The Prom

by Saundra Mitchell

  I can’t make out what they’re saying, but it’s not important. I raise my voice, and fortunately, it carries in a mostly empty gym. “She asked for one thing, and I think we can make it happen. Not next year, this year.”

  Power-clicking through my presentation, I go on, trying not to focus on Mr. Glickman’s and Ms. Allen’s faces. If I pay too much attention to their reactions, I won’t be able to get this all out.

  “As you know, the school has no budget for dances, and traditionally, funding has come from outside sources. Now, I have secured the school gym as the event site for free. I’ve even created a diorama to show the potential design of the dance. And I have a team of students prepared to help decorate. Shelby? Kevin?”

  They stand up and cheer and hoot from the bleachers.

  “What we’re missing, Ms. Allen, Mr. Glickman, is money. Now, I could host a GoFundMe and, with as many views as Emma’s getting on her video, probably get that money in time for a prom next fall. I’m not interested in next fall. I’m interested in this year, this place, two weeks from now.”

  Mr. Glickman shifts from ice to fire. He all but vibrates with excitement. “It’s Mickey and Judy time. We’ll build this prom with blood and hair if we have to.”

  “Wait,” Ms. Allen says. “According to this cute little line item, you’re looking for fifteen thousand dollars?”

  Even though I feel weak hearing the number aloud, I nod my head. “I’ve priced everything out. That’s a good DJ from Evansville, catering instead of homemade treats, decorations, a photographer, and souvenirs.”

  Mr. Glickman holds up a hand. “How much are we talking if we really do this up? No hay bales and a cutout cow. A real A-level, Tony Award–worthy prom?”

  This time, when I break into a smile, it’s genuine. I was hoping someone would ask. I hand them the second printout. “For everything I already mentioned, plus lighting, special effects, flowers, and professional decorations, thirty thousand dollars.”

  Ms. Allen swoons. “Jesus.”

  Without hesitating, Barry reaches into his front pocket and produces a wallet. He hands me a credit card, black, with obvious signs of wear around the edges.

  “There’s fifteen thousand dollars on there,” he says. “That’s my limit. It’s a long story, but I had to declare bankruptcy after my self-produced gritty reboot of Peter Pan.”

  Principal Hawkins blinks. “That’s a lot of money. You’re sure?”

  “Listen,” Barry says, raising his voice so the kids in the bleachers can hear as well. Not that they’re paying attention, but if they were, they’d be able to hear him. “We failed at the abstract singing and speechifying. This is concrete. This is buying. This is the American way.”

  Nodding slowly, Principal Hawkins produces his wallet. “It’s not much, but I can put down two thousand.”

  “Thank you,” I say, starting to get misty. This is going to happen. We already have enough for the hometown version of the prom, so it’s on, regardless. At that moment, all three of us—Mr. Glickman, Principal Hawkins, and I—look to Ms. Allen expectantly.

  Stiffening, Ms. Allen returns the looks. “What?” she says finally.

  “Dee Dee, come on.” Barry cozies up to her. “I know you have an AmEx with no limit.”

  Principal Hawkins gazes into Dee Dee’s eyes. “I know you have it in you. All our talks at Applebee’s? I know you want to do the right thing.”

  There have been talks at Applebee’s? Talks, plural? Apparently so, and when I look to Ms. Allen, I’m amazed.

  Her face, always so studied and perfect, suddenly softens. I’d never, ever tell her this, because I think it might break her heart, but for just a second, I get a glimpse of Ms. Allen the human being instead of Ms. Allen the star. Not that they’re not the same person—it’s just that one aspect gets all the spotlight, and the other? Not so much.

  The star reappears, and she reaches into her purse. She snaps a credit card out of the clutch like it was in a holster and hands it over. “God, why does being good cost so much money? Go on. Take it.”

  Right now, I feel like I could fly through the roof. It’s like fireworks and champagne bubbles. I feel like a comet streaking across the sky. There’s applause and cheering, but I am so effervescent, I barely hear it. What I do hear is my mother’s voice cutting through it all.

