Tessa Masterson Will Go to Prom (3 page)

He waits for me to respond. Why didn’t he put a more
recent picture? Something about his baseball stats or my track record. Me breaking through the finish line of the marathon last year, the youngest competitor with the fastest time. Or him with his buddy Gus, or Danny, them goofing around on the baseball diamond?

I study the page. “Thanks, Lucas,” I tell him, and I mean it even though my voice starts to waver.

“Wait—there’s more.” He tells me to flip over the paper bag, and on the back of it in green marker he’s written RECYCLE ME, so I walk the paper bag over to the big recycling bins underneath the enormous sign that announces sales or Giant Brooks specials for all the world to see.

“Look, Lucas,” I say loudly, in the hope that he’ll hear me, hear in my voice that I have something to tell him. But my voice gets sucked up into the late-afternoon heat, the distant sound of rushing traffic.

Lucas looks up. I tilt my head, trying to figure out what he sees—a bird? A plane?

Impatient, he puts his hands on my shoulders. “You’ve got to back up. You can’t read it from there.” When I’m a few feet away it becomes clear.

It’s a simple equation and one that should be true.

In huge electric-blue letters, the kind we keep for megasales.

“I know, I know, maybe you just assumed we’d go
together because, well, I sort of did, too. I mean who else would we go with, right?” Lucas says when I’m turned around and facing him, my mouth hanging open. He’s basically blared the question to the entire population of our town.

“It’s ecologically sound,” I say, trying to inject my voice with a hopefulness I simply don’t feel because right now it hits me: if I say yes to Lucas, there’s no way I can take someone else. But then—contrary to my ever-present customer-satisfaction skills—I know this, too: just because Lucas wants or assumes I’ll go with him, doesn’t mean I need to agree. Because the truth is that there is someone else I’ve pictured dancing with.

“So?” He grins from the side of his mouth, which used to drive me insane when we were little and then made summer girls fall for him. Now it makes me feel sad.

He points up to the twenty-foot-tall illuminated sign. Instead of advertising 85 percent lean chuck on sale, underneath the equation, in case I’m too thick to understand, he’s put in block letters:

I know exactly what he wants and I know the five steps to customer satisfaction, how to give Lucas just the answer he’s looking for. Only this time, I can’t do it.

There are tears in her eyes. Once again, the chick flick has educated me well—she’s overcome by emotion because I’ve finally wised up and seen the treasure that was right under my nose the whole time.

She drags a forearm across her face, holds her eyes closed for a few seconds, and then looks at me. And I realize something’s wrong because she’s not smiling through the tears.

“Lucas,” she says. “Oh my God. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I …”

“What? What is it?” I reach out for her arm, and she turns her body away, so I’m reassuringly putting my hand on nothing. My stomach feels like it has imploded—it’s a tight little ball of stress and fear. Tessa is crying and won’t let me touch her. And every car in Brookfield is
driving by and looking at the sign and looking at us. Horns honk.

“About damn time!” somebody yells out.

“Lucas, we need to talk. But not here,” she says. She turns and nearly runs through the store to the loading dock. I can feel the eyes of every Giant Brookfield employee burning into me as I run after her.

Most of the big trucks come in late at night, or, more accurately, early in the morning, like when my mom is firing up the bakery ovens, so there’s nobody back here. Just me and Tessa and a bunch of wooden pallets and flattened cardboard boxes. There’s a nasty, reeking puddle on the concrete floor where somebody dropped a couple dozen eggs and never bothered to clean up. If Tessa’s dad finds out who it was, they’ll be out of a job tomorrow.

“Lucas,” Tessa says, and now she’s really crying, tears just rolling down her cheeks. “I thought you knew.”

In desperate hope that this whole thing hasn’t gone horribly wrong, I fling some chick-flick clichés at her. “That you were—that you and me … All along I had the best girl right under my—”

“No!” she shouts. “Crap, this is the problem with not saying stuff. People just fill in the blanks. I love you, Lucas. You’re my best friend. But I don’t love you like that. I can’t. I’m not … I mean, God, it’s not like I really kept it a secret from you. Every movie we ever watched, I was talking about the female lead. Why do you think I made you watch so many Katharine Hepburn movies?
Why do you think I made you watch
Tank Girl?
Seriously, I really thought you knew.”

