Chapter 20

At dinner the next Monday, Dad revealed the complex prom compensation package he and Mom had devised in response to my pleas for financial assistance.

“We will pay for the tickets to the dance,” he said. “And half of dinner. You’re on your own for the tuxedo rental.”

I knew this last part was a concession to my mom, who bought all her clothes at thrift stores. She would think that I should just buy a black suit and bow tie from Goodwill rather than rent a tux.

“What about After Prom?” I asked. After Prom was the accurately but not creatively titled event that took place following the dance. It was basically a big G-rated party hosted by the parents where students could participate in quasi-fun activities that did not involve alcohol or pregnancy.

“What about it?” asked Dad.

“You’re not going to pay for my tickets? They’re only ten dollars each.”

“We believe you can afford that,” said Dad.

“You know,” I said, lowering my voice slightly to convey gravity, “studies show that if a couple does not attend After Prom, the girl is far more likely to end up getting—”

“Okay, okay, all right,” he interrupted. Luke and Anna were both pre-birds-and-bees talk, and Dad didn’t want me saying the p-word around them, which could lead to uncomfortable dinner-table questions about the mechanics of reproduction. “We’ll pay for your After Prom tickets.”

“In that case, I guess I can get by without getting a job.”

Mom let out a sigh of relief.

“If…” said Dad.

“Here it comes,” I said.

“You do the dishes tonight.”

I smiled. “Deal. Nice doing business with you.”

The next afternoon I went to rent my tuxedo. I wasn’t quite as frugal as my mom—that is, I didn’t want to buy a tuxedo from the seventies at a thrift store—but neither did I want to drop three figures on a rental from an upscale tuxedo shop. I knew just the place to go, a super-sad-looking wedding supply store in the first floor of a two-story house near my high school. The living room window had been converted into a display case featuring a creepy mannequin (is there any other kind?) in a bridal gown, and a sign that read TUXEDO RENTAL $30. I knew a good deal when I saw one.

“I’d like one of those thirty-dollar tuxedos, please.”

“Do you want the shoes, too?”

“Do they come with it?”

“No, they’re twenty extra.”

I owned a pair of shoes. In fact, I owned several pairs of shoes. So I decided that there was no reason to spend an extra twenty dollars. After all, I was here to rent a tuxedo. That’s the piece I didn’t own.

“No, thanks. Just the tux.”

They had two sizes remaining. I chose the one that fit less worse.

When I got home, Mom asked if I had ordered the corsage yet.

“What is a corsage again?” I asked.

“The flowers. These days it’s usually on an elastic band that goes around the girl’s wrist.”

“Hmm… is it important?”

“Yes.”

“Well, no, I haven’t.”

“I called around to the flower shops for you,” she said. “I found one that has them for only six dollars.”

“Oh, thanks. That sounds like a good deal.”

“Yes, and, well,” she said, as if she had something stuck in her throat, “I would like to buy it for you. If you want.”

She smiled a smile that revealed both her pain in offering to pay six dollars and her pleasure in giving me a gift that would enhance my chances with Evelyn.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, hugging her.

“You’re welcome. Do you know what color Evelyn’s dress is?”

“No. Why?”

“I need to tell the flower shop.”

“Why do they care?”

“So they can match the flowers with her dress.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“People care about that stuff?”

“Girls care about that stuff.”

I slept until three thirty on the day of prom in order to be well rested for staying up all night. Unfortunately, this also meant I started the day behind schedule. I scrambled to take a shower, shave, and put on my tux. That last part turned out to be incredibly complicated, involving a highly inefficient and antiquated buttoning system down the front and French cuffs that required cuff links, which are virtually impossible to put on if you have the unfortunate disadvantage of being born with only two hands. The only easy part was the bow tie, because it was of the pre-tied, clip-on variety. Anyway, I was supposed to pick up Evelyn for dinner at four thirty, and I left approximately on time, but after driving a few miles it hit me: I had forgotten the corsage.

I wheeled around and drove back to my house, where my mom retrieved the corsage from the refrigerator. By the time I left again, it was already four thirty, and I still had at least a fifteen-minute drive to Evelyn’s house. I was sweating profusely and breathing short, shallow breaths. This was such an important night and here I was ruining it because I was late. I drove eighty-five in a fifty-five, faster than I ever had before, on my way to her house. It was kind of like my fantasy about her, except instead of speeding heroically so I could comfort her sooner, I was driving frantically because I was having a mild panic attack.

