I’ve dreamed about this night ever since Kassie and I watched The Kissing Booth at a sixth-grade sleepover. We consulted Google immediately, ogling sequined gowns, making collages filled with celebrities we’d love to go with, curating the perfect romantic slow-dance playlists, and gushing about the day it would finally be our turn to go to prom.
And now, here it is. The best day of a teenager’s life, after years of anticipating, commiserating, and meticulously planning.
Things aren’t going exactly as planned. My hairdresser, Alice, butchered my updo. She went buck-wild curling the hair framing my face into tiny old-lady ringlets. It’s not that I have anything against curls. But this is far from the loose, old-Hollywood glam waves I presented in my album of inspiration photos.
“I have to do them tight because your hair is so pin-straight and coarse. It’ll fall throughout the day, trust,” she kept insisting as I watched the horror in the mirror.
It’s been two hours since I left the salon and it has yet to fall. In fact, I kind of resemble a hobbit. This does not bode well for my trust issues. Even Mom had to stifle a snort when she picked me up.
Unfortunately, my appointment ran late so I don’t have time to fix it. I have exactly forty-five minutes to do my makeup and get dressed before Clay picks me up.
I’m naked in the bathtub frantically shaving a patch of hair on my upper thigh when Clay shows up. He’s a good half hour earlier than I instructed last night via text.
As I hastily rinse the shaving cream off my legs, Mom answers the front door. I hear her squeal in delight. Footsteps pad into the living room and she says, “The famous Clay Diaz. Charlotte has told me so much about you!” Kill me now.
I struggle to zip my dress without assistance as Mom fawns over Clay in the living room, asking about Model UN, where he’s going to college next year, and what he hopes to do with his life. Then she tells him he’s the spitting image of one of the characters in the book she’s writing. I’m shocked he doesn’t flee.
By the time I muster the strength to emerge from my room, Clay is sitting stiff backed on my couch, gripping the armrest. He’s wearing a black suit with a pinstriped gray tie. There’s something different about his hair. Gel, perhaps? It’s combed back like an old-school gangster. All he’s missing is a fedora.
“Hi,” I say. I spot my dirty llama-print socks strewn over the cushion next to him. Cool. Cool. Cool.
“Hey, Charlotte,” he says with a half smile, eyes darting to my hair, and then back to Mom behind me. He looks flat-out nervous, very different from his usual chill self.
“S-sorry I’m late.” My face is hot from rushing around and blow-drying my chest to get a water stain out of my silk dress. “You look . . . nice.”
He smiles. “Thanks. My mom insisted I wear a suit.”
I laugh, disturbed. What would he wear to prom other than a suit? There’s an awkward beat of silence as I wait for him to return the compliment, but he doesn’t. Maybe my hair really is that bad. Instead, he extends a hand toward me, clutching a clear plastic box containing a pale-pink corsage. The corsage is beautiful, with a little bracelet attached made of tiny pearl-like beads.
I open the box and put it on my wrist, admiring it from all angles. “It’s gorgeous. Thanks, Clay.”
Mom claps her hands together, stands abruptly, and pats herself down like a TSA agent. She does this when she’s looking for her phone, which is usually either lost between the couch cushions or in the cup holder of the car. This time, it’s on top of the microwave. “Can I take some photos of you two in the front yard before you leave?”
We head outside and snap a couple unflattering photos before Mom lets us go.
“Kinda shy, eh?” she whispers as Clay heads to his Jeep. I can tell she’s really thinking, Hmm, not too sure about him. I give her a warning look and her expression softens. “Don’t be nervous. Just have fun! And don’t forget to be safe tonight.” She gives me a suggestive wink. My mom has turned into Amy Poehler in Mean Girls.
“Bye, Mom,” I say before hopping into Clay’s Jeep. “Sorry about her, by the way.”
“It’s cool. She’s nice.” He seems unbothered, eyes trained on the road ahead.
I really should have planned some talking points ahead of time, because right now, my mind is blank. Why is it that I can’t summon a single word in Clay’s presence? It’s like he has some weird hold on me that renders me unable to speak English.