The Prom

by Saundra Mitchell

  And if I didn’t know better, I’d think my mother is deliberately avoiding me. Every time I gather the words in my mind and the courage in my heart, she darts away again. Stop being paranoid, I tell myself. She’s like this with every event she plans for school.

  Forty minutes before homecoming last fall, she was hanging—lit-er-ally hanging—from the top of a ladder, trimming the crepe paper streamers in the gym to exactly the same length. She’s not going to relax until the last balloon drops and the final fleck of confetti settles on the dance floor. It just feels like she’s avoiding me because I’ve been putting this off for so long.

  “Here we are!”

  Joan surfaces from the tackle box and puts a plastic dish in my hand. Carefully, she selects a glimmering crystal from the container and dots the back of it with eyelash glue. One after the other, Joan affixes three little gleaming gems at the corner of my eye, then steps back.

  Admiring her own handiwork in the mirror, she waves my mother over. Joan mouths, “She’s beautiful,” and my mother mouths back, “Thank you.”

  Their pride lasts half a second. Then Mom, with the phone to her ear, pushes the hanger with my dress on it into my hands. Half whispering, she says, “Go on, get changed. We’re running out of time, and I want to get some pictures of you.”

  “Mom, I—”

  “Vamoose, Alyssa,” she says. And then she gives me a swat on the butt, like I’m six years old and we’re running late for church. Into the phone, she says, “Yes, I’m still here. Did you look in the freezer? Not the cooler, the freezer?”

  The salon’s bathroom smells like perm solution and vanilla candles. The scent is thick, and it makes me queasy, but I manage to get out of my street clothes and into the overtime gown without incident.

  I’m careful not to yank the straps on my dress too hard. For some reason, I remember them being a lot more substantial in the store. Now, they’re just thin, jeweled threads that definitely do not meet dress code.

  A wash of lavender satin and tulle surrounds me. The full skirt murmurs when I move. A perfect fit. Exactly right. My makeup matches perfectly, even if it is a little thick for my taste. Trying to turn in the tight space, I wobble, and wonder if my hair will shatter if it hits the wall. I’d better not find out.

  I wonder what Emma’s doing right now. When I Marcoed her last night, she sat her phone on her dresser to stay in frame. All nerves and excitement, Emma’s anticipation shone in her bright pink cheeks, and eyes that glittered like Christmas lights. She kept rolling onto her back, then onto her stomach, unable to lie still.

  My guess is, she’s surrounded by Nan and Mr. Glickman and Ms. Allen, enduring hair and makeup just like me. She told me Mr. Glickman conned her into a dress, but she refused to show it to me. She wanted it to be a surprise. So right now, she’s probably counting down the minutes until all the waiting is over. Until it’s finally the two of us.

  And most of our high school.

  And my mother.

  Who still doesn’t know.

  The thing is, I’m trying. I’m really trying! Mom hasn’t stopped long enough to breathe, let alone have a heart-to-heart. Everything happened so fast after prom was officially back on that time just slipped from my grasp.

  But it’s fine. As soon as I’m dressed and the pictures are over, all that’s left is the drive to the school. Mom won’t be able to get away from me then. I have a semi-thought-out plan. First, I’ll turn down the radio. Not all the way, just low enough that she can hear me over it. But not so low that I have to fill the silence all by myself.

  Then I’ll hold her hand; she loves it when I do that. I think it reminds her that I’m still her baby, even if I’m not a little girl anymore. So yes, I’ll hold her hand and I’ll start by thanking her. For being my mom. For being funny—she used to be funny, before Dad left, and I know she could be again. For being a part of every big moment in my life, for celebrating them with me.

  For loving me.

  For loving me unconditionally.

  And then I’ll just say it. I’ll open my mouth, and I will—

  “Alyssa!” my mother calls through the door, rapping on it sharply. “What’s taking so long? Do you need help with the zipper?”

  I want to laugh, but I’m wound too tight. No matter how much I want to convince myself that this will all be okay, I know it won’t. Darkness creeps up inside me, and I want to tear off the dress, scrub the makeup off my face. I want to run. But that’s not going to happen, so I have to admit this, to myself, so I can move forward:

  My mom’s not going to pleasantly surprise me with her reaction. I know her. I know how this goes.