“Knew what? What the hell are you talking about, T?”

Tessa bites her lip and looks like she might pass out. “That I … I like girls, Lucas. I’m gay. Or lesbian or whatever.”

I have nothing to say to that. I plop down on a stack of pallets.

And now Tessa walks over to me and puts a hand on my shoulder. I don’t twist away because I’m not like that, but her hand on my shoulder doesn’t feel electric the way it has for the past couple of weeks. It just feels heavy and too warm.

“I guess I’ve always known, really. But it wasn’t till Josie and I started … I don’t know if you can even call it going out in Brookfield because, you know, we can’t really go anywhere besides my basement …” She gives a sad chuckle.

And now I shrug her hand away and spring to my feet. “You’ve always known? You’ve
always
known?”

Tessa staggers back a couple of steps. “Well. Yeah. I mean … yeah.”

“And you never thought you should tell me.”

“Well, like I said, I never talked about guys or anything, and I really thought you had just put two and two together—” Tessa’s mouth wrinkles.

“Best friends for most of our lives and this little detail about you wasn’t something you thought you should
share with me? I’ve told you about every single girlfriend I’ve ever had, and you have a … God. I don’t even want to know. But you start … going out with someone, and you don’t even see fit to tell me. You have to wait until I make an ass of myself in front of the whole town!”

“I just can’t do it,” she says, and the tears are back. “I mean, I could have done it, we could have gone as friends and had everyone assume I’m something I’m not, but I’m almost eighteen, you know? I’m an adult! I can’t pretend to be something I’m not anymore!”

“Like my friend?” I say.

“No, Lucas, of course—”

“Because friends tell each other stuff like this! That’s what you don’t even get! I have never … God, I feel so stupid right now. I’ve shared like every single thing I’ve ever thought with you, and you had … your whole self … excuse me. I’m upset, and I have to go take down a big lighted sign in front of the whole town!”

I storm out of the loading dock. Tessa doesn’t run after me. I head over to the utility closet and grab the big fifteen-foot-long claw we use to change the letters on the sign. It’s heavy and awkward, and the tears that I’m trying to hold back are making my vision blurry. Fortunately, I can cut through the parking lot so I don’t have to walk through the store with a big claw. Which is good because I’d probably knock a whole bunch of stuff down. Possibly even accidentally.

So I trudge through the parking lot, set up the ladder,
and make the really long climb up to the sign. I left the box of plastic letters out here when I set this up a million years ago. Or an hour ago. Whichever it was.

I start at the end, pulling off the plastic letters and dumping them into the box. Question mark. Into the box. That question’s been answered. ME. Into the box. WITH. PROM.

I wish I could say I was so intent on my humiliating task that I was able to shut out everything around me, but I hear every honk, every call of “Loser!” and every single person who comes out of the store and says something like “Luke? Are you okay? What happened?”

They don’t really care. They just want the gossip. And this gossip is certainly going to be hot. The news of my big, failed sign-gesture is going to spread through all of Indiana. I can pretty much guarantee that when I take the mound against Campbell County Regional next Tuesday, their fans will be singsong chanting “Tessss-a! Tessss-a!” at me. Awesome.

The sign comes down and I put back the more useful, but probably less interesting news that pork round is on sale this week.

“What about this one?” Danny asks, holding up a light-blue suit with overly wide lapels. “I think I can pull it off.”

If anyone could wear outdated bell-bottomed Prom gear leftover from when Journey first sang “Don’t Stop Believin’” and Miss Kaboom wasn’t even born, it would be my brother. I give him a grin but shake my head as I sink onto the vinyl bench by the rental shoes. “I’m not sure Anabel would be psyched about that.”

