Prom Read online

  “Whatever,” I said. I tore off another piece of toilet paper and attacked the other foot.

  “Thank you,” Dad said. “We’re reading. Now where were we?” He opened the book and pretended to scan the page. “Here. When the castle was clean and the motorcycles polished, Kenny went to his bedroom. . . .”

  “With no stupid sister in it . . .” Billy butted in.

  “Which he didn’t have to share with his stupid sister,” Dad agreed.

  “Because his sister had her own castle,” I said. “With no wicked brothers or motorcycles or crazy parents.”

  “Did the sister’s castle have any video games?” Billy asked.

  “Of course. And a maid, and a cook, and a magic closet that filled with new designer fashions every morning when the sun came up.”

  “Do you mind?” Dad asked.

  Billy sat straight up and bounced a little on his mattress. “And the sister’s castle was right next to the brothers’ castle, and they all got ice cream whenever they wanted, and they all lived happily ever after. I gotta go pee.”

  A car without a muffler turned the corner, coughed its way down the street, and parked next door.

  “Sounds like Nat—” Dad started.

  I was gone.

  42.

  Grandma opened the front door, still in her dripping suit and bathing cap. She said something I didn’t understand and waved for me to follow her. She had known me since I was in second grade, but she always acted like I spoke Russian.

  The Shulmensky house was the exact same shape and size as ours, but it felt twice as big, even with books and newspapers piled on the floor and covering the furniture. For one thing, it didn’t have extra kids or animals laying around. And it was fancy, like a magazine, with pretty curtains that Grandma sewed and pillows and rugs. The Hannigan house smelled like boys and dog and coffee. The Shulmenskys’ smelled like furniture polish, boiled meat, and that weird orange tea they were always drinking.

  Grandma dragged me up the stairs to Nat’s bedroom. She put her finger to her lips. We leaned towards the closed door and listened.

  Nothing. Silence, except for the sound of Grandma’s suit dripping on the hall carpet. I tried the handle, but the door was locked.

  Oh God, she’s already dead. She killed herself over the freakin’ prom.

  Grandma frowned and yelled something Russian. She could have been saying, “Open up, your best friend is here.” On the other hand, it could have been, “America is a great country because of canned ravioli.”

  There was a murmur inside.

  Grandma smacked the door once with her hand and waddled back down the stairs.

  The lock turned.

  I pushed the door open. “Nattie?”

  43.

  Nat was sitting at her desk with the phone to her ear and her back turned towards me. She hadn’t trashed her room. The animé posters were still on the wall, the scrapbooks neatly stacked on their shelf, her bed was made, and the stuffed penguins were lined up on the pillows in order of size.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She held one finger up in the air. “Yes,” she told the phone. “Can you give me her name?” She wrote in a notebook. “And her phone number?” More writing. “Great, that’s wonderful. Thank you so much for your help.”

  She hung up the phone and spun around in her chair. “What’s up?”

  Her nose was its normal pale self. Her eyes were not puffy. No tears. It didn’t look like she had banged her head against a wall or thrown herself on the ground for an all-out temper tantrum. No rope burns on her neck, no razor marks on her wrists. She looked fine, like nothing had happened.

  I laid the back of my hand against her forehead. Her temperature was normal. “Are you medicated?”

  She laughed. “What are you talking about? What’s up?”

  I sat on her bed and held a penguin. “I thought you might be a little upset, seeing as how the most important thing in your world was cancelled today. Hello? The prom?”

  “It’s not really cancelled. Not yet. Mr. Banks encouraged us to find another hotel. He was really supportive.”

  “I’m confused.”

  She picked up a thick pink notebook with sparkly stars on it. “Mr. Banks gave me Miss Crane’s notes, all the suppliers, potential vendors, everything. The prom is on and it’s going to rock.” As she talked, her voice was going higher and higher until it sounded like she just took a hit of helium.

  “But you don’t have a hotel yet.”

