21 Proms by David Levithan
“Wow,” Archie sighs, taking in the sky above us, which is sprinkled liberally with huge, nearly tangible, sparkling stars. “Unbelievable.”
I huddle into my wrap, sucking in the fresh night air. Even for a native like me, it is a sight; Lake Serene shimmers in the moonlight, and the shadowy outlines of the mountains are visible in the distance, but the stars eclipse almost everything. “It’s only unbelievable for you because there are no stars in the city, Mr. Sophisticate,” I reply, shivering a little.
Archie laughs, slipping off his tuxedo jacket and resting it on my shoulders. My heart jumps. “That’s true, but there are other things to see in cities,” he says thoughtfully. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
I’m mulling over what Archie has said and putting my hands in the pockets of his jacket when my fingers brush something. I pull out a slightly crumpled white-and-green corsage.
“Oh, no,” Archie says, shaking his head. “I forgot to give that to you before.”
I gesture down to my multiple corsage action. “I think I’m covered,” I tell him. But then I notice how perfectly Archie’s corsage matches my dress. And then I glance at his cummerbund — it, too, is green, the exact same shade.
“That’s so weird,” I say. That Archie knows what I mean makes my pulse quicken.
“Green suits you, I believe,” he says, his voice half-teasing, and with warm, steady hands, takes the corsage from me and slides it onto my free wrist. But instead of letting go, Archie moves his hand down my wrist, slowly and steadily, and then takes hold of my hand entirely. My skin tingles as our fingers intertwine. I can’t believe I am holding hands with Archie Jong, who I knew when I was six years old. But his nearness, the warmth of him, feels natural and exciting all at once. I meet Archie’s dark, shining eyes and hold my breath. I forget all about my brother, who has probably left the prom by now, and about Elijah, who may be sweet and smoldering but will never make my heart leap as it’s leaping now.
“Abigael Cooper,” Archie muses aloud, taking a step closer to me. “You know I had the biggest crush on you back in grade school, right?” When I shake my head, truly baffled, he adds, “Why else do you think I was always tormenting you?”
I shrug, but I’m still holding his hand. “Your pure innate evil?”
Archie laughs, and then leans close. “Can I apologize in person, then?” he asks, and there’s no laughter behind his words now. I swallow hard and think about how my night could have gone in so many directions — from Brian to Elijah to alone — but somehow it’s led me here, to Archie. To this breathless instant under the enormous sky as he cups my face in his hands and kisses me on the lips, soft and sweet. When he pulls back, we’re both twinkly-eyed and giddy. Apology accepted.
I want to ask him how he knew I’d be wearing green tonight. And why he changed his mind when he woke up this morning. And what made him log onto MySpace at that particular minute on that June afternoon. But I don’t want to mar the moment with questions. By not asking too much, you can believe in almost anything. Like a single girl with three prom dates, or a starry night in the mountains, or even the existence of fate.
The Question
A Play in One Act
by Brent Hartinger
SETTING: A teenage boy’s bedroom, with a bed, desk, and dresser. The room’s clutter is an illustration of a life in transition from child to adult: a smattering of toys (albeit ones with high teen appeal), an accumulation of sports equipment, and a dressertop of colognes and hair gel, along with a tie or two sticking out of a drawer. A Slinky rests on the bed.
AT RISE: Two boys, Eric and Allen, enter. Both are eighteen and, like the bedroom itself, there is an unfinished, contradictory quality about each of them. Allen is the trendier, better dressed of the two, but nothing quite fits; there’s a sense that he’s trying too hard. Eric, meanwhile, has an athlete’s size and grace, not to mention a clueless disregard of his own good looks; still, something is making him guarded and edgy. Nonetheless, the boys have natural, easy rapport with each other. They’re right in the middle of an energetic conversation. Clearly, they’re both very smart and, now that they’re away from school and alone in Eric’s bedroom, they no longer have to hide it.
ALLEN: (impatiently) So? Did you ask the question?
ERIC: What question?
ALLEN: What do you mean what question? What other question is there? “Do you want to go to the prom?”
ERIC: No, I didn’t ask her if she wanted to go to the prom! I can’t ask her! I don’t even know her!
