All this time, she’s been protecting me, and I didn’t even see it until now.
And then, she plays. The silent chords suddenly have voice, and she sings words that she said to me what seems like a million years ago.
I don’t want to start a riot
I don’t want to blaze a trail
I don’t want to be a symbol
Or cautionary tale
I don’t want to be a scapegoat
For people to oppose
What I want is simple
As far as wanting goes
To my shock, Shelby starts to sing along quietly, sniffling between lines.
I just want to dance with you
Let the whole world melt away
And dance with you
Who cares what other people say?
And when we’re through
No one can convince us we were wrong
All it takes is you and me
And a song.
When Emma stops singing, I can’t see her face anymore. Tears cloud my vision, and I can barely hear her voice over my own sobs. I wanted so badly to give her all of that, and I couldn’t. I failed.
I’m not the perfect student, I’m not the perfect daughter, and I’m definitely not the perfect girlfriend. I’m the worst person in the world, and—
“Do you hear that, Alyssa?” Shelby asks, squeezing me tighter. “She just wanted to dance with you.”
I try to say yes, but the only sound that comes out of my throat is a broken sob.
Shelby shakes me, then starts stroking my hair. “I’m really sorry we ruined that. We suck so hard.”
If Emma were here, she’d say something like That’s why Kevin likes you, but something like that would never leave my lips. If Emma were here, I would hold her and dance with her, right here in this hallway. If Emma were here, I’d . . . I don’t know. I’d make it up to her. I’d give anything to make it up to her somehow.
Still swaying with me, Shelby says, “I think it’s really nice that she wants to try to have an everybody prom next year. I’d totally help with decorations for that. I could sew banners and make a big rainbow arch for pictures and maybe little baby cupids with rainbow diapers . . . I love rainbows!”
“Rainbows are great,” I say numbly. Then Shelby fades to me; she’s there, but separated by a strange, internal distance.
In my thoughts, I’m alone. And there’s a ticking in my brain that feels like an idea. No, like a memory. Maybe both. Suddenly, so clearly, I hear Principal Hawkins reminding me, Don’t let perfect be the enemy of good.
“I have to go to the principal’s office,” I say.
“You’re not going to get in trouble,” Shelby swears, dragging me into the present. “Everybody’s on their phone; they can’t put the whole school in detention.”
“No,” I say, laughing incredulously. “I need to talk to him. I need to . . . You said you’d help set up and decorate, right?”
Confused, Shelby nods. “Um, yeah?”
“Can you get the rest of the squad on board?” I ask her. “And the basketball teams, too?”
Shelby blinks at me. “Probably . . . ?”
“All right, do that.” I peel out of her grip but grab her arms. “I have to go.”
And then I plant a kiss on her cheek and run. The halls are full of Emma’s song, echoing everywhere. Probably, certainly, there are people mocking it. But I see more people crying because of it. Touching their hearts and watching again.
Butcher paper posters on the wall flap as I run by, and when I burst into the front office, the secretary yelps and jumps a little. Her face is tear-streaked, too. I can’t see what’s on her monitor, but I can guess.
“I need to see Principal Hawkins,” I say.
“I can check and see if he’s busy—” she starts, but I ignore her and head straight there. Through the window, I see he’s on the phone, so I do knock first. But I also let myself in without waiting for an answer. Then, I lean back against the door to shut it and hold it closed. I’m not going to be dragged away by security or the school secretary.
Calmly, Principal Hawkins tells the person on the other line that he’ll call back, and he resets the receiver. With raised brows, he leans back in his chair and steeples his hands. “Miss Greene.”
“Principal Hawkins,” I say breathlessly. “Have you seen Emma’s new video?”
He nods once, slowly. “I have.”
“You let the PTA use the gym for free, right?”
“I do.”
Throwing my arms wide, I burst out, “I want to use it to throw another prom. Not just for Edgewater. For anybody who wants to come, for free.”