  “Alyssa Greene, what is the meaning of this?”

  Quickly, I advance the slide on my presentation. I padded the slideshow with some extra facts on the off chance they were reluctant to donate (cough—Ms. Allen—cough). At first, my voice catches in my throat. It’s terrifying, the look on my mother’s face. She sees the projection screen, the slide with a big pink PROM FOR EVERYONE on it. She sees the date, the time, and all the different pride flags underneath. And she sees me, standing beneath it, just like I planned. My mother can’t resist a PTA obligation, and I told her that’s exactly what this was to get her here.

  “Mrs. Greene,” Principal Hawkins says, but I cut him off.

  “I’ve got this,” I say, with more confidence than I feel. Taking a few steps toward her, I let go of my guilt—because I’m not a perfect daughter. I let go of my fear—because I can’t change who I am, and she’s going to find out sooner or later. And I let go of my responsibility—I’m the kid here. She’s the parent. It’s not my job to take care of her; she’s supposed to take care of me.

  “I certainly hope there’s an explanation,” Mom says, waving a hand furiously at the screen.

  Just past my mother, there’s a shadow in the doorway. I know that shape. I’d know it anywhere, and I’m so glad the note pulled her out of class at just the right time, because she deserves to see this. Standing up straight, I approach my mother and offer her my hand. She doesn’t take it, and it hurts, but I don’t let that stop me.

  “Mom, I love you. And I’m so grateful to you, for all you do for me. For all you’ve done for me since Dad left.”

  “Alyssa!” she whispers, scandalized.

  I’ve spoken it aloud, the truth we don’t discuss. But I go on. “And I know this is going to be another thing that’s hard on you. But, Mom, I’m gay. I’ve always been gay. And to answer the questions I know you want to ask, nobody did this to me. Nobody hurt me. You didn’t do anything wrong. This is who I am; I’m proud of who I am. You know everything about me, and it’s been so hard keeping this from you. Too hard. I can’t do it anymore. Mom, I’m gay.”

  Mom laughs, a sound that’s wound tight with anxiety. Her eyes dart around, taking in how many people are seeing this, how many are witnessing her humiliation. I see her fighting to keep it together. To look perfect, be perfect. She fights for a smile and whispers at me again. “Alyssa, that’s quite enough.”

  Shaking my head, I say, “No. I’ve put this off for way too long. And I’ve hurt someone so precious to me, in a way I can’t ever expect her to forgive. I was Emma Nolan’s date to the prom, Mom. We were supposed to go together, and I let her down.”

  Now my mother starts to cry. “Stop it. Just stop it. Alyssa, I’m sorry, but this is not who you really are. Whatever you’re feeling, it’s not real. You’re young and you’re confused.”

  “I’m not confused. I’m in love.”

  Mom stamps at the ground, jabbing an accusing finger at Mr. Glickman and Ms. Allen. “This is their fault. They’re putting ideas into your head, and they’re forcing me to be someone I don’t want to be. You are young, you are impressionable, and I’m sick of this. This ends now.”

  For the first time since my mother appeared, Mr. Glickman speaks. “If you don’t let her be who she is, you’re going to lose her.”

  “Excuse me?” my mother says, all acid.

  He steps closer and speaks, low and heartbroken. “I mean, she’ll go away to college, and she’ll forget to write. She’ll move to another state and send you cards on Mother’s Day. She’ll come
home for Christmas for a while, until she has to choose between the family she makes for herself and the family who won’t accept that. And soon, you’ll count the months between phone calls. The years between visits. Until one day, you’ll wonder how it is that your baby left and never came home.”

  “I don’t think—” my mother says tartly, but Mr. Glickman takes her hand.

  “Trust me, Mrs. Greene. I know.”

  The gym falls silent, except for some sniffling from the bleachers. I glance over, and Shelby has buried her face against Kevin’s chest. The cheerleaders clutch each other, and—well, the basketball players shuffle uncomfortably. There can only be so many miracles in one day.

