This is making me depressed. So I go back to counting more votes for senior superlatives. Ninety-nine for Alissa Thompson, Most Likely to Succeed. The whole thing kind of makes me want to throw up. Why do we feel the need to categorize ourselves — are we talking about the past, describing the present, or is it a forecast of the future?
Mel leans over and whispers to me, “You should ask Jason. Brian thinks he’d definitely say yes.”
“Jason? I don’t think so,” I say.
“Why not?” she asks, her voice rising a note.
“Because I don’t know him, and I would rather not,” I tell her. “Anyway, could you not scream it for everyone to hear? Come on, I’m going to lose count.” I don’t want to have this conversation again. I’m not asking Jason just because he’s Brian’s friend.
“Kate —” Mel’s annoyed now. “If you wait forever, everyone will already have a date.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I snort.
“That’s not what I meant. Ugh, you’re so difficult!”
“Whatever. Anyway, I don’t even know if I want to go. The prom is such a stupid cliché.”
“What do you mean you don’t know if you want to go?” she screeches. “Kate, not going to the prom is such a cliché. What’s with you?”
“I just don’t know if I want to go, that’s all.” I shake my head and keep tallying. One hundred and eight votes for Christine Clark, Most Artistic. No surprise there.
“Kate —” Mel takes a breath, pursing her lips in that I don’t know if she’s crazy or just trying to make me miserable way of hers. “You might really like Jason.”
“And maybe I won’t. Look, I’m fine. On my own. If someone asks me, great. Otherwise —”
“You mean if Dan Jacobs asks you,” Melody interrupts. “Katie —”
“Please, can we talk about something else?” I just can’t listen to her tell me that Dan Jacobs is never going to ask me to the prom, especially when she already has a date.
“Sure, whatever. I just wish you’d consider going with Jason. It won’t be half as much fun for me if you’re not there.” Mel shakes her head and pulls over the yearbook spread she is working on. “Anyway, what do you think of this layout?” she asks. End of subject … but only for now.
As soon as I get home from the yearbook meeting that night, the phone is already ringing. I’m sure Mel wants to go back over all the details of Brian’s proposal. I ignore the call, and help my mom make dinner instead.
“Who was that on the phone?” Mom asks.
“I think it was Mel … Brian asked her to the prom today.”
“Oh, that’s so nice. When are you going to get a date, Katie?”
“Mo-om! Why can’t I tell you this without you bugging me? I’ll get a date when someone asks me.”
“If you just wait around, Katie, you’ll end up sitting at home, alone. And then you’ll regret it the rest of your life, like I do.”
My mother brings up the prom on pretty much a nightly basis. She never went to her prom, and she still regrets it. Every weekend for the past two months, she’s asked me if she could take me to the mall to shop for a dress. I keep reminding her that no one has asked me yet. But it’s like talking back to the television set, so we’re going to the mall on Sunday. I can’t wait.
I excuse myself and go back to my room to work on my newest song.
If I wear pink lipstick
and curl my hair,
will you see me?
If I wear this pink prom dress
and powder my nose
will you hear me?
In this I find my voice.
At school the next day Melody finds me by my locker and asks where I was — why didn’t I answer the phone?
“I must have been in the shower,” I tell her, pulling out my books and slamming the locker shut.
My calculus notebook lies open on my desk. Formulas and equations are scrawled wildly across the page, framed by flower doodles, mindless scribbles, and snatches of verse. Mr. Cassian is giving a quiz next period, but I can’t focus. The girls in front of me are whispering across the aisle to each other. Study hall is rarely used for studying.
Stacy sits directly in front of me, Tara to Stacy’s right. Stacy and Tara are both in the Chic Clique. They don’t know that chic is pronounced sheek. They say chick clique. No one has ever corrected them.
“I mean, he’s the sweetest guy in the world, but he’s positively clueless when it comes to colors! I’m sure he’ll show up with red roses, but my dress is lavender!” Stacy whisper-wails plaintively.
