21 Proms by David Levithan
Ted shakes his head, reaching under the counter for a waffle cone for Iris. “Today in gym, Cody asked him, point-blank, and Elijah said he didn’t give a shit about the prom, which — duh — means he’s been too chicken to ask anyone.”
At this, Iris nods wisely and shoots me an excited grin. “Go get him, Abby,” she urges.
I rest my elbows on the counter, pondering the matter. I’ve never officially asked a guy out, but the idea doesn’t make me too nervous. It’s just a matter of holding your nose and taking the plunge, feet-first-into-the-pool style. And now — with the prom clock tick-tocking — is the time for risks, desperate measures, and all those things that brave, stupid people do.
It’s when Ted hands Iris her cone and she leans forward to kiss him on the lips that I make up my mind. No more of this watching-from-the-sidelines stuff. I’m going to take the steering wheel of my destiny and find myself a prom date.
The next day, in last-period English class, all those notions of me not being nervous fly out the window. My stomach is twisted into Boy Scout knots as I chew on my pen cap. Elijah Hayes is hunched over his desk in the back of the room, oblivious to the fact that when the bell rings, his life will be forever altered. Mine, too.
Our teacher, Ms. Tannen of the frumpy black suits, kneesocks, and lofty literary aspirations, writes the William Ernest Henley poem “Invictus,” on the blackboard. I focus on the words, realizing that they’re weirdly timely — for me, in any case. “I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul,” I recite under my breath, ignoring the odd look that Iris shoots me over her shoulder.
When the bell rings, I’m up out of my seat so fast that I knock my knee into my desk and wince in pain. Uncharacteristically, I’ve worn a skirt today — a white skirt, a black tank, and my trusty flip-flops. Tossing back my hair, which I tried to tame with extra conditioner and a blow-dryer that morning, I hobble over to Elijah’s desk. He is reclining in his seat, one arm flung over the back of his chair, and his free hand holding a copy of No Exit by Sartre over his face. It’s obvious he thinks himself far beyond this class — beyond this town — and for some reason this gets me kind of hot and bothered. In a good way.
“Are you okay?” he asks without lowering the book.
“Yeah, why?” I put one hand on my hip as streams of classmates, smug and secure in their future prom dates, flow past me.
“You were limping,” Elijah replies, snapping the book shut and piercing me with his dark eyes. Clearly, he’s got bionic powers. I like him even more now.
“I’m fine,” I assure him, even though my twisty-turny heart tells me otherwise. I can practically feel Iris sending me goodwill vibes from where she is waiting in the hallway. By now, the big, sunny classroom is empty; even Ms. Tannen has departed. “Listen, I was thinking, or, rather, wondering” — at this point I am realizing that I should have prepared a script — “what you think about the prom,” I finish, then bite my lip. It’s as good a start as any, I suppose.
“The prom?” Elijah repeats slowly, slipping his Sartre into his book bag. I have his full attention. “You mean that despicable 1950s-style conspiracy designed to brainwash the youth of America into buying overpriced formal wear, renting gas-guzzling limousines, and dancing to soul-deadening songs like ‘I Believe I Can Fly’?” He coughs into his fist. “I think that anyone who willingly attends prom is no better than a calf being led to slaughter.” Finished, he drums his fingers on his desk and stares up at me.
“… Right,” I say, my hands falling to my sides as my stomach drops with an almost audible clunk. But I can’t back out now. Master of my fate, I remind myself firmly. “So,” I add, holding Elijah’s fiery gaze as my face burns, “I’m guessing that means you wouldn’t be, you know, interested in going with … me?” I’m cringing before the sentence is even out.
“Oh.” Elijah gives a start, as if someone has poked him in the back. His brown eyes seem to mellow as he studies me. “I didn’t, um, know that’s what you were …” He passes a hand over his face, looking as close to embarrassed as someone like Elijah Hayes can get. “See, it’s not you, Abby, you’re really nice and all —”
I’ve heard enough. “Gotcha,” I say, backing up in a hurry. “Thanks.” I wheel around, strap my book bag on over my shaking shoulders, and flee the classroom, amazed that it’s possible to feel like you’ve been dumped by someone you’ve never even dated.
