by Isobel Irons
Now, I think we’ve already established that you and I do not always see eye-to-eye on matters of morality. However, in the interest of bridging the gap, I’d like to share my thoughts on this rather horrifying, yet for some reason widely-beloved story. There are a couple of morals I gleaned from this, but to save time, I’ll just narrow it down to my top three.
One: Cinderella was a huge tease. I submit that the only reason the prince fell for her—or thought he fell for her—in the first place was that she kept playing hard to get and running away from him. Guys want what they can’t have, and history has shown us—Homer’s Odyssey, anyone?—that they’re willing to fight to get it. But that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re going to keep fighting for you, once they’ve got you. (Just look at what happened with me and Grant.)
Two: If your Prince Charming only recognizes you as the love of his life after you’ve washed all the dirt off your face and happen to be wearing the right shoes, dump that prick immediately. Because he’s obviously an idiot.
Three: Maybe if Cinderella had just let herself get mad, and punched those bitchy stepsisters in the face a few years earlier, they wouldn’t have made her their bitch. Just saying.
Oh, you think I’m being irrational, and making sweeping generalizations? We’ll you’re the one talking trash to a book, weirdo.
So let’s make a deal, shall we? I won’t give you shit for how you deal with your issues, and you won’t judge me for struggling and clawing my way through life, trying to figure out how to deal with mine.
Sound good?
Great.
Now please shut up and let me tell you about the night I ruined the Guthrie High Senior Prom.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Prom day.
On Saturday, I visit the peanut farm late in the afternoon, so my mom and Nana can take pictures with me and Margot with The Dress.
Of course, I didn't tell them about my epic, junk-grabbing falling out with Grant, so they still think he's picking me up at the house later. After I leave to ‘go meet him,’ Nana and my mom are having dinner at the hospital with Margot, probably to take the sting out of her missing the prom. Not that she would've gone anyway. In fact, if she hadn't tried to kill herself, we'd probably be spending tonight watching old John Hughes movies and eating glaucoma brownies with Nana, totally oblivious to who was running for prom court or what the stupid theme of the dance even was.
But she did try to kill herself, and I've finally come to grips with the fact that I’m still kind of pissed at her about that.
Margot's doctors say she'll be out in about three weeks, just in time to finish up her classes and get ready for graduation. But who knows if she'll even want to. Who knows if she'll ever go back to being okay? I used to think that all we had to do was leave high school, and we’d finally be free of our personal demons. But now, I know better. Hell, maybe she would’ve just found herself a brand new Becca Foster in college and started the cycle all over again.
The only thing I know for sure is that I'm not going to be around for graduation. Because I'm not going to keep my promise to Mr. Dodge, or my promise to Margot. I'm going to end it. Tonight.
As I clack loudly down the hallway, I get a thumbs-up from Jerry in room 214—or, as Margot calls him, ‘chronic masturbation guy.’ I take it as a compliment that his pants are still on, and flash him a crimsons-lipped smile as I continue down the hall. Live it up, Jerry. Enjoy the visual feast.
Tonight, I'm wearing actual heels, which makes me almost six feet tall. I'm done with that kitten heel bullshit. But I did keep the red lipstick, because Keely was right. It's kind of a signature thing now, and the color looks awesome with my dress.
Yesterday, after I got home from decorating, I went over to Mrs. Jimenez's trailer and begged her to make one final alteration. She rolled her eyes and I'm pretty sure she put a curse on me in Spanish, but she did what I asked. Because even in Spanish, Rule #1 translates.
When Margot sees me, she gasps.
“Oh my God! You look...you look so....” Her eyes fall. “What the hell did you do?”
I hold up my hands. “I just made a tiny adjustment. Don't you think it looks more ‘Red Carpet’ now?”
Her eyes are huge. “Yeah, but...do you think they'll let you in?”
I look down at myself. The dress Margot designed was already strapless, with a deep sweetheart neckline, but now there's a huge slit running up the front, all the way to my upper thigh.
