Tessa Masterson Will Go to Prom (11 page)

We hear footsteps outside the door, and we immediately break apart, waiting for someone to burst in. But no one appears and we’re left in a state of semiawkward post-hug closeness.

“I don’t know if you’re gonna like it,” Josie says, and I realize that she’s talking about the CD. I hold it, spinning the shiny silver object as though it’s a world I can escape to. “Billy Bragg? ‘Milk of Human Kindness’?” She shrugs.
“ ‘Greetings to the New Brunette’ … Anyway, maybe you will. It’s a little eclectic.”

“I’m good with eclectic,” I say, and wish we could go hang out somewhere and listen to it together. Then it hits me that I can say this, so I do. And she nods.

Just for a moment, I can see it: us on the floor of my room, the music spinning us into some sweet orbit, my mom cooking something in the kitchen, the scent wafting up—or, more probably, reheating some deli oddness she brought home. And then I flinch, knowing that in my scenario, Lucas was there, too, listening with us, delivering his commentary on each song.

“You must miss him,” Josie says, reading my mind.

I nod. “Everything’s such a mess—your car, the people out front … Prom? All this about Prom?” I wonder if Josie had a song she wanted me to request for her at the DJ station. If there’s actually a dance somewhere that allows people to just wear what they want or bring anyone as their date.

But it’s not here. And it’s not going to happen for us. Even over the air-conditioning’s hum, I can hear the muffled protests. So I don’t ask her what song she wanted to dance to with me, or how she was going to wear her hair. Since all of that is going up in flames, and if the town has it their way, I will be, too, I just tell her, “Maybe you want to go the back way? Behind the Dumpsters?”

Josie nods. “I never meant for this to happen, you know,” she says when she’s at the door. The burst of sunlight
surrounding her is almost eerie. “I just needed to find a way of earning a few extra bucks.”

“I know. Me neither.”

“I’m gonna duck out,” Josie says, and hunches over as though about to be ambushed.

I watch her go. I can’t believe what my life has turned into.

“Seriously? You’re letting her slum by the Dumpsters? Those things haven’t been emptied for two days—the collection truck couldn’t get past the crowd.” Danny hangs up his baseball hat and tries to fluff out his hair in the small service-room mirror.

“How else should Josie get out of here? It’s insane out front,” I say, and march over to the deep soapstone sink that is leftover from when this store was one tiny general mercantile. The faucets squeal as I lather my hands, trying to smell like soap instead of mayonnaise.

Danny sits on the bench. “You know, it is possible that everyone out front is full of crap.”

I turn to face him, my hands dripping onto the concrete floor. “Look, my life sucks right now. I can barely make it into work without getting my head ripped off. Mom and Dad won’t have a store to go to if it stays empty like this, and all because of what—me? My dumb idea to, I don’t know, actually be honest?” I shake my head.

Danny stands up, scratches his head, and then takes me by the shoulders and sits my butt down on the bench. Employees’ street clothes hang on pegs behind me, empty memories of who they are outside of their deli, bakery,
and cashier roles. I raise my eyebrows at Danny. “I’m on the clock here, buddy. Potato salad is my future.”

“But it’s not!” Danny cries, like I’ve denounced all that is good and holy about grocery items. He clears his throat. “Okay. Here goes.” He studies my face. “I’m going to assume for the time being—correct me if I’m wrong—that you don’t know much about European football.”

“If by ‘know’ you mean ‘care’ …” I grin.

“Shush. Listen. It’s 1988 and—”

“And we’re not even born?” I interrupt.

“God, how did Lucas put up with you for so long?” Danny mutters, a smile playing on his lips. Hearing Lucas’s name makes my heart curl up on itself, and I flop back against my dad’s old barn jacket.

“Fine. I’m listening, oh, wise one.”