Surprise barely registers on Principal Hawkins’s face; instead, it rises, then falls to a more general kind of concern. “I think it’s a lovely idea, Miss Greene, but you know we don’t have the funds for something like that. The DJ, the food, the decorations . . .”
“The cheerleaders are already on board. They’re going to help put everything together,” I say, and I’m going to believe in my heart that it’s not a lie. “The guys on the team, too. And I think I have a pretty good idea where we might be able to get some funding. I just need you to say yes.”
Principal Hawkins rubs his palms together. “The PTA may still protest.”
“Fine,” I say. “Let them.”
“Your mother’s likely to take serious issue with this.”
Ugh, that hits me right in the chest. It’s a solid blow, but I’m not perfect. I’m going to stop trying for perfect. And that means standing up to my mother and making her understand that nothing we do is going to change Dad. He’s gone; he’s not coming back. It’s time Mom faced that. I steel myself and say, “Almost definitely she will, sir.”
Principal Hawkins considers me for a long moment. He seems a little older than he did at the start of the year. More gray in his hair, a few more lines in his face. It’s possible that his older and wiser self will say no. That he’s not going to continue to feed the promtroversy fire. The reporters have started to go home.
But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he rolls his chair under his desk. He pats a few piles of paper, then opens a drawer. His silence is torture as he fingers through file folders one by one. Finally, he produces one and smooths it open on his desk. Taking a single sheet from it, he picks up a pen and starts to write.
“Principal Hawkins?” I say softly.
“Alyssa Greene, student council,” he murmurs to himself, writing. Then he looks up at me. “And you’re reserving the gym for which date?”
Clapping a hand over my mouth, I barely contain my shriek.
We. Are. Doing. This!
23. Pride in the Name of Love
EMMA
I’m going back to school today, and I’m going to be seen.
First, I’m definitely seen by the news cameras camped in the cornfield across the road. There are orange cones and striped barriers holding them back, but they surge when I get out of Nan’s car. Kissing Nan on the cheek, I back out of the car and then turn as quickly as I can. I don’t want to stare into all those glass eyes and lose my nerve.
Hefting my backpack onto my shoulders, I stare at the front doors for a long moment. Deciding to give up fear is one thing. Actually doing it is . . . daunting. My throat’s all dry, and my chest is tight. I clutch the strap of my backpack and stiffen up my spine.
This place is just a pile of bricks—sure, full of people who thought it was clever to strangle a teddy bear in my honor, but it’s just a place. A place in my hometown, where I was born, where I’ve grown up. I belong here.
I pull out my phone and check Emma Sings one last time before heading unto the breach. The woozy, swirling sensation in my head reaches its peak when I see the stats. More than six million views. Six. Million. Views. I’m pre
tty sure that’s more people listening to my song than bought Kanye’s last album.
More important than the numbers are the people in the comments. So many strangers with stories like mine. They reach out across the distance, saying sorry, saying me too, saying I love you. Barry was right, we do get to make our own families, and mine is growing exponentially.
My family’s full of people from near and far, whose faces I’ve never seen but whose hearts I share. Who want to come to a prom that welcomes everybody. Who just want to dance with somebody, romantically and aromantically, and just be.
The biggest shock is that my new family has people from my school in it. From good old James Madison High in Edgewater, Indiana, cheering me on.
Shelby and Kevin both posted, weirdly enough (and the timestamps show them commenting within a minute of each other, so apparently this was a group activity), and so did some of the teachers. Even Principal Hawkins braved the electronic wilds to write, “I’m proud of you.”
I’m walking through these doors on my own, but I’m not alone.
I stuff my phone back into my pocket, take a deep breath, and jump. Well, push. Push the doors open into the Hall of Champions.
The trophy cases gleam, and the yearbook committee has a table set up in the middle. That weird industrial-slash-teenage-hormone smell washes over me. My body wants to turn and run. It’s got a little panic party going on in the limbs, urging me to go, go, go and never come back.
Instead, I walk forward. And as I melt into the morning crowds, the weirdest thing happens. People look at me and . . . say hi.
