“See you then.”
As he walks away I close my hand into a fist around his email address. I’m a genius, I think. This is a genius idea.
I’m going to prom with Christian Prescott.
Mom’s crying again. I’m standing in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom a few minutes shy of seven o’clock on prom night, and she’s crying, not sobbing or anything because that would be too undignified for her, but tears spilling down her cheeks. It’s alarming. One minute she’s helping me pull two silver ribbons through my hair, something Greekish, she said, and the next she’s sitting on the edge of her bed silently weeping.
“Mom,” I say helplessly.
“I’m just so happy for you,” she sniffles, embarrassed.
“Right. Happy.” I can’t help the disconcerting feeling that she’s unraveling lately. “Get it together, okay? He’s going to be here any minute.”
She smiles.
“Silver Avalanche coming up the driveway,” calls Jeffrey from downstairs. Mom stands up.
“You stay up here,” she says, wiping at her eyes. “It’s always better for him to have to wait.”
I go to the window and covertly watch Christian pull up to the house and park. He straightens his tie and sweeps a hand through his tousled dark hair before he comes to the door. I give myself a last once-over in the mirror. The theme Mythic Love is supposed to bring to mind the myths of gods and goddesses, Hercules, that kind of thing, so my Greek-inspired dress is perfect. I’ve let my hair hang in waves down my back so I won’t have to wrestle it into a style. I’ll have to dye it again soon. My gold roots are starting to show.
“Here she comes,” says Mom when I appear at the top of the stairs. She and Christian look up at me. I smile and carefully descend the steps.
“Wow,” says Christian when I stop in front of him. His gaze sweeps me from head to foot. “Beautiful.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about me or the dress. Either way, I’ll take it.
He’s wearing a sleek black tux with a silver vest and tie, white shirt with cuff links and everything. He is, in a word, mouthwatering. Even Mom can’t take her eyes off him.
“You look great,” I say.
“Christian was telling me that he lives close by,” says Mom, her eyes sparkling, no trace of the earlier tears on her face. “Three miles directly east of here, did you say?”
“Give or take,” he says, still looking at me. “As the crow flies.”
“Do you have brothers and sisters?” she asks.
“No, it’s just me.”
“We should be going,” I say, because I sense that she’s trying to figure out how my vision will finally come together, and I’m afraid she’ll scare him off.
“You look so wonderful together,” says Mom. “Can I take a picture?”
“Sure,” says Christian.
She runs to the office for her camera. Christian and I wait for her in silence. He smells amazing, that wonderful mix of soap and cologne and something all his own.
Pheromones, I guess, but it seems like more than simple chemistry.
I smile at him. “Thanks for being so patient. You know how moms can get.”
He doesn’t respond, and for a moment I wonder if he and I will ever have a chance at a breakthrough tonight. Then my mom’s back and she has us stand against the door while she takes our picture. Christian puts his arm behind me, his hand lightly touching the middle of my back. A tiny tremor ripples through me. There’s something that happens between us when we touch, something I can’t explain, but it makes me feel weak and strong at the same time, aware of my blood moving through my veins and the air moving in and out of my lungs. It’s like my body recognizes his. I don’t know what it means, but I kind of like it.
“Oh, I forgot,” I say after the flash goes off. “I got you a boutonniere.”
I dash off to the kitchen to get it out of the refrigerator. “Here,” I say, walking back to him. I step up to him to pin the boutonniere — a single white rose and a bit of greenery — to his lapel and immediately stab myself in the finger with the pin.
“Ow,” he says, flinching as if the pin has pierced his finger instead of mine. I hold my finger up and a single drop of blood forms on it.
Christian takes my hand and inspects it. My breath catches. I could get used to this.
“Think you’ll survive?” he asks, gazing into my eyes, and I need to close them to keep my breath from shaking.
“I think so. It’s not even bleeding anymore.” I take a tissue from Mom and hold it on the spot of blood on my finger, careful not to touch my dress.
“Let’s try this again,” I say, and this time I lean close, our breath mingling as I carefully fasten the boutonniere. It’s the same feeling I had when we were lying in the snow on the ski hill, a breath apart. Like I could lean in and kiss him, in front of my mother and everything. I take a quick step back, thinking things are either about to go very right tonight, or very wrong.
“Thanks,” he says, looking down at my handiwork. “I got you one, too, but it’s in the truck.” He turns to Mom. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Gardner.”
“Please, call me Maggie.”