(Eric picks the Slinky up off the bed and begins playing with it nervously.)
ALLEN: Of course you know her. You just spent the last twelve years going to school with her.
ERIC: Yeah, and in all that time, I’ve probably spoken to her a grand total of six times.
ALLEN: So you’ve got six whole encounters to talk about over dinner!
ERIC: Not really. In five of those times, she didn’t say anything back. (beat) Allen, I can’t do this! What if she turns me down?
ALLEN: (almost gleeful) I already told you, she won’t turn you down! That’s the beauty of this. I know for a fact she thinks you’re cute, and that she wants to go to the prom with you. She just doesn’t have the nerve to ask you.
ERIC: How do you know?
ALLEN: I already told you! She told Jessica.
ERIC: That’s only one source. No reputable newspaper would print a story with only one source.
ALLEN: Eric, you’re asking a girl out on a date, not vying for the Pulitzer Prize.
ERIC: Okay, okay. I’ll ask her tomorrow.
ALLEN: Call her tonight. Call her now. (He turns for the door.) I’ll dial.
ERIC: (stopping him) Allen! What difference does it make when I ask her?
ALLEN: Because if you don’t do it tonight, you won’t ever do it. Maybe we should get you drunk first, like right before they amputate a leg.
ERIC: You don’t need to get me drunk! And so what if I don’t ever do it? I don’t see what the big deal is.
ALLEN: The big deal is that this is your senior prom! If you don’t go to your senior prom, you’ll regret it. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life.
ERIC: So I regret it. When I’m lying on my deathbed, you’ll be able to flash me your dried, withered boutonniere and say, “See? I told you so.”
ALLEN: Just call her.
ERIC: Why do you want me to ask her so bad? Oh, I get it. You’re ashamed of me.
ALLEN: Eric, I couldn’t care less what other people think of you.
ERIC: (pouncing) Ha! So people do think I’m strange!
ALLEN: Eric, no one thinks you’re strange. They should, but they don’t.
ERIC: I just don’t see why you’re so determined —
ALLEN: Because I don’t wanna be alone with Jessica all night long, okay?
ERIC: Then you ask Brittany to the prom.
ALLEN: I don’t wanna be alone with Brittany, either.
ERIC: Then who — ?
ALLEN: You, you idiot! I want to go to the prom with you.
(There is a pause. Holding one end of the Slinky, Eric drops the other end; it falls down against the floor with a thud.)
ALLEN: Wait. That didn’t come out right. I mean I want you and Brittany to come to the prom with Jessica and me.
ERIC: (turning away) Oh.
ALLEN: I want someone to talk to during dinner.
ERIC: Okay, okay. I’ll call her.
ALLEN: Now?
(He tosses the Slinky back on the bed and turns for the door.)
ERIC: (irritated) Yes, now! You’re obviously not going to stop bugging me until I do.
ALLEN: Wait!
ERIC: Now what?
ALLEN: Let’s practice first. (He picks up the Slinky.) Here, take one end.
(Allen gives Eric one end of the Slinky; Allen holds it up to his ear like a tin-can phone.)
ERIC: Oh, brother.
ALLEN: Come on. Just do it. (Eric does.) Okay, I’ll pretend to be Brittany. You pretend to be you. You’ve just called me. (He clears his throat; in a female voice, he “answers” the Slinky.) Hello?
(Eric stares at him drolly.)
ERIC: Is this really necessary?
ALLEN: With anyone else, probably not. (“Brittany’s” voice again) Hello? Is anyone there?
ERIC: (bored) Hi, Brittany. I wanted to know if you wanted to go to the prom with me.
(beat)
ALLEN: (“Brittany” voice) Who is this?
(Eric lets go of his end of the Slinky; it retracts and hits Allen.)
ERIC: (annoyed) Allen!
ALLEN: Come on, that was funny! I’m just trying to get you to relax a little.
ERIC: (very tense) I’m relaxed, okay? I’m perfectly relaxed.
ALLEN: I don’t get it. Didn’t you go to the prom before you met me? Last year? Or the year before?
ERIC: No. (quietly) I’ve never been to a dance, okay?
ALLEN: What? Never?