“I know!” Tara whines softly, her voice dripping with sympathy. “Josh is, like, totally hopeless. He’ll probably bring me spray roses.”
“Eew.” Stacy wrinkles her perfect pug nose, and the girls giggle.
A debate ensues: plum or rose-colored lip gloss? Hair up or down? Or both? False eyelashes or brown mascara? Liquid eyeliner or pencil? It makes my head swim.
I bet these girls have had dates for the prom since they were in their mothers’ wombs. I’m pretty sure it’s never crossed either of their minds to worry about not being asked. I just close my notebook, close my eyes, and wait for the bell to ring. I’ll take my chances in calculus. Maybe Dan will notice me today.
The calculus quiz isn’t too hard. I’ll probably get a B. Once it’s done, I quickly lean over to pull out my notebook from under my desk, so I can pretend to take notes while Mr. Cassian lectures. Before I can stop it, my pencil rolls off my desk and comes to a neat stop right next to Dan’s soccer shoe.
Oh my gosh. What do I do?
Dan leans over and brushes at the pencil with his fingertips. It rolls a bit farther, then he grabs it. As he straightens and moves to hand the pencil to me, he smiles, his green eyes lighting into my own.
I feel my eyes widening and then a warm blush snaking its way up my neck and over my cheeks.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“No problem,” he mouths.
I can’t believe it. I can’t believe it. Dan Jacobs does know I’m alive. He was forced to acknowledge it right here. Today. Here in this very mustard-yellow-painted calculus classroom.
Maybe he’ll ask me to prom… .
“Did you hear?” Mel blabs embarrassingly loudly as soon as I see her in the halls. “Dan Jacobs asked Anne Croft to go to the prom!”
“What?” I can feel all the color drop from my face. I’ve been so busy replaying the pencil-returning incident that I think maybe I’ve missed what Mel just said.
“Katie, what’s wrong with you? Dan Jacobs asked Anne Croft to go to the prom with him! So now will you ask Jason?”
All I can do is stare at her.
“Oh, Katie, come on. I know you have this big crush on Dan, but you’ve never even spoken to the boy. Did you really think …” Her voice trails off. I can feel her shock setting in. She’s watching me and marveling at how pathetic I am. “Kate … I’m sorry,” she says.
“It’s okay.” I sigh. “I’m just … never mind. I’m fine.” The pencil exchange is private; it’s mine. “I don’t think I’m ready to ask Jason yet, okay?” I feel my eyes wander over to Jason Kemp. He was new to the school this year. I don’t have any classes with him, so I’ve never really gotten to know him. I’ve never even spoken to him.
Could he like me?
Why doesn’t he ask me himself?
Why do things have to be so complicated?
It’s Sunday morning. The prom is four days away. My mom is waiting downstairs for me, the car engine running. It’s PD Day — Prom Dress Day at the Weatherbrook Mall. When we arrive at the first of the two dress stores in town, my mom strides up to the clerk and says proudly, “My daughter needs a prom dress!”
She announces it like she’s declaring peace in the Middle East. I want to die. Suddenly
I’m in the center of a maelstrom of puffy dresses. Blue sequins, gold taffeta, red satin, Pepto-Bismol tulle. Ugh, it’s too much!
“Mom, I think I’m done,” I tell her, wiping my hand across my brow.
“What do you mean? You’ve only tried on four dresses. Here, try this one on.” She thrusts a soft pink blush — dusty rose, Stacy Clark would probably call it — slip dress toward me. I finger the material; it slides through my hand like a whisper.
“Okay, I’ll try this one on,” I answer. “But that’s it. Then I’m out of here.”
As I pull on the dress, feeling it glide over my body, brushing my skin so lightly, suddenly I know what it means to want to look perfect.
“It’s gorgeous,” my mother breathes.
As I twirl in front of the mirror, I have to admit, I agree. It’s stunning and totally me. Or the me I wish I were.
