Authors: Sarah Tregay
Her short, blond hair is sort of tousled, and she has on a sky blue sundress. It’s cotton, and not shiny. And kind of plain. She has on a pair of ballet flats with scuffs on the toes.
“So do you,” I say, because it looks like prom clothes weren’t exactly in her budget. “Blue brings out your eyes.” And it does.
“Thanks,” she says.
“You’re welcome,” I say, and make my exit, but in the hallway I have a thought. So I turn around and go back into the ladies’ room. (This time I
do
see Helvetica girl in her triangle dress.)
I look around the lounge, but Challis isn’t there. Spying a door I didn’t see before, I stick my head in.
Challis is sitting on the counter among the sinks, her long legs drawn up under her chin and one ballet flat dangling from her toes. A cigarette hangs from her lips, and her other shoe has fallen to the floor.
“Yeah?” she asks. Bored.
I step forward, so I don’t have to shout. “I thought, um, that maybe you could ask Eden to dance.” Because there’s no way Eden would ask her, and Challis has more balls than the football team.
Challis laughs, cigarette smoke sliding from her nose.
“I don’t do closet cases.”
I don’t know what I thought she would say.
But that wasn’t it.
My lips open in an imitation of a goldfish. “Oh.”
“Jamie,” she says softly. “They just break your heart.”
A run of goose bumps fire up my arms, cold as snow. I shiver. And turn to leave.
But the door opens in a flood of pastel satin, a roar of giggles and shrieks. Soon I am surrounded by a storm cloud of perfume and half a dozen girls I hardly know.
“Hey, Jamie,” one coos, swooping in on me like a Kansas twister.
“You’re in the wrong room,” another pouts, while a third reaches up to straighten my bow tie.
“Yeah.” I blush. “There are no comfy chairs in the guys’—”
But they aren’t listening. They’re smoothing my perfectly messy hair, touching my lapels.
I’m beginning to feel naked despite my clothes.
And Challis is laughing—a Wicked Witch of the West cackle—as I duck away from an air kiss and run for cover.
“Save me,” I tell Eden when I find her at the refreshment table.
“From what?”
“I just got mauled by a pack of girls in the ladies’ room.”
Eden covers her mouth as if that will stop the giggles from escaping her lips. When she gets it under control, we find a quiet corner and sit on the floor. She rests her head on my shoulder and slips her hand into mine. We listen to the music and watch people dance.
My brain drifts back to what Challis said.
Was she warning me? Saying something about me? Or just saying she wouldn’t dance with Eden because she wasn’t really out with her family?
So I tell Eden, “Somebody said something to me.”
“Lia?” she asks.
“No, somebody else. But I did talk to Lia.”
“And?”
“Um, yeah. I kinda bailed on her.”
“Been there, done that,” she says. “Sorry.”
“I can’t believe she hates you so much.”
Eden shrugs and her hand moves in mine. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Sorry,” I apologize, and follow it with what I had started to say. “Why wouldn’t someone go out with someone who’s in the closet?”
“Where’d you find that question, under a rock?”
“Eden,” I whine. “What does she mean?”
“Challis,” Eden guesses. “My words or hers?”
“Um, both?”
“Challis likes girls who are out. It’s, like, if you’re going out with someone who’s still in the closet, the
whole relationship has to be in the closet too. I’d be okay with that. I understand. But Challis doesn’t have much patience.”
“So I’m not worth the time of day,” I conclude. “That’s what she’s saying.”
“If no one knows you’re gay, yeah.”
I feel the goose bumps on my arms again, and ask, “I’m the heartbreaker?”
“Huh?” Eden asks.
I tell her what Challis said.
“I think the only heart you’re breaking is your own.”
I immediately think of Mason—Mason dancing with Bahti to be exact. The empty feeling in my ribs comes back, mixed with jealousy.
Is that what a broken heart feels like?
“Eden?” I ask.
“Yeah?”
“Does someone not liking you back break your heart?”
She looks at me. “You mean me or you?”
I try to smile. It feels like a wince.
She nods as if she understands. “It hurts. But more like a bruise. Not so much broken.”
“Oh,” I say.
“Sometimes,” she says, “the first step to telling someone you like them is to come out to them.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “But it’s not like I can tell this person
I like him. He’s straight.”
