The Prom

by Saundra Mitchell

Well. This is super orderly, if you’re into turf wars. On the left side, the Sharks with their picket signs. On the right, the Jets with their cowbells. No guns, no knives, but make no mistake, there will be absolutely no survivors.

  Finally, Alyssa realizes one very important thing. She has the megaphone. She fiddles with the buttons, and suddenly, a loud siren fills the gym. The sound bounces off the concrete block walls and hardwood floor, and people will probably still hear it echoing in two hundred years.

  But it does the job; people hush.

  Alyssa raises the megaphone and speaks into it. “Thank you all for coming to this town hall meeting. My name is Alyssa Greene; I’m the student council president.”

  Mrs. Greene snatches the megaphone and squawks into it. “And I am Elena Greene, the president of the PTA! I’m here to represent the parents of this community. I have listened to their concerns and have taken them as my very own. Together, we established rules for this year’s prom! Rules that affect everyone, not just Emma Nolan!”

  Now, I’ve met Mrs. Greene. She’s used to getting the very last word on everything. I cover my mouth to keep from laughing out loud when Dee Dee Allen reaches across the aisle and snatches the megaphone from her. “Oh, you established some rules, did you? I know what’s going on here, and frankly, I’m appalled!”

  It’s horrifying in a very real and concrete way that everybody is in this gym because I want a date night with my girl. But it’s also really gratifying to see somebody stand up to Mrs. Greene on my behalf.

  Gently, Principal Hawkins takes the megaphone for himself. He waves calming hands, encouraging everybody to sit down. Nan and I sit near the very people protesting my entire existence, just because it seems like it would be weird to sit with strangers. But it’s weird over here, too. Moses circle, still in effect. People slide away from me on the bleachers, creating a little island, population: Nan and me.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Principal Hawkins says. “Thank you all for your concern. And thank you to Alyssa Greene for stepping up and taking control of this situation. She’s a remarkable young woman and the kind of leader that makes James Madison stronger. Everyone, Alyssa Greene.”

  Politely, people applaud. And you can tell it’s just polite, because voices rumble and shrill in the stands. Each side is talking to itself. Everyone’s just waiting for their turn to talk. My best guess is there will be no listening here tonight. But hey, my tiny Hoosier town that greeted daylight saving time like it was the work of the Devil is absolutely welcome to prove me wrong.

  Alyssa thanks Principal Hawkins. Her hands shake—I see them from here. I wish I could catch them between mine and calm them. I wish I could whisper into her ear how great she’s about to be. This moment is huge, not because she’s out—but because she’s not.

  She’s risking everything with her mother to speak up for me; she’s risking exposing herself to everyone at school. Yes, I want people to know that we’re in love, but right now, I just want them to appreciate how brave she is.

  “Students, parents, guests,” she says. At first, she stands stiffly, staring vaguely into the distance. But as she goes on, she warms and softens. She looks from one side to the other, even moves between them as she speaks. “Prom is a celebration for every student at James Madison High. It’s a celebration of our achievements and of our potential as we move toward our futures. It’s a celebration for all of us. All.”

  Mrs. Greene jumps up. She doesn’t need a megaphone to be heard now that the crowd has quieted. “I want to remind everyone that prom is not a school-sponsored event! Principal Hawkins refuses to fund the prom—”

  “It’s not in the budget,” Principal Hawkins interjects. “Our textbooks are ten years old, and our technology is even older!”

  As if he said nothing, Mrs. Greene goes on, “This is a social event that we, the parents, host, and as such, we’re entitled to decide who may and may not attend! We are not going to let the government or the ACLU tell us what to do!”

  “We’re not the ACLU,” Dee Dee cries. She waves at the rabble behind her. “This is the touring cast of Godspell, and—”

  “My son will not be forced to go to a homosexual prom!” some mom shouts, cutting Dee Dee right off.

  “It’s not a homosexual prom,” Alyssa says. “It’s an inclusive prom!”

  “Will there be homosexuals there or not?”