“Don’t,” I mutter to Iris as she bounds toward me, all hopeful exuberance. “Disaster.”
“How bad?” she asks, wrapping an arm around my shoulder as I stumble down the hallway, still in shock. Above our heads, the purple banner reading seniors: buy your prom tickets now! taunts me.
“Like, apocalypse,” I elaborate as we near our lockers. Our friend Gloria is waiting for us there, her face glowing and her golden ponytail swinging as she hops from foot to foot, kind of like a third grader who needs to pee.
“Abby, Iris — look!” she exclaims, holding up a thick, shiny violet sash. Iris squeals but I raise my eyebrows in confusion. “It’s a cummerbund,” Gloria explains, giving me a get-with-it look. “Cody’s cummerbund. He got one to match my dress exactly. So now everything, including my shoes and his boutonniere, will be violet.” She sighs happily. I don’t even know what a boutonniere is.
Gloria is the kind of a girl who keeps a binder filled with magazine clippings of what she wants her wedding dress to look like. And she doesn’t have a boyfriend, let alone a fiancé. Cody was her lab partner in chemistry and randomly asked her to the prom one day when they both had their goggles on. Now poor, unsuspecting Cody has been sucked into her whirlpool of Teen People prom issues and violet cummerbunds. Obviously, Gloria is the last person I want to be around right now, so I grab my hoodie from my locker, tell a worried-looking Iris that I’ll talk to her later, and beat a hasty retreat for home, trying my best not to cry on the way.
Since bad things happen in threes — first Elijah, then Gloria — my twenty-year-old brother, Brian, is in the kitchen when I get home. As I storm in, he’s pawing through the fridge and humming “Pour Some Sugar on Me”. He straightens up, a slice of cheese in his fist, and his mouth full, ready to look guilty.
“Oh. It’s just you,” he grunts.
“Love you, too,” I spit, dropping my book bag on the floor while our beagle, Franklin, trots in, whining. “Did you come for the food, or to mooch cash off Mom and Dad?”
Brian is what I like to call the brown sheep of the Cooper family; he was enough of a smart-ass growing up to warrant being shipped off to military school, but he’s never done anything truly criminal. With his blond buzz cut, delicate features, and big blue eyes, he can almost pull off looking angelic — “Ab, your brother’s hot,” Iris informs me on a regular basis while I pretend to hurl — but my parents and I know better. He just moved back to Lake Serene and is living with his bossy girlfriend, Nadine, who supports him while he writes his never-ending screenplay. Needless to say, the fact that I’m headed to college in the fall with good grades and no tattoos is a point of tension between us.
“You look like a truck ran you over,” Brian says sweetly. “What’s wrong?” He shuts the refrigerator and watches me, chewing steadily. I roll my eyes. I hate it when my lunkhead brother pretends to be all “insightful.”
I kneel down to scratch Franklin behind the ears, planning to ignore Brian’s question. But something in me is itching to complain, to finally spill my sorrows to someone who isn’t obsessed with cummerbunds and stretch limos. I glance up at my brother, who is regarding me from the fridge with a genuinely interested expression. Sighing, and not wanting to divulge too many dirty details, I say: “I asked this guy to the prom; he said no; now I’ll never find a date. Happy?”
I feel as if I have just recited a haiku. On loserdom.
As predicted, the corner of Brian’s mouth curls up in a wry smile. “Oh, shut up,” I say, befo
“That’s not what I was going to say!” Brian protests, knitting his brow, as if I have deeply offended him.
I let Franklin lick my hand; after all, he appears to be my only ally right now. “So what, then?” I ask Brian. “Do you know where I can get myself a date at the last minute?”
Brian grins, crossing his arms and leaning against the fridge. “I can go with you.”
I snort, and Franklin looks up at me, startled. “Uh-huh, Brian. That would be perfect, wouldn’t it? ‘Oh, hey, everyone. Yeah, my prom date and I kind of look alike — so what of it?’” I shake my head, getting to my feet. “Great joke,” I tell my brother.