Danny claps his hands. “It’s 1988 and Wimbledon Football Club pretty much sucks. They’re sort of laughingstocks all across England, right? No one takes them seriously when they show up for the massive final competition at the FA Cup final.” Danny grabs his deli apron and slings it over his head, tying the strings as he has a million times before. “The point was the team did their own thing—they were wild and played jokes and the head of the team was this guy Samir. Everyone thought he was bonkers. Wacko reputation for setting things on fire or letting other players do that.” Danny laughs. “Once the guy even offered to buy the striker a camel if he scored a certain number of goals.”

“Are you saying you’re going to get me a camel?” I ask,
and stand up so Danny and I are face-to-face. “Because that might really help me right now, you know, riding—really slowly, of course—to school on a dromedary. Talk about blending in.”

“No, see, that’s
not
what I’m saying. You don’t blend in, Tessa. You kind of did before but only because you exhausted yourself doing it. And now your cover’s blown. You can’t get it back.”

I bite my lip, the refrigerated air cooling my limbs.

“Everything that came before, it’s sort of gone. Or changed. So trying to do your duck-and-cover thing, it won’t work. Samir let his team be themselves—do what they liked. Create their world. Havoc, heaven, whatever. Everyone wrote them off, Tessa. The paper called the whole team crazy. Turns out, all those jokes and crazy times made their team stronger. They crushed Liverpool, who totally dominated back then, and Wimbledon’s goalkeeper, Dave Beasant, was a hero.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

Danny grins and crosses his arms. “Right. Because you can be a hero in your own tiny football pitch or Midwestern town and not fight everyone’s fight. Don’t make this into a world issue. That’s too hard. Think about you. Tessa. The runner. The girl who applied to college a decade early beause she was too excited to wait. The friend everyone can only dream of having. The girl who bought a kick-ass suit to wear to a really fun dance.”

“Team spirit?” I ask. I picture the tux hanging in the dark of my closet.

Danny nods and laughs. “You’re totally picturing the tux right now, aren’t you?”

“I hate that you can read my mind,” I tell my brother.

“I hate that they’re doing this to you. To us,” Danny says, and hands me a bottle of tepid seltzer from the supply crates in the corner.

I guzzle it, the bubbles choking me, and then look at Danny and start to laugh, which makes me choke on the water even more. “What if,” I gasp, as I try to regain my voice, “what if I went anyway? What if I go to the meeting and just … I don’t know … tell them too bad. They don’t get to decide who I dance with. Or what I wear.”

Danny gives a big baseball team
whoop!
and punches the air. “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!”

My voice rises. “I mean, the meeting is open to the public and it’s tomorrow. Which gives me ten hours to feel nauseated and anxious and almost entirely alone.”

“But not completely,” Danny says. His face is bright. His plan worked.

“I know,” I say, and thank him with my eyes. “And yes, you are the king of the sports pep talk.”

“Go Wimbledon!” Danny shouts, and puts his hand out.

“Go Wimbledon!” I shout back, and slap him five, already questioning whether I’ll make it into that school board meeting—and, if I do, if I’ll make it out alive.

The night inches forward, my digital clock ticking minutes away, then, finally, hours. I get dressed quickly, throwing
myself first into a jean skirt, thinking the skirt might make me seem less … I don’t know … less butch? But then I get annoyed at myself and my sticky closet door and step out of it and into the standard spring wear of nearly every high school girl here—jeans and a tank top. Before I can renege on my outfit or overanalyze whether flip-flops are too casual or sneakers too manly, I fling my bag on my shoulder, take the stairs two by two, and grab an unheated bakery-case leftover (read: stale) sticky bun to eat in the car.

As I drive—a little too quickly—toward school, it’s like I’m seeing myself from above, an aerial shot of a girl—any girl—driving through small-town America. And I know the girl isn’t just any girl. It’s me. But what I notice about the streets that I’ve been walking and running and driving on forever is that they’re just strips of overlapping fading tarmac, all running into one another. No matter which way you go, you wind up in the same town. The same place. I pull into the school lot, sheltering myself against the shouting and car horns directed my way, all the while realizing that, like it or not, I have to be here, doing exactly this.

