It's Our Prom (So Deal With It)

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  To the JAP Mafia,

  the most loyal and loving fans in the world

  AZURE

  There must be an epidemic of flu or cold virus going around, because when I walk into my last class I see Mr. What’s-His-Sub, the same guy I had in third period. He says, “Your teacher didn’t leave any lesson plans, so you can use this time as a study hour.” Good idea. I pull out my cell and scroll through my pics from Friday night.

  We made our usual entrance to the theater, walking down the side aisle all the way to the front. As we crossed the curtain, Luke and I waved to people in the audience, while Radhika shielded her eyes as if she didn’t know us. People turned to see who we were waving to, which was hilarious because we didn’t know anyone. Then the three of us climbed the steps to the back row and scooted in with our tub of popcorn and supersized Icee to share. Luke plopped down next to Radhika, so I stepped over them to sit on the other side of her. I still remember the first whiff of her jasmine-scented shampoo, and how my breath caught.

  Luke started pitching popcorn in the air and catching it in his mouth. “Radhika,” he said, tossing a kernel to her. She stuck out her tongue, but missed. Luke grabbed a fistful of popcorn and threw it high in the air, all of us opening our mouths like hungry chicks, and laughing when most of the popcorn landed on our laps or the floor. I picked out a kernel from Radhika’s hair and ate it. She turned and smiled.

  That’s the first picture I snapped on my cell. I study it and imagine her lips on mine. Shiver.

  The next pics are a series with the three of us, heads together, making silly faces, or sipping from the Icee. Me, Radhika, and Luke.

  How long had it been since the three of us had gone out together to a movie? Too long. I missed “us.”

  I’m so engrossed in scrolling through the pictures over and over that when the bell buzzes, I’m startled back to the present.

  “Get a lot of homework done, did you?” the sub says to me on my way out.

  I turn slowly. “Yeah,” I go. “I read War and Peace on my iPhone.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you.” Mr. Gerardi, the principal, ambushes me as I shut my locker door. “Follow me.” He turns and lumbers down the hall of doom toward his office.

  I grimace. Last week Luke and I had the bright idea to superglue UNISEX over the faculty restroom sign. It seemed only right; the Diversity Club has been campaigning for a unisex bathroom for the last three years. Now we have one.

  We get to his office and Mr. Gerardi says, “Sit down, please,” as he circles his desk. He folds his hands on top and smiles one of those smiles that looks like it hurts every muscle in his face. “I have a proposition, Azure,” he says.

  Uh-oh. When my dad says that, it means do or die.

  “Is this going to take long?” I ask. “Because my ride’s waiting.”

  “It might,” he answers. “Do you have another way home?”

  “Let me make a call.” My heart thrums in my chest as I text Luke:

  In deep shit. Go ahead w/out me. Blame you later.

  After I drop my cell in my bag, Mr. Gerardi says, “Do you remember how last year you circulated the petition to eliminate prom?”

  “It wasn’t just me.”

  “But you started it.”

  Did I? Luke was the one who got all the signatures. I’m about as popular as herpes.

  “If I recall correctly, your complaint was that prom wasn’t inclusive.”

  “Because it’s not,” I say.

  His smile is stuck in place and it’s creeping me out. “Apparently, one of the board members got hold of the petition and agrees with you. Prom should be an event for every student in school. Although I don’t see how it’s not inclusive—”

  “It’s elitist.” I edge forward in my chair. “It’s so expensive only the richie rich can afford it, then the populars are the only people who go, so they can be seen. You have to take a date or you’re labeled a loser.”

  Mr. Gerardi’s smile fades from his face. He doesn’t respond, so I go on.

  “The tickets are seventy-five dollars, then you have to buy a dress and shoes you’ll probably only wear once, or rent a tux. There’s the cost of the limo, and probably dinner before or after.” Not that I’d know. I’ve never been to prom. “I bet it comes to three hundred dollars. I’d have to work for fifty years to make that much money. Even then, I wouldn’t go because right now I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  I choke. TMI.