“Hi, Emma,” Breanna says, giving me a little wave. “I love your video!”
“Thanks,” I say, smiling in confusion.
Then confusion turns to wonder, because people keep on being nice. Like, guys from the basketball team say hi without snickering. Two cheerleaders wave poms at me when I pass, singing hiIIiiIiii like it’s a ritual greeting.
Out of nowhere, the president of Key Club falls into step with me. Key Club kids are the busy little volunteers who hold pancake breakfasts to raise money for needy families and volunteer to weed medians in town, that kind of thing. Last year, they repainted old people’s houses for free. I think, but I’m not sure, that they grow up to be Kiwanis Club members. Or they become Khaleesi, mothers of dragons. I’m not clear on that.
Anyway, I’ve seen this chick around, obviously, and I’m pretty sure her name is Dana Sklar. But we’ve literally never said two words to each other. Ever.
“Okay, you have to know,” Dana tells me, clutching her books to her chest, “that you are amazing. The kind of outreach you’re doing for LGBTQ teens online just melts my heart.”
For a second or maybe two, I wait for her to turn this into a punking. Surely that was the windup, and the punch line should be along any second. Annny time now. Slowly, I realize she’s not kidding. She really means it.
Incredulity turns to a little spark of happiness, and I say, “Thanks, that means a lot.”
“And if you want,” she goes on, pulling out her phone, “I have a bunch of stuff on fundraising and how to put together an event and stuff like that. I can email it to you, if you want?”
“That would be great,” I say, my face growing hot. Somehow, this conversation is a really real thing that I’m not hallucinating. It’s hard to get my head around it, but I have to admit that my video did this. I did this. “Thank you, really. Just, you can send it to enolan dot sings at gmail dot com.”
With quite possibly the swiftest thumb in the county, Dana puts my address into her phone and then nods at me. “Okay, great! I’ll get that to you. And if you ever want to come to a meeting or anything . . .”
Probably, I do not, but who knows? Maybe I do? After a few more pleasantries, Dana melts back into the general haze of people hanging out in the halls before classes start. I look down and realize my hands are shaking. I don’t know what that is—maybe adrenaline? Maybe terror? Maybe . . . excitement? All I know is that my stomach is full of weasels, and they’re chasing their tails at top speed.
When I turn down the hall where my locker is, I see something stuck to it. The weasels get drunk and start trashing the place as I approach.
Look, it can’t possibly be any worse than the bear, and the lotion, and the salad dressing. This is my school, too; I belong. I’m not going to use my locker, because I’m not stupid—but I’m going to walk past it. I’m going to look.
And when I do, I stop short and almost cry. Right there, in the hall, surrounded by people who slow down to look my way.
Someone has pasted a glittery rainbow, complete with clouds and a sun peeking out, at the top of my locker. And underneath it, there’s a long piece of butcher paper cut to look like a scroll. They even drew in the loops at the top and bottom.
On it, in calligraphy, someone wrote out the words to my song. Someone in this school sat and listened to my video long enough to get all the lyrics down. And then they scripted them in beautiful swirls on this faux parchment. Then they drew musical notes around them and dusted the whole thing with more glitter.
I cover my mouth with my hand, because I feel tears threatening. People are looking at me, so I manage to hold it in. But when I glance at them, they’re smiling. They’re here, in this moment, sharing it with me.
Subtly, I bite the tip of my thumb. Really hard. So hard that I’m like, What the hell, Emma? But I’m rewarded with a jolt of pain which means Yup, I’m awake. This is actually happening. Because I have no idea who did this, I mumble thanks at the people around me. Just anybody in thanking distance, you know?
Deep inside, I almost wish that somebody would walk by and call me a name. Because that? That would be normal. I expect that, not kindness. Not acceptance. It’s genuinely frightening to stand here and accept that maybe my song (and, okay, a tiny bit of Barry and Dee Dee’s shenanigans) might have really changed them. There’s no way it reached everybody; realistically, I know that. But, oh my god, it changed some.
