“Soooooooo eighties” says Bethany,
as I exit the dressing room and spin around. She is standing a few feet
away, cell phone in hand, noisily gnawing on her gum. “Whatever” I
respond back, giggling. I look at myself in the larger mirror outside the
dressing room, and realize that Bethany is right; it is pure eighties, but I
don’t care. This dress, it will make me someone at prom. I won’t
just be the youngster, the joke that Billy Bradley is taking with him. I
will be that girl, the girl in that dress.
I see Bethany behind me in my
reflection in the mirror, wobbling slightly in her wooden wedge heels. Her
blond bangs cover her greasy, acne-covered forehead. As she walks, she
grips the ends of her white lace sundress, much too short for a girl of fourteen,
and licks her fire engine red lips. “Holy shit, Natalie, you CANNOT go in
that.” “Oh yes I can, and yes I will,” I reply back smugly. I walk
up and down the hallway of the dressing room, on tip toes, pretending I’m
donning 4-inch stilettos, green to match, of course, and do a slow spin for
Bethany. She laughs, and then her laugh turns into a cough as she chokes
on her saliva, revealing that she is only human, and not the body of
awesomeness every girl our age imagines herself to be. I ignore the wetness
in her laugh, and say “It’s over the top, I know. But I think it’s just
what I need. This will help me make my mark.” Bethany and I look at
each other and laugh at the ridiculousness of the green monster hanging around
me. “So you’re gonna get it then?” she asks accusingly. “I think I
just might” I retort, letting out a nervous giggle as the risk I’m taking truly
hits me.
I return to the dressing room.
I unzip the dress, carefully taking it off, making sure not to cause any tears
or loose threads. I slip back on my light blue knit sweater that
reveals my thin waist and flat midsection, and look at my reflection in the
dressing room mirror. I step into my white denim shorts, so short that
the front pockets stick out from under them. I smile back at myself,
staring into my green eyes as I pull my light brown hair into a messy
ponytail. I admire my long legs and my thin, teenaged figure. I am
thirteen, small, scrawny, but what I see in the mirror, that is pure cool.
Bill Bradley had asked me to prom
the previous week. He knew I liked him; hell, everyone did. I
suppose I asked for it to be known, with all of my Facebook posts on his
wall. I had commented on pretty much every one of his 1,598 pictures, and
left smiley face and heart emoticons under almost everything he posted.
Coyness has never been my specialty. I guess I always figured that if I
have something to say, say it; and if Facebook gives me a way to say it even
more, then why not. So, he knew I liked him, and when he and his
long-term girlfriend of 11 months, Susanna, broke up just two weeks before
prom, I suppose I was an easy alternative.
Before the prom invitation, I would
often spend long nights on the phone with Bethany, my bff, speculating about
Bill; if he and Susanna would ever break up, if he could possibly be interested
in me. I would stand in front of the mirror each morning after my shower,
naked, and wonder what Bill would see if he were staring back at me.
Would he laugh at my small, still-developing breasts? Or would he want to
touch them, and touch me all over? I would
fantasize about his hands on my body, new sexuality brewing in me, and feel a
tingly sensation between my legs as I pictured him touching me there.
Later, as I applied my daily makeup, I would look at my skin for blemishes, for
any signs of acne, anxious at the idea of my clear, fair skin being tarnished,
and if Bill would even consider dating someone with such imperfections. I
would apply foundation, eyeliner, mascara, pulling at my eyelids, hoping to
find in them a beauty that could allure Bill, and make him realize that I was
more than a litany of Facebook posts.
And now, as I take out my mother’s
credit card to purchase the green dress, I feel my heart race a little,
excitement dancing through my veins as the cashier slides the dress into the
white plastic bag. I know this dress is a risk, but I don’t care. I
have visions of people laughing, sneering at me; the junior girls whispering
“What is with that dress?” and what they will write
about me and it on Facebook. My more optimistic self sees them looking at
me in approval, admiring the guts of a thirteen-year-old nobody. I
picture Bill looking around at everyone, smirking, as if saying “Yeah, she is
my date, and she’s got balls!”