“But could you come out to him? I mean, in case he isn’t.”
I play along, because art-geek girls think everyone is gay. “Maybe.”
“Good,” Eden says, and squeezes my hand. “So you’re gonna tell Mason?”
“Yeah.” I feel my fingers wrap tighter around hers, as if the mere mention of the subject scares me. “I’ll tell him.”
Eden squeezes my hand back and says, “Sometimes I wish things weren’t so complex.”
“Like, so I wouldn’t have to come out? Yeah.”
“Like, if people didn’t care, if love was love.”
“Love is love,” I say, more to myself than to Eden, as I scan the room for Mason. He and Bahti are back on the dance floor, swaying to a slow song and deep in conversation. I don’t know which hurts more: his arms around her or that they seem really interested in each other.
“Do you ever want to be like them?” Eden nods in their direction.
“You mean straight?”
“It just looks so easy. One dress, one tux. Just the way things
should
be.”
“I dunno, maybe. I never really thought about it like that.” I see where Eden is coming from. She’d been raised by people who thought that a couple was supposed to be
a man and a woman, not two of one variety.
We’re quiet for what feels like an hour. I watch the other couples at the dance. Sure, they are all Eden’s “right” genders, wearing all the “right” clothes, but I don’t want to be them. Not in my heart.
I want to be me, not them.
“I think about it all the time,” Eden says, interrupting my thoughts. “My parents, they want me to . . .” Her voice fades away, and she rubs her thumb over the back of my hand.
“That must be really difficult—to not fit their expectations,” I say. “I’m lucky. My mom is so great about everything.”
“Your stepdad too?”
I groan. “He’s my biggest fan. He threw me a party when I came out. And he wants to go to Pride next month.”
I feel Eden’s shoulder shake with laughter against mine. “I’ve so got to meet this guy.”
“Please, no.”
“Aw, I could use a little male support. My dad and Nick aren’t exactly throwing me parties.”
“If it helps,” I tell her, “I’m totally cool with you exactly how you are.”
“Aw,” she says sarcastically, but her fingers tightening around mine give her true thoughts away.
“But if you want to pretend to be like them”—I nod
at the straight couples on the dance floor—“we can.”
Eden stands up and I do too.
“May I?” I ask with a little bow.
“Why, certainly, dahling,” she says.
But after I fold her into my arms and she rests her head on my chest, the silliness melts away. We sway to the music. I close my eyes, content.
It feels nice to hold someone—to be half of a whole—like them
, I admit to myself. I half expect my next thought to be,
But she’s a girl!
But it isn’t. I’m glad it’s Eden. I like her. And more than that, I like having someone to talk to about being different.
Technically, prom ends at midnight, but around eleven o’clock, Brodie and Ashley stop by the little cluster of chairs where Bahti, Mason, Eden, and I are sitting. Ashley is wearing her prom queen tiara, and Brodie, a purple sash. The girls sit up a little straighter, as if Brodie and Ashley are the king and queen of England, not of prom.
“Viveros,” Brodie says as a greeting. “After-party, my house.”
“Sweet,” Mason says, holding out his fist for a bump.
Brodie gives him one with the arm that Ashley isn’t hanging off of. “You too, Peterson.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I promise, even though I owe it to Eden to take her to the school- and father-sanctioned after-party. There’s no way that I’m going to not abide
by Mr. O’Shea’s only request. I’ll just go to Brodie’s after that.
When Brodie and Ashley are out of earshot, Bahti lets out a little squeal. “We just got invited to Brodie Hamilton’s, la!”
“Yeah,” Mason says as if it happens all the time, because, well, it does.
But not to brainiac girls like Bahti Rajagopolan. Girls like her aren’t on Brodie’s radar, nor are they in Ashley Quincy’s social circle.
“Should we get going?” Mason asks.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Bahti says, jumping up.
“No,” Eden protests. “I want to stay to the end.”
“We need to talk to Michael,” I tell them both. “He’s going to drive us to the school.”
“The school?” Bahti asks, as if I just said “Brazil.”
“Yeah, for the after-party.”
“But we just got invited to Brodie Hamilton’s!”
“We’ll go to Brodie’s,” Mason explains. “After the school party.”
“And after I go home,” Eden adds sadly. “I have to be home by one.”
