Say a Little Prayer(78)

I have no idea how people end up with this kind of money, but since neither of them have told us what they do for a living, part of me likes to think it has to do with organized crime. That’s certainly more interesting than Mr. Wilson giving people new noses.

“You having fun?”

I look down as Torres sidles up next to me. Even in her heels, she’s several inches shorter than the rest of us, the hem of her pink gown barely skimming the top of the cement. She cut her hair sometime last week, and now it stops just below her chin. I think the effect is striking, a girl who knows exactly what she wants, and that’s probably how she ended up here in the first place—a sophomore who’d effortlessly convinced some junior basketball player she’d never spoken with to ask her on a date.

“Yeah,” I say. “I can’t believe your mom got a limo.”

Torres waves a hand. “Please. That woman doesn’t need an excuse to get a limo. She said, and I quote, ‘You only go to senior prom once.’?”

“You’re not a senior,” I point out.

“Sure, but Hannah is.”

We both glance over to where Hannah stands a few feet away, brushing grass off the hem of her dress. Ben crouches next to her, and when he straightens, there’s a moment where I genuinely think the rest of us could cease to exist and he wouldn’t care because he’d still be looking at her.

They’re not dating. Hannah has made it perfectly clear that she’s going to California alone, but I also don’t think she’d be here tonight if Ben hadn’t shown up on our porch last week with half a dozen roses and a charmingly earnest handwritten poster. I think she likes him more than she wants to admit. I think the thought of trusting someone like that again will always be hard for her, but when she’d pinned a boutonniere of pink carnations to his chest, I had to physically restrain myself from pumping both fists in the air.

After an entire semester of agonizing over her well-being, jumping to protect her at every possible opportunity, it’s nice to know she’ll be okay without me. That she can be her own rock if she has to.

Julia’s watching them, too, standing far enough away from me to feel casual but just close enough that I can brush my hand against hers between the folds of our gowns. Her hair is braided across the crown of her head, pulled back in a low twist. The dark maroon of her dress makes the auburn color pop, complementing the subtle makeup shimmering across both eyelids. Ben said the look was very “Mickenlee Hooper at the Grammys,” and I nodded like I totally understood what that meant.

Now there’s a knowing little smile spreading across her face. When she turns to look at me, I know exactly what she’s going to say before the words leave her mouth. “They look good together.”

I nod, and then, when Torres turns away to head back to her date, I lower my voice and add, “You look good, too.”

She blushes, color working its way across her chest, but when she laces her fingers through mine, I don’t let go.

The thing is we’re not a couple either. Not as far as people know, anyway. Mostly, it’s a balancing act, the careful art of giving her parents just enough information about where we’re going and what we’re doing to keep them satisfied while still finding moments alone. They can think whatever they want about us. They can have their suspicions, pray that their wayward daughter finds guidance, but I know for a fact neither of them will ever ask her directly. They won’t risk getting an answer they don’t want, and Julia will never tell them.

She’ll get out of here next year, too. Maybe we’ll leave together, find a place where no one cares who we are or where we come from, but for now there’s this. Our clasped hands between our skirts, the occasional press of her shoulder against mine, and the overwhelming certainty that it won’t always be this way.

There’s a corsage on my wrist tonight, of course. There’s one on Julia’s, too, the two pieces just different enough that they don’t look like a set. Dad helped me pick them out last week, and when Mrs. Young caught sight of the flowers on her daughter’s wrist, she’d stopped midphoto and asked who her secret admirer was. My stomach dropped, momentarily worried we’d been too bold, but Julia had just looked her straight in the eye and said, very seriously, “Jesus Christ.”

Her mother didn’t ask again, and I had to duck behind Hannah so the others wouldn’t see me laughing.

The adults are still standing on the porch, one eye on us, the other on the bottles of wine Mr. Torres keeps bringing out from the kitchen. They’re all deep in conversation, my dad utterly immersed in something Mrs. Young is saying, and there’s a minute where I think Mom almost laughs, too. Pastor Young is noticeably absent, and I have a feeling it’s because Mrs. Torres told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was not welcome anywhere near her family’s home.

Greer’s dad had donated an obscene amount of money to Pleasant Hills the day after we walked out. I think Amanda’s parents did, too, because no one on the board said a single thing about it to them. Delaney, Torres, and I, however, received a page-long document stating that due to “uncouth behavior,” the three of us were no longer members of Pleasant Hills Baptist Church. The names of the eight board members were scrawled across the bottom with Pastor Young’s signature inked in stark black and white.

Delaney had taken one look at the thick ivory envelope and cried, “I literally don’t even go there!” before shredding it into the trash.