Prom Kings and Drama Queens (19 page)

“I hope you won’t mind sharing the editor position next year,” Daniel said.

I looked up at him and smelled his woodsy-scented cologne. “Not unless you do.”

Daniel laughed. “I was the one who suggested to Ms.

Keenan that she pick two editors. At first she tried to pair me up with Carly for the prom story, but I asked if we could pair up instead.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“I read a story in the newspaper about these four 189

guys who made a pact during their freshman year that no one would try to get ahead of the others by taking extra AP classes or anything else,” Daniel continued.

“They were friends and they were all smart, so they figured they’d cooperate with each other instead of competing for valedictorian. I liked their style.” Daniel pulled me closer to him. A tingling ran down my arms and legs. It wasn’t a nervous tingle like the kind I’d felt with Brian. It was warmer, like the kind you feel on Christmas morning when your whole family’s around you.

For the rest of the afternoon I didn’t know what to make of Daniel’s confession. Had we not been competing all along? Who was this person?

I watched as he danced with the elderly women, twirling them and dipping them till they were giddy. He even danced with a woman in a wheelchair.

The prom went by quickly—Frances had said a couple of hours would be enough for most of the residents and she was right. By the time Natalia convinced Lindsay to ditch the island music and play the bunny hop, only a few joined in.

“This is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for us,” the tiny woman with the gray hair and the pink flower in her buttonhole said on her way out of the rec room. Others thanked us and said they hoped we’d come to see them again. Lily had been right. A small 190

gesture could go a long way.

Lindsay played the theme song to
Gilligan’s Island
while the rest of us cleaned up. Daniel and I reached for one of the flowered centerpieces at the same time. “You take it,” he said. I put it in the cardboard box, and then looked up at him and smiled. “One prom down. One more to go.”

191

T WENT Y-TWO

Emily Rocks South Florida

After a short rest and shower, I got myself ready for Prom No. 2. It had seemed a little hypocritical to buy a new outfit, so I wore my newest pair of jeans and a top Lindsay had given me. It was a shirt from the play
Wicked
, with the words DEFY GRAVITY across the front.

I’d worn it only once before and Brandy and Randy had pointed at it and asked if it was talking about my boobs.

Daniel had dropped Brianna off before he went to pick up the food. She joined me in the backyard to set up the tables. I tried to ignore the commotion going on at the Harrington house. Cars pulling up. The rustle of expensive gowns. The music out by the pool where par-192

ents yelled “Smile” and snapped pictures of their kids against the backdrop of the setting sun on the water.

Brianna and I shook a bright floral tablecloth in the air and smoothed it over a table under the tent.

“Are you okay about not going to the prom?” I asked.

“Yeah, I’m over it now,” she said. “How about you?”

“So over it,” I said.

I ripped open the plastic cover of a second paper tablecloth. “I’d much rather be here.” Brianna smiled. “You know, I would have disagreed with you a few weeks ago. But after Austin dumped me, I didn’t miss that crowd at all. They don’t have any more fun than anyone else; they just have better PR

about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever noticed how all they talk about is what a great time they had the
last
time they were all together? In the cafeteria and in the halls, even at parties, they’re always talking about the cool thing they did before. It would be like if you and Daniel had only
talked
about doing the alternative prom but never actually did it.”

I was thinking about what Brianna said when my brother came running to announce that Daniel and Lindsay had arrived with the food. We all helped carry sodas and platters of food to the backyard. After several 193

trips back and forth, Daniel and I were alone at the car with only a couple of platters left.

He looked at my shirt. “From
Wicked
, right?” I nodded and pointed to his—a T-shirt with a tux painted on the front. “From the thrift store, right?”

“Right,” Daniel said. Then he reached into the front seat of his car, pulled out one long-stemmed pink rose, and handed it to me. “This is for you. I didn’t think you’d want a corsage since it would kind of go against our whole anti-expensive-prom thing. But I know how you had to give up your date with Harrington and . . .” He stopped in mid-sentence as if he hadn’t rehearsed the rest of the speech.

I took the rose, which hadn’t fully opened yet, and inhaled the sweet scent. My eyes met Daniel’s and I suddenly wanted to tell him everything. All about how I’d wanted to get revenge on Brandy. How I’d wanted to beat him out of the editor in chief position. About how I was wrong about Brian. Wrong about lots of things.

But just as I started to tell him, as if breaking a spell, a giant silver Hummer pulled in front of the Harringtons’ house. Daniel turned to get a look and scowled. “Can you spell conspicuous consumption?” I held onto the rose and balanced a tray of fried bananas with my free hand. Squeals erupted from next door and everyone rushed to see the limo. Parents followed with their cameras. I was about to take my rose 194

and the platter to the backyard when I heard my name.

I spun around to find Brian, looking hotter than ever in a black tux with a bright red cummerbund. He strolled toward Daniel and me. Daniel grunted something, then took my platter and walked away.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound casual. “How are you doing?”

Brian did the trademark nod and repeated, “Doin’

well. Doin’ well.” Then he added. “I just wanted to say thanks for being so understanding about the prom and for telling Grams you’d dance for her.”

“Sure,” I said.

Brian gestured toward the backyard and then at me.