Danny and I are what my grandmother used to call Irish twins, born nine months apart, and since he’s abnormally smart he’s in my grade. He’s also abnormally tall, which makes people assume he’s older than I am. I sigh, watching him navigate the store. Mr. Tux is off Route 90
in a faded strip mall that I’m sure will be snatched up by a big chain store soon but that for now has only a shuttered Thai takeout place, a bowling alley known mainly for its underage drinking and conveniently located next to the Discount LiquorMart, and Mr. Tux, where all the guys rent their gear for weddings, the Fall Formal, and the Prom. Everyone, that is, who is going.

“I still don’t get why you’re not shopping with Anabel,” Danny says as though he can read my mind. We’re eerily twin-like in that way. Danny knows about me. Has known for pretty much ever, even though I never really had to say anything to him after that first time. I wish the rest of the world were like that.

“It’s weird enough how much time we all spend together,” I tell him, and point to a plain black tux on a rack in the corner. Danny investigates it but then shrugs it off. Probably not cool enough for him; he likes to stand out. Or, as he puts it, would prefer not to look like every other hick who slapped on a Mr. Tux discount special (coupon in the weekly town paper) before rocking out at the Embassy Suites faux waterfall post-Prom. “Besides, it’s not like my style really meshes with Anabel’s.”

Danny’s girlfriend, Anabel, is of the school that anything tight and short can always be made tighter and shorter. I fully expect her to show up in the rental limo looking glamorous and way older than eighteen, whereas the few times I’ve been made to wear a dress I’ve felt horrible in my skin.

“You know I’m not a heels-and-satin kind of person.” I give him
the look
, which he registers right away.

“So don’t wear the heels. Be creative,” he says as though it’s no big deal. As if not every girl in Brookfield-Mason Regional High pays to get her hair coiffed and slithers herself into some gown she’ll never wear again. When I was a bridesmaid at my cousin’s wedding I had to wear this purple strappy number. Instead of feeling like the most beautiful version of myself, I felt like I was trapped in a costume that made me invisible. I looked at the groomsmen not because they were cute—they were, not even close to being my type—but because their tuxes looked good. Straightforward. Honest. Comfortable.

“Just what is your style these days?” Danny asks, sitting next to me as he wriggles his foot in its dirty athletic sock into a shiny black dress shoe that looks comical with his baseball pants and Brookfield Regional green T-shirt. My stomach turns as I think about Lucas in that same outfit at practice today, his pitching arm warm in the jacket he slings on, his eyes steely and intense. We’ve successfully avoided each other today but we’ll be face-to-face at our adviser meeting. The hurt tugs at my chest when I think of wounding him, but I reassure myself that he’ll understand; he’ll cool off and support me, right?

I read online once (and later erased evidence of my search) about this girl in California who told her whole softball team about being a lesbian because she was totally in love with the catcher. And falling in love is a
good reason to come out. And it’s true that I like Josie. A lot. But she’s not why I felt the words about to burst from my mouth when he asked me. It’s Lucas. He’s who I told when my parents thought they’d go bankrupt back when gas prices soared and they didn’t know if they’d get the loan for the Giant Brooks expansion. He’s who I told first about wanting to be premed even though most kids from our town don’t even go to college, except maybe a two-year community college or beautician school. He’s the one who listened to me cry when my grandma couldn’t remember who I was anymore. She couldn’t even remember who
she
was anymore, and how sad is that, forgetting your own self? And Lucas, well, he believed in me and did this thing where he’d squeeze each of my fingertips until I wasn’t scared or sad or pissed off.

So he’s why. Lucas needed to know the truth, and I had to be the one to tell him. Somehow, telling Lucas is like admitting that it’s real. That
it
—the liking girls—isn’t going to evaporate.

Danny nudges me and frowns. “I was just kidding, Tess. No big deal.”

Except it is a big deal. “Um, Danny?” He looks distracted as he fiddles with the too-short laces. “I sort of have a style.”

“I know, I know, I’m just a dumb jock who knows nothing about fashion.”

