The ball hadn’t been aimed at me, of course. Everyone could see I was standing on the sideline, deliberately sitting this one out, like I did most active games at youth group. Of course, it was my choice to wear my prosthesis. Without it, I could’ve hopped and participated. But I chose to wear it because the social aspect of youth group was more important than the dodgeball aspect, and I did better socially when I was wearing the leg. At least I had Evelyn to keep me company.
“Remember when you’d spend hours studying for the SATs every Saturday?” she asked, granting me the dignity of ignoring the near miss with the soccer ball. After all, she knew how it felt to be left out.
“Yeah. Every Saturday.”
“Were you doing practice tests?”
“Sometimes. Or memorizing vocabulary flash cards.”
She tucked an errant strand of brown hair behind her ear. She looked over at me with her manga-sized eyes and her curled eyelashes. She had a tall, thin, boxy frame, so our eyes met at the same height.
“Have you ever thought about doing something, you know, fun with your weekends?”
“First of all, that was last semester. I’m done with the SATs. Second of all, it was fun.” It was spring semester, and I was back home after training in Colorado. I wasn’t going to school, though, since I’d finished all my classes in December.
“Studying SAT words? Fun?”
“Yes, it was ubiquitous fun.” After I said it I realized it was probably not the proper use of the word. Oh well.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, I enjoy standardized tests.”
“No, I mean did you seriously just use an SAT word to describe how much fun you were having while studying for the SATs?”
“I did. Thank you for noticing.”
Joe Slater blew his whistle, and one of the dodgeball teams was declared victorious.
“You’re so weird.”
“Again, thank you.”
“How many times did you end up taking the SATs?”
“Six.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Had fun every time.”
“Now that you’re done, maybe you should call me more often.”
Ah. There it was. The point of this conversation.
“Maybe I will.”
She smiled and poked me with her finger. “You should.”
It annoyed me slightly when she flirted like this. Because, in fact, I was in love with her, or as close to love as you can be when you’re seventeen and a member of the opposite sex has become your quasi best friend.
Evelyn’s flirting always made me wonder: What if we were more than best friends? What would that be like? But as I said, it was slightly annoying, too. This was because of Mason, her on-again, off-again boyfriend.
“How are things with Mason?” I meant it partly as a reminder: This is why I don’t call you more often. You have a boyfriend.
She sighed. “We’re taking a break.”
This sort of drama was nothing new. “You want to talk about it?”
Talking about her boyfriend was, of course, a total Friend Zone move. But that’s exactly what she and I were: friends.
She looked down at her feet. The balls were flying again; another round had begun.
“He was home from college this weekend.”
“Yeah?”
“But he said long distance was too hard.”
“And he wanted to take a break?”
She nodded, her weight shifting on her closely watched feet.
“That sucks,” I offered.
“Yeah. It sucks.”
“How long has it been… since… how long have you been together?”
“This time?” She smirked and rolled her eyes. “Six months, I guess. But before that it was a year.”
“That’s a long time.”
“He’s right,” she said. “I mean, it is hard. Long distance, I mean. It’s really hard. But still…”
“But still,” I echoed.
Like everyone in the history of the world who has had a crush on his or her best friend, I was too scared to tell her, because if I did I might lose her completely. And the sharp bite of losing her completely would be far worse than the one-sided romantic arrangement we had going.
Joe Slater blew a whistle, and the second game was over. We, the two disabled kids, joined the rest of the group.
I had a choice about whether I wanted to wear my leg or not. Evelyn, though, didn’t have such a choice. Early in high school, she was a standout soccer star, a talented athlete with the gift of speed. But then she contracted early-onset rheumatoid arthritis, and now her joints moved too stiffly for soccer. I guess she could’ve played dodgeball tonight if she had wanted to, but her knees would swell up painfully for several days afterward. So instead the two of us stood and watched from the sidelines. It was something we had never explicitly discussed, this thing we shared. I guess it was both too obvious to warrant discussion and too painful to justify it.
Chapter 19
In April of what would have been my senior year, I was, unfortunately, nominated for prom king. How did this happen, since I wasn’t even attending school and didn’t exactly run with the cool crowd? I guess four years of saying hi to everyone in the hallway finally paid off.
Why do I say “unfortunately”? I mean, for a lot of students prom king or queen is the pinnacle of high school awesomeness, the greatest thing they could aspire to. But for me, not so much. Let me explain the way I looked at the situation. At my school four guys and four girls were nominated. Then there was a runoff vote with these eight nominees, and on prom night, before the dance started, they would all be called to the stage. One guy would be crowned prom king and one girl prom queen. And then the other six would walk off the stage in public humiliation, having just been declared not quite cool enough.
And since there were four male nominees, there was a 75 percent chance I would be one of the losers. Well, not really. Elections aren’t determined by random probability. But since there were no preelection polls in the race for prom king, let’s assume for the sake of discussion that my chances of winning were one in four. Which aren’t great odds, obviously. I mean, even when I had cancer, my chances were fifty-fifty, and I recall being pretty worried about it at the time. And those odds were twice as high as my chances of winning prom king. So anyway, all this is why I considered my nomination to be unfortunate.