  At night, when I put my hands together and try to think of something to pray for that isn’t selfish, I ask for peace of mind for my mom. For acceptance. Or even tolerance. I sit with this huge secret, praying for divine intervention, because I know I haven’t misjudged her.

  She’s on a razor-thin edge with Dad leaving, yes, that’s going to blow up on her, sooner rather than later, yes, but I think—no, I know.

  Even if everything were perfect—if my dad had stayed, if Mom were still a housewife and stay-at-home mother instead of a junior deli clerk at the age of forty-eight, my being a lesbian still wouldn’t be okay with her. She doesn’t even have the vocabulary to understand who I am. In her world, in her mind, there’s gay and there’s normal.

  And that means, if I’m not straight, I’m not normal.

  I wasn’t there, exactly, when Emma’s parents kicked her out. Slightly before my time. But I’ve heard the story. She’s lain in her bed at Nan’s house, with her head in my lap, trying to find some meaning to it. Trying to figure out if her mom and dad actually loved her before, and somehow, she destroyed that by existing . . . or if they never loved her at all. Not really. Not unconditionally.

  My mother’s love has conditions. I already know the price of admission in the Greene house is perfection. Normal perfection.

  If mom kicks me out, I have nowhere to go. My grandparents are just as religious as Mom is, maybe even more so. They’re yard-sign people, handwritten harangues about whatever moral ills are in the news on any given day. Last June, they had one that said The rainbow is God’s promise, not Satan’s flag. They could have forty-seven extra rooms; there wouldn’t be one for me in their house. Not once they knew.

  That leaves my dad. My dad, who threw away the life that included me, and got as far from Edgewater as possible. The dad who doesn’t call, doesn’t write, doesn’t pay for my textbook rental or new sneakers. He has a new wife. He has a new baby. If I knocked on his door, what would he say? I bet it would be something like, “I’m so sorry, I thought I canceled my subscription to you.”

  Things are tight for Emma and Nan, so even if I thought they would take me in, I could never ask. It’s too much. Too big.

  Call me selfish; maybe I am selfish. But I’m selfish and afraid. I’ve done the research. Forty percent of homeless teens are queer. A quarter of queer kids get kicked out when they come out. It’s a long, long summer before college starts in the fall. I mean, at least I have a car. The title’s in my name. She can’t take that from me.

  Wow. That’s my silver lining. I have a car I can live in when my mother inevitably kicks me out.

  Because I know, in my heart, that Mom didn’t soften up about the gay issue and prom. She changed her mind because she didn’t want me to miss my prom. And, based on the increasingly desperate hammering on the bathroom door, I’m about to miss it anyway.

  My heart pounding, I step into the shoes Mom dyed to match my dress. I catch my breath, then sweep open the door. Somehow, I end up in a cloud of my mother’s hugs. I hold on for so long; I don’t want to let go. I know what happens next, and I want this moment—when she still loves me—to linger just a little longer.

  These are the arms that taught me to ride a bike, and comforted
me when I had nightmares. These are the arms that lifted me up when I fell, and pushed me toward things I wanted but wasn’t quite brave enough to grasp on my own. One last time, I gather my strength in her embrace.

  Mom pulls away, swiping at her eyes. “You’re the most beautiful girl in the world.”

  “Thank you, Mommy,” I say, barely keeping it together myself.

  “What a shame John Cho can’t see you like this. You deserve to have a date tonight.”

  Now. I have to do this now before I lose my courage again. I don’t want to . . . I can’t . . . God, prom is almost here, and I have to do this. The words taste like ash, and I force them out. “Mom, about that. I have to tell you something. “

  “Not now,” she says as she takes my wrist, sweeping me toward the front door. She grabs my clutch and forces it into my hand. There’s the slightest hint of annoyance in her voice, but it’s fond. “The first part of your surprise showed up early.”

