“Tell you what,” she says, finally accepting my money. “Don’t say anything, because I could get in serious trouble, but I’m going to give you two tickets for the price of one.”
“It’s not a money issue —” I begin, even though the price is way too high for a night of what is likely to be crappy food and worse music.
Michele hands me the two tickets, discussion over. “Abigael,” she says sternly. “Take both. You never know — you could still —” She pauses, but her meaning is clear. You could still find a date.
Right. And balloons filled with diamonds could come pouring down on my head the minute I step out of the office.
I thank Michele for the secret ticket, walk outside, and realize that people only give you stuff for free when they pity you. I’ve become a prom charity case. I’m surprised random girls I pass in the hall aren’t handing me extra dresses and shoes, their eyes wide and concerned.
But I already have a dress and shoes, which are two of the reasons I feel obliged to attend the whole mess in the first place. Over the next week, I am forced into that dress and those shoes many times, for what Iris calls “rehearsals.” There are three types of rehearsals: body (keeping the dress from slipping off my boobs, even when I move), face (Iris testing out different and equally garish shades of shadow on my lids), and attitude (sashaying in the strappy gold sandals as if I do it all the time). To keep me sane, I think, Iris comes over almost every day for these rehearsals. And when we’re collapsed on my bedroom floor from laughter, our dresses pooling around us, I can almost forget the way Michele asked Just one? or Elijah (who I’ve been studiously avoiding all week) said it wasn’t me. I am determined to walk into the country club on Saturday alone, head high and heels click-clacking in triumph. I am Abby, hear me roar.
By the time June 19th arrives, I’m feeling rather upbeat. The day is sun-drenched and breezy, and the thicket of trees outside my window are lit up emerald green to match my dress. There is something freeing and luxurious about getting ready with no one in mind. I eat a big lunch with my parents (who, aware of my dateless status, have been tiptoeing around me for the past two weeks), take a long, steamy shower, and start changing. I turn on Marshall Crenshaw as loud as he’ll go, spray a cloud of Happy in the air, and spring through it as Iris taught me. I end up with a mouthful of perfume, but I’m feeling content as I cough. Lip gloss, liner, and shadow are all applied — sloppily, but still. Damp blond hair is brushed, then piled atop my head and secured with pins. A few tendrils escape onto my neck, but, hey, they look kind of alluring. Step into satin dress, zip it up, let it swish around my knees, reach for shoes, and —
“Abby!” my mom hollers from downstairs. Franklin is barking like crazy.
“I’m not ready yet!” I shout back over Marshall singing “My cynical girl …” I know she’s waiting at the foot of the stairs with the corsage in hand while my dad lurks in the corner, digital camera at the ready. But I still have a good twenty minutes before the limo shows up.
“Your brother’s here!” my mom calls, sounding equal parts confused and amused.
Ugh. Anger swells inside me. How dare he? It’s obvious that Brian, who I haven’t seen since our nasty confrontation in the kitchen, has dropped by to mock me on his way to Nadine’s sister’s wedding. Fine. Whatever. Suddenly, I want him to see me all decked out and fashiony, not in my carpenter capris for once.
It’s not my mom but Brian who’s waiting at the foot of the stairs, holding a bright red rose corsage. He’s wearing a tux, and even I have to admit that he cleans up nice.
“Check you out,” Brian says, grinning up at me as I descend, barefoot and frowning.
“Check you out,” I retort, stopping short on the last step. “Nadine must have really cracked the whip to get you into that tux.”
Brian accepts the compliment with a hammy little bow, then straightens up and adds, “Oh, yeah, I didn’t tell you guys. Nadine has cracked her last whip. We’re not together anymore.”
“What?” I jerk back, surprised. “Since when?”
“Since, like, a week ago,” Brian replies lazily, running a hand over his bristly golden head. “I got fed up with her constant nagging and controlling. I realized that it’s high time for me to be a man, you know? Stand on my own two —”
“She caught you with another girl, huh?” I ask, folding my arms over my chest.
Brian sighs, lifting his shoulders. “Her best friend.” As I bury my face in my hands, he adds, “It’s cool, though. Nadine kicked me out, but I’m living with Marissa now.”