  Mr. Gerardi must space my last comment because he asks, “If it was cheaper, would you go?”

  “Not the way it is. I mean, the geeks, freaks, and uniques, like me, don’t feel welcome at prom. It’s a dance, but it could be so much more.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like… I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. Because nothing will ever change.”

  He plasters on that fakey smile again. “What if I gave you a chance to make a change? Would you consider serving on the prom planning committee so the event would be more inclusive?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “It was suggested by the board. You don’t have to—”

  “I’ll do it.”

  He fidgets with a paper clip on his desk. “Your biggest problem is time. You’re going to have to organize this thing fast. It’s already January, and the prom’s in April. Mrs. Flacco, who usually sponsors the committee, has… dropped out. But I did manage to persuade another teacher to be the sponsor.”

  He makes it sound like he had to beg, bribe, or torture a teacher to volunteer. “Who?” I ask.

  “Mr. Rosen.”

  My eyes light up. Mr. Rosen is cool. He’s young and has a ponytail, and from what I’ve heard all the girls are gaga for him. But not only the girls—Luke signed up for Mr. Rosen’s Life Skills class, even though Luke’s basically been living on his own for the past eight months.

  “Can I ask people to be on the committee with me?”

  “That’s up to Mr. Rosen. I’m not sure who’s already signed on.” Mr. Gerardi stands, brushes by me, and holds open the door.

  “Thanks, Mr. Gerardi.” I head out. “Really. It’s going to be great. You won’t regret this.”

  His smile is kind of jagged. Behind me, I hear him mutter, “I think I already do.”

  Slipping into the unisex restroom, I text Radhika and Luke:

  Guess what? They want us to be on the prom planning committee. Can you believe it? We’re going to PIMP THE PROM.

  I catch the bus home, and by the time I get there, I haven’t heard back from either Radhika or Luke. Radhika, I can understand. She leaves right after sixth period and has to turn her cell off at home to study. But Luke? I call him as I’m traipsing up the drive to my house. “Didn’t you get my text?”

  “Yeah, I did,” he says. “I just don’t know if I can handle another commitment. I have my play, you know.”

  “Luke, this is what we’ve always wanted! Our prom. An alternative prom. The way we envisioned it, with everyone having a reason to come.”

  He sighs. “I know. I’m just really busy. I haven’t even written all the music.”

  “Did I mention Mr. Rosen is the committee s
ponsor?”

  I picture Luke’s jaw dropping and drool sliding down his chin. “When do we meet?” he asks.

  “I have to talk to Mr. Rosen first, but I’ll let you know.”

  Dad’s getting ready to leave as I open the door and slip out of my leather jacket. “Do you need a ride to work?” he asks. “I’m going your way.”

  “Going where?” I ask him.

  He shoulders his holster, which means he’s going to the shooting range. He blasts human targets to work off stress. I hate that he’s a cop. Couldn’t he find a safer job, like Ponzi schemer?

  “I don’t need to be there for another couple of hours,” I tell him. “I’ll catch the light-rail.” It stops three blocks from the thrift store near Exempla Hospital in Denver. “Oh, and I downloaded the police scanner, so I’ll know if there’s an officer down.”

  He tousles my hair before shutting the door behind him. I wonder if there is a police-scanner app. I’m always afraid that one night I’ll get the call, or the doorbell will ring, and the officer on the porch will inform me: “I’m sorry. He died doing what he loved.”

  What does it matter if you die doing what you love or hate? Especially if the daughter you leave behind has to go live with her psycho mother?

  I crank up my nano as loud as possible without my eardrums exploding. For English, we’re supposed to choose our favorite opening line from a list we got in class of the one hundred best first lines in literature. So far I have it whittled down to “Call me Ishmael.” Brilliant.