  For a millisecond, my heart convinces me that she’s going to open the salon door and Emma will be standing there. But the thought flits away almost as quickly as it arrived. The cool evening air hits me, and I swear it hisses on my skin.

  The girl of my dreams isn’t standing there with flowers in her hands.

  Instead, waiting at the curb is a limo. A stretch SUV, as a matter of fact. Shelby and Kaylee pop out of the moon roof. Music pours out, and they throw up their arms and squeal when they see me. They’re already corsaged, and from the sounds of it, pre-gaming with a hit of secret schnapps.

  “Get in, loser, we’re going to prom!”

  “Mom,” I shout, “something’s going to happen tonight. You need to know—”

  “Don’t spoil this,” she says, catching my face in her hands. “I’ve worked very hard on this night, and I want to enjoy it, too. You’re going to have a wonderful prom, like a normal girl. I’ve made sure of that.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask, but it’s too late. She pushes me into the limo’s open door. I’m engulfed by a wave of heat and the funk of too much cologne on brand-new leather. It’s like being kidnapped by Abercrombie & Fitch.

  The door slams closed behind me, and the SUV takes off at top speed. What is happening? Why is this happening? I can’t even get settled as I strain to look out the back window. The last coherent thought I have as I watch my mother grow smaller and smaller in the distance is:

  I didn’t even get to tell her I loved her, one last time.

  15. On the Steps of the Palace

  EMMA

  As promised on prom night, there are flowers. And limos. And pictures.

  Oh my god, so many pictures that I’m seeing nothing but flashbulb leopard spots. Oh, and the occasional glimpse of the bouquet of tastefully selected orchids, lilies, and roses I clutch in my hands. Their rich perfume goes straight to my head, but that’s okay. Everything’s been happening so fast today that it’s good to have a chance to stop and literally smell the flowers.

  Barry sits next to me in the limo, handsome in his tux—it doesn’t change colors, I already asked. Next to Dee Dee, he’ll be the best-dressed chaperone in the whole county. She’s positioned herself closest to the window that separates us from the chauffeur. She talks so fast, he doesn’t manage to reply, but that’s okay. I think this is how Dee Dee flirts?

  Barry, on the other hand, has a quiet serenity to him tonight, which is a whole new side. Clutching the bouquet tighter in my sweaty hands, I ask him, “Nervous?”

  “Contemplative,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I swallowed an angry bag of snakes. But I’m going to make you proud.”

  “Sweetie.” Barry turns toward me. “This isn’t about me. This is about you, and I promise, you’re going to have the time of your life.”

  I can’t even say, I hope you’re right. Like, it catches in my throat. The bag of snakes gives a good, solid twist, and the only thing that comes out of me is a weird little squeak.

  Warmth pours from Barry when he asks, “What’s your date wearing?” He’s trying to distract me, and I’m going to let him.

  “I don’t know. Her mother bought it for her, but I haven’t seen it.”

  “What, no fashion show?”

  Poor, sweet Barry. He’s been out so long, he has no idea what it’s like to be in. I can’t even imagine that—going a whole day without checking myself. Without looking too long in the wrong direction, without cautiously measuring the things I say. I’m glad it’s far behind him, but it makes him seem just a little more out of reach. “I’ve never been to her house. Her mom doesn’t know about us, remember?”

  He shakes his head. “How long have you been together?”

  “A year and a half,” I say. “And before that, it was a year and a half of really clumsy, careful flirting. I knew I was crazy for her the day I met her. But I couldn’t just, you know, make a move.”

  “My heart!”

  “She’s coming out tonight,” I say, and I can’t believe I let the words out. I’ve been holding them so close to my heart, close enough to feel the shimmer of hope but too tightly to really let it grow.

  Alyssa’s been talking about coming out for a long time now, and there’s always a reason why it can’t happen. She says tonight, and I believe her. But I didn’t want to jinx it by saying it out loud. It feels like tempting fate, but it’s too late to worry about that, I guess.

  “That’s a big deal,” Barry says. “If I’d known, I would have baked a cake!”