“So let me get this straight,” I say, checking the hall clock, because Iris will shoot me if I’m not waiting outside when the limo comes. “Nadine dumped you, you’re shacked up with her best friend, and you’re still going to her sister’s wedding?”
Brian blinks at me like I’ve just spoken Sanskrit. “I’m not going to her sister’s wedding,” he replies. “I’m taking you to the prom.”
“You … what?” I whisper, unsure which direction to burst in — laughter or tears.
Beaming, Brian extends the dewy-petaled corsage toward me, his smile toothy and proud.
Shock and relief and disbelief all hit me at once, like a wall of water, and before I can absorb any of it, the doorbell rings.
“God, the limo’s probably early!” I gasp, skirting around Brian and darting past my bewildered-looking parents as Franklin barks and bounds after me. Flustered, I open the door, ready to ask Iris for a few more minutes to gather my wits and put on my shoes.
Only Iris isn’t in the doorway.
Elijah Hayes is.
“Hey,” Elijah says with a sheepish grin. His shaggy hair is tucked back in a low ponytail, and he’s wearing a ’70s-style burgundy tuxedo, complete with bell-bottom legs and a wide collar. He’s almost sexy enough to make it work. I notice he’s holding a baby-blue corsage in a small frosted box, and he reaches out to offer it to me. “Happy prom,” he adds. “Are you surprised?”
“Uh, a tad,” I stammer. “See — I —” I glance over my shoulder to see Brian and my parents gathering, all of them eyeing Elijah suspiciously. I already have a date, I want to say, but my tongue doesn’t appear to be functioning.
“I know I acted like a jerk,” Elijah is saying as I turn back to him, stunned. “I felt really bad afterward, Abby. And seeing everyone getting all hyped up for the prom, I realized —” His face breaks into another adorable smile. “Maybe I needed to be brainwashed, too.”
“Look, Elijah —” I decide not to remind him of the calf-being-led-to-slaughter comment. Keeping the door open, I glance back again to see Brian advancing toward us. “There’s something I need to explain… . When you said you didn’t want to go with me, I —” What can I say? I don’t want to admit that I asked my brother. But I can’t shoo Brian off; he may not ever do anything this sweet for me again. And I can’t send Elijah away, either, not when he’s gone to all the trouble with the corsage and the tacky retro tuxedo… .
“Is there a problem here?” Brian interrupts in his best drop-and-give-me-fifty voice, sizing Elijah up. Elijah sizes him up right back, but he looks vaguely intimidated. I truly hope Brian won’t try to kick his ass.
A horn beeps from the street, and I see a sleek black limousine pulling up. The moonroof slides back and Iris emerges in her flowy pale pink dress, waving her arms above her head. “Abby Cooper, I love you!” she hollers. Clearly, she’s had some champagne on the way over.
I wave back, but it’s a wave of distress. Iris doesn’t notice. What she does notice are the two tuxedoed guys standing in my doorway. Her eyes go wide and I see her duck her head down and say something to someone in the limo. I know Ted, Gloria, and Cody are ensconced in there, and I can imagine their buzzing and whispering: “Who?” “Two?” “How?”
“Damn, we’ve got a dope ride,” Brian notes appreciatively, nodding toward the limo wi
th a satisfied grin.
“We?” Elijah repeats, glancing from me to Brian and back again, narrowing his brown eyes in confusion. “You mean … we’re all going together?”
At the moment, I see no other recourse. “Listen, guys,” I begin, trying not to get overwhelmed. I take a deep breath. “I only have one extra ticket —”
“Well, I bought two,” Elijah says, still wearing a half-dazed, shell-shocked expression. He reaches into the pocket of his bell-bottoms and displays the tickets in his palm.
“Okay.” Through my dizziness, I’m somehow able to make sense of things. “Elijah, you can give Brian the other ticket. I’ll use one of mine.”
“Your name’s Brian?” Elijah asks my brother, and sticks his hand out. “Just trying to keep things straight. Nice to meet you.”
“Hey, thanks for the ticket, bro,” Brian says warmly, pumping Elijah’s hand, as if they’re two buddies meeting up for a baseball game. How do boys have the ability to bond in the middle of lunatic situations? I watch them in near awe.