I shrug. “It doesn't matter. I'm showing up early to help finish setting up.”
She frowns. “I thought you were riding with Grant?”
“Oh yeah, I am.” The lie rolls off my tongue just a little too easily. “Goody two-shoes that he is, he offered to help, so I'm getting dragged along.”
“Oh.” She nods, but I can tell that her best friend senses are tingling.
Fortunately, that's when my mom and Nana show up.
I turn, and my mom covers her mouth, with tears in her eyes. Her gasp is equal parts pride and wistfulness. She's jealous of me, I realize. Because I'm still young, and the rest of my life is still ahead of me, filled to the brim with so much potential.
Little does she know....
“Oh, Natty,” she whispers.” You look so...glamorous.” Then, “Ooh, I love that purse!”
Instinctively, I close my hand around the dainty black clutch I picked up at the mall this morning, protecting it from my mom's grasping hands. It has a little chain on the corner that wraps around my wrist like a handcuff, so I won't lose it.
“Glamorous?” Nana snorts. “You look like sex on a stick, Tash. Minus the stick. Are you sure they're gonna let you in?”
Always the peacemaker, Margot rushes to defend me—even though she said the exact same thing not thirty seconds before. “I think she looks like a Greek goddess. Like what's her name, from Hercules.”
I raise an eyebrow playfully. “Megara?”
“No, dumb ass.” Margot rolls her eyes. “The actual movie. From the sixties.”
“Oh, right.” I smile, but it feels forced. “Well, let's go ahead and get with the picture taking. I don't want to be late.”
The older ladies coo and make a fuss about where we should stand, and whether or not Margot should take off her fuzzy Muppets robe or leave it on. I tell her she should wear it like a cape, so she does. We laugh and mug for the camera, and for a few minutes it almost seems like things are going to turn out okay. But that’s not the story of my life. So I try to savor the moment, and leave Margot with a few happy memories, just in case this is the last time I ever see her.
After a few thousand pictures, I wave goodbye. I leave the three of them to their Chinese takeout and Steel Magnolias DVD, and I drive straight to the school. I park behind the gym and go in through the back entrance, through the girl's locker room.
Before I make my big entrance, I check my lipstick one more time in the full-length mirror by Margot’s ex-favorite bathroom stall. Tonight, my hair is piled gracefully on top of my head. It’s meant to echo the delicate swaths of scarlet red fabric that fall in drapes from my waist to the floor. If it wasn’t for the indecently-high slit, I would look almost…classy. But, as they say, sex sells. And it’s the only thing of value I really have left.
I’ll just have to stop walking whenever I see a teacher, at least until the lights go down in the gym.
“Alright, Tash,” I whisper to my reflection in the mirror, the girl I barely recognize. “Time to show them what you’re made of.”
As I enter the cavernous room, I take inventory of who's already there: most of the senior student body officers, a couple of freshmen and sophomores who agreed to set up and then leave because they couldn't find dates, a deejay, and a few random chaperones. I don't recognize most of the adults, so they must be parents who actually give a damn.
Grant isn't around, but then he's probably already at the front table—which is why I came in through the back. I can see Mr. Dodge standing over by the punch, wearing a tux with an ora
nge bow-tie. Of all people, I figure he’d be least likely to play fashion police, so I decide to go and talk to him.
“Hey, Mr. Dodge. Nice suit.”
He's in the middle of filling up the punch bowl, so he barely glances at me.
“Hello, Natasha. Are you here to—”
When he looks up a second time, Mr. Dodge almost drops the jug.
“Help?” I answer his stare with a wicked smile, like I know what he's thinking—and it doesn't bother me. After all, I'm just an object, right? I might as well use what I've got. “Yes, I am here to help.”
I lean my hip up against the table, bringing myself down slightly so our eyes are level.
“Where do you want me?”
“Uh...” He rips his eyes away, letting them flit around the room—settling on anything but me. I feel a little thrill go through me, as I realize how much trouble he could get in for flirting with me.
Well, well. Maybe there's power in embracing the dark side.
