“Yeah. My school is having a prom, June twelfth. It’s kind of stupid but it might be really nice, you know, for us to go.” My voice is shaking. I’m kind of horrified that I’ve asked him, but also kind of thrilled. Going to prom with Dean might actually make prom exciting. An image flashes into my mind suddenly—Dean and me on the dance floor, his arms around my waist in front of everyone—and it sends a rush of adrenaline through me.
“So you want me to be your prom date.” He’s smiling openly now. “You’re one of those girls.”
“What girls?”
“You’re a romantic.” He reaches his pointer finger up to tap me gently on the nose. “You’re a Bridget Jones girl. You’re an Affair to Remember. You’re an Audrey, not a Marilyn.”
“What does that mean?” I’ve seen the movies he’s referencing, but I’ve never particularly liked any of them. There’s not enough blood. Dean is the one who quotes Casablanca.
“You want the top of the Empire State Building, crying into your ice cream because you can’t face your feelings, love can cure cancer kind of thing,” he says. “I had you all wrong.”
“I don’t want to cry into anything.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, reaching over and taking my hand. His fingers are rough and warm. “I think it’s adorable. Let’s go to prom.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling an excited fluttering of nerves in my chest, the deadline of June twelfth looming only two months away. Because I know what this really means; what he’s really asking me, what I’m really agreeing to. Prom like promise.
“I should get inside,” I say. “It’s late.”
“I’m sorry,” Dean says, and I’m pleased by the sincerity in his tone. “I wasn’t trying to push you earlier into anything. Everything’s cool, right? We’re groovy?”
I’m laughing, rolling my eyes at his use of the word groovy, like he’s trying to be some cool dude from the ’70s. He sounds like my dad.
“Everything’s groovy,” I say, and I lean in to kiss him one more time before opening the car door and stepping quietly out into the street.
“Bye, Prom Date,” he says, reaching an arm up to wave.
“Bye, Prom Date,” I echo, the words sending an anticipatory thrill through me.
He starts the car and pulls away, and I watch as he disappears around the corner.
That’s what I don’t want to risk: the feel of his fingers in mine, the twinkle in his eye when he makes a stupid joke just for me, the fact that I’m allowed to lean in and kiss him whenever I want. The two months before prom suddenly feel like freedom—now I can kiss him without any added pressure. My decision has been made for me, the date set. And a prom night with James Dean is as close to perfect as I’ll ever get.
But then the reality of the situation crashes down on me—the excitement churning to anxiety in my stomach. I have a quick vision of the two of us in bed—the moment I’ve finally agreed to give him. Why would I risk messing things up when there’s a guaranteed way to make that moment perfect?
Before I know what I’m really doing, before I have a chance to change my mind, before my brain has time to process what my fingers are typing, I pull out my phone and send a quick message to Andrew.
Are you free tomorrow after school? There’s something really important I need to ask you
SEVENTEEN
I WAKE UP in a panic. I scramble for my phone, wishing I could erase what I sent. What the hell have I done?
There’s a response from Andrew that must have come through after I fell asleep.