  “I’m still working on that.”

  “And what about food, and the decorations, and a DJ?”

  “We’re having a big meeting after school tomorrow. You should come.”

  “You guys started planning for this back in October, Natalia, seven months ago. Seven months. You think you’re going to pull together a different hotel, different everything in a couple days? Get a grip.”

  She shoved a pencil in the electric pencil sharpener, checked the point, and put it in the pencil holder. “It would be really fun if you helped me. Really.”

  “Can’t. I’m on my way to TJ’s.”

  She took a cigarette out of the pack on the desk and lit it. “Why? Does he need more money?”

  “For your information, he worked all weekend. Construction. He’s looking at a union job.”

  “Bull.”

  “You calling him a liar?”

  She tapped the ash into an ashtray. “Let’s just say he exaggerates and leave it at that.” She held up the pink planning notebook. “It would be so awesome if you helped me. I mean, you don’t have to go, but the behind-the-scenes stuff, it could be a blast. Honest. Cross my heart.”

  I put down the penguin. “It’s just a dance, Nat. Let it go.”

  She gripped the chair. “Just a dance?”

  I should have left when I found out she wasn’t dead. “Well, yeah. I mean, you love it and all, but for kids like me . . .”

  Nat rolled her chair a few inches closer. “Just a dance?”

  “A stupid dance.” I stood up. “I gotta go. TJ’s waiting.”

  Nat rolled in front of the door to block my way. “No, no, really. I want to hear this. Why is it stupid?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yeah, I do. I totally do.”

  I took a deep breath. “You wear a pretty dress, buy shoes that don’t fit, and pretend for one night that you don’t go to Carceras, you don’t live around here, you pretend that you have money, that you’re a movie star or a rap star, or anything except what you really are which is a poor kid from a broke family going nowhere. It’s not real. Jesus, Nat, you’re going with a guy you don’t even like, somebody you barely know, just so you can act like you’re in love for a few hours. You’ll wake up the next morning and still be the same old person. Why bother?”

  She took a hit on the cigarette, sucking so hard I thought it was going to explode into flame. She blew out the smoke and reached for her phone book.

  “Go play with your boyfriend,” she said.

  “Whatever,” I answered.

  44.

  TJ, his sister Becca, and Becca’s new baby lived with their aunt Lana in a house that should have been condemned years ago. My family was “no-extra-money-for-nothing” poor. TJ’s family was “government-cheese-for-dinner” poor.

  When I got there, Aunt Lana was at her second job, tending bar at The Haystack. Becca had no clue where TJ was. She handed me her baby because she had been holding it all day long and her arms were ready to fall off. The baby was seven weeks old. It still didn’t have a name.

  “Max is nice,” I said.

  “Max is a dweeb.” Becca pointed the remote and switched from MTV to MTV2. “My baby is not a dweeb.”

  “How ’bout Harley?”

  “That’s a girl’s name.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “I knew a girl named Harley down in Avalon.”

  “Oh.”

  I shifted her kid to my other
hip. “You’re sure you don’t know where TJ is?”

  “The baby and me were taking a nap. I heard him come in. He must have left, right? What about Fire?”

  “Not.”

  “Rock?”

  “He’s a baby, Becca.”

  “He won’t always be a baby. He needs a strong name.” She switched back to MTV. “How about Storm?”

  “Storm is a girl in X-Men. Didn’t you see the movie?”

  “Damn. Why are all good names girls’ names?”

  “You should have had a girl.”

  “Maybe next time.”

  Max/Harley/Fire/Rock/Storm wailed like his blanket was on fire. We changed his diaper and tried to feed him and rubbed his stomach and rubbed his back, but he wouldn’t stop. I wanted to ask Becca about TJ’s so-called job, but she was busy. We put him in a new outfit, but he kept crying.

  “If TJ calls, tell him I’m going to the park,” I finally said.

  Becca could barely hear me with the baby screaming in her ear.