Finally, he cries uncle. “Why don't you go see if Carrie needs help with anything?”
“Sure, Mr. Dodge. Let me know if you change your mind, and you think of something I can help you with.” I wink at him, then I walk away slowly, making sure to put a swing in my step. He’s watching me go, I can feel it.
But I stop cold in my tracks when someone steps into my path.
Grant looks at me like he's afraid I'm going to attack him again. He looks excruciatingly good in a tux, and definitely attack-worthy, but he can keep dreaming. I cross my arms, making sure to give him a nice look at what he's missing.
I won't give him the satisfaction of thinking that he's better than me. Of knowing how close he came to breaking my heart. Not tonight.
“Aren't you supposed to be by the door, counting something?”
He doesn’t rise to my bait, but then again, he never did. “I asked Carrie to take over for a minute. I heard you were here. I went by your house, but no one was there.”
My ‘I don't give a fuck’ face wilts, just slightly. That was an outcome I hadn't considered, Grant actually trying to contact me again. Thank God my mom wasn't home.
Not that I really care what she thinks of me, either. Not that I ever did.
“And?”
“And,” He steps toward me, lowering his voice. “I was hoping to talk to you, before the dance. I don't know, I guess I thought you were too mad at me to show up.” He pauses, and a shadow of doubt passes through his moss-colored eyes. “Unless... Did you come with someone else?”
I make a move to flip my hair, but then I remember that it's up.
Damn it! Ugh, put your hand back down. No big deal, just keep acting like you’re over him.
“Why would I come with someone else?” I say, in my sluttiest, bitchiest tone. “This way, I can leave with whoever I want. And there are so many options. I've heard half the football team is going stag tonight.”
I say this to make him feel like a dick.
But instead of giving me his ‘why did you just kill my puppy’ face, he actually gets angry. Which is surprising, and a little bit hot.
“Damn it, Tash! When are you going to stop letting other people tell you who you are?”
I don't have an answer for that. So I just keep on faking. I sigh, and roll my eyes at him, like any good stuck up bitch would.
“Seriously Grant, the lectures are getting a little old.”
He looks at me with thinly-veiled disgust. There it is. That's the response I've been waiting for.
For a second, I think he's going to turn and leave, and never look back. A part of me hopes he does. It’ll be easier that way. No looking back for either of us.
But at the last second, Grant stops and comes toward me again. He speaks to me softly, but his jaw is clenched so tight, I can see a muscle twitching. My eyes are glued to that spot, fascinated.
“Did it ever occur to you that I might have started falling for you, Tash?” He says, in an angry whisper. “That maybe the reason I didn't sleep with you, is because you were the kind of girl I could see myself going ‘all the way’ with? Not just physically, but everything else, too. Maybe I was scared of wanting more than you were willing to give me.”
My eyes widen, then snap to meet his. That’s when I realize, he’s dead serious. But he’s not trying to convince me of anything, because it’s too late now. He’s telling me what I missed.
I feel like someone has siphoned my fuel tank, draining me of the anger that’s kept me going for the past twenty-four hours. My lips move, but nothing comes out. I try to process what he said, and find a way to respond to it, but it's like he’s speaking a language I’ve never heard before. Or maybe it’s just that the translation process from fairy tale to real life takes too damn long.
Before I can figure out what to say, he shakes his head, turns, and leaves.
That was it, I realize.
That was my last chance to prove I could be better.
###
I stand still for a long time, just watching my would-be Prince Charming walk away from me.
Then, I watch as the room starts to fill up with couples. Chaperoning parents reliving their glory days, happy teenagers, just being teenagers.
Carrie comes back from the front and sits down at the prom court table, next to the stage. She pulls out the ballot box and sets it in front of her. It's wrapped in gold, but on the inside I know it's really just made of cardboard. Soon, it will be filled with little squares of meaningless red paper.