The limo driver honks the horn again, and my parents bustle into the foyer behind us, clucking about pictures. My mom, having rescued my shoes, sheer green wrap, and green beaded clutch from upstairs, is holding them out to me, and my dad is brandishing the camera. It’s clear that neither one of them is going to ask any questions at this point. My dad motions us into the living room, and, dazedly, we gather on the colorful area rug. When my mom inquires about a corsage, I glance in panic from Brian’s rose to Elijah’s blue monstrosity. Neither remotely matches my dress, but beggars with two prom dates can’t be choosers. Elijah pins his flower to my dress, so Brian slips his rose on over my wrist. Corsages in place, I stand between my brother and the best-looking boy in my grade. As the flash flickers like lightning, I’m not sure if I’m smiling or grimacing. All I know is that I’m extremely grateful that this moment has been captured, that evidence will exist. No one would believe it otherwise. I’m not sure I believe it.
“Hey, Abby,” Brian remarks in his wryest voice as the dots dance before our eyes. “You didn’t get me a boutonniere.” Hearing that French word emanate from my brother’s lips is as absurd as his being here at all. “You know, a flower for my buttonhole?” He gestures to his tux.
“I wasn’t exactly expecting you,” I say through gritted teeth, giving my brother a death glare. “Or you,” I add, turning my head to Elijah, who shrugs apologetically.
“My little girl — so beautiful,” my dad chokes out, lowering the camera and dabbing at his eyes while my mom hands him a pack of Kleenex and shakes her head at me, grinning. For a second, I feel a rush of gladness that I’m able to share this moment with them, crazy as it is.
“Dad, you’re killing me,” Brian groans as my dad continues to sniffle.
“Dad?” Elijah echoes, furrowing his brow.
Oh, God …
“We should go!” I announce, tottering to the door in my skinny heels, my wrap and clutch tucked under my arm. I quickly kiss my parents and lead Brian and Elijah out onto the front path. The evening air is cool and scented with honeysuckle and I take big calming gulps of it. I am reaching for the handle on the limo when I hear another car come to a screeching stop on our street. I look up to see a flashy silver Audi — “a city-slicker car,” my dad would call it — and when its driver-side door opens, I freeze. My already shaky feet almost give way underneath me. It can’t be — no — it is —
A tall, slim Asian guy steps out. He’s wearing a black tuxedo with a dark green vest and green cummerbund, and he’s holding a tasteful white-and-green corsage. He has straight black hair combed away from his face, sharp cheekbones, light-filled dark eyes, and an easy smile.
“Archie,” I whisper. “Archie Jong.”
I recognize him from his MySpace photos, of course, but it’s more than that — I remember him from grade school, too. The mischief in his expression, the slight crookedness of his front tooth, even the confidence of his gait as he walks toward me. And something about that familiarity, instead of turning me off, makes my heart expand like a bubble.
“I thought you were busy in New York,” I say matter-of-factly. Suddenly, it feels like nothing in the world can surprise me anymore. I’m half-expecting a Martian date to land his spaceship on my roof.
“I was,” Archie says, stopping in front of me and then leaning forward to kiss my cheek. “But when I woke up this morning,” he continues, pulling back and smiling at me, “I realized I couldn’t miss an opportunity to see the old neighborhood.” He pauses, his eyes resting on my face for a beat. “Or Abby Cooper.”
I smile back at him, feeling my face flush in the most pleasant way.
“This is a joke, right?” I hear Elijah asking Brian.
“I’m glad I caught you,” Archie is saying, checking his wristwatch. “I got stuck in major traffic around Albany and then I realized” — he laughs and taps the flat of his palm against his forehead — “I never even bought a ticket. I’m screwed, right?”
“Nope,” I say, patting my clutch. “I am the proud owner of one additional ticket.” Thanks, Michele Martin. Then I glance over at a disgruntled-looking Brian and Elijah, who are obviously feeling neglected. “Oh,” I add, still a little flustered, “Archie, these are my two other dates. Elijah, Brian, meet Archie. I guess you guys will be spending some time together tonight.”