Bethany and I walk out of the store
together. “Starbucks?” she asks, as we walk toward the huge logo on the
other side of the mall. “Um, yah!” I utter back. We order our drinks,
Bethany sipping on her Carmel Macchiato and me and my Vanilla Frappuccino.
She takes a sip, looking up at me and saying “So, are you feeling ready for
tomorrow night?” I smile at her and say “Yeah, I think so…after we get the
shoes, I’ll be good to go! My mom’s set up hair and nails for tomorrow
after school. I think everything will work out just fine.” Bethany smiles
at me, rolling her eyes “I meeeeean,” she says, “Are you ready to face the
juniors…and Susana?” “Oh I dunno, Bethy” I say, using her childhood
nickname to reveal how unsure I feel. “I mean, I’m hoping there will be
no trouble….but I’m going in there an open target. Especially with
Susanna, I can’t imagine she’ll be happy to see me there.” Bethany looks
up from her drink with sympathetic eyes, “I know what you mean…I’d be so
nervous in your shoes…I’d be seriously freaking out.” “For sure” I say
back with a sigh,” anxiety slowing settling over me. I take a breath,
throwing an imaginary blanket over my nerves, and say with as much feigned
confidence as I can muster up, “But I’m going to rock it.”
Bethany and I go to Macy’s, and I
instantly find the stilettos I’d been envisioning. After that, I head
home, promising to call Bethany later. I skip in the front door, eager to
show my mom the dress. I regale my parents with stories of my afternoon
mall trip as we eat dinner. After dinner, I go up to my room and slip on
my green ensemble, shoes and all. I carefully walk downstairs to the
living room. My mom is seated on the couch, iPad in lap, my dad
motionless next to her, staring at the TV. I yell “Ta da” as I shimmy in
front of them. I twirl around, feeling a huge grin take over my
face. The green fabric surrounds me, giving me a sense of sophistication
that I’ve never felt, making me feel grown up in front of my parents. My
mother looks back at me and smiles. The look on her face instantly
reveals that she hates the dress. My dad briefly glances up from the TV
and gives me a small grin, his disinterest in me and the dress evident. I
look back at my mom and I pretend to believe her as she says “Oh sweetie, it’s
gorgeous.” I embrace her lie, allowing it to give me the confidence I
need to move forward.
I call Bethany later that nights;
she listens to my incessant, contradictory flow of excitement, worry,
confidence, and concern, as I talk about the upcoming evening. She
addresses my doubts, telling me “You’ll be great, Bill will be so happy to have
had you as his date when the night is over!” She boosts my confidence,
saying “That dress is gorgeous, you are going to knock all of those juniors
dead with it, Bill especially.” I hang up the phone saying I’ll see her
tomorrow, my voice raspy from all of the chatter. I turn off the lamp on
my nightstand, pull the covers up, and rest my head on my pillow. I
snuggle into my snail-like slumber position, knowing that sleep will not come
easily, as exhilaration and angst begin a tug-of-war in my mind.
Eventually, I must fall asleep,
because my alarm is going off. I grab my cell phone, turning off the
alarm, and check Facebook immediately. There are a few comments about
math homework and the big day on Bill’s wall, but other than that,
nothing. I check Susanna’s wall as well…limited access, since she has not
friended me…but I can see enough. Nothing of significance is there.
I get up, getting ready for my half day at school; I will leave early to get
hair and makeup done, an afternoon of pampering to prepare me for the big
evening.
The school day breezes by, as if it
were any other day. No one in my classes is going to prom, so for them,
it is just any other Friday. I listen to my classmates’ chatter of plans
of the weekend, new apps coming out, funny YouTube videos. I sit at my
desk and float through the school day, counting the minutes until I can leave.
I seek Bill out between classes,
eager to tell him how much I’m looking forward to the evening, how excited I am
to see him, how much fun I think we’re going to have. I see him at one
point in the hall; he is chatting with one of his basketball teammates, and I
feel too nervous to interrupt him. This shyness, it is unlike me; I feel
my lively, chatty personality slipping away, unease taking over me. My
green dress and its potential impact linger in my mind, dangling fire above my
head. Finally, it is noon, and I can leave.
