“Like, I’m me now,” he went on, “but I’m also me on this big hike my dad and I took when I was ten, and I’m also me the first day of school freshman year. And I’m me in the future. It’s like one of those wooden dolls. With all those smaller dolls inside.” He blinked up at the sky. “Even when I’m surprised by how things turn out, deep down I’m never surprised, you know? Because it’s all already there, and none of it disappears.”
Elsie knew, and she didn’t know. The boat drifted. She noticed the sky was a shade lighter than it had been.
“Have you ever stayed up for the morning?” Ben looked at her under heavy lids.
Elsie thought back to a weekend in Ocean City with her parents as a kid. Doing this was like picking up dragon scales: iridescent and ancient and not quite real. She remembered the orange tip of the sun rising over the sea. She remembered her dad’s arms around her waist. She remembered being disappointed. She’d been expecting fireworks and all she got was a flat orange circle. Maybe she was the opposite of Ben. Maybe she was always surprised.
She started to say it to him, but his mouth hung open, asleep. Elsie yawned, then steadied the boat as she moved down on the other side of Chicken — beside him, still unwilling to touch him, but maybe just by the shoulder, just by the waist. Only like a friend. Like the word only applied to the word friend. She wanted to make it up to him, all her secret thoughts.
She had the momentary idea that if they floated for a few hours, just over to the other side of the bay, they would be in another country. Like France. Or Morocco. Or Japan. And, since they would only be strangers there, she would peel off her layers like heavy coats and be as naked as some people could be.
The Backup Date
by Leslie Margolis
“Lucy’s behavior makes perfect sense, if you think about it. Since she can’t use words, the only way she can communicate with you is by throwing up on your prom dress. Poor Lucy is trying to tell you something.”
“That I shouldn’t go to the prom?” I asked, somewhat hysterically.
“No, Jasmine.” Dr. Kessler, Lucy’s therapist, spoke in sweet, soothing tones — the kind that made me want to rip out her tonsils, and I am not even a violent person. “She’s telling you she’s stressed. She doesn’t like these changes in her life, and she wishes you’d stick to her regular routine.”
“Her regular routine involves shopping at Barney’s, getting bows put in her hair, and sitting on my stepmother’s lap while she gets pedicures at the Burke Williams Spa. That’s not normal. All I wanted was for Lucy to have some fun.”
“By taking her to the Laurel Canyon Dog Park, which is filled with animals ten times her size?”
“Look, how was I supposed to know they’d mistake Lucy for a chew toy? It wasn’t my fault, and I got her away as quickly as I could.”
“But not before that nasty English bulldog with a Napoleon complex ripped her favorite sweater.”
I was dying to know how Dr. Kessler knew it was an English bulldog that attacked Lucy. And could a dog even have a Napoleon complex? I couldn’t bring myself to ask.
“Lucy doesn’t have a favorite sweater,” I said. “Lucy is a dog.”
“You shouldn’t discriminate against small mammals, Jasmine. Lucy may not understand what you’re saying but she certainly understands your implicit negative feelings toward her. She’s acting out. Anyone would under these hostile circumstances.”
“Look,” I said, “I’m only the dog-sitter. This isn’t my problem. My stepmom said to call you if there’s an emergency. Lucy is a drooling, vomiting, trembling wreck, and I’m being picked up for the prom in two hours, so obviously, this is an emergency. I can’t take Lucy with me and you’re telling me I can’t leave her home alone in this state, so will you please take her for the night?”
Dr. Kessler frowned. “I am a pet therapist, who specializes in communicating with hypoallergenic lapdogs residing in the West Los Angeles area. Boarding dogs is not what I do.”
She handed me a card listing her services, in case I didn’t believe her. It was pink with tiny paw prints in each corner. She was right. Boarding dogs wasn’t on the list, but dog massage therapy, acupuncture, and reflexology were.
I tried pleading with her. “Can’t you make an exception?”
“It’s not healthy for Lucy to be out of her regular environment.”