“Well, we don’t look that much alike,” Brian says teasingly.
I tilt my head, studying his face; he’s right — to a casual stranger, our resemblance might not even be noticeable. Especially not under the dim lights of the town country club. Suddenly, a flush spreads through my body. Wait a minute. I’m realizing that hardly anyone in Lake Serene even knows what Brian looks like now, because of his time away at military school. Only Iris has seen him in recent weeks, and I could swear her to secrecy —
Stop, I tell myself. What are you thinking? Are you really going to ask your older brother to the prom?
But as I stand there facing him in the kitchen, it appears that, yes, I am.
“Brian,” I say slowly, resting my elbows on the counter. “What if … what if it wasn’t such a joke?”
Brian blinks. “What if what wasn’t a joke, Abby?”
“What if …” I pause, weighing the situation. It wouldn’t be so bad, I tell myself. I can say he’s a friend from out of town, and even let him take off before the slow dances if he wants to. All I really need to do is show up with a male in tow, and silence the likes of Gloria. “What if you did take me to the prom?” I finish, flashing my brother a hopeful smile before I explain the whole crazy plan.
Brian appears to think it over, first with a frown, and then with a smirk. “What would be in it for me?” he asks, thinking like a true petty criminal.
I clasp my hands together, rising up on my toes. “Brian, please,” I say. My brother knows how much I detest begging, so he has to realize how important this is to me. “You don’t know what it’s been like … all my friends … I’ll …” — inspiration strikes and I catch my breath — “I’ll pay you,” I whisper.
So it’s come to this. Abigael Cooper is bribing her brother to take her to the prom.
Brian hooks his fingers through the belt loops of his battered jeans and leans against the fridge, twisting his mouth in thought. “How much are we talking here?”
“Two months’ allowance,” I offer, trying not to think about all the new clothes, sheets, and cute fringed lamps I want to buy for college. “And I’ll cover the cost of your tux.”
Brian nods slowly, clearly digesting the deal. “When is it?” he asks, scratching the cobra tattoo on his wrist.
“June nineteenth,” I reply, feeling a tremor of panic as I realize how close the date is. “Saturday night. Seven o’clock.”
“Ooh.” Brian shakes his head from side to side, letting out a low whistle. “Sorry, Ab. Nadine’s sister’s getting married that night, and we’ve already R.S.V.P.’d and shit. Nadine will, like, cut off my privates if I bail.”
“Okay, gross and unnecessary,” I reply, shuddering.
“Look, maybe I can ask one of my friends —” Brian begins, taking a step toward me, but I move out of the way, balling my hands into fists. I know Brian’s friends, and I can just imagine the toothless perv who’ll pull up on his motorcycle and then try to cop a feel during the prim and proper dinner hour.
“Forget it, Brian,” I bark, and Franklin punctuates my statement with a growl of his own. “Just take all the food you want and leave me alone.” As I tear out of the kitchen and up the stairs, Franklin is on my heels, and though a part of me wants nothing more than to curl up with him on my bed and sob, I slam my door in his face the minute I get to my bedroom. Which makes me feel even worse.
“Why me?” I groan, collapsing into the butterfly chair in front of my computer. I gaze up above my desk at my neat, orderly bookshelves — Brian always mocks me for being the anal one — and study the spine of a Greek mythology text. I think of the three Fates: Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, who spin, measure, and snip the thread of life. They control it all. So then is everything — prom dates and colleges and the colors of cummerbunds — out of our hands? Somehow this idea depresses me even more. I allow a few tears to leak out and slip down the sides of my face, but then I blow my nose and switch on the computer. I’ve never seen the point in crying, and I feel a little ridiculous getting all existential over what is essentially an overblown school event.
Knowing I owe Iris more of an explanation about Elijah, I log on to MySpace, which is our favorite means of communication. Iris is even more obsessed with MySpace than I am; her profile page is decorated with crazy pink and orange swirls and drawings of Ted, she updates her song daily, and she always has a new picture of herself displayed. Meanwhile, my page is pretty basic: no song, plain blue background, and a black-and-white photo of myself, standing on the shore of Lake Serene and laughing as I shield my eyes from the sun. Iris took it last summer, way before prom was something either of us cared about.