It’s the day of the prom, and I don’t have a date. I have shoes, a dress, even a handbag and a hairstyle picked out. But no date. And you’d better believe there’s no chance I’m going stag. My mother seems to have convinced herself that I have a date. Even though I’ve told her no such thing. And every chance Melody has had this week, she’s hissed that it’s not too late to ask Jason.
Why doesn’t he ask me? I keep wanting to growl. Doesn’t he know that I have a beautiful dress and it’s just waiting for him to ask?
Seniors don’t have school today, because, even if we did, the girls would cut anyway so they could spend the day getting ready for prom. My mom made an appointment for me at her hair salon. I can’t seem to get the words out of my mouth, I don’t have a date, Mom. Rather, I let her lead me around like a show dog and try not to think about what will happen tonight when she realizes that I have nowhere to go.
As I sit under the stylist’s deft fingers, letting her poke hairpins into the giant updo she convinced me I had to have, I thumb through our local paper. In the entertainment section, a listing catches my eye. Open mic night at the Red Beret, Weatherbrook’s idea of a French café, starting at seven. I sigh — an actual full-fledged, romance-novel sigh — and look up at the mirror. I feel ridiculous. Who has their hair swept up into a cascading beehive when they don’t have a date?
That night, my mom helps me get into my beautiful pink dress without mussing my hair. She tells me to look down and gently applies my eyeliner and watches as I brush on some mascara. Her eyes blink back tears, and she smiles at me. She takes some pictures — two rolls, actually — then drives me over to Melody’s house. As her car pulls up to the curb, I lean over, kiss her on the cheek, and get out. I begin walking up the path to Mel’s front door but stop halfway and wait for my mom’s car to pull away. Then I pick up the hem of my dress and hightail it back the way we came.
Running in pointy-toed high heels is not easy, but adrenaline is pumping and pushing me on. I’ve never done anything like this before.
When I get back home, my mother safely picking up dinner on the way home, I race around to the side of the house and pull out the guitar case I’d hidden beneath our blue spruce tree. I open it to make sure the overflowing folder stuffed with scraps of paper is still there. It was hard leaving this stuff outside in the open.
I replace the folder, sling the guitar case over my shoulder, and start walking.
White limousines seem to fill the streets tonight. Boys in tuxedos are standing up through the sun roofs, the wind blowing their hair, drowning their shouts. Girls giggle and scream from inside the cars. All the flowers in all the gardens are in bloom, and the air smells like one giant, universal corsage. In my pink dress, I feel like a petal of one of its roses.
This feels right.
Finally, I make my way into the dimly lit café. The Red Beret is only half full. I fall into a chair at an empty table, beads of sweat lining up on my forehead, on top of my lip. My heart starts to race. This is it. It’s time.
When the first call for singers goes out, I find myself marching up the aisle to the spotlit stage. As I hang the guitar strap over my shoulder and begin to sing my first song, I hear my voice come out shaky. I look up and feel my eyes lock with — can it be? — Jason Kemp’s. He smiles at me and nods, as though he’s willing me to go on.
He sees me. Hears me.
What good is lipstick when
I’m not talking to you?
And I won’t curl my hair for you,
Because I’ve got the Pink
Prom Dress Blues...
Only I don’t feel so blue any longer.
Prom for Fat Girls
by Rachel Cohn
High school proms are all alike; every unhappy couple is unhappy in its own way.
The prom queen, Cherie, hadn’t eaten for three days; damn if she wasn’t going to show off a Scarlett O’Hara waist on her big night. She looked fabulous, it was true — except for the snarl that appeared on her lips every time she smiled for a camera and a flashbulb light transmitted hunger pangs to her stomach. Cherie couldn’t wait to ditch Anthony, college boy (Delta Tau Delta) and February’s CosmoGirl! Hot Zone Hunk pick, whose father made him take the bitch queen to prom because her dad was his dad’s boss. After prom, Anthony would have to find another girl if he was on the hunt for sexual favors — Cherie planned a jaunt straight to In-N-Out for a double order of double cheeseburgers, thank you. Alex, the salutatorian, would be thanking his cousin Judy for agreeing to be his last-minute date; no girl would accept his invitation after that giant cold sore sprung on his lower lip. The respective presidents of the Spanish and Latin clubs, Nathaniel and Daryn, planned to celebrate the end of senior year and the culmination of prom by consummating their love. They’d sprung for a room at the Sheraton, executive level, naturally. Then Daryn discovered Nathan in a tryst with Darren (debate club captain) behind the giant so long, farewell photo banner. Qui tacet consentit. Damn right that silence implies consent, therefore Daryn had no choice but to tell Darren’s date, Chad, the prom king, and now Chad wasn’t speaking to Darren, either. So much for Chad and Darren’s royal plans in the next room over at the Sheraton later that night.