ERIC: Never! Do I have to wear it on a sign around my neck? (quietly) I’m . . . not sure I even know how to dance.
ALLEN: (gleeful again) Really?
ERIC: Allen!
ALLEN: (reassuringly) Okay, okay. There’s nothing to it. You just sort of . . . (He begins to sway.) Move to the music. That’s the great thing about dancing — it’s impossible to do it wrong. Do you have, like, a radio or something? Turn on some music.
ERIC: Yeah, sure.
(Eric turns the radio to some up-tempo song.)
ALLEN: Okay, just sort of . . . go with the flow.
(ALLEN begins to dance. He’s clearly practiced for hours in front of a mirror, but he’s actually pretty good.)
ALLEN: Now you try.
(Eric looks to see what Allen is doing, tries to mimic his moves.)
ALLEN: No, don’t look at me. Just do whatever feels right.
(Eric tries again. He is embarrassingly awkward.)
ALLEN: You’re too stiff. Try to loosen up.
ERIC: I thought you said it was impossible to do it wrong!
ALLEN: I was wrong, okay? I’d never seen you dance. (watching Eric) That’s better.
(They continue to dance. Eric is still awkward, but in an endearing, big lug kind of way.)
ALLEN: That’s it! That’s it. That’s all you do.
(The song comes to an end. A slow song starts. There is an awkward pause.)
ERIC: What if Brittany wants to . . . slow dance?
ALLEN: What?
ERIC: Slow dance. What if Brittany wants to slow dance?
ALLEN: (hesitantly) Well . . . it’s sort of just the same thing, only you do it a lot slower, and you do it while holding on to someone else.
(They stare at each other for a second; the slow music continues to play.)
ALLEN: Oh, what the hell!
(Allen steps forward and takes Eric in his arms. Still, they stay at least a foot apart.)
ALLEN: Okay, pretend I’m you, and you be Brittany. I put my hands on your waist. You put your hands on my shoulders.
ERIC: Like this?
ALLEN: Close enough. Now we just sort of . . . sway back and forth. I’ll lead and you — Brittany — follow.
(They dance away.)
ALLEN: You know, there’s not another guy on this planet that I’d do this with.
(They continue to dance. Eric is getting into it now — far better than before.)
ALLEN: Say, you’re not bad. You’re actually a lot better than Jessica.
ERIC: Come on.
ALLEN: It’s true! She dances like Frankenstein walks.
(Eric has obviously gotten the hang of it, yet still they dance on, comfortable and intimate. It is Eric who finally puts an end to it by stepping away from Allen.)
ERIC: Anyway . . .
(There is another awkward silence. When Allen speaks, he is much less enthusiastic than before.)
ALLEN: Well . . . I suppose we should call her now.
ERIC: (quietly, head down) Yeah, okay.
(Allen starts for the door. Eric speaks, stopping him.)
ERIC: Well, actually . . . there is one more thing.
ALLEN: Yeah?
(There is another pause. Allen looks at Eric in confusion. Something is happening here that he doesn’t quite understand. But Eric is suddenly nervous, avoiding his gaze.)
ERIC: Nothing. Never mind.
ALLEN: No. Tell me.
ERIC: (dismissively) No, really. It’s stupid.
ALLEN: Come on.
ERIC: Well . . . it’s just that I . . .
ALLEN: Yeah?
ERIC: (embarrassed, awkwardly) Well, what if she wants me to . . . kiss her good night?
ALLEN: Huh?
ERIC: It’s just that I’ve never actually kissed anybody before.
(Allen stares at Eric again, still puzzled. But this time, Eric stares back. It is as if Allen is seeing Eric for the very first time.)
ALLEN: (quietly) Oh.
ERIC: (turning away) You probably think I’m an idiot asking all these stupid questions.
ALLEN: No! No. There are no stupid questions. Well, I don’t believe that anymore — not after world history with Wanda Vandersol. But these aren’t stupid questions. Not at all.
ERIC: So, um . . . how do you do it?
ALLEN: Well, there’s nothing to it, really. You just sort of stand together, really close.
ERIC: Stand together close. Okay.
(Eric and Allen step closer together. They stare at each other. It feels like there is something coming, but neither is exactly sure what it is.)