  “You should call him Noise,” I said.

  She nodded her head, but she wasn’t looking at me; she was patting her baby’s back and rocking back and forth and watching ten skinny girls shaking their things in Snoop Dogg’s face on the TV. Snoop Dogg looked skizzle-old, if you ask me.

  45.

  I knew I should go home. It was after nine. I had homework. My highlights needed touching up. My sheets needed changing. I should apologize to Nat. Ma had chores for me. I had homework.

  On the other hand, I missed him. And the last place I wanted to go was home.

  If TJ was anywhere, he was probably shooting hoops at Pennhope Park. It only took me fifteen minutes on the bus. The lights were on and the courts were all busy. The bleachers were packed with girls watching ball players and guys watching girls watching ball players, and TJ was sure to be in there somewhere.

  I pulled the cord.

  46.

  He wasn’t there. Nobody had seen him. Nobody had talked to him.

  I borrowed a cell phone and called him twenty times. No answer.

  47.

  I just hung out, honest. Did not partake of illegal substances, except for some Budweiser. Did not hook up with anybody. Did not shoot baskets. (Was wearing a skirt and my best flip-flops, and was not going to tempt fate.)

  I sat on the bleachers with Moira O’Malley and her cousin Brie and some of their friends from St. Cecelia’s who I didn’t really know but had seen around. I said “yo” and they said “yo” and Brie said “what’s up” and I said “boys suck” and she said “no shit, you gonna sit with us?” and I sat.

  Moira gave me a warm beer. We watched the game.

  Brie asked me if it was true that our principal had gambled our prom money away in Vegas. I said no, my Math teacher stole it. They looked disappointed.

  Some guys from Mother of Hope came over to where we were sitting. They smelled like summer sweat and hair gel. Brie and the other St. Cecelia girls went with them to Burger King to get shakes. Moira didn’t want to go ’cause she was waiting on a guy who hadn’t shown yet. She and me walked over to the playground, sat on the swings, and talked about Father Nunzio, who taught our CCD class in sixth grade. He was the hottest priest in the diocese. His masses were like boy-band concerts, with all the girls crowded up in the front pews having unholy thoughts.

  It got late, then later. The guys playing on the court were older now, guys with hair on their chests and bags under their eyes. They played without talking.

  Moira and me swang and drank, though I couldn’t keep up with her, didn’t even try. She talked until I thought my ears were going to jump off my head and bury themselves in the dirt. I remembered why we stopped being friends when she went to St. Cissy. Motormouth Moira O’Malley. She didn’t know when to shut up when she was sober. Drunk, she was even worse.

  The guys on the court looked like they were playing underwater, pushing hard through the waves. Sweat poured off their heads, down their backs, and stained the waistbands of their shorts. They fell and got back up, and blood ran with the sweat. Every basket made the chain nets jingle. When they dunked, the rim rattled. I couldn’t figure out why they kept playing. It looked like work, like they weren’t having any fun, like this was the most serious thing that had ever happened to them, like they had to win this game or the world was going to stop spinning.

  A black Escalade pulled up to the curb, and a couple of spectators strolled over to it. Local drug dealer, open for business. My gut tightened up, and I knew it was time to go. I got Moira to her feet and more or less dragged her home. She was hammered. All that talking made the beer kick in harder, extra oxygen or something.

  Nobody answered the doorbell at her house and it made me sad, but I didn’t want to cry, not with Moira O’Malley leaning on me, mumbling about Father Nunzio. I laid her on her side in front of the door so she wouldn’t drown if she barfed. I made my way back to the boulevard. There wasn’t a bus in sight.

  It was a long walk home, but it wasn’t too hot or too cold or too scary, and I sort of liked it until the blister on the inside of my left big toe popped. I stopped at an all-night deli for Band-Aids. I also bought three cans of ravioli for Grandma Shulmensky.

  48.

  My house was one hundred percent dark and one hundred percent quiet when I got home. That’s how late it was.