  “Yes,” Alyssa concedes.

  Barry “Mr. Pecker” Glickman jumps up, tossing his sign. “And so what if there are? There’s nothing wrong with being gay. Look at me! I’m an internationally known thespian, a Drama Desk winner, and gay as a bucket of wigs!”

  A gasp fills the room. Like, a literal, coordinated gasp of horror. Edgewater is in the middle of nowhere, but it’s not like it’s the fourteenth century or anything. We get Drag Race here.

  And there are quietly gay people in town. Gay people who have “roommates” or “friends,” who don’t hold hands in public and definitely didn’t go out and get married once Indiana joined the rest of the country (dead last) and legalized marriage equality.

  But nowhere in Edgewater—like, ever—has anybody jumped up in the middle of a school assembly and yelled that they were gay.

  Ever.

  Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever said it like that myself. On my channel, I said I was in love with a girl. To my parents, I didn’t have to say anything, or to my nan. Or . . . wow, I came out freshman year, but I’ve literally never told anyone I’m gay. And now that I’ve heard that collective gasp, I may never.

  Barry steps into the center ring and looks around. “Emma! Where are you?”

  The bench does not, conveniently, fall into a sinkhole and take me with it. Everyone’s looking, and it’s not like I can pretend to be somebody besides the lesbian in question. After all, I’m the only girl here in plaid flannel and sensible shoes. Slowly, I raise my hand.

  Flinging himself toward me, Barry throws out his arms. “Look at this poor creature! Wasting away under your judgment! Your criticism! Your off-the-rack offerings!”

  Emboldened, Dee Dee jumps forward. In fact, she jumps in a way that I’m not entirely sure she hasn’t practiced. “We didn’t come here to make a scene!” Her head pivots, and she addresses Shelby, who has her phone raised to take in all the action. “Darling, if you’re going to take pictures, make sure you hashtag ‘broadway crashes the prom,’ hashtag ‘dee dee allen,’ hashtag ‘no filter’—”

  “This! Is not about us,” Barry says, flinging an arm around me. He is solid and he is strong. He also smells like really expensive soap. He turns toward most of the senior class, their parents, and two reporters to declare, “This is about you and prying open your tiny little minds!”

  Nick’s dad—recognizable as such because he wears his son’s jersey, for real—stands and bellows, “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

  “We,” Barry says and—hand to god—places a palm on his chest like this is the Pledge of Allegiance, “are liberal actors from New York!”

  Tilting toward Nan, I murmur, “Why didn’t he just say Satan and his minions?”

  “And we represent liberty and justice for all,” Dee Dee adds. “We’re here for America!”

  “This is not America,” Mrs. Greene says. “This is Edgewater, Indiana! We have morals here. We have a way of life that we’re proud of! We believe in God and country, and we believe there’s a right way and a wrong way!”

  Before this turns into an all-out brawl between Mrs. Greene and Dee Dee, and honestly, it’s looking like that might still happen, Principal Hawkins steps between them. “Ladies, ladies, can we please, just for a moment, hear from the person this affects most?”

  What the what?! I didn’t come here to talk! I came because Alyssa asked me to and because I was curious about the protestors. Because it was kind of nice to see that there were more people on my si
de than my nan, my girl, and the principal. It’s one thing to talk to my YouTube channel. Those comments are nice, and focused on my guitar work, and safe on the other side of my laptop screen! I don’t want to stand up and talk to people who look like they’d bite me if they weren’t afraid of catching the gay!

  Principal Hawkins reclaims the megaphone and approaches me with it. “This is Emma Nolan. An honor roll student since freshman year. She’s a very talented musician, and she’s been a model student here for four years. Emma is James Madison, and now she’d like to go to the prom. Emma, can you tell us what this means to you?”

  I feel the fire of a thousand stares on me. I feel the weight of a thousand churches on me. I feel the crushing grip of an actor around my shoulders.

