I hate my dress (pale blue). I hate my heels (silver). I hate my size 32D underwire Chantelle bra (nude) that my mom and the saleslady at Neiman Marcus made me buy to go with the aforementioned hated dress and hated heels. Yet here I am, wearing all three, standing near the snack table at P.S. 182's Mardi Grasâthemed JuniorâSenior Prom.

And all the while, my best friend, Emilie Lang, who's nearly six feet tall and strong from four years of playing volleyball, is squeezing my forearm so hard I can feel a bruise forming. But that's okay. The pain distracts me from the hate.

“He's dancing with Madison Trimabali,” Emilie moans.

“He is?”

Emilie's been obsessed with this “he” since the middle of sophomore year when she was positive they shared a moment while filing into the auditorium for an assembly on the dangers of drunk driving. I glance in the general direction of writhing black tuxedos and pastel sateen gowns, trying to locate Madison's garish orange strapless number.

“If Trevor doesn't ask me to dance, I'm going to kill myself. I swear to God.” Emilie jabs her finger in the air to emphasize how serious she is about the threat of suicide.

“I still have half a bottle of codeine from when I got my wisdom teeth out,” I offer. “That and a bottle of Jack Daniels from your dad's liquor cabinet will at least put you in a coma.”

Emilie gives me a look. I note that the bright blue streak in her blond hair contrasts in a not good way with her aquamarine lace bodice. “Why do I like you?” she asks.

There's no judgment in the question. She's genuinely baffled.

“I have TiVo in my bedroom,” I remind her. “And I get to drive my dad's car on the weekend.”

“Right.” She nods, our friendship falling back into place. A person less obsessed with TiVo than I am might be offended, but Emilie and I understand each other.

At least, we did. Before the prom season started in earnest, and Emilie decided that since it's our senior year, we had to go. Apparently, eschewing traditional stuff like prom and basketball games is okay only to a point. Now that we're approaching graduation, Emilie feels we need to embrace “the high school experience.” She says she wants memories. I tried pointing out that a last-ditch attempt to manufacture those memories by participating in activities totally foreign to us might defeat the purpose. But she's remained firm in her stance, and as a best friend, I feel compelled to support her.

“My breath stinks,” Emilie says, her voice rising a couple octaves above normal. “It does, doesn't it?” She leans in and huffs at my face.

“You're fine,” I tell her. “Crest fresh.” Which is a lie. Her breath
does
stink, but being honest about it might breed hysteria.

“I'm gonna find Gavin,” Emilie announces, referring to her date. “I'll get him to dance, then I'll maneuver him close to Trevor.”

I consider pointing out that scheming to dance
next to
one's crush might fall into the pathetic category, but similar to the breath situation, I decide against it. “Maneuver next to Trevor. Check.”

My own date, Adam Edwardson, is nowhere to be seen. Fifteen minutes ago, I sent him to the vending machines next to the guys' locker room in search of a Fresca. I tried to drink a cup of the punch the prom committee provided, but in addition to being spiked with several kinds of competing hard liquor, I hate punch. Fresca, on the other hand, is very refreshing. I wonder if Adam decided he'd had enough and snuck out of the prom. Maybe I'll get an apologetic message from him on my cell phone in the morning.

“Wish me luck.” Emilie gives my arm one more squeeze, then race-walks toward the crowd to locate Gavin, who's most likely too drunk off spiked punch to realize that he's merely a pawn in my best friend's Machiavellian pursuit of true love.

I drift closer to the snack table and shove a fistful of broken Lay's potato chips into my mouth. They're in a bowl next to a mangled King Cake, an apparent Mardi Gras staple. Too late, I remember I hate Lay's potato chips. Aside from the grease factor, tiny crumbs stick between my teeth, where they'll probably stay until I floss two or three weeks from now. Fastidious, I am not.

I am, however, the kind of person who slows down to look at horrible car accidents. It's that instinct that compels me to turn my attention back to the dance floor. I see Emilie and Gavin, grinding to the Norah Jones cover the band is playing. As promised, Emilie seems to be subtly but determinedly guiding Gavin toward Trevor and Madison. I wonder if, in her zeal, Emilie has stopped to notice that Trevor and Madison are now making out.