My mother and I spend the afternoon
in the salon; Bethany’s mother wouldn’t let her leave school early, as she is
not going to prom, so it is just me and my mother going through the pampering
festivities. I sit at the salon, a middle-aged Korean woman scrubbing my
fingernails with a foul smelling chemical, and feel completely frozen with
excitement. My mother sits by my side and tries to get me to “open up,”
asking me “Natalie, are you okay? This is a big day, and I can’t even
imagine how you’re feeling.” “I’m fine,” I retort,” although I know she
will not believe me.
I finish my preparations at the
salon, and my mother and I head home. There, she applies my makeup; I had
wanted to get it done at the counter at the mall, but she insisted that this
was the better choice. My mother smiles proudly as she brushes the blush
across my cheeks. “I’m so excited for you” she says. “Me too”
I say back uncertainly.
A half hour before I’m supposed to
leave, Bethany calls me. With her, I finally am able to speak
freely. “Naaaaty” she says, “This is it! Are you ready? Why
haven’t you texted me a pic yet?” I take a selfie in the mirror and send
it to her quickly. I then chatter with her briefly about the details of
my hair and makeup, and then tell her I have to go get dressed, promising her
to send her a pic of me in my green monster. I glare at my green eighties
ensemble, freshly pressed, hanging atop my closet door. I take it down, staring
at its brightness, and feel the excitement run through my veins. “I am
going to prom” I whisper, as if speaking to my dress. “Tonight is my
night.”
At 8 o’clock, I hear Bill pulling up
to my driveway. I am downstairs, posing for pictures in front of my mom,
who holds the camera like a trophy as she takes shot after shot. I hear
Bill approaching the front door, his dress shoes clattering as he gets
closer. My heart jumps as the doorbell rings, not once, but twice in a
row. My mom looks at me, and I whisper “You!” gesturing for her to answer
the door. Bill says hello to my mother, and she invites him in. I
feel self-conscious, wondering what Bill will think of me, my home, and most
importantly, my dress. He walks in, dressed in a black tuxedo which hugs
his tall, bulky frame, perhaps a bit too tightly. His brown, curly hair
falls over around his face, and he pushes it back behind his ears as he
enters. Looking at Bill, I know that objectively, he is dorky as can be;
but at Hickmont High, Bill represents the shit. Bill is athletic, Bill
is funny, Bill is admired by all the juniors and underclassman. Bill
stops walking when he sees me, and looks down quickly, smiling slightly.
“You look lovely,” he says quietly with a cough. I feel redness
come over me, fully aware that Bill is holding back laughter, but I choose to
ignore it, patting down the creases in my dress, smiling big as I respond
enthusiastically “Thanks!”
My mother proceeds to take picture
after picture of Bill and me, arranging us in different poses. He puts
his arm around me awkwardly, trying not to let the skin of his hand make
contact with my bare shoulder. I brush off the awkwardness, putting on my
best model face for each photo, as the discomfort hovers over Bill and me, like
a rain cloud waiting to explode.
Finally, we leave. Bill
fumbles with the passenger-side door of his black Mustang, showing chivalry and
clumsiness at the same time. I climb in, waving goodbye to my mother who stands
next to my father, whose face is covered with an insincere look of pride, as my
mother furiously waves goodbye. We pull out of the driveway, and are on
our way to the school.
I make efforts at small talk during
our eight minute drive to Hickmont High. Bill responds with short, empty
answers. When we finally arrive at the school, I comment on all of the
balloons decorating the outside entrance, just for us. Bill put on a half-assed
smile, muttering “Yup, they’re great…nice dress.”
As we walk toward the entrance, I
become aware of the severity of my dress choice. What will the other
girls say? What will they think? Will they laugh at me? Will
they dump pigs blood on me, like in that scary movie I
had watched with my mom? I reach my arm out toward Bill, attempting to
link it through his, as couples do, for our big entrance, but he is walking too
fast, and keeping up with him in my green giant shoes is difficult
enough. He pauses when we get to the open doors to the cafeteria,
realizing he should wait for me. I take a deep breath as I rush to be by
his side, and we walk in.