  Instead of laughing, I choke on a sob. All the feelings I’ve been pushing down come up at once. Everything that’s happened in the last couple of weeks, it’s like getting hit by different trains, over and over. Joy and fear and hatred and hope and . . . I confess to Barry, “I’m so scared.”

  “Oh no, honey, we don’t cry on prom night. Hey. Come here.”

  He slides toward me and raises an arm. I slip beneath it and remember all the times I sat like this with my dad—before. When I was little, and still perfect in his eyes. We’d sneak and watch scary movies. When it got to be too much, I’d hide my face against his shoulder and he’d tell me when it was safe to look again. God, I miss my dad, and how can I miss him when he threw me away?

  “Talk to your auntie,” he says. “What are you scared of? An unfortunate selection of evolutionary dead ends?”

  That’s good. If I can remember it, I’m going to steal it. I glance up at him and say, “They all hate me. They don’t want me to be here tonight.”

  “Hey, look.” And he waits for me to look. I feel like there should be an orchestra warming up nearby, but he doesn’t burst into song. Instead, he chucks my chin and says, “You know what? I didn’t go to my own prom, because just like your mystery girlfriend, I was scared out of my Buster Browns.”

  I have no idea what those are, but I nod.

  “But you? You’re a queen. When you walk into that gym tonight, you know what your haters are going to see? The bravest person on the planet, and she’s going to look fabulous in blue.”

  “Or pink,” I say, trying to joke. “Or green. It is a Gregg Barnes original.”

  “You bet your bottom dollar it is. Emma, honey. You’re scared. Fine. Be scared. On the inside. On the outside, be the soft butch you were always meant to be. Life is not a dress rehearsal. You’re afraid they’re going to look at you? I say, Good! Look! Take it all in!”

  “I’m not sure—”

  Barry presses a finger to my lips. “Shhh. You wanted this. You fought for this. And you’re going to walk in there and make it clear that tonight belongs to you. This school belongs to you.”

  I start to shake my head, but then I realize: he’s right. I fought this fight. I won this battle. I could have walked away—I wanted to so many times. It would have been easier. Looking away is painful, but it’s easy. Absorbing hurt instead of pushing back against it—p
ainful, but easy.

  Right now, everybody at James Madison High knows my name. They know my power. Broadway literally came to Indiana to stand at my side. I’m not alone. And I’m about to have the night of my life.

  “You’re right,” I finally say.

  Barry fans himself with one hand. “My favorite words.”

  I barely have time to laugh before the limo stops. My snakes turn into butterflies—big, beautiful butterflies soaring and flying and defying gravity. Barry holds me back when I go to open the door. “Oh, girl, you have so much to learn.”

  Then, when the chauffeur opens the door for us, Dee Dee takes his hand and glides to her feet. She’s decked out in gold leopard print, from head to toe, and I think I just heard her purr.

  The chauffeur releases her and reaches back for my hand. I take it and haul myself onto the sidewalk as gracefully as I can manage. A breeze whips up my skirt, and I clutch it in a panic.

  Behind me, Barry . . . well, he slinks out of the limo. There’s no other word for it. He’s instant diva, and it’s a little disconcerting. He’s been so godmothery that it never occurred to me that he might flirt with someone. For real. After an over-appreciative look at the chauffeur, Barry says in a brand-new baritone, “Thank you, darling.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” the chauffeur says, and he looks back! He glances at Barry’s face, and then . . . Barry’s cummerbund. That was not a hallucination; he totally checked Barry out! The gaybies are blooming in Indiana!

  I’m pretty sure I hear Dee Dee mutter, “Bitch,” at Barry.

  In return, Barry cheerfully murmurs, “Harridan.”

  Maybe tomorrow, after the ball, I’ll ask Barry and Dee Dee if they’re actually friends. But that’s tomorrow, and I’m gazing in wonder at tonight. Balloons bob from the lampposts, and the lights flooding from the school seem enchanted. There’s a glow in the air; the clouds are low, and they reflect the golden brightness beneath them. The sky is like silk, washing in elegant swirls overhead. The air is cold and crisp. It’s like a sudden kiss in the dark, and boy howdy, in this dress, I feel it everywhere.