My wondering is interrupted when I feel a presence behind me. I fantasize that the presence is a prom-hopping serial killer who has approached to put me out of my misery. Alas, I turn to find Adam Edwardson, slightly sweaty and holding a can of Fresca.

“Sorry it took so long,” he says, half-panting. “The vending machines only had Pepsi so I ran to the 7-Eleven down the street.” His expression borders on triumphant as he hands me the Fresca.

“Thanks.” I'm sort of caught off guard by the lengths Adam went to in order to acquire my soda. Sprinting to a convenience store in one's tux qualifies as above and beyond. I hate it when people go above and beyond. It makes me self-conscious and a bit nauseated.

Then again, Adam is an above-and-beyond type. He's one of those science-loving guys just close enough to being labeled a geek or a dork that he overcompensates by being so genuinely nice to everyone that they have no choice but to like him. I took his niceness into account when I asked him to prom.

“Ayla?” he asks. It's weird to hear him say my name for some reason. Maybe because I'm still rattled by the heroic dash to 7-Eleven.

“Yeah?” I take a sip of the Fresca, its grapefruity goodness sliding down my throat in a way that makes me glad to be alive.

“Doyouwannadance?” The words are softly spoken and run together, but I manage to capture the sentiment behind them. Years of watching TV with the volume on low while doing homework has trained me for moments like this.

“That's okay,” I tell him. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Emilie and Gavin. They're now a mere one couple away from the still-grinding Trevor and Madison, and Emilie is waving her arms wildly as she bops her butt in Trevor's direction.

I turn my attention to a
go raiders
banner that's strung permanently across the gym. The fact that it's sagging under the weight of brightly colored streamers depresses me. I hate streamers.

Adam looks around the gym, too, clearly hoping his gaze will land on something worthy of conversation. I know I should make an effort, maybe ask about his Fresca-buying adventure. But there's a lump of resistance in my throat. I feel any attempt at a good time will validate Emilie's stance that the prom is an experience worth having. To atone for what an awful person I'm being, I hold out the can of Fresca, offering him a sip.

He takes the can and gulps. There's a weird intimacy to it. Someone watching might think we're a couple. I hate couples. As far as I can tell, they're always smug on the outside and miserable on the inside.

“Let's get our picture taken,” Adam suggests, handing the can back. His fingernails are extremely clean. I imagine his pre-prom fingernail-cleaning ritual. “It'll be fun.”

At the far corner of the gym, there's a line of couples waiting to be photographed in front of fake Bourbon Street. In case the Mardi Gras theme isn't clear, Ms. Gleason, who teaches European history, is standing at the front of the line, passing out plastic strands of beads to everyone before they pose.

“I'd rather not get in on the whole Mardi Gras deal,” I inform Adam.

“Why?” He looks confused. The expression on his face reminds me of Emilie's, earlier, when she couldn't remember why she liked me.

“Hurricane Katrina?” I remind him. “Considering New Orleans is currently a wasteland of grounded shrimp boats, wrecked houses, and abandoned cars, I don't exactly feel comfortable whooping it up.”

Adam shrugs, his shoulders straining the material of his rented tux. “I don't know. I thought it was a nice idea.”

“Oh.” Somehow, he's managed to make me feel small. I hate feeling small. “Anyway, it means Fat Tuesday. This is Saturday.”

“Good point.” He smiles, and I feel better. I hate that his smile makes me feel better, because that implies I'm weak, that I need the approval of others to feel okay about myself.

“Thanks again for the Fresca,” I say for no apparent reason. “It was very refreshing.”

He nods. For a couple of moments, neither of us says anything. I study the couples milling around the gym and on the dance floor, all adorned in their plastic beads, not a care in the world. I think, not for the first time, that humans need to be subdivided into a number of different species. There would be one species for pedophiles, another for homecoming queens and football captains, a third for geniuses who cure cancer or spend their life getting to the bottom of pi. I don't know what my species would be, except that it's not represented anywhere in this gym.