I quickly check out my page, then click on Iris’s picture — she’s the first of my friends in my Top Eight — and send her a message describing the Elijah horror in detail. When I’m done, I idly scroll through Iris’s friends, mostly Lake Serene High kids, and then click on Pete DeSilva’s picture, feeling my typical pang of regret about him.
One of Pete’s friends, I notice, is a semi-cute Asian guy named Archie. When I click on his picture, I realize it’s Archie Jong — the sandbox fiend from grade school. I smile for the first time that afternoon, feeling a flood of nostalgia. I haven’t seen Archie in, like, eight years, and it’s funny to study his photos, like the one where he’s leaning against the deck of a boat, the wind messing up his black hair. He looks all chill, and confident, and … grown-up. I skim his list of favorites, impressed by his music choices — I, too, have the Subways and Death Cab on my page — and I’m about to survey his book selections when I notice the flashing orange icon telling me that Archie’s online. I picture him sitting in a room in New York City, his windows looking out on tall buildings and taxicabs. Feeling spontaneous, I decide to send an Instant Message. I never do stuff like this. But whatever; it’s just Archie.
Hey, I type. Remember me?
I wait, nibbling on my bottom lip and feeling stupid until Archie’s response finally pops up.
Abby Cooper! I grin and, for no reason, feel my face turn warm. What’s up, girl? Have u forgiven me?
For what? I type back, enjoying the sound of my fingers clicking along the keys.
For being a beast back in the 1st grade, Archie writes. I have some memory of sandbox showdowns… .
I send back a smiley face. All is forgiven, I write, because suddenly it’s true. And, suddenly, I know what I have to do. It’s like MySpace is the portal to my fate, and somehow it’s led me to Archie. Not in a true-love sense, of course — Archie still feels like a second, much-less-messed-up brother — but in a this-is-right way. Archie seems charming and presentable, and he’d probably be up for a trip back to his hometown.
I know this is going to sound weird, I began, typing more cautiously now. But any chance you’d want to experience the Lake Serene High prom? I squeeze my eyes shut, press send, and then jump to my feet. I can’t sit still while I wait, so I pace the length of my room, praying to the poster of Emily Dickin
Would love to. Know it’s the 19th, though, and I have something in the city that day. Bummer.
Damn June 19th! Who got together and decided to schedule every freaking world event that day? I let out a huge sigh and write back that I understand.
And I do, I realize as I sink deeper into my chair, sadness welling up inside me. Things couldn’t be clearer. I’ve struck out three times in one day. If the fates exist, they are definitely telling me that it’s time to pack it in. Give up. I’m meant to hit the prom alone.
Maybe another time, Archie writes back, and this makes my throat ache even deeper.
Maybe, I write back, grateful that Archie cannot see my teary-eyed expression. Then I log off and shut down. Game over.
Despite it all, I boldly purchase a prom ticket at school that week. “Just one?” Michele Martin, our class president and Pete DeSilva’s unlikely date, asks, her voice breathy and incredulous. We’re standing in the student council office, which is decorated with another purple banner that reads june 19th: the night of your life! Michele is behind the desk, holding a slim stack of tickets in one hand, while the other falters over the money I am handing her.
“One,” I assure her. “You know? Uno? The number that comes after zero? The loneliest number you ever knew?” My voice breaks a little on the word loneliest but hopefully Michele is too dense to notice.
She flutters her caterpillar lashes. “Abigael, I don’t know how to break this to you, but …” She drops her head for a minute, her silky red hair falling over her cheek, and then stoically lifts her gaze, acting like a doctor who’s about to tell me that the X-ray doesn’t look good. “You’re the only person who’s bought a single ticket so far,” she whispers.
I hate the fact that these words make my heart sink. Hard.
“That’s cool,” I bluff. You will not make me crack, bitch. “Thought I’d keep my options open on prom night, maybe play the field a little… .” I grin to show her how funny I find myself, but Michele only shakes her head grimly.