  My mother looks at Mr. Glickman, then she turns to me. And there it is: the face I feared, the one where I can see every hurt and every wound she’s suffered in the last few years. The silver in her hair that tragedy put there, the lines on her face that I’ve caused. But instead of raising her voice, my mother pulls herself together and swipes her face dry.

  “This is not what I hoped for you,” she says. “This is going to make your life so much harder, in so many ways. And that’s the last thing I ever wanted. The reason I’ve been trying so hard to get your father to come back is so you can have the life you deserve. The world isn’t a forgiving place, Alyssa.”

  I tremble. “I know. But it doesn’t change who I am.”

  My mother clasps my face in her hands. They’re cool against my skin, but her eyes are warm. She searches my face, and she sighs.

  Every muscle in my body is stretched tight, ready to snap. Is this when she gives me up? Is this when I lose my mother for good? I stand so still, it hurts, trying desperately to read the thoughts behind her eyes.

  It takes her a moment to find her voice. And even then, she stares at the floor—trying, I think, to find the words. Finally, she slowly pronounces, “Alyssa, you’re my baby girl. My own gift from God. My most precious treasure.”

  I try to hold still, but inside, I’m squirming. I still can’t tell if this is a goodbye or a hello. “Mom . . .”

  She raises my face to hers. Her perfectly manicured nails brush against my temples, and she traces her thumbs against my cheeks. Then, finally, she leans in and she kisses my forehead.

  Her perfume washes over me, and a million memories flood through me: making cookies with her at Christmas; snuggling beneath a blanket and watching the first snowfall of the year; waking her up in the middle of the night because I had a nightmare and being wrapped so tight, so safely in her arms that all the fear just burned away.

  Right now, this moment, my fear burns away when she says, “I love you.”

  Clinging to her, I whisper, “I love you, too.”

  She hugs me, an impossibly short hug, and she steps away. Holding my gaze, she slips back and says sincerely, “We’ll talk tonight.”

  Then she turns and walks away. She holds her head high, and her heels click efficiently across the gym floor. Her posture is impeccable, and she sweeps one stray hair back into place with a graceful hand. There’s no wavering; she doesn’t look back. She knows she doesn’t have to. She said what she said. She loves me, and we’ll talk tonight.

  It hits me in a sudden wave. In a crashing of thunder. I wobble on unsteady legs, gathering my senses and my balance at the same time.

  My mom knows.

  The secret is out. No more lying, no more pretending. From here on out, when she looks at me, she’ll see who I really am. She doesn’t have the words yet, but she knows.

  And—somehow, improbably—she still loves me.

  25. Juliet in Converse

  EMMA

  Mrs. Greene walks past me in a cloud of brimstone and designer imposter Chanel No5.

  The last time I saw a back that straight, I was sitting in the doctor’s office, staring at the tiny anatomical model she keeps on the shelf. Mrs. Greene is really rocking the vertical thoracic spine right now. Suffice it to say, I don’t think I’m invited to the Greene family Thanksgiving.

  And all of that joking is a strong, heavy shield for the soft, vulnerable feelings I contain. The note from the office to send me to the gym was weird, but I got here in time to hear Alyssa come out to her mother in front of a screen glowing with the words PROM FOR EVERYONE.

  Barry and Dee Dee stand there with Principal Hawkins, and for some reason, most of the Golden Weevils are hanging out on the bleachers. This feels like a dream I once had, except I’m not naked, and the gym isn’t also the China Garden right off I-69.

  Wary, I walk inside. My boots sound so heavy, echoing low thunder as I approach Alyssa. Any minute, I expect laughter or jeers from the stands, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Alyssa walks toward me, her hands clasped together almost in prayer.

  I know we broke up, but that doesn’t mean my unruly heart stopped loving her. How could it?

  This is the girl who flirted with me at a church picnic. The girl who texted me pictures of otters in the middle of the night and whispered love in my ear. This is the girl who was brave enough to kiss me first, when I was still desperately trying to figure out if she liked me or if she liked me.