“You only say things like that because you’re not a dumb jock and everyone knows it.” He’s going to MIT in the fall,
ditching baseball and the entire Midwest for robotic engineering.

I smooth my hair in the back and pull my black tank top down over my hips, flapping my flip-flops out of nervousness. “No. What I mean is, this is sort of it.” I point to my plain top and under-the-radar jeans. “Everyone overlooks all the signs, but here’s the sign. Me. Not dating boys. Me, in jeans and a tank top. It’s sort of who I am.”

Danny keeps struggling with his shoes, not ignoring me exactly but not paying much attention either. “It’s not all of who you are,” he mumbles.

“That’s true … but I can’t help feeling that everyone else is sort of summed up by their outfits. Take Anabel …” Danny raises his eyebrows. “You kind of knew about her before you knew her, right? Tight dresses … not that I’m a fan of judging anyone by their cover …”

“But sure, yeah. And you can tell I’m the awesome athletic stud by my jacket, I guess.”

“Or Gus, how he wears John Deere T-shirts every chance he gets.”

“Farmer’s kid,” Danny says of his best friend.

“So here I am displaying my … lack of …”

“Wanting to date males?” Danny offers.

I give him a wry grin. “But no one picks up on the signs. Never dated a guy. Never wears skirts. You’d think people would put two and two together.”

“You know what they say, ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell.’” Danny mimes a soldier salute.

I stand up and lean for a minute on the glass counter that houses the accessories. There, amid the silver-plated and overly shiny gold button covers, is a pair of cuff links. “These,” I say, “are cool. Yin and yang. See? This outer circle represents ‘everything,’ while the black and white shapes inside are an interaction of two energies …” Danny saunters over to see what I’m pointing to. He leans his tan forearm on the counter. “Yin is white and yang is black but each has a bit of the other in it.” I look at Danny. I bite my lip, thinking. “Just like things in life aren’t totally black or white, one can’t exist without the other. Maybe I need a bigger sign.” I think of the enormity of Lucas’s sign out front of the store, the empty spaces where his question used to be. How now it’s covered in mismatching letters spelling “pork round.”

“Huh?” Danny wrinkles his forehead. “I’m going with the rocker look, with this jacket.” He grabs a midnight-blue shiny number from the rack and holds it up to his chest. “No tie. Open dress shirt with something cool underneath.” He loves to joke, and holds out a complete tuxedo, black pants and matching jacket, a slightly ruffled shirt underneath. “You can have this one.”

I pause, letting the idea form in my head. “You know, I think you’re on to something.” Yes, Danny “knows,” and I thought Lucas might have, though clearly he didn’t, but why should the people in my life have to be split into groups who know and groups who don’t? Can’t it be ask and tell? How can I keep it straight—ha-ha—between
people who see the me as a fraud and those who see the real me? And liking girls is only one part of me. I know that. But it is a part. I picture Danny and Lucas ready for Prom night and ready for their girls. Lucas is his friend, his teammate, and the guy who is meant to split the cost of the limo on Prom night.

Danny holds the tuxedo on one finger, confused, looking out of place in his baseball uniform and dress shoes. “Lucas nearly took my head off with his curveball today. So you guys aren’t going to Prom together, that much is clear. What, he didn’t want to be your fake date?”

I take the tuxedo from him and hold it to me like it offers protection. “No. He wanted to be my real date. Somehow I thought Lucas of all people would know.” I study the suit. “But I have an idea.”

“You never told him?” Danny asks. I shake my head. Danny sighs. “There’s more?”

I nod. “I think I actually want to go to the Prom,” I say, and it feels like I’m admitting something.

Danny smiles. “I knew it. You so want to wear panty hose.”

“I so do not.” I swat at him and he flinches. “I just think I want to go with Josie.”

Quiet stretches out so long I think I’ll melt right into the tacky linoleum floor. The salesperson coughs so I pretend to be talking about Prom things, gesturing with the tuxedo.

“Josie B.?” Danny asks as though the name can’t possibly be right.