“Trust me. Right now, it’s not healthy for Lucy to stay anywhere within kicking range of me.”
Dr. Kessler recoiled, scooped Lucy into her arms, and headed out the door.
“Lucy’s mother will be hearing about this. When does she return?”
“You mean Martha, Lucy’s owner?” I asked. “In two days.”
Lucy and Dr. Kessler left without saying good-bye. I was proud of myself for closing rather than slamming the front door behind them.
I would like to state for the record that I have never, ever kicked a dog or any other animal, small or large. Furthermore, although Lucy walks on four legs and has a tail, I am not fully convinced she is actually a living, breathing creature. It would make much more sense if she turned out to be some high-functioning windup toy designed for the sole purpose of annoying the crap out of me.
But don’t worry. I don’t kick windup toys, either.
Lucy belongs to Martha, my dad’s fifth wife. She’s a hypoallergenic cross between a toy poodle and a bichon frise. The dog, that is. My stepmom, Martha, is a hypochondriac cross between a trophy wife and a stylist to the star. She used to be a stylist to the stars but her second client dropped her.
Fortunately, the three of us (Martha, her star, and me) all wear the same dress size.
I headed for Martha’s closet, which used to be the master bedroom, in search of a replacement outfit.
It’s a good thing I didn’t care about tonight. Otherwise, I might be upset that Lucy had ruined my dress.
But I understood the institution of prom for what it was: an artificial rite of passage that society has foisted upon innocent young people, to initiate them into a lifetime of loyal consumerhood. Between the dress, tux, shoes, hair, flowers, tickets, and limo, the average prom couple spends about a thousand bucks on the night. Then there’s the prom committee, a bunch of misguided people who sacrifice precious hours of their lives decorating some stupid ballroom, as if anyone else cared. And don’t even get me started on the whole prom court thing. It’s so hypocritical, choosing a prom king and queen, and thereby celebrating rule by divine right, when we live in a democracy. I was shocked that so many otherwise intelligent-seeming people buy into the same bullshit, year after year after year.
And while it might seem as if I were buying into it as well, by going to the prom, I was actually only participating out of loyalty to my boyfriend, Austin Cooper. For some reason, he actually cared about that sort of thing.
I didn’t, which is why I only spent three weeks shopping for my dress — a black-and-red sequined tank, which I’d planned to wear with combat boots. It’s basically the anti-prom outfit. I would never, ever let myself become a walking cliché — one of those girls teetering on uncomfortable heels and squeezed into a wannabe-princess dress. You know the kind — all tight-bodiced, and strapless, and long, puffy-skirted.
It’s silly how all that meaningless fluff can bring people joy. The only reason that I was happy about prom was because my entire family was in France, with no idea that I planned to go. And when I say “my entire family,” I actually mean “my older brother, Jett,” because he was the only one who would care.
My boyfriend happens to be his best friend. They’re both seniors and I’m a freshman and if Jett had known that we’d been dating behind his back for two whole months, he would have freaked. It was okay, though. I didn’t mind keeping it a secret. All that mattered was that Austin and I were finally together. I’d had a crush on him for years, since before I even knew what a c
rush was.
He was at our house all the time and it used to be that I’d think up any excuse to spend time with him: Austin, will you help me study for my math test? Austin, I just rented Star Wars. Do you want to watch it with me? Austin, I just hung this signed framed poster of Pavement above my bed. Will you come and see if it looks crooked? Oh, you love Pavement, too? I had no idea… .
About six months ago, Austin began throwing out excuses to hang with me: Jasmine, do you need help studying for your math test? Jasmine, Jett is going out tonight and I didn’t realize and brought over Say Anything. Do you want to watch it with me? Jasmine, they gave me an extra Ultimo Burrito at Baja Fresh. Do you want it? Oh, you love Ultimo Burritos with savory pork carnitas, too? I had no idea… .
And the rest was history. Sometimes I felt like dating Austin propelled me to a higher stratosphere. Music sounded better, and colors seemed brighter, and we were going to the Bel Air Prep Senior Prom.