The L-Name Club, of course, had boycotted prom. They’d also tried to boycott the school administration when it had demanded they change their club’s name from the Fat Girl Club to the L-Name Club, but Lindsay, Lydia, and Liesel had wanted approval for their club’s charter too much to get hung up over a silly name. Lindsay, Lydia, and Liesel weren’t sellouts — there were college applications to consider, and forming your own club and writing a charter counted for something. Also, technically, Leander was not a girl, and though he’d wanted membership in their club, he hadn’t been wedded to the original name choice. He was a fat boy, and while sociologically speaking, all members of the club recognized that a fat male was not generally considered an object of prom date nondesirability among the high school population, a fat gay boy totally was. So Leander was totally in.
Louella, strangely, was also in — that is, into prom. A fat girl who had infiltrated enemy camp, Louella (her real name forgotten sometime around homecoming dance junior year, when her amazing knack for harmful dissemination of gossip had won her admission outside of fat girl ranks and inside cheerleader territory) had dared to ask Aloysius “Scoop” Kwiatkowski, editor of the school newspaper, to be her prom date, and he’d dared to say yes. He might have said no if he’d known Louella would spend most of the prom relaying the night’s events via cell phone back to the absent L-Name Club members hanging out in Liesel’s basement.
Nobody knew what the deal was with Louella leaving prom so suddenly after Scoop’s hands strayed too far down her back during “How Do I Live.” (LeAnn Rimes version — who’d bother feeling up to the Trisha Yearwood version? Please.) What was that tantrum about? Wasn’t it supposed to be a fat girl’s secret dream — to get some play on her extended boo-tay? Whatever had happened between Louella and Scoop that had resulted in Louella suddenly smacki
ng Scoop’s cheek (face) right under the disco ball and then storming out of the ballroom, the promgoers left standing on the dance floor knew nonetheless that universal truth: There is no party better than a fat girl party.
Fuck the Sheraton. Follow Louella.
And so the L-Name Club, who had been riding out prom with a dazzling selection of party morsels that included bowls of M&M’s and popcorn (mixed — so way better than Chex Party Mix), trays of Hostess and Little Debbie snack cakes (not mixed — the L-Name Club members were plump, not gross!), and Absolut absolutely! to chase down their Cokes, found their night’s film festival (pre-1990 John Cusack; notable exception: High Fidelity) come to an abruptly premature end. They’d only just finished One Crazy Summer (one crazy mistake) and started Tapeheads (frickin’ classic) when Chad, the prom king himself, burst into the basement and postured himself in front of the TV screen.
What. the. fuck.
“Dude, don’t be messing with Cusack,” Lydia said.
“You can’t believe what Darren did …” Chad gasped.
“Yeah, with Nathaniel,” Leander said. Beautiful thin boys. So caught up in their beauty, they couldn’t see what was right in front of them. “We heard all about it. Louella hotline. Like you didn’t see that one coming?”
No one had noticed Cherie coming into the basement. Light as a feather, that girl. Happy now, too — satiated on cheeseburgers. “Oooh, M&M’s mix,” she said, plopping herself onto the leather couch next to Lindsay.
Lindsay saw a musical emergency in the making. Fuck Cusack. This situation required the Godfather of Soul, James Brown. Lindsay pressed two remotes: TV off, stereo on. Owwww, I got soul …