The cafeteria is filled with
juniors. There must be 100 people there already. I find my head facing
the floor, scared to make eye contact with anyone, as we walk to pick up our
table numbers. We find our number, 12, then walk to the table. As
we make our way through the cafeteria, I see junior girls looking up, smirking
at me, whispering to each other as they make no attempt to hide their stares.
I feel myself flush, but continue to stand tall, with Bill by my side. We
arrive at our table, where three other couples are seated. All of them
are juniors, and I know none of them on a first name basis. Bill slaps
hands with each of the guys at the table, and nods at the ladies. He then
begins loudly talk about some sports game, failing to introduce me to anyone.
As the night goes on, and we receive
our food, Bill continues to chatter on with the others at our table. He
addresses me periodically with a small nod or a “Good, huh?” to comment on the
food, checking on me as if I were his shoes lace, and he’s making sure I’m
still tied at his feet. I attempt to make small talk with the other
girls, but they want nothing to do with me. I get up to go to the
bathroom at some point, and I feel the eyes of the junior girls scrutinizing me
as I walk toward the bathroom. In the ladies room, I look in the mirror
at myself in my green dress. The bright green stares back at me. I
stand up straight, forcing myself to admire the dress. I think of the
jeers of the junior girls, and smile at myself, feeling self-importance brew
inside of me at the thought of them noticing me, taking the time to talk about
me. I was someone.
I go back to the table, and our
plates are cleared. People begin to dance, and surprisingly, Bill asks me
to the dance floor. We dance awkwardly for a few songs. I again try
to make conversation with him, but he answers me as if my comments are
senseless, unnecessary, and he stares around at the other couples
dancing. At one point I feel tears brewing, a thickness in the back of my
throat forming, but I push it away. I look down at my green shoes, my
feet throbbing, and continue to move my hips, dancing as if my life depended on
it.
When a slow song finally comes on,
Bill says he has to use the restroom, so I sit down. I look out at all of
the couples dancing, cheek to cheek, swaying along in sync with the
music. I push away the sadness and disappointment that threaten me as I sit
in isolation at the dirty table, and remember how the junior girls watched me in my green dress.
What seems like hours later, the
night finally comes to an end. Bill continues to chat with his friends,
making plans for an after party. He doesn’t invite me, telling his
friends that he has to drop me off, and will hook up with them later. I
stand up, green twinkle surrounding me, and Bill and I exit the
cafeteria. As we are exiting, we walk past Susanna, who touches Bill’s
arm ever so slightly “See you at Charlie’s later?” she says with a smile.
“Sure will” Bill quietly says back, his words saturated with a flirtatious
undertone.
We leave the school. Bill
doesn’t even bother to open the passenger door this time. I let myself
in, and we ride home in silence. I think about the evening, about what a
drag it was. Nonetheless, I feel content, as I slide my hands over my
legs hugged in green silk. I tell Bill that I had a lovely time as he
pulls into my driveway. He looks at me incredulously, fully aware of the
rudeness of his behavior, and manages a, “Yeah, me too.” He says goodbye,
not stepping out to walk me to the door, and I leave and head toward my house.
When I get in, I tell my mom that it
was great, that I am tired, and will fill her in with details tomorrow.
She accepts this begrudgingly, allowing me to head upstairs to my room. I
enter my room, and am faced with myself again in my full length mirror.
My green monster, my risk, my success. My memories of the evening do not
include Bill’s shunning me, being ignored by others, disregarded like a speck
of dust. I look back at my dress, and see its beauty, its uniqueness, and
what it made me. I was noticed, I was someone. I smiled upon
remembering the girls’ whispers and stares; I was not the invisible
thirteen-year-old at prom;I was significant, I was worthy of their words, I was
the green sparkle in a room of darkness.
I unzip the side of the dress and
pull it down over me, letting it drop to the floor. I slip on my
oversized sleeping shirt and hop into my bed. I am too exhausted to check
Facebook, although I feel a sense of jubilation as I think about the countless
likes, smiley faces, and comments that my dress and I are likely
receiving. I close my eyes, letting teenage ignorance dance freely around
me in the darkness, warming my soul as I fall into a soothing sleep.