I mean we had to go to the prom. It was his idea, completely.
Well, he didn’t ask me, exactly, but I knew he wanted to go and was just too shy to say so, which is why I invited him, and bought the tickets, and ordered my corsage and his boutonniere, and scheduled the limo.
It was a big inconvenience, although it could have been worse. Luckily I am NOT one of those girls who stresses about her appearance. I probably would have gotten a manicure and pedicure that morning, anyway. And as for having my hair blown out all slick and shiny and then twisted into an updo, with the ends curled, like that girl on the front cover of CosmoGirl Prom!? Well, I was just wondering what it would look like. It’s not like I got my hair done for the prom.
Seriously. The only reason I was feeling giddy that night was because with my brother out of the country, Austin and I didn’t have to sneak around. Jett got kicked out of our school three years ago. The only person he associated with there (besides Austin and me) is Lubna, his on-again/off-again girlfriend.
Lubna knew the truth but was sworn to secrecy. In fact, we were double-dating. (With Jett in France, Lubna was stuck taking her cousin, Adeel, but at least no one else knew they were related. She told everyone that she dumped my brother for a college guy who was flying down from Berkeley for the weekend.)
Anyway, Lubna was lucky that Jett was away because she was much too good for him. Basically, Lubna was everything that Jett was not: smart, sweet, thoughtful, and not inclined to set off bottle rockets on the school football field or streak naked across the stage during a U2 concert.
But back to my dress — before I could decide what was less typical prom-y, the black halter top with a knee-length flared skirt, or this long, turquoise, off-the-shoulder number, my cell phone sang from my back pocket.
It was Lubna. “Almost ready?” she asked.
“Not quite.”
I launched into the backstory to explain why I was currently shopping in Martha’s closet, but before I had a chance to ask her about dogs and Napoleon complexes, Lubna interrupted with, “Listen. I need to tell you something. Jett is on his way home.”
“Very funny.” It was a classic Lubna joke, and I wasn’t falling for it.
“No, really. He called me from the airport. His plane just landed in LA.”
She sounded serious. I felt a nervous fluttering in my stomach. “But they aren’t supposed to be home for two more days.”
“Something happened in France. Jett won’t say what, but he’ll be home any minute.”
“He can’t come here. You have to stall him. Please, Lubna. This can’t happen tonight.”
“Okay, don’t hate me.”
“Why would I hate you?” I asked carefully.
“You know how Adeel and I were both dreading going to the prom together? And how he only agreed to be my date because his parents made him? And honestly, I think my uncle actually paid him, too. Well, I was thinking, now that Jett is in town, since he is my boyfriend …”
“Ex-boyfriend.”
“Actually, we got back together a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be mad. Anyway, Jett owns his own tux, so it only makes sense —”
“You can’t invite him. Listen to me, Lubna. This cannot happen.”
“It’s too late. But I knew you’d understand.”
I slunk down onto the floor. “How could you do this to me?”
“It’s my senior prom. And don’t worry. I’ve already got you covered. I told Jett that Austin was supposed to go to the prom with Jenna, but she got mono at the last minute, and you’re filling in.”
“You made me a backup date? I’m, like, second-string.”
“But, Jasmine. You’re only going because Austin wants to. You hate proms.”
“I know. It’s just, what happens when Jett sees Jenna there?”
“It’ll be dark, so maybe he won’t notice, and if he does, don’t worry. He’ll probably be too drunk to remember. Now relax. Oh, and you’d better call Austin to warn him. See you at eight.”
“Wait!”
Lubna hung up on me.
Somehow, I managed to peel myself off the floor and turn back to the dresses.
I was so lucky that I didn’t care about the prom, because if I had, I would have been crying. The only reason my eyes were tearing up was because I had really bad allergies.