  There’s so much history written on our skin, so many firsts that will always belong to us alone. They were secret, and they were ours, and that doesn’t melt away in an instant. How could it? Something so real and monumental can only be abandoned. It doesn’t cease to exist.

  And that’s why my heart leaps up, full of strange optimism and hope, but I keep my shield close. Loving her so completely means that she can wound me with a single word. I have to protect myself, because her delicate hands still hold so much power.

  As proof, Alyssa stops a few feet in front of me, and her expression steals past my shield with ease. As soon as she’s close, I want to surrender. I want to throw myself into her arms and hold her again. The urge is so strong, I swear I feel her already—the warmth of her body and the silk of her skin.

  You can’t, I tell myself. Just don’t.

  Her dark eyes shine in the low light, and her tentative smile glows. I see her swallow nervously, her fingers squeezing together even tighter.

  “What is all of this?” I ask. According to Nan, she who talks first loses, but it doesn’t feel like anyone’s losing today. I know Alyssa knows what I mean, but I nod toward the screen, and the team, and the . . . diorama? Anyway.

  Stroking a long swirl of her dark hair behind her ear, Alyssa says, “It’s for you.”

  “I don’t get it,” I say, even though I kind of do. I want to hear her say it.

  “You asked for a prom where everyone was welcome, and it’s going to happen. We have funding, thanks to Principal Hawkins, Ms. Allen, and Mr. Glickman; and we have a committee ready to build it, thanks to Shelby and Kevin. There’s a date, and a time, and I hope you’ll help us get the word out.”

  It’s too much. Like, my brain is so full right now, it pounds against my skull. My closeted ex-girlfriend and a couple of misguided Broadway stars are bringing this to life? It was a small idea, one that I hoped would develop over time. Something that might eventually come together, something to look forward to.

  I didn’t think it would happen this quickly or that it would happen this way. And honestly, that’s all a way of saying that I didn’t think this would happen for me.

  My lips, the lips that have kissed Alyssa’s a thousand times, are numb. They barely move when I speak. “And your mother?”

  Alyssa nods. “It was time. I did it for me, but I wanted you to see. I thought you deserved that much.”

  It’s getting harder to stand so far from her. My feet take a step closer without my permission. “Are you okay?”

  Alyssa hesitates, like she’s taking some mental inventory before she answers. But then she smiles softly and nods. “Yeah, I am. I have a feeling I’m going to be explaining all the other letters in the rainbow a few thousand ti
mes over the next couple of weeks, but yeah. I’m . . . I’m really okay.”

  I feel like I’m whispering when I say, “I’m happy for you.”

  Suddenly, Alyssa sweeps forward and catches my hands. She curls her arms around mine and pulls me in close. Pressed against her, I swear I feel her heartbeat on my skin again, and it makes me sweat. She’s just a little bit shorter than I am, so when she leans in, her nose rests against mine, and her eyes look up into me. All the way through me.

  “I love you,” she says, her voice rough with emotion. “And I’m so sorry about before. None of this would have happened if I had just spoken up sooner.”

  Her apology makes something bloom inside me. Heat washes from my heart to all my ends and beginnings. I’ve wanted to hear and believe an apology since prom night, but she’s taking responsibility for too much. It’s just like her. Full of forgiveness, I’m also full of reason. Squeezing her hands, I shake my head. “I won’t let you take the blame for things you didn’t do, Alyssa. Just say, I’m sorry I stood you up.”

  “I’m sorry I stood you up,” she whispers, her breath warm on my lips.

  I take that and tuck it away, deep in my heart. And then it’s easy to say the words she deserves to hear, too. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you—and I’m sorry I pushed so hard. Everybody should get to come out in their own time and their own way.”

  Across the gym, Barry cries out, “And we’re sorry, too!”

  Alyssa and I laugh, turning to look at him. “For what?”

  “For using you,” Barry says, and Dee Dee nods. “We got blasted in the New York Times. They said we were narcissists, in big, bold font. And it hurt, I guess, because they were right.”