  “I was born twice: first, as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974.” That’s from Middlesex, which I actually read and loved. Or, “Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins.” My mind drifts and I think about prom. About what could make it the most magical night of my life. One word: Radhika.

  How do you tell your best friend you’re in love with her without ruining the friendship? Or making it awkward, or scaring her to death because you know, you’re absolutely sure, she couldn’t possibly feel the same way about you? At the thought of her my palms sweat and all my pores swell. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way. It’s been a while. Whenever Radhika’s near, I want to take her in my arms, kiss her until we’re both gasping for breath, then know—know—she feels the crush of passion I do. Even though she doesn’t, and she can’t, and she never will, because Radhika Dal isn’t gay or bi or even curious. She loves me as a friend, and it’ll never be anything more than that.

  I see my cell light up and Radhika’s ID appear. My stomach vaults and I toss my homework aside. I have a voice mail, too. How did I miss that?

  “Tell me about pimping the prom,” Radhika says.

  I glance at my clock. Yikes. Time flies when you’re fanning the fire in your loins. I fill her in on Mr. Gerardi asking if we’ll plan an alternative prom as I sling my pack over my shoulder and rush out the door for work. “You’ll help, won’t you?”

  She says, “What does it involve?’

  “I don’t know yet. I’ve never planned a prom, not to mention an alt one.”

  Radhika hesitates.

  “Please. You have to. I can’t do this alone.”

  “Can we talk about it tomorrow?” she asks.

  “Sure.” I don’t want her to hang up, so as I’m sprinting down the drive, I say, “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing. I finished my homework a while ago and now I’m just waiting for Mom and Dad to go to bed so I can Netflix a movie.”

  “Wish I could be there to watch it with you.”

  The silence stretches, which is unusual between us. “What’s going on, Radhika?”

  She expels an audible breath. “Mom and I had a fight.”

  “Over what?” Radhika and her mom never fight. Unlike other mothers and daughters who can’t be together five minutes before they start screaming at each other.

  “I want to cut my hair short like yours, and she won’t let me.”

  “No!” I blurt out. Radhika can’t cut her hair. It’s gorgeous. Long and black and sleek as silk. “I’m still trying to grow mine out from the last time I butchered it,” I say.

  “You didn’t. It looks…”

  Hideous. I hear the train in the distance and start trotting. “I think you should think about it.” Long and hard.

  “It’s my hair,” Radhika says. “I should be able to do anything I want.”

  She’s right. But still.

  Radhika says, “My mother’s so controlling. I thought I’d have more freedom now that I’m eighteen. You know?”

  I send her a mental plea: Please, please don’t cut your hair.

  “I left you a message,” Radhika says. “You can just delete it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Wait!” But the line’s already gone dead. The light-rail screeches to a stop and passengers surge out. I hop on board, grab a seat in back, and listen to Radhika’s message. “You didn’t tell me what your self-affirmation was for today.”

  My self-affirmation. I forgot. I pull out the calendar page and reread it: “Undertaking endeavors that seem beyond reach will grow you as a person from the inside out.”

  Radhika gave me this daily self-affirmations calendar for Christmas. I love it. I’d love it even if I didn’t love it just because she picked it out for me.

  Undertaking endeavors beyond my reach… That could be anything. That could be prom. That could be Radhika.

  When did she leave this message on my cell? I listen again for the time. Right about when she would’ve gotten home from school. Which means she was thinking about me at the same time I was texting her. Karma? I save her message, the way I do all her messages, to play at night so hers is the last voice I hear before falling asleep.

  LUKE

  “Wonker. Fill up the munchie bowl,” Dobbs calls from the dining area where he’s playing poker with my brother, Owen, and their crew. Of course Dobbs is referring to me. Does he care that I’m comfy on the sofa? That I’m fine-tuning my script on my netbook and watching a Top Chef marathon? Does he realize his cursing and throwing cards down and crushing cans under his foot is driving me to digital distraction? “Hey! You deaf?” he goes.