Twenty minutes later, my family came home. Well, Martha and Jett did. My dad went straight to the office from the airport. No one would tell me what happened in France or why Jett had a black eye — only that it had something to do with a jealous investment banker and his girlfriend, and that the incident messed up a big deal for my dad. (He was in France for work. The trip was a graduation gift for my brother and I am not surprised that he found a way to ruin it for everyone.)
Just like he was going to ruin my prom. Austin’s prom, I mean.
“I hear you’re filling in for Jenna,” Jett said as he walked in the door, with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and a mischievous grin on his face. “I can’t believe Austin couldn’t find a real date. I can’t wait to give him shit about that!”
“The limo is coming at eight o’clock,” I said. “And you’d better be ready because tonight is really important for Lubna and Austin.”
“Where’s my dog?” Martha wondered.
I told her the whole story and she was surprisingly understanding. Maybe she was still sedated from the flight. She even helped me pick out a new dress before she fetched Lucy from Dr. Kessler’s.
It was floor length, emerald green, and gorgeous. (If you’re into that kind of thing.) It had a few layers of crinoline under the skirt, so it was puffy, but luckily the tight, beaded bodice wasn’t strapless. It had spaghetti straps, which meant it wasn’t at all princesslike. Since my combat boots didn’t go with the new dress, Martha lent me a pair of stilettos. They were only half a size too small.
The florist refused to change my corsage, regardless of how much I begged, so I was stuck wearing a red one. Austin’s bow tie and cummerbund were also red, so standing next to each other we were completely mismatched, like Christmas in May. I felt so bad for Austin, because now the pictures wouldn’t coordinate. He was sweet about it, though, and pretended like he didn’t care.
The limo was twenty minutes late. We got stuck in traffic and I hated that we were going to miss the beginning of the prom, because Lubna was all dressed up and excited.
When we passed In-N-Out on Wilshire, Jett said, “Let’s stop for burgers.”
“We can’t. They’re serving dinner at the prom,” I argued.
“It’ll be rubber chicken and stringy beef,” Austin said. “Your brother is right. We’re better off here.”
I turned to Lubna. “You don’t want to eat greasy burgers, do you? What if you spill something on your dress?”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” said Lubna. “And the food at the prom will be
gross.” She leaned forward and asked our driver to stop.
Poor Lubna! She was such a great sport, pretending like she didn’t mind.
We ordered takeout. Before we headed back to the car, Jett poured out half of each of our sodas and filled them with the rum he’d swiped from Dad and Martha’s liquor cabinet.
As we piled back into the limo, my hand brushed against Austin’s leg. It was torture not being able to curl up in his lap. Too bad I wasn’t drunk, because if I was, I’d have a great excuse to jump his bones. Jett always said that drunken hookups are meaningless. At least, that was the line he fed Lubna this one time she caught him making out with another girl at the Roxy.
I’ve never actually been drunk, and there was no way I’d let myself do so tonight. Getting drunk before the prom was the ultimate prom cliché.
But then something occurred to me. I could drink a little and just pretend to be drunk, and then hook up with Austin and blame it on the alcohol.
Sometimes I was so brilliant I surprised even myself.
After wolfing down my cheeseburger and fries (and half of Lubna’s double double), I drained my Dr. Pepper and rum. Then I finished Austin’s root beer and rum.
I pointed to Jett’s soda, asking, “Are you going to finish that?”
He frowned at me. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” he asked.
“Let her have it if she wants it,” Lubna said.
Austin agreed. “Yeah, Jett. Stop being so overprotective.”
Jett leaned over me and shoved Austin. “Dude, just because my sister agreed to be your backup date doesn’t mean you have to be nice to her.”
I screamed, “Careful of my dress, you asshole!” because he came so close to spilling his French fries on me.
Lubna and I locked eyes and I knew exactly what she was thinking: Poor Austin’s prom is ruined, and it’s all my fault.
She told me to chill and handed me her drink. Obviously, this was her way of apologizing.
By the time we made it to the Beverly Hilton, I was feeling so completely relaxed. (Not that I was nervous before.)