  My parents aren’t here; they threw me away. But everybody else’s parents are here in their place. They stare at me, stony. Their eyes are gray and angry. Their hands are folded tight, so tight, their knuckles are white. Can’t Principal Hawkins see how much they hate me? Doesn’t he realize that it doesn’t matter what I say?

  Apparently not. He stands beside me and looks at me expectantly. Barry gives me an encouraging shake. I steal a look at Alyssa, but I can’t linger. Her mother is here. The town is here. I’m not alone right now, but right this second, I feel it.

  My voice warbles when I speak into the megaphone. And hang on to your butts, you’re never going to believe the stirring and inspirational thing I say. Are you ready? Here we go:

  “I just want to go to prom like everybody else.”

  It’s the least profound thing I could have possibly said. And at the same time, I may as well have thrown a beehive into a hair salon. The screaming. Oh my god, the screaming.

  “You can’t make us have a homosexual prom!”

  “She’s here! She’s queer! Get used to it!”

  “This school cannot condone discrimination!”

  And once again, it’s everybody howling, nobody listening. As I watch them tear into each other—and some of the Broadway people start to sing selections from Hamilton—I just stare. All of this because of me. I am a seed of Chaos. Heck, maybe I’m the Red Rider of the Apocalypse.

  Hilariously, if I am, that means that literally nobody in my hometown got called home to Jesus. They all got left behind.

  A hysterical laugh escapes me, projected by the megaphone. Pushing it away, I shake my head. I think I say thanks to Barry, and I’m sorry to Principal Hawkins, but I slip out the side door and into the cool night air. As nice as it is to finally have people on my side, I’ve got to get out of here. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I text Alyssa, So that was fun!

  She pings me back instantly. I’m so sorry.

  So am I. But that, I keep to myself.

  10. Mama Who Raised Me

  ALYSSA

  The ride home from the meeting isn’t quiet. I almost wish it were. It would be so much easier to sit next to a mother who stews in silence. It would be so much easier to believe I haven’t disappointed her in every single way.

  “And what was that, with The prom is a celebration for us all? Honestly, Alyssa, I raised you better than that.”

  “Actually,” I say, “you raised me to be a strong woman. To stand up for what I believe in.”

  “I raised you to be a good Christian!”

  My stomach hurts, and it’s telling my brain to shut up. Shutting up doesn’t mean agreement, it wheedles. Thomas More died to prove that. Then again, Thomas More died to prove that. I mumble, “And I think that’s what I’m being. Love thy neighbor as you love thyself?”

  Mom turns to look at me so sharply, her neck pops. There’s fury in her eyes; it sizzles all the way to the tips of her blowout and threatens to jump off and start a wildfire. Every word that leaps from her lips is an ember ready to catch. “I’m not telling you to hate that girl. Hate the sin, love the sinner. It would be loving the sin to encourage her to swan around our prom with some out-of-town girl. Especially after she dragged those crazies from New York here to embarrass us—”

  “She didn’t invite them, Mom!”

  Shaking with anger, Mom clutches the steering wheel and buries the needle on the speedometer. Our car shakes, too, when we hit seventy-five. It’s twelve years old and on its third set of tires. Somehow, my mother manages to explode with rage but also drive in a perfectly straight line. “Oh, don’t give me that, Alyssa. She all but begged outsiders to get involved in this when she mocked our rules on the internet!”

  “Because you guys made them just to keep her from going to the prom! She’s one person, Mom. What does it hurt?”

  “What does it hurt? Everything. You can’t compromise your values or you compromise who you are! If we let that girl come to the prom, then what’s next? Boys dressing up like girls to get into the locker room? One sin leads to another, and that leads to damnation!”

  I flinch when she says these things, because . . . look, I always knew that my mother would have a hard time with me being queer. But I didn’t realize how deep that . . . I don’t want to call it hatred. I don’t want to call my mother a homophobe and a transphobe, but, god, it’s all right there on the surface.

  “None of those things are going to happen! Leaving gay people alone hurts nothing.”

  “Oh no?” Mom counters furiously. “Gay marriage is suddenly legal and your father leaves?”