  I look at Owen. He doesn’t glance up, doesn’t shut Dobbs down.

  I set my computer on the coffee table and unfurl my legs. As I kick through a pile of crushed cans to retrieve a bag of mustard pretzels (those things are nasty), Dobbs goes, “Get me a Coke while you’re up, faggot.”

  The tips of my ears burn. I wait for Owen to throw himself across the table and smash a fist into Dobbs’s face, beat him to a bloody pulp. Instead, Owen deadpans, “He prefers to be called ‘maggot.’ ”

  Owen’s crew snickers. I pretend I can’t find the Coke, even though there are cases of it in the fridge.

  Dobbs says, “Any day, zitwit.”

  I dump the pretzels into the bowl. Crumpling the bag, I fling it to the floor, knowing full well I’ll be the one cleaning up. Accidentally on purpose, I overturn the bowl of pretzels into Dobbs’s lap.

  He stands and pushes me against the wall. His beefy hand clenches my neck.

  Owen says, “Cool it, Dobbs. He’s just a spaz.”

  Eyes shooting sparks, Dobbs lets me know who’s in charge. He releases me with a shove.

  Owen shuffles the deck of cards nonchalantly as Dobbs resumes his seat. “Don’t call him ‘faggot,’ ” Owen tells Dobbs. “He’s bisexual.”

  Owen’s crew “oohs” like a bunch of owls in heat. Dobbs curls a lip at me.

  Cram it, I think. I head back to the sofa.

  “Luke,” Owen says, “he’s sorry he didn’t know you swing both ways. Tell him you’re sorry, Dobbs.”

  Dobbs isn’t Owen’s lackey, the way I am. The look he gives me is: If we ever meet in a dark alley, only the ugly one is coming out alive.

  “And if I don’t?” Dobbs says.

  Owen deals the cards.
“I’ll give you the cougar run next weekend.” Everyone laughs.

  Cougars are like the Real Housewives, but single and slutty. They pick up these boy toys in bars and party all night, then trash Owen’s limos. Owen owns and operates a gypsy transport company, sort of a rogue limo and sedan service. He’s never been one to work for The Man. He is The Man. He keeps telling me that: Don’t forget who’s The Man.

  Even though Owen’s drivers are supposed to return their vehicles in immaculate condition, guess who ends up scrubbing cougar vomit? Not Dobbs.

  Dobbs breaks a pretzel in half and goes, “Soooooooooooo sorry.”

  Soooooooooooo insincerely. You can always judge a person by his taste in friends. Owen’s palate is putrid.

  When I first moved into Owen’s house, after Mom and Dad got stationed overseas in Stuttgart, I thought my brother and I would hang out. Go to sporting events and concerts together. I thought I might even get Owen to take in a play or musical with me once in a while, seeing as how he could use some culture shock.

  Futile fantasy. Owen’s ten years older, and he’s been on his own for a while. He bought this house in Lakewood that had horse property and converted the stable to a garage. I guess I had this idealized version of him in my head. Bachelor. Entrepreneur. Since the day I moved in, he’s treated me like horseshit.

  Some days, like today, I wish I had gone to Germany. But I really wanted to graduate with my friends. And when Miss Wells, the theater director, came to me and asked if I’d expand this skit I wrote into a full-blown musical for the whole school, the deal was sealed.

  The phone rings and Owen slides back his chair to take it. His loser pals groan. “It’s an airport run,” he says. “Who wants it?”

  His employees stare down at their cards. A beat passes.

  “I could take it,” I say.

  Owen just looks at me. He sighs. “I’ll go. Sorry to break up the game, dudes.”

  Dobbs tosses his cards on the table harder than necessary. No doubt he blames me for the buzz kill. What he doesn’t know is that Owen wouldn’t let me take a fare if I begged, pleaded, or bribed him.