So I ignore the “freak” taunts and the graffiti someone thoughtfully nail-polished onto my tire, which I only just notice now, and give up looking for sympathetic gazes as I go to the principal’s office. Usually, the industrial gray carpet and ancient desks and yellowing calendar give off an air of serenity. At least they have for me, because I’m
not someone who gets into trouble—I’ve only come here twice: once when my grandfather died and Mrs. Glickerman, the secretary, had called me down in the middle of World Culture to tell me, and once to discuss the food my parents were donating to the graduation reception—that was before MegaMart took over all school functions, with their gummy guacamole and shoelace-flavored straws.

“Ms. Masterson,” Mrs. Glickerman says, her eyes on her desk as though something terribly important has glued her gaze there.

“Yes, hi,” I say, and pinch my thigh through my jean pocket to keep myself from running out. “I’m here for the meeting?” Damn, why’d I make it sound like a question?

“I’m afraid it’s a closed meeting.” Mrs. Glickerman shakes her head.

I’m about to get frustrated when I remember my training. Customer-service practice. I take a breath. “I hear what you’re saying—this meeting isn’t intended for students.” Mrs. Glickerman nods. “However …” She looks up at me, suspicious. “Technically, it’s an open meeting because it concerns a community event, meaning one that takes place not on campus but at an off-site location …” I lay it on thicker. “I really appreciate you giving me the heads-up, though, because it’s so much better for us all to be informed of these things, and you really play a large part in this school and its day-to-day functioning …”

She motions for me to proceed to the principal’s door,
which feels like a triumph until my hand palms the dirty brass knob and I feel the full weight of the door, and of everything beyond it, falling on me.

We get past the introductions and before the parents can stone me to death or drag me away, the principal uses her arms and voice to shush everyone. Once, Lucas and I went to farm camp and we had to wrangle sheep. We were so busy laughing and goofing off in the hay, we didn’t get our chores done. Our penalty was missing the afternoon milk shakes and having to catch this insane lamb who was tiny but fast. Lucas and I cornered it. Now I know how that lamb felt.

“The educational process is a delicate one,” Principal Hartford says, her face chalky, lips outlined in brownish pink. I hear murmurs of agreement around me. My pulse quickens, sweat beads on my upper lip. “All students have rights.”

All students do have rights, I think. Could it be that Principal Hartford is actually on my side? My hopes rise as the air in the room grows thin.

“What about the rights of our children?” asks one parent.

“Exactly,” says Lewraine Abernathy, the superintendent. She nods at Principal Hartford.

I wish for what feels like the fiftieth time that Lucas were here. Or Danny. But I remember my brother’s words. Wimbledon. I cough, but before I can speak, Lewraine takes over.

“Your”—she gestures loosely at me as if addressing the air in front of me—“actions of late are very distracting to the student body. It is the belief of the school board that hosting a Prom under these conditions is not in the best interest of the school.”

I think about Lucas and his Prom-invitation sign, about my brother and his girlfriend, about everyone, even the small-minded assholes in the hallway misspelling “homo” so it reads “hommo” on my locker. “Everyone deserves a fun dance,” I say quietly.

Clearly, these are the words they’ve been waiting for.

“We’re so glad to hear you say that, Ms. Masterson,” says Principal Hartford.

Up until this whole thing started, I was Tessa. Now it’s more formal. Did lawyers tell them to call me that? Or are they so grossed out by me they need to distance themselves even through what they call me? Like I’m not still the girl they knew on the track team last year.

But I am.

“I deserve a Prom, too,” I say, this time a little louder.

“That’s fine,” Lewraine Abernathy says, in a tone like she’s hushing a toddler. Jenny Himmelrath’s parents are there and they add a few yeses and then Mrs. Himmelrath bursts in.

“You could have your own Prom, dear.”

I raise my eyebrows, shocked and annoyed. “I—”

“The bottom line is that we’ve taken this very seriously, Ms. Masterson,” the principal says. Like I’ve been treating
it so lightly, right? “And we have determined that district policy leaves discretion up to us. Neither do we agree to your bringing a same-sex date to our Prom nor do we give you the right to wear clothing specifically designed for males.”