ALLEN: Don’t pucker. That’s what everyone thinks at first, but it’s not true.
ERIC: (nodding) Don’t pucker. Okay, got it.
(They keep facing each other.)
ALLEN: (almost a whisper) And you probably shouldn’t bother with tongues. At least not at first.
ERIC: No tongues. Okay, got that, too.
ALLEN: Then you just . . . press your lips together.
ERIC: Press lips.
ALLEN: And hold them there.
ERIC: Hold them there. (beat) How will I know when to stop?
ALLEN: You just sort of . . . know.
(Still, they face each other. The tension is incredible; someone simply has to act.)
ERIC: Allen?
ALLEN: Yeah?
ERIC: Do you ever think . . .
(Suddenly, someone pounds on the door to Eric’s bedroom. Both Eric and Allen start in alarm, then scatter like cockroaches to opposite sides of the room. The knock comes again. Eric turns to face the door.)
ERIC: What is it?
(A woman enters, Mrs. Sloan, Eric’s mother. She is a hard, tightly clenched woman; it is as if even the loosening of her hair will cause her to fly apart into a million pieces. By interrupting, she has completely sucked the oxygen out of the room; even the light seems brighter now, and harsher.)
MRS. SLOAN: Eric, your father needs to see you in the garage. Is it true you loaned the Gordons his power saw?
ERIC: Mom, I’ve kind of got company right now. Can you tell him I’ve got company?
MRS. SLOAN: Oh, hello, Allen. I didn’t know you were here.
ALLEN: Hello, Mrs. Sloan.
(She notices the fact that they are on opposites sides of the room.)
MRS. SLOAN: What are you boys doing?
ERIC: (simultaneously with Allen) Reading comic books!
ALLEN: (simultaneously with Eric) Playing a game!
ERIC: We’re just hanging out! Tell Dad I’
(Mrs. Sloan lingers, staring at them suspiciously.)
ERIC: Anything else?
MRS. SLOAN: No. No, I guess not. But we’re having dinner in an hour. Oh, and make your bed.
(With another lingering look, she leaves, pointedly not closing the door behind her. Eric turns to Allen, but it is, of course, impossible to pick up where they left off. There is an awkward silence as they continue to face away from each other.)
ERIC: (quietly) So I guess I should call Brittany now, huh?
ALLEN: (quietly) Yeah, I guess you should.
(beat)
ERIC: Okay, then.
(He starts for the door.)
ALLEN: Hey, maybe after the prom, we can drive up to the lake.
ERIC: With the girls?
ALLEN: With ’em. Or without. Either way.
(They exit.)
(BLACKOUT)
(END OF PLAY)
Shutter
by Will Leitch
It occurred to Joe, in a way that depressed him in a way he couldn’t put a finger on, that Andrea seemed awfully relaxed for someone preparing for her senior prom. When he had gone to his prom, thirty years earlier, he spent a good fifteen minutes sitting in his car, idling, just around the corner from Jennie Dooley’s parents’ house. Fidgeting with the cross hanging from the dashboard mirror of his father’s Buick. Staring straight forward.
He remembered sweating a lot then, scratching at his cummerbund, doing everything he could to talk himself out of putting the car back in first and heading right back home. It would look bad. It would look very bad. Eventually, he made it to the Dooley front door and, after a few minutes of bringing his finger to the buzzer and pulling it back, he finally pushed it. There was no reason for him to be nervous; he’d met Jennie’s parents (her dad had even been his American Legion baseball coach), and Joe was charming, quick, the type of guy parents loved. But still. Something was making him sweat.
He found himself sweating more now, more than his daughter, so much so that she frowned and asked him if he’d taken his blood pressure medication. (She was always bothering him about this. He found it both sweet and annoying.) It was unlike him to be nervous these days; with her college applications, her scholarship rejections, his own endless nights out restoring power to the dark homes for the electric company, he hadn’t much time for nervousness these days. Too much happening, with Andrea, with all of it, to sweat. But there he was, anyway. Like a stuck pig, his father used to say. You’re sweating like a stuck pig. Joe had never understood this expression — wasn’t it bleeding like a stuck pig? But there was no doubt about it: Joe was sweating like a stuck pig.