“Are you sure you don't want to dance?” Adam asks finally.

“Positive,” I assure him. “I'm good just hanging out here.”

I don't add that I hate to dance. I hate it more than my dress or my heels or my size 32D underwire Chantelle bra. I hate it more than the prom.

“Do you mind if I ask someone else?” he asks. “I mean, since you don't want to?”

The question floors me. The last thing I expected when I asked Adam Edwardson to the prom was that he would leave my side in the pursuit of a dance partner. During one of our physics experiments last semester, I clearly heard him state that he does not get his groove on whatsoever. Given that Adam has overly long legs and an obvious aversion to drawing attention, the news didn't surprise me.

“You
want
to go out there?” I'm looking at him closely for signs that the old Adam Edwardson has been replaced by an identical alien replica.

“It's the
prom
,” he responds. “That's what we're supposed to do. Dance.” He smiles again. “Didn't you get the manual?”

“But you said you
don't dance
,” I remind him. “You said you have no rhythm and that given a choice between medical interrogation and doing the Electric Slide, you would choose the medical interrogation.”

He gives me a look. “Do you remember everything everyone says, or is it just me?”

“Everyone.” And it's true. Conversations get stuck in my head for years. My dad says it's a gift, but he's wrong. It's actually quite annoying.

“Anyway, I wasn't suggesting we do the Electric Slide. We could just get out there and sort of move back and forth.” He sways a little to show me what he means.

“Huh.” I'm forming my next thought when I see Emilie making a beeline for Adam and me.

“She looks happy,” Adam says, noticing Emilie, too.

He's right. Even from here, I can see that her cheeks are glowing from more than the blush she had me apply five hours ago. “Yeah.”

“Is that bad?” he asks.

“Why would it be bad?”

“You tell me.”

Adam is probing. I hate probing. Luckily, Emilie reaches us before he can delve further into my thoughts on the topic of happiness.

“Gavin threw up,” she announces. “Nobody even noticed.”

“Ah, memories.” I'm being sarcastic, but she doesn't pick up on it. Probably because Gavin wasn't the only one hitting the punch.

“Trevor and I had major eye contact,” Emilie tells us, beaming. “Something is definitely in the air.”

“Emilie's in love with Trevor,” I explain to Adam. It doesn't seem fair to leave him out of the loop.

“He's a good guy,” Adam says, giving Emilie a little pat on the back. “You'd make a cute couple.”

Once again, I'm astounded by Adam's general niceness. He's got to know that Trevor doesn't know Emilie's alive, yet he doesn't hesitate to join in her enthusiasm. Suddenly, I get an idea.

“Since Gavin's out of commission, you two should dance,” I suggest to them. “I'll watch.”

Emilie's head bobs up and down, but Adam shakes his. “Maybe you should see how he's doing,” he tells Emilie. “What with the puking and all.”

She sighs. “I guess I'd be a pretty shitty date if I didn't, huh?”

Adam shrugs, not wanting to
say
it, but clearly thinking that's the case. I feel stymied. I hate feeling stymied. Nonetheless, I can hardly force the two of them to twirl off into the Mardi Gras night.

Emilie grins. “Next time you see me, I'll be in Trevor's arms. Guaranteed.” She takes off, jigging a little to the Maroon 5 song the band is playing as she goes. I marvel at her ability to live in perpetual denial. She will
never
be in Trevor's arms. I know that as sure as I know that I will never wear these heels again.

“Don't say you didn't have your chance,” I say to Adam in the awkward silence that Emilie leaves in her wake. “I tried.”

“Can I ask you something?” His intonation goes up at the end of the sentence, like he wants my permission, but my gut feeling is that he's going to ask regardless of my response.

“Sure.” I wonder what's coming. It could be anything from my bra size to my opinion on how to solve world hunger.

“Why did you ask me to the prom?” Adam is looking straight at me, his brown eyes curious, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“Because you're nice and smart and I knew you didn't have a date,” I reply. There are other reasons, but Adam doesn't need to be privy to them.

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

BOOK: 21 Proms

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