Bahti’s eyebrows furrow. She is not liking this plan.
“School party?” Mason asks her. “Then Brodie’s. Promise.”
“Okay, sure,” Bahti says.
“After the last dance,” Eden says, grabbing my hands
and pulling me to my feet. “I love this song!”
It’s “Kiss Me Slowly” by Parachute, and I have to agree.
The last dance is slow and romantic, and Eden is cuddled up against my chest. She feels small and vulnerable, the top of her head coming up only to my chin. I hold her, wonder what it feels like to dance with someone special—someone more than just friends. Does it make you feel strong, like you’re protecting them from the world? Or is your heart so far out on your sleeve that you’re vulnerable, incapable of any action but hanging on for dear life?
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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The school-sanctioned after-party
wasn’t well attended, so there was plenty of food—appetizers, pizza, and every variety of cupcake known to man. I ate five.
Which is why I turned down the beer Brodie offered me when Mason, Bahti, and I walked into his kitchen. Beer and cupcakes somehow didn’t go together. Or maybe it was the image of the rainbow sprinkles making a reappearance in that did me in. “You got soda or something?” I ask.
“Sure, man,” Brodie says, and hands the Solo cup to Mason instead. He opens a cooler.
I choose a can. “Thanks.”
“So, you driving people home?” Brodie asks me.
“Yeah, I guess.”
Brodie holds out a fist for a bump then gives me one of those half-handshake-half-hug deals. “You’re the best, Jamie.”
I raise the soda can in a mock toast—because I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking.
No more Jordan Polmanskis.
Mason taps his cup to my can. “Yeah,” he says. “Jamie’s awesome.”
“And dateless?” Brodie asks, looking around. His gaze stops on Bahti.
“She turned into a pumpkin,” Mason explains for me.
“Too bad.” Brodie says this with half a grin and a little sarcasm. He’s looking at Bahti like guys look at girls—adding up her pieces and parts as if to determine her score.
She notices and blushes.
“Can I get you something?” he asks her, ignoring us completely.
“Sure, a beer would be great, la.”
I glance at Mason, see if he’s noticed the obvious flirting that was going on between his date and Lincoln High’s star quarterback. No, Mason’s attention is on the deck-turned-dance-floor just past a set of French doors where some couples are still in formalwear and others are in street clothes, and all are dancing like they’ve been drinking.
Once Bahti has her drink, she follows Mason outside. Since I no longer have a dance partner, I stay inside and mingle. I get called in to ref a drinking game and then
pulled away to argue the band geek vs. dorkestra hierarchy at Lincoln with three orchestra girls and DeMarco.
“Band geeks are the original,” I explain. “Orchestra dorks are simply copying our amazingly uncool status.”
“See!” Holland, a violinist, says to the others. “That makes the dorkestras dorkier.”
“Dorkier,” DeMarco, our first chair trombone, says. “Not geekier.”
“Yeah, something like that,” I agree, not pointing out that none of them actually register on either scale, seeing that they are at Brodie Hamilton’s post-prom party.
“But what about marching band?” someone asks.
“Geekier,” I say, because I’ve been a card-carrying member for the past three years.
“Totally, the uniforms are so—”
I don’t hear the rest of Holland’s sentence. Not with Kellen making an, um, appearance. He’s shirtless but wearing a bowtie.
“What happened to you?” Holland asks.
“Spilled my beer,” Kellen says, holding up an empty plastic cup as proof.
“Bummer,” DeMarco says.
“And the girls are watching
Magic Mike.
So I did my best Chippendales impersonation.”
“How’d I miss that?” Holland asks what I’m thinking.
“They’re still watching. Downstairs,” Kellen answers,
referring to the big screen setup in Brodie’s basement. Then he ambles toward the kitchen, bare broad shoulders and all.
“Channing Tatum!” Holland says, jumping up. “Let’s go!”
The girls stand up, but neither DeMarco nor I move a muscle.
“You go,” DeMarco says to her.
Holland catches my eye and jerks her chin toward the cellar door as if to say,
Come on.
I shake my head.
Holland and her friends disappear.
“As much as I’d like to be in a dark room with a dozen horny, drunk girls,” DeMarco whispers, “I don’t wanna know how badly I don’t measure up.”