“Um … okay,” Archie says, knitting his brow, but I can tell, from the way his mouth twitches, that he also finds the situation supremely funny. He, Brian, and Elijah exchange awkward hellos. I want to take another picture.
“Abby, what the hell is going on?” Iris gasps the second I open the door. I realize I never once told her about asking Brian and Archie. I can only pray that she won’t give Brian away.
“I know that kid from elementary school,” Ted, freshly purpled hair incongruous with his natty tux, announces, leaning over Iris to peer up at Archie. It’s obvious that, for once, Ted and Iris will be too distracted to even consider making out.
And Gloria and Cody, festooned in violet, immobile in their seats, merely gape up at me. Wonder and confusion race across Gloria’s meticulously made-up face, followed almost instantly by … jealousy? Yes, unmistakably jealousy; her heavily lined eyes narrow and practically switch from brown to green. And then it hits me:
Gloria wants three prom dates, too.
Wouldn’t anyone?
Suddenly, I understand Archie’s earlier impulse. I, too, am dying to laugh.
“Abby?” Iris prompts, reaching up to tug on my wrist corsage.
“Well,” I reply at last, lifting my heavy skirt so I can slide inside. “I decided not to go stag after all.”
By the time we join the fleet of other limos outside the sprawling white country club, which is turning rose pink in the darkening twilight, everyone’s shock has faded a little. Ted and Archie are reminiscing about grade school, Brian and Elijah are debating classic rock bands, and Iris has managed to greet Brian without revealing his true identity. Only Gloria and Cody remain silent, jaws slack. As for me, I’m staring out the window, still trying to digest the dizzying fact that I have somehow wound up with a triple threat.
It’s a fact that fully hits home when the limo door opens, and Elijah takes my hand to help me out. Immediately, Archie is on my right, offering his arm, and Brian is behind me, smoothing out the wrinkles in my skirt, just as our mom taught him. We head up the paved, flower-lined path like that — Elijah, Archie, and I walking three abreast and Brian bringing up the rear like a bodyguard. The rest of our limo crew trail behind us, still murmuring over my scandal.
When my dates and I enter the grand foyer of the country club, where girls in floor-length pastel gowns and their black-and-white dates are sipping flutes of fruit punch and handing their tickets to the chaperones, an actual hush falls over the crowd. Heads swivel, mouths open, elbows nudge ribs, and Michele M
artin’s furry eyelashes blink like mad. Normally, a mass of my classmates gawking at me would make me fidgety and uncomfortable. Tonight, instead, a wave of pride washes over me. Three dates. It’s nutty and over the top and unbelievable. But here it is. Here they are. I tighten my grip on Elijah’s and Archie’s arms and smile at Brian over my shoulder. Let everyone — especially Michele — stare. I’m here to have the night of my life.
Besides, I’m too busy keeping track of my dates to notice the stares or the whispers, such as “Who’s the hot blond guy?” and “Is that really Archie Jong?” In the foyer, I sip sweet punch and talk literature with Elijah, discovering a shared passion for Emily Dickinson. We vow to e-mail each other our poet preferences when we’re in college. Over dinner at the candlelit table to which we’ve had to pull up extra chairs, Brian steals half the filet mignon off my plate, causing me to poke him with my fork and wonder how the others don’t realize we’re related. Then, after some sweaty fast-dancing in the purple-streamered ballroom, Brian ducks out to smoke a cigarette and call his new girlfriend, and Elijah ends up chatting with a surprisingly coiffed Ms. Tannen, who is one of the chaperones, so I’m left alone with Archie.
They’re playing a slow song, so Archie and I decide to head off the dance floor. On our way, we pass Iris and Ted, who are wrapped around each other, swaying in time to the music, and even I have to admit they look adorable together. Iris glances at me over Ted’s shoulder — we haven’t had a chance to talk yet tonight — and she grins, indicating that we’ll make up for it tomorrow, and I grin back. When we pass Michele and Peter, who are holding each other at arm’s length and moving like petrified robots, I shoot Peter a look of gratitude. Had I not turned him down that day, I would never be where I am right now. Which is with Archie, who is making me laugh and think as we wander out onto the back terrace, talking about books and music and growing up in Lake Serene.
21 Proms Page 11
