promised land. “And when you hear the alarm, run.”
“Alarm?” she repeats, wide-eyed, just as I pull open the door. An ear-splitting wail rings out.
I grab her skinny, corsage-wearing wrist with one hand and hike up my skirt.
“RUN!”
With one hand clutching the steering wheel, I press my cell phone to hear the message again.
“Uh, hey, Meg, it’s Christopher. . . . I’m not going to be able to make it tonight. . . . Something, uh, came up. So, yeah, have fun without me!”
Beep.
“Uh, hey, Meg, it’s Christopher. . . .”
I let it play once more, lost in some kind of haze as I circle the country club parking lot. I’ve been here ten minutes, and I know Christopher’s words by heart, but I still can’t seem to make a decision. Up ahead, the exit is marked with grand columns and a drifting bouquet of balloons, and to my left, the main doors are polished and gleaming, inviting guests in. Stay or go, stay or go. I make another loop instead, feeling a hot tear begin to trickle down my cheek.
I wipe it away, foolish. This isn’t how I imagined my first formal dance. For years, I’ve pored over that red leather album showing my parents at their high-school proms. The photographs are full of teased hair and netted gowns, but what I always loved was the simple happiness in their expressions: Dad, stiff in his tuxedo, goofy grin too big for his teenage face; my mom, pale and slight even back then, but lit up with a glow of giddy excitement. It’s not as if I was naive enough to think it would be the same for me — after all, I’m not one of those girls tearing pages from magazines and planning their parties, gossiping over dresses and dates like the glossy elite of East Midlands High. That isn’t my life, especially these days, but despite every instinct that prom would be just another lonely rite of teenage passage, I had hope. Hope that maybe when it came to my turn, I’d have just a taste of that romance, a glimpse of that glitter of dancing and fun.
I wish that for once, my instincts weren’t right. Because despite the dress, the shoes, and even the son of a family friend we found as a date for me, I’m not even up the front steps and it’s all falling apart.
Pull yourself together, Meg Rose Zuckerman.
My mom’s voice comes suddenly, as loud as if she’s sitting right here beside me. It’s been three years now, but it still makes me jump a little to hear her like this. Everyone says that it’s a form of comfort, the mind’s way of coping, but I don’t get anything as sweet as soft encouragement from my subconscious. No, when I hear her, it’s the way she would talk near the end: impatient and full of dark humor. I used to feel bad for laughing then, when she would only joke to relieve the awful tension lingering in every sterile room, but now I prefer the no-nonsense attitude.
Can’t wait around for Prince Charming forever, she would always say, and I hear it again now. You aren’t the kind of girl who ever needs rescuing. It’s a waste of a damn pretty dress, that’s what it is.
She’s right. Swallowing back my tears, I force myself to find a free parking space and check my reflection in the mirror, carefully wiping away the smudge of mascara beneath one eye. My purse is a tiny beaded thing, twinkling black sparkles in the car light, and I grip it firmly as if it’s my only protection.
You’re here now. You might as well do this.
People are spilling out of the grand double doors as I approach: clusters of girls hugging on the front steps as they pose for photographs. I wait patiently to the side while they giggle and fuss over their hair, making everything perfect for those online profile pictures and albums they’ll upload in the morning — if they can even wait that long.
“You got a light?”
I turn to find another straggler, lurking back from the steps in a three-piece white tux. He looks too old to be here, tall and dark-eyed, restlessly flipping a cigarette through his fingers like a magic trick.
“Umm, no. Sorry,” I add, apologetic.
“Guess it’s for the best.” He doesn’t move, looking reluctantly at the building for a long moment, as if he’s trying to decide something. At least I’m not the only one