This moment feels so fragile, and I feel so clumsy. But I hold it close to my heart. Carefully and gently. Opening up is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but slowly, I lift my head and stand there, feeling more myself than I ever have. When I look around, I meet everyone’s eyes. I am Emma Nolan, Hoosier, lesbian, and human being.
And I am proud.
24. Begin Again
ALYSSA
I hear their voices before I see them. I think people probably say that a lot about Mr. Glickman and Ms. Allen. Loud or not, I’m glad they accepted my invitation.
“I can’t believe we’re back in this place,” Ms. Allen says. “In my memoirs, I’m calling this chapter ‘Groundhog Day.’”
Mr. Glickman replies immediately. “I thought that was the title of the chapter about your husbands?”
Between their sniping, I hear a low voice of reason. That has to be Principal Hawkins, and I’m glad that he’s here. Not that he wouldn’t be, but Mr. Glickman and Ms. Allen make me nervous, and I’m kind of glad I’ve never been alone with them. Their hearts are in the right place; it’s all the flying jazz hands that scare me.
When they come into the gym, I wave from my carefully arranged table. There’s a laptop, a projector, a stack of handouts, and a diorama. The diorama was probably unnecessary, but I haven’t made one since seventh grade (Scene at Gallows Hill in Salem, 1692), and I’m kind of good at them.
“Hi, thank you for coming, hi!”
Next to me, the school’s ancient laptop starts humming. It had better not blow up before I finish my presentation; quickly, I say a silent prayer for technology. Then I smile as brightly as I can as the adults approach. Ms. Allen’s heels click on the hardwood floor in a way that I’m sure would send Coach Strickland into fits.
She’s wearing what seems to be one of a thousand pantsuits she owns, and I’m starting to really respect her dedication
to a look. This one has no sequins, but the red fabric is shot through with silver thread. The bottoms of her shoes are blood-red, too, and I marvel. Those are probably the only pair of Louboutins ever to grace Edgewater, Indiana.
Mr. Glickman is casual in a jacket and tie, and when he gets closer, I squint at the pattern on the tie. Little white outlines of hair—no, I get it. Wigs. Wigs of all shapes and sizes, arrayed in a graceful grid pattern.
They’re so out of place, it’s funny, and yet . . . it almost seems like this won’t be home anymore if they leave. I offer my hand when they approach. “Hi, I’m Alyssa Greene, the student council president. Thank you for coming. Thank you, thank you for coming, thank you, Principal Hawkins.”
As soon as I say my name, Mr. Glickman goes frosty. He looks at me down his nose and crosses his arms over his chest. Well, I guess somebody in the room knows that I’m the ex-girlfriend. That’s okay, pretty sure everyone is going to know in a couple of minutes.
I pass out copies of the agenda, and their eyes skim the page. Lots of white space, for easy skimming. Ms. Allen squawks about halfway down, but Principal Hawkins puts a (very familiar!) hand on her shoulder and says, “Please, hear her out.”
Picking up the clicker, I advance my PowerPoint to the first slide. It’s a still from Emma’s video, where she sings and shares her vision for a prom for everyone one day. “As of this morning, more than six million people have viewed Emma’s video about an inclusive, open prom.”
Mr. Glickman sniffs. “That video just kills me. It’s better than the one about the guy being reunited with the lion he raised from a cub.”
“Don’t bring that up,” Ms. Allen says, also sniffling. “I can’t even think about it.”
Exploding with emotion, Mr. Glickman waves at the screen with Emma’s face on it. His eyes glimmer with tears, and he fans his face. “She said she had a plan, and look at her. She’s so smart, that kid.”
I know if I don’t cut him off, it’ll be ages before I can finish my pitch. And I don’t have ages. Shelby and Kevin just showed up at the gym doors, and they’re slinking in to sit on the bleachers. Some of the Golden Weevils basketball team slide in, along with their cheerleader cohort, more of them than I expected, actually. (Notably absent? Kaylee and Nick.) Everyone else settles in, whispering.
The Prom Page 14