Suddenly feeling like I’m going to be sick, I turn and flee back into the locker room. I go into the handicapped stall—Margot's stall—and shut the door. There are some girls in there, chatting away, but they don't seem to notice me. I stare at the back of the door until their voices fade away completely.
The words that started all of this have been scrubbed clean with some kind of heavy duty cleaner, but if you squint really hard, you can still see them.
LARGE MARGE, YOU CAN HURL ALL YOU WANT, BUT YOU'LL STILL BE A HIEFER.
I stare at those angry, slanting letters for so long, they start to wiggle and change shape.
YOU CAN SCRUB AWAY AT YOURSELF ALL YOU WANT, BUT YOU'LL ALWAYS BE DIRTY.
Dirty. Nasty. Slutty.
At worst, infamous. At best, a cautionary tale. Frowned upon, and eventually dismissed.
When are you going to stop letting other people tell you who you are?
Grant’s question is a good one, but mine is better.
When will I finally be able to stop proving what I’m not, and start figuring out what I AM?
All my life, I’ve been saying ‘no’ to the wrong people, at the wrong time. All my life, I’ve been focusing on what makes me broken, thinking that’s what makes me different from everyone else. That it’s what makes it impossible for me to be happy.
But what if I was always this way? What if Gretchen Cader had nothing to do with it? What if Mom lied, and I was never a ‘delightful, well-behaved’ child? What if the parts I hate about myself, the pinup girl and the stubborn brat and the fighter who has a tendency to swear like a trucker—like my dad used to…what if those were already there? What if I had been strong enough to own who I was, and tell myself that I wasn’t just enough, but somehow…inexplicably…better this way?
Preferably, before high school.
Tears streaming down my face, I unchain the little purse from around my wrist and open it. I reach inside and pull out the thick stack of little red paper squares. They look almost identical to the real prom court ballots, or at least close enough that no one would notice until it was too late.
But there's one important difference: instead of names, every candidate has a title. Becca's is ‘Bitch.’ Mine is ‘Slut.’ Darren Hillcrest’s is ‘Jock.’ Grant's is ‘Mr. Perfect.’ The others are ‘Follower,’ ‘Nerd’ and ‘Token Asian Kid.’ Every ballot is randomly checked, so it's impossible to tell who is who. Unless you listen to the gossip, that is.
I planned on switc
hing them out with the real ballots, right before the count. The teachers would've tried to keep it quiet, but I'd make sure to leave a few ballots accidentally lying around, so everyone would know that something was wrong. And if they still managed to come up with a winner, I was going to stand up on stage and take the microphone. Say something really insensitive and possibly racist. Maybe even accuse Principal Shoemaker of having an affair with me. Or Becca. Or Becca and I at the same time.
Anything I had to, basically, to get myself expelled. Even arrested, if I was really lucky.
Because this morning I decided, there is absolutely no future for me here. I figured that maybe, if I burned every last bridge I could think of, maybe it would force me to leave once and for all. Regardless of my doubts. Regardless of whether or not I have what it takes to survive anywhere else.
I'd be left without a choice in the matter. Like Cinderella, I’d run. Or else turn into a pumpkin, swathed in penitentiary orange.
But now, sitting here in this stall, looking at those words...I realize that wouldn't be any better than killing myself. All this time, I've been secretly mad at Margot for being selfish enough to leave me in this hell hole alone. For being so weak, so uncreative that she couldn't help me come up with another way out.
So what if my suicide attempt was going to be social and academic instead of physical. I still would've only been hurting one person. Me.
My makeup is probably ruined by now, but I don't bother to stop the tears. I'm alone in my little sanctuary, and I've finally realized what this is: Rock Bottom.
This is the part where, if I had a painting of my true self, I would stab it. Because in this moment, I truly hate myself. More than I've ever hated anything in the world, including Becca Fucking Foster. I hate this new Tash for being brave enough to kiss the most popular guy in school, but too scared to stand up to her own damn mother. To tell her that what happened was not my fault. That she should have been a better mother. That I shouldn't have had to keep so many dirty little secrets for so long that they started to make my insides feel that way, too.