“So, how are you doin’?”

“Doin’ good,” I said. “Doin’—”

“Br-i-i-ian.” Brandy Clausen’s whine suddenly pierced the air. She stretched out the
I
so that somehow even Brian’s name would be all about her. “I need you next to me for the picture.”

Brian rolled his eyes.

Brandy called out again. Brian turned and waved to her. “Guess I’d better go,” he said. “See you?”

“Sure.” I walked backward, away from him, clutching my rose in one hand and waving with the other. I watched him pose next to Brandy, in her shiny red dress. I expected to feel a pang of jealousy, and was surprised when I didn’t.

195

Back in the kitchen, my mother had created her famous punch with rainbow sherbet, pineapple, and maraschino cherries, and a picture-perfect watermelon filled with fruit. I admired her work and then asked for a vase for the rose.

“It’s from Daniel,” I said. “In lieu of a corsage. It’s sort of a pity rose.”

My mother laughed. “I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as a pity rose.” She put it in a vase and handed it to me. “You’d better go,” she said.

When I went back outside, everyone was already digging into the food and Brianna was playing DJ.

I glanced at my watch. Almost time.

A horn sounded and I looked out at the water to find the
Conga Queen
in the distance. I grabbed the CD I’d rehearsed with and gave it to Brianna. She turned up the volume and everyone turned to see why John Mayer’s “No Such Thing” was suddenly blaring.

The
Conga Queen
shot a beam of light into the yard.

I stepped into it and began to move. I started with the strut that Lily taught me. How did it go? One, two, three, four.

Then the kicks. Up and down. Up and down.

Then what was that step called? Grapevine. Cross front, side, back, side.

The boat drew closer, and I could see Lily and the captain with their matching hats. Lily saluted and the 196

captain blew the horn again. I waved and then flung my arms to the sides.

My heart began to race.

I spun again and again. Turning, twirling. My arms reaching to the sky. Dancing from deep down the way Lily had described.

I was unaware of anyone around me. And then all of a sudden Daniel was by my side. I stopped to look at him and stumbled. He caught me in his arms.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I nodded. “How about you? How are you doing?”

“Good,” he said. “Pretty darn good.” Wrapped in a circle of light from the
Conga Queen
, it suddenly hit me:

Doing good was a lot different than doing well.

How had I not realized that all these months?

I stayed in Daniel’s arms, inhaling his familiar scent.

We began dancing together, side by side. Natalia and Lindsay joined us and the others followed. Suddenly we were all doing the bunny hop to John Mayer. I could feel the truth of the lyrics. No prom kings or drama queens here. We were all dancing outside the lines and it didn’t matter.

“Are you sorry you didn’t go to the real prom?” Daniel yelled over the music.

“No!” I shouted, surprised at how easily it came out.

Daniel grabbed me by the waist. I looked into his 197

eyes, startled. I remembered the first time I’d seen Lindsay play Chopin’s “Fantaisie Impromptu.” I knew I was looking at some secret part of her, way down deep, that I’d never seen before. That was how I felt when I was staring into Daniel’s eyes.

He smiled and then picked me up and spun me around and around and around. The world seemed to be spinning along in perfect sync when the words came to me:
Veni, vidi
. . . ah, forget Latin . . .

I came.

I saw.

I
rocked
.

198

Acknowledgments

Many, many thanks go to:

My editor, Tara Weikum, for always encouraging me to dig deeper and for understanding my work almost better than I do. I am a lucky writer to have her at the helm.

My agent, Steven Chudney, for his speedy responses and advice, and for taking care of everything that has to do with numbers.

Erica Sussman and everyone else behind the scenes at HarperCollins who has worked so hard to put this book together and to place it in the hands of readers.

Julie Arpin, Kathy Macdonald, and Gloria Rothstein for letting me brainstorm, whine, and complain on an almost daily basis without ever letting on that I can be most annoying.

Phyllis Laszlo for introducing me to great literature and teaching me that my ideas were worthy enough to jot down in the margins of my books.

Joyce Sweeney for starting me off on this journey and for getting together two fabulous critique groups that have pro-vided me with both their ideas and enthusiasm. Thanks to all of you for your support.

199

Alex Flinn, E. Lockhart, Nancy Werlin, Lara Zeises, and the entire cyber community of writers for their willingness to share their knowledge of both writing and publishing.

All of my friends and family members who continually support what I’m doing in so many ways. I hope you all know who you are.

Daniel Iden for lending me his first name and his former taste in T-shirts and Brett Kushner for contributing his humor back in our carpool days. I miss those times.

My son, Blaise, for the constant jokes, and I do mean constant, and for always keeping me company.

My daughter, Siena, for her inspiration and willingness to read every word I write.

My husband, Stephen, for his love and support, but mostly for never complaining about eating take-out food or having to step over the piles in the study.

And, lastly, thanks go to the anonymous old man, who has probably since passed on, whom I saw dancing in his backyard more than twenty years ago. His joie de vivre and desire to make the world more beautiful by giving everyone who sailed the Intracoastal a laugh was an inspiration. I hope he’s dancing in heaven.

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About the Author

Dorian Cirrone

is the author of DANCING IN RED SHOES WILL KILL