I skidded to a stop in front of her house and hobbled on my artificial leg up to the front porch. She answered on the first knock, literally right after my fist made contact with the door, so when my hand returned for a second knuckle-rap the door was already opening and I nearly punched Evelyn with a palm-forward fist.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, why?” I said, breathing heavily.

“You look… sweaty.”

This isn’t really what anyone, guy or girl, wants to hear upon being inspected in their formal attire by their prom date.

“It’s really hot out.”

“Is it?” She extended her arm outside to feel the temperature. “Yeah. I guess.”

“I’m so sorry I’m late.”

“No problem.”

I looked at her for the first time. When you make your initial examination of the appearance of your female prom date, you must balance the competing obligation (and desire) to linger over the curves of her body long enough to appreciate the thought and care that went into her dress selection with the fact that her father is standing in the foyer immediately behind her, and he is looking at you looking at his daughter. I started with her feet, which were adorned casually in flip-flops—a nice choice, especially given the exceedingly non-prom-like wing tips I was wearing—that matched the color of her dress. The dress was a long silver gown with a thin mesh netting over a base of silk. It started at her ankles and ended below her shoulders. Her hair was glued and glittered like some kind of complex decorative piece of pottery that would shatter if it was dropped.

She looked beautiful. But I didn’t want to just say that: Hi there, you look beautiful. Because that was what I was expected to say. That’s what all gentlemen say to their prom dates. Mom had taught me that. Even if she hadn’t looked beautiful, I would have said it anyway. It was the appropriate remark for the occasion. Precisely because it was so appropriate, so perfunctory, however, I wanted to say something more so she would know she really did look absolutely beautiful, so she would know I noticed the way the elegantly shimmering dress matched her nails and the way it all radiated out from her big brown eyes like rays from the sun. But again, her dad was standing right there.

“You look beautiful,” I said, adding a slight but meaningful pause in between the second and third words.

“Thank you.” She beamed. “And you look very handsome.”

Which I didn’t, I knew. I looked very sweaty. But it was the polite thing to say, and Evelyn was a polite girl.

She invited me in for the exchange of wearable flower arrangements, a ceremony her mother was already poised to photograph with paparazzi-like eagerness. I unwrapped the six-dollar corsage my mom had given me. It was blue and white. I slipped it over Evelyn’s wrist, the flashbulb strobe-lighting the room. Evelyn’s mother produced a boutonniere and handed it to her. Evelyn removed the pin from the stem and stepped so close I could taste her perfume on my tongue.

“I’ll try not to stick you,” she said. Similar to You look beautiful, this is the obligatory line uttered by every human being who has ever installed a pin-attached flower arrangement to the lapel of another human being. It’s not funny—particularly if yours is the epidermis in question—but you have to laugh anyway.

We posed for a variety of other photos and then we were off.

I put a mix CD that did not include any of Ani DiFranco’s work in the car stereo.

By way of making conversation, I said, “Have you decided about college yet?”

She shook her head. “No. I was pretty set on Virginia Tech, but now with Mason and me being… on a break… I’m not so sure.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“Like, maybe I just wanted to go there to be with him.”

I nodded. “Well, better to find that out now than go there, break up freshman year, and realize you had just followed him to school.” I wondered whether my words revealed too much glee over her partial singleness.

“At the same time,” she added, “I don’t want to not go there just because he’s there. I mean, maybe that’s the best college for me, you know? I can’t plan my entire life around avoiding him.”

“True, true. No one likes a reverse stalker.” I wished silently that she had applied to William and Mary.

“Do you think you’ll get back together?” I asked.

“No. I mean, yeah, probably. I don’t know.”

We were silent for a while, thinking. I knew they most likely would get back together eventually. I mean, historically speaking, a definite pattern had emerged: So far, 100 percent of their previous breakups had resulted in passionate reunions, in getting-back-together-agains. And as they say, history repeats itself.

But right now, tonight, she was more or less single. If ever I had a chance, this was it. It all seemed to hang on whether I won prom king. If I won, maybe that would give me the confidence boost I needed to be a fun dancing partner, and then to try to kiss her or tell her how I felt. And maybe it would help her think of me as more than a friend. If I was prom king, I might become, in her eyes, something more.

On the other hand, maybe she’d just be happy that her good friend Josh Sundquist had won a popularity contest. Maybe she thought of me like a brother or maybe she valued our friendship too much to see if there was something more there. That was the problem. Back when I had been trying to date Francesca, the issue had been that I didn’t have a friend to help me understand the relationship. The problem with Evelyn? She was the friend.

It all came down to tonight.