On the other hand, there was always the outside chance I could win. And maybe the victory would catapult me into actually having fun at the dance. I could certainly use the boost. If there was one activity I felt insecure about as a result of having one leg, it was dancing.
My first school dance had been homecoming, which my parents finally allowed me to attend in tenth grade. I remember standing on the edge of the makeshift dance floor in the cafeteria. I wanted so desperately to join the other students, to dance with abandon, to have fun and be fun, to break out of my shell and break it down on my prosthesis. But I couldn’t do it. My body, and especially my titanium-constructed left leg, was simply too stiff.
So in eleventh grade, I volunteered to serve punch at the homecoming dance. I wanted to be there for social reasons, but I needed a plausible excuse to hang out at the punch bowl all evening. It worked pretty well. But then came senior year and the unfortunate prom king nomination, which made it sort of impossible to skip the dance. And it would be tough to serve punch if I ended up being crowned the winner.
And this leads us to my most important problem: I had to find a date. Francesca already had one. Not that I would have had the guts to ask her anyway. And my go-to line—We should hang out sometime—wasn’t as smooth when it came to finding a prom date.
A few nights later, I called Evelyn from the phone in my parents’ bedroom.
“Hello?” It was her family’s landline, but I recognized her voice.
“Hey, it’s Josh. Do you re—”
“Yeah I remember you, silly. I’m on the other line
with Mason.”
“Oh, sorry. I can call back.”
“No, it’s fine—we were just about to hang up. Hold on.”
The line went quiet for a moment. The fact that she had been talking to Mason suggested several things, none of them good.
“Josh?”
“Yup.”
“Cool. What’s up?”
“Not much. You?”
“Well, you know… just talking to Mason.”
“How did that go?”
“He thinks he might have made a mistake by breaking up with me.”
“Might have?”
“Yeah. But he’s not sure yet.”
“He’s not sure?”
To me, it was obvious. Of course he had made a mistake. Who would ever dump Evelyn?
“Yeah, not sure.”
“What would make him sure?”
“Well, I mean, obviously we love each other. But long distance is hard. You know?”
I didn’t know, actually. I had never had a girlfriend, much less a long-distance one, much less known what it was like to truly be in love with someone who loved me, too. “Yeah. It sounds tough.”
“I just don’t know, Josh. I feel like Mason and I go through this cycle again and again and again. I just can’t seem to stop.”
I sat down on the bed. “Well, they say admitting you have a problem is the first step. So congrats on that.”
“Thanks. What’s the next step?”
Dating me, I thought.
“I’m not sure.”
To be fair, Mason was a really cool guy. And I mean cool in a genuine sense, not cool as in popular. I knew him pretty well, and when I was honest with myself I had to admit that if I was a girl, I’d probably choose him over me, too. I just didn’t understand why he wouldn’t choose Evelyn in return.
I had this fantasy about Evelyn. But not the kind of fantasy you’d expect from a teenaged boy. My fantasy went like this: My girlfriend, Evelyn, would call me one afternoon, crying about a terrible fight she’d had with her mom or a devastating test score or something. In between sobs, she’d gasp out little sentences. She didn’t know what to do. Her life was falling apart. Nothing made sense anymore.
“Hold on, babe,” I’d say. “I’m coming for you.”
I’d keep the pedal to the metal until I either arrived at her house or got pulled over.
“Son, do you know how fast you were going?” the cop would say.
I would set my jaw and look him squarely in the eye.
“With all due respect, sir,” I would say. “Right now I think my girlfriend needs my warm embrace more than the Commonwealth of Virginia needs my money.”
The cop would see from my heroic expression that the only way to stop me would be to shoot me in the face. Then his hardened heart would melt in the light of my undying love.
“Follow me,” he’d say.
He would get in his car and escort me with lights flashing and sirens blazing. We’d blow stop signs and traffic lights. When I got to Evelyn’s driveway, I’d skid sideways, the back of my car whipping into her garage door and knocking it off its hinges so I could get inside faster. I’d run inside through the now-open garage and find her curled up in bed, crying. At the sight of me, she would jump into my arms.
“Shhhh, it’s okay. I’m here now,” I’d say.
And I would know from the tightness of her grip around my chest how much she needed me, and how the strength of my embrace was restoring her sense of well-being. She would feel better. I would feel needed.
“So how are you?” Evelyn asked.
“I’m good. Yeah, really good.… Guess what?”
“What?”
“Guess.”
“Okay…” she said. “You made the US ski team?”
“Um, no, few years away from that.”
Now that I was home from Colorado, I still went to school functions (sporting events, senior proms, etc.) but wasn’t at school every day, so I didn’t have access to the up-to-the-minute stats about who had a date and who didn’t. That’s partially why Evelyn was a good choice to be my date. She was from another school. I knew she was available. That, and the fact that she was superhot. And she was my best friend. If there was anyone I could let loose with and have fun with on the dance floor, it would be her.
“Guess again.”
“I give up.”
“Okay. You ready for this?”
“I don’t know. Am I?”
“I was nominated for prom king.”
“Wow, really?”
