Love, Hate and Other Filters(64)
I laugh. “I have been known to shower occasionally.”
“I mean … you smell good.”
As I straighten my head and shake the hair from my face, I see a curtain in the house swish into place. I point to the window.
“I was wondering where Violet was,” Phil says. “Shall we continue the show?”
I shake my head. “Indian modesty complex.” I ease out of Phil’s lap. “But I have a feeling she’s going to be really engrossed in her physics homework for a while.”
Phil changes the subject. “So listen, prom is next week. And I want to ask you, but there’s that stupid promise I made Lisa.”
“As Amber and Kelsey informed me, remember?”
He nods, and the corners of his mouth turn down. “Look, I want us to go and have a great time. But I’m not sure if it’s worth the drama. I shouldn’t have made that promise, but Lisa was so angry. And I had no idea if you even liked me.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
“No. It’s not okay. I want to take you. It’s the end of senior year. It’s tradition. It’s cheesy, but there’s no one I’d rather be cheesy with.”
The secret cheese-loving part of my heart melts. “Seriously, Phil, it’s fine. I’m not exactly traditional.”
“I know. That’s one of the things I love about you,” Phil continues, apparently oblivious to how a single word makes me come undone. “So will you go to a nontraditional prom with me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You have to answer first. Is it a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”
“Yes. Of course. Now what is it?”
“I’m making it up as I go along. It’ll be good, though. Saturday night. Can I pick you up at your house?”
“Definitely not. I’ll be over here helping Violet get ready for the dance.”
Phil squeezes my hand. “I love planning surprises for you.”
All he has to do is ask, and I will go to the ends of the earth with him. Defy my parents’ expectations, even my better judgment, for the perfection of Phil’s arms around me. If only we lived in a vacuum.
He leans over, taking my face in both his hands. When we kiss, my body swells with anticipation. Then I’m the observer again—watching a girl being kissed by a boy, spring sun glistening around them, lighting their bodies in halos.
Then I’m myself once more, and the warmth of Phil’s skin seeps into mine. My thoughts and emotions tangle—longing and confusion and uncertainty, but beneath the chaos in my mind, the tender reeds of hope take root and grow inside me. I no longer have to document it all from the perimeter. I am the girl, and this is my story.
A.M. Chicago Interview with Jessica Fields, classmate of Ethan Branson
He was quiet. Not a lot of friends. I think he sat with some of the skinhead kids at lunch. No one took them seriously—in terms of them being racist or whatever. I mean, there weren’t even any black kids at our school. Or Jews. I guess we all thought they were losers who drew swastikas and smoked in the parking lot and wore black hoodies.
I had one class with Ethan, American lit, junior year. He sat in the back doodling in his notebook most of the time. Never wanted to talk in class, not even in group work. It was kind of weird, though. It was like he knew the answers, but didn’t want to be bothered answering them or, like, even speak.
But this one time we were studying Walt Whitman and his feelings of being helpless or the futility of life or something. And the teacher called on him to read this poem. He started out reading real slow, but by the end he seemed kind of into it. He even answered questions about it. Mr. Bradley was floored. We all were. I don’t think anyone had ever heard Ethan speak so much.
After class I remember him kind of hunched over with the book in his lap. I saw him tear out the page and stuff it into his pocket.
“You look gorgeous. Poor Mike’s going to have no idea what to do with all that skin. I can picture him fumbling around, trying to figure out where to put his hands.” Somehow despite all the sheepish grins and blushing and quiet crushing, Mike seized his moment and asked Violet to prom. Probably no one was more surprised than him when she said yes.
I grin, almost blushing on Violet’s behalf, as I pan the length of her body, allowing my camera to assess her black satin dress, which is short, backless, and tight—and worn with absolute aplomb. “You’ll have to be careful when you’re dancing, or your ass will pop right out of the two inches of material that are holding it in,” I tease.
“That pic would totally make the yearbook.” Violet smirks.
“I would love to catch that moment on film.” I sigh.
Violet smiles at me. “You look amazing. I mean, that dress. I’m psyched you’re embracing your hotness this way.” She pushes me in front of the full-length mirror. Then she whispers, “Trust me, your night is going to be epic.”
I lower my camera. I smile at my reflection. I look good in the short, peacock-print chiffon dress I chose. The beaded straps form a V-neckline that leads to a ruched bodice and pleated skirt. Violet gave me a blow-out earlier, so my hair is the silkiest it’s ever been and falls in loose layers that frame my face.
”Oh, and before I forget, here.” She hands me a small backpack.