and sighed.

  I could already feel the loneliness setting in.

  “’Sup, bro?” said Holden, literally out of nowhere. He collapsed next to me and threw his arm around my shoulder. “Where’s Imogen?”

  “Um,” I said. “Dancing with Kimiko?”

  “Kimiko? You mean super-hot Kimiko?”

  I only knew one Kimiko, and she wasn’t not super hot, so I said, “I think?”

  “Dude. You’re letting Imogen, your prom date, THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE, dance with super-hot Kimiko? Are you crazy?”

  I paused to consider this. Then shook my head. “Actually, for once in my life, I feel like I’m not crazy.”

  Holden frowned at this. Folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.

  “Well,” he said, “I guess you just need a good dance with Wynonna.”

  “What?” I said. “No, c’mon. What about you?”

  “No, believe me. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  “How’s that?”

  “She won’t shut up about you! Dude, she keeps talking about you like you’re her best friend, which, I guess you are her best friend—like, her other best friend—and no offense, but it’s getting super annoying. Like, I get it. Ezra’s amazing. Let’s build a shrine in his honor.”

  I laughed. I actually snorted—a full-on, trademark Wynonna snort.

  “Anyway,” he said, “here’s what we’re going to do: You’re going to go up on that stage and request a song from Ziggy. And you’re going to make sure he plays that song next because that’s when I’m going to give Imogen the ultimatum of dancing with me or super-hot Kimiko, and I’m sure she’ll pick super-hot Kimiko because, c’mon. And you’re going to dance with Wynonna, and you’re going to make that dance count because you two have something special, and I know I can’t compete with it, so I might as well make room for it.”

  I stared at Holden, speechless.

  “Okay?” said Holden. “Are we doing this?”

  “You’re a pal,” I said. “Seriously.”

  “Dude. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Holden grinned and pulled me into a bro-hug—hands clasped, fists to chest, squeezing each other from the side. Then he turned me around, smacked my ass, and shoved me off in the direction of the DJ table.

  He cupped his hand over his mouth and shouted, “You better pick a good one!”

  Oh, I would.

  • •

  “This one,” I said, pointing at Ziggy’s laptop screen.

  “That one?” said Ziggy. “Wow, we’re going old-school, huh?”

  “I need you to play it next.”

  “Um. Look. I can play it at the end of the queue. But that’s the best I can do for you. Other people have requested songs. I can’t just let you cut in line.”

  I had anticipated as much. That’s why, before coming up here, I went out to the limo and retrieved my (Ezra Slevin’s) wallet.

  I opened it, pulled out a twenty, and slid it across the DJ table.

  “Whoa, hey,” said Ziggy. He raised his fingerless-gloved hands in the air. “I can’t take that.”

  I pu
lled out another twenty. Slid it across the table, directly parallel to the first bill.

  “This is called bribery,” said Ziggy. “I could lose my DJ gig here, just looking at this.”

  I removed a third twenty. Pressed it into the table with a single, electric-blue fingernail. Slid it sloooooowly.

  “Dude, fine!” said Ziggy. “I’ll play your song next. Just get that shit off my table before someone thinks I’m dealing nose candy!”

  And not a yoctosecond too soon. The slowest of slow songs had finally come to an end. Ziggy’s hands danced across the keyboard like a duet—like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers—ending with a show-stopping tap of the enter key.

  The sound system echoed with familiar chirping guitar chords ricocheting across the metaphorical chasm separating two hearts, somewhere in the ’80s.

  Ziggy sighed, grabbed his mic, and waved it at me like a magic wand. “Shall I make a dedication, or would you like the honors?”

  I grabbed the mic in response and pranced to the edge of the stage.

  “WYNONNA JONES!” I said.

  I pointed directly at Wynezra. She appeared double-startled because Holden had suddenly stolen away, lost in the crowds, and now her name was a Mach wave blasting from the speakers.

  Her eyes met mine.

  “This song is for you,” I said.

  Okay, so it sounded a little narcissistic, like I was dedicating the song to myself. But Wynonna knew. And that was all that mattered.

  “Many times I tried to tell you,” sang Pat Benatar, “many times I cried alone. Always I’m surprised how well you cut my feelings to the bone.”

  I tossed the mic to Ziggy—which he fumbled for and barely managed to catch. I crouched down with ladylike grace, knees tucked to one side, swung my legs off the edge of the stage, and descended with finesse.

  I marched directly to Wynezra. By some miracle—fueled by the magic of prom—the crowded parted before me.

  They parted all the way to her.

  Wynezra stared at me, openmouthed.

  “May I have this dance?” I asked.

  Wynezra grinned. “Yeah, okay.”

  “We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder!” Pat wailed. “We belong to the sound of the words we’ve both fallen under!”