  “He left for a weather girl in Kansas!”

  “After the Supreme Court told him that the bonds of marriage didn’t matter! They made us compromise our values, and one compromise leads to— Alyssa, one day, you will understand. You’re in a broken home right now. You’re confused.”

  “Mom, I’m not confused.”

  She waves that off, the rationalization and denial working overtime. “It’s all right. When your father gets back, we’ll go to counseling at the church. Pastor Jimenez is a wonderful man, it will be good for all of us. You’ll see.”

  I scrub my face with both hands. I’m trying, so hard, to keep my mother together. But it’s starting to feel like keeping her together is tearing me apart. My dad isn’t coming back, and I’m not even allowed to be angry about that. She doesn’t give me any room or any breath to feel my own feelings about the fact that he started a whole new family. He replaced me with a brand-new baby, and I only know that because his cousin messaged me on Facebook!

  Instead, I have to spend all my time making her feel better, keeping her from any more upset or heartbreak. I’m three months away from eighteen, four months away from college. If she hasn’t gotten over this by then, this obsession with perfection, this certainty that she can make everything right and my father will come running back, am I going to keep propping her up?

  Or am I going to be like nice Ms. Reynolds, who sells tomatoes on a table in her front yard and pretends like Ms. Gloria’s not her partner? Am I going to ask Emma to lie for the rest of her life, just to be with me?

  Emma’s ready to stop lying now. How long until she decides I’m not worth the fight?

  How long does my mother’s happiness have to come first?

  Swallowing hard, I look out at the fields I love, newly furrowed for the year. The rows are so neat, so orderly. They’re nothing but lines drawn in the earth, but in a few weeks, they’ll announce spring with brand-new shoots.

  New life, new greenness, stretching out in every direction. I want to be part of that orderly pattern. I want to fit in, in my own town, in my own house. And I want it as I am. Not the way Mom wishes me to be.

  “We can go to counseling all day long, Mom, but I’m not going to change my mind about this. Prom should be for everybody.”

  My mother pushes her jaw forward; she always does this when she’s beating on a problem and trying to solve it. “I don’t know where you got this wild hair, Alyssa.”

  “I took an oath,” I say firmly. “I’m the president of student council
. Not president of the students I pick and choose. I didn’t think the basketball players deserved new jerseys this year, but I voted to get them anyway. It’s important to them! And this is important to Emma.”

  “Emma, Emma, Emma,” my mother mocks, waving a hand. “She must be loving all of this attention. Those people do. I mean, look at that disgraceful display tonight!”

  “But that was them, not her.”

  “It was for her, so what’s the difference? You’ll never convince me she didn’t orchestrate that!”

  I can’t remember ever raising my voice to my mother, so it startles us both when I rail at her. “It never would have happened if there wasn’t something to protest! And I bet you a million dollars they’re going to keep protesting until we change!”

  “Alyssa, enough!”

  My mother’s voice is a blade. It slices between us, severing our conversation. Her perfect veneer falters, revealing all the cracks underneath. She’s so close to breaking. We pass beneath a traffic light. Her face glows green for a moment, then goes dark. And when the dark comes again, everything’s smoothed back into place.

  “So, tell me about this John Cho,” she says, as if we weren’t just arguing. As if she can hit reset on our lives and move forward in a more pleasant direction. “If you met him at Model UN, then he must be smart. Not as smart as my baby girl, but smart.”

  “Mom,” I say, warning.

  “You have to be careful,” she goes on. “Boys don’t like it when you’re too smart. But look at that face. That beautiful face. That will distract him every time.”

  “Mom, I canceled, okay? You changed the rules about outside dates, so I called it off.”

  With an expression of pure dismay, Mom cries out, “Alyssa, honey! Why would you do that? I told you that didn’t apply to you.”

  “It should have,” I say flatly.

  It’s all written on her face: this ruins everything. There’s a perfect night to be had, and it has to be had with me on my date’s arm. For a moment, it looks like she might cry. But then she finds some well of strength and waves off this obstacle like an errant fly.