“Yeah!”
“Josh, that’s awesome. Congrats.”
“Thanks.”
“But you hate dances.”
“I know.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Find a date, I guess,” I replied.
She chuckled.
“As a matter of fact,” I willed myself to press on, “I was wondering if you might possibly want to go with me?”
There was a horrendously long pause that lasted at least one full second.
Finally, she said, “I would love to.”
I hoped she couldn’t hear my sigh of relief. “Great. It will be fun.”
“I think so, too. I’ve never gone to a dance with a prom king,” she said.
“Neither have I.”
She laughed. “Maybe it will be a first for both of us, then.”
“Maybe. But realistically, I probably won’t win. I mean, I don’t want to get your hopes up.”
“Of course you’ll win, Josh Sundquist. But I’ll go to prom with you either way.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your commitment.”
I gave her the details. A few of her friends from Spotswood High had boyfriends at Harrisonburg High. She suggested we could get dinner with them before the dance. I had already thought of this, but I acted like I hadn’t and agreed it was a stellar idea.
“Call me again soon,” she said.
“I will,” I promised.
“I appreciate your commitment,” she said.
I smiled. “Bye.”
“See you.”
Chapter 20
At dinner the next Monday, Dad revealed the complex prom compensation package he and Mom had devised in response to my pleas for financial assistance.
“We will pay for the tickets to the dance,” he said. “And half of dinner. You’re on your own for the tuxedo rental.”
I knew this last part was a concession to my mom, who bought all her clothes at thrift stores. She would think that I should just buy a black suit and bow tie from Goodwill rather than rent a tux.
“What about After Prom?” I asked. After Prom was the accurately but not creatively titled event that took place following the dance. It was basically a big G-rated party hosted by the parents where students could participate in quasi-fun activities that did not involve alcohol or pregnancy.
“What about it?” asked Dad.
“You’re not going to pay for my tickets? They’re only ten dollars each.”
“We believe you can afford that,” said Dad.
“You know,” I said, lowering my voice slightly to convey gravity, “studies show that if a couple does not attend After Prom, the girl is far more likely to end up getting—”
“Okay, okay, all right,” he interrupted. Luke and Anna were both pre-birds-and-bees talk, and Dad didn’t want me saying the p-word around them, which could lead to uncomfortable dinner-table questions about the mechanics of reproduction. “We’ll pay for your After Prom tickets.”
“In that case, I guess I can get by without getting a job.”
Mom let out a sigh of relief.
“If…” said Dad.
“Here it comes,” I said.
“You do the dishes tonight.”
I smiled. “Deal. Nice doing business with you.”
The next afternoon I went to rent my tuxedo. I wasn’t quite as frugal as my mom—that is, I didn’t want to buy a tuxedo from the seventies at a thrift store�
��but neither did I want to drop three figures on a rental from an upscale tuxedo shop. I knew just the place to go, a super-sad-looking wedding supply store in the first floor of a two-story house near my high school. The living room window had been converted into a display case featuring a creepy mannequin (is there any other kind?) in a bridal gown, and a sign that read TUXEDO RENTAL $30. I knew a good deal when I saw one.
“I’d like one of those thirty-dollar tuxedos, please.”
“Do you want the shoes, too?”
“Do they come with it?”
“No, they’re twenty extra.”
I owned a pair of shoes. In fact, I owned several pairs of shoes. So I decided that there was no reason to spend an extra twenty dollars. After all, I was here to rent a tuxedo. That’s the piece I didn’t own.
“No, thanks. Just the tux.”
They had two sizes remaining. I chose the one that fit less worse.
When I got home, Mom asked if I had ordered the corsage yet.
“What is a corsage again?” I asked.
“The flowers. These days it’s usually on an elastic band that goes around the girl’s wrist.”
“Hmm… is it important?”
“Yes.”
“Well, no, I haven’t.”
“I called around to the flower shops for you,” she said. “I found one that has them for only six dollars.”
“Oh, thanks. That sounds like a good deal.”
“Yes, and, well,” she said, as if she had something stuck in her throat, “I would like to buy it for you. If you want.”
She smiled a smile that revealed both her pain in offering to pay six dollars and her pleasure in giving me a gift that would enhance my chances with Evelyn.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, hugging her.
“You’re welcome. Do you know what color Evelyn’s dress is?”
“No. Why?”
“I need to tell the flower shop.”
“Why do they care?”
“So they can match the flowers with her dress.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“People care about that stuff?”
“Girls care about that stuff.”
I slept until three thirty on the day of prom in order to be well rested for staying up all night. Unfortunately, this also meant I started the day behind schedule. I scrambled to take a shower, shave, and put on my tux. That last part turned out to be incredibly complicated, involving a highly inefficient and antiquated buttoning system down the front and French cuffs that required cuff links, which are virtually impossible to put on if you have the unfortunate disadvantage of being born with only two hands. The only easy part was the bow tie, because it was of the pre-tied, clip-on variety. Anyway, I was supposed to pick up Evelyn for dinner at four thirty, and I left approximately on time, but after driving a few miles it hit me: I had forgotten the corsage.
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