“Yeah.” I nod as I find a slim tie and hand it to him.

“The deli girl?” Danny’s face is caught between confusion and congratulations.

“You’re always telling me to find ‘the right person,’” I remind him, and my heart chugs along waiting for him to get exactly what I mean.

“And the one who gives out free slices of Genoa salami to the annoying toddlers is the right one?”

“Truth?” I ask, and my brother nods. Relief. “I don’t know. I mean, I guess she is—for now, anyway. I like her. Yeah.” I smile. “But more than that, it’s like I’m ready to stop …”

“Hiding?”

I take a huge breath like I’m about to go way deep down under water. “Yes.” I force my eyes to meet my brother’s.

He stands there, his mouth open until he realizes how it looks. “No wonder Lucas seemed like he was ready to set things on fire today. You let him go through the trouble of the big Prom gesture—”

“Is it my fault Lucas always does things over-the-top? I didn’t tell him to ask me like that!” I will the tears in my eyes to stay put.

“But you didn’t tell him not to, either.” Danny looks personally offended on behalf of all guys.

“Nothing much, you know, has happened … with
Josie, I mean.” My voice feels small and the words sink into the clothing around us.

Danny’s face brightens. “Oh—well, that’s something to look forward to … big Prom night!” He pauses. I give him a fast nod, waiting to see where he’s going with all of this. “So it’s not that you don’t want to go to the Prom the way we planned … it’s more like you need to rearrange the equation?”

I smile. “I knew you’d get it.” Danny gives a wary smile back. “That’s right. That’s what I’m trying to say. I want everything to be like it was. Only with—”

“Just with, um, a girl. The deli girl.”

“Don’t call her that, Dan. And don’t wear your baseball pants on Prom night.” I make him laugh but then his face crumples, as it always does when he’s sorting something out. “What?”

“Are you still gonna rent the limo with us—I mean, with me?”

I shrug. “I hope so.” It means a lot that he still wants to, so I give him the sibling stare back and he gets it without me having to say so.

Danny looks serious. “It’s just … I’m not sure how Anabel’s going to feel about it, you know? She sort of had that double-date thing in her mind. The shared suite at the hotel and all.” Danny raises his eyebrows so I’ll get his point.

“Oh. Oh!” I say, cluing in. We stand there with the rental clothing until the idea finishes forming in my mind.
How humiliating it would have been to be in some floralbedspreaded hotel room while Danny and Anabel romanced the hours away on one of the beds and me and Lucas … what, played cards or stole tiny shampoos from the utility cart. “I have an idea. About the hiding, I mean. And my style … this!”

I hold up the tuxedo. It is perfectly black, new, with the tags on, and the shirt ruffled just enough to have that feminine edge. “If I sucked it up and wore black heels? And my hair up?” I try to demonstrate and Danny doesn’t know whether to burst out laughing or yell for help. “No, really! See? I’ll still be the double date, only with Josie. And you’ll be the rock star smart jock with your hot Glama-bel.” I can picture it: the warm night air, the slimcut tuxedo, corsages.

Danny breaks my reverie. “And just where is Lucas in this scenario? I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m your brother and I’ll, you know, accept whatever curveball you throw my way—”

“Ohh, warning, sports analogy!” I say, and we both grin but Danny goes right back into his speech.

“But not everyone’s like that.” He shakes his hair into his eyes. Like mine, it’s the color of an old penny, only his isn’t as wildly curly as mine. He looks at me through his fringe. “And Lucas—he’s … I don’t know how he’s going to take all this.”

I bite my top lip and look at myself in the full-length mirror. The tux is too long, but it could be hemmed. And
I have some money saved from extra shifts at my Giant Brooks job. “But he didn’t say anything about it today?” I press the tux against my chest, imagining dancing in it. I know that the tux is just a superficial thing, but it feels like so much more. Like if I wear it to the Brookfield-Mason Prom I’ll be announcing myself. The real Tessa Masterson. And everyone will finally know. I’ll feel the relief you only feel when you have nothing to hide.