  I tried TJ’s cell again before I went to bed.

  This time he answered. He was all “I’m so sorry, baby, you know I love you, please forgive me, I had to help this guy, my phone was dead, don’t be mad, I’ll make it up to you, I made three hundred bucks, I’m doing all this work for us, say something, Ashley, tell me you love me, it won’t happen again. . . .”

  I said two choice words and hung up.

  49.

  I was Sleeping Beauty, Sleeping Budweiser Beauty. Nothing could wake me.

  Billy jumped up and down on my behind. I slept.

  Shawn put underwear on my head. Kept sleeping.

  Mutt crawled in next to me. Bad breath, but not bad enough to kick him out.

  Steven left me alone. Probably reading.

  Ma hollered at me, but I didn’t move. Dad told her to let me sleep it off. When she left the room, he whispered that I should eat some crackers, drink a lot of water, and take aspirin. He left the box of crackers by my bed.

  50.

  I’d like to point out for the record that I got out of bed, took a shower, brushed my teeth, ate a ton of crackers, drank a quart of orange juice, and made it to school in time for Math, fifth period.

  Just so you don’t think I was a total loser.

  51.

  I cut Math to do my star report, because if I showed up in Science without it, I’d be dead, d-e-a-d, call-your-momma and-cancel-your-graduation-party dead.

  You couldn’t just sit down and do your homework in peace at Carceras. You needed a pass to get into a study hall or the cafeteria if it wasn’t your lunch. I had to dodge security and avoid the halls with the working cameras. I snuck up stairwells and down the back hall like some chick from a James Bond movie, all so I could get to the third-floor girls’ bathroom without being busted. That’s where I wrote up everything I knew about the constellation Andromeda.

  Schools should make it easier for kids who want to do their homework.

  52.

  Didn’t fall asleep in Science. Head hurt too much.

  Wanted to take a nap during lunch but couldn’t, because Ms. Jones-Atkinson hunted me down, captured me, and dragged me to her room where she pointed a gun at me and forced me to take the make-up quiz.

  Okay, I made up that part about the gun. But the rest was true.

  In Amer Gov we studied the Bill of Rights. Somebody pointed out that high school students don’t get many of them.

  53.

  By the end of the day my hangover was gone, but I was still feeling like dirt. I ran into Monica by her locker and asked if she knew where Nat was. She said her weight was stuck at 141.5
and she was very depressed and that Nat was kicking prom butt and taking names. Banks gave her permission to take the day off classes to prepare for the emergency prom meeting.

  “You’re going, right?”

  Monica’s eyes hypnotized me like she was a cobra and I was a baby rat. I didn’t have a chance.

  “Sure,” I said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  Then she said her brother heard that Miss Crane was having an affair with Mr. Banks, and that all sports were going to be cancelled next year because they stole all the extracurricular money.

  I told her no way would a young teacher like Crane look twice at a greasy toad like Banks, even if he did have money. She could do better than that.

  While we were talking, the loudspeaker read out the detention list. Guess whose name was on it.

  “Why do you have so many detentions?” Monica asked.

  I had a choice: sit in detention watching the aide pick at her cuticles with a paper clip or go to a prom meeting and make my best friend happy. Detention looked better. Nobody would cry or squeal or complain about the price of silk flowers.

  But I walked with Monica to the meeting.

  54.

  There were exactly six people at Nat’s “big meeting,” including Monica and me. Monica sat with the other girls in the front row. I took a seat in the back.

  Nat and I pretended like we weren’t looking at each other. Capris were usually a good choice for her, but that day, with painted bobby pins holding her hair out of her face and a pink T-shirt with a monkey on it, she looked as dorky and lost as she did the first day of second grade.

  “Okay, let’s get started,” she said. “I have good news and bad news.”

  The door opened, and in walked Banks and Gilroy.

  “Natalia, ladies,” Banks said. “Hope you don’t mind.”