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Down in the Dirt v052

Three Years of Prom

Stephanie Bernard

Year One

    My first year of prom, I wore a dark blue dress, short, with white lace around the bottom, small white gloves trimmed with lace. My feet were tucked into pointed toes—matching shoes.
    My friend wore a dark blue dress. It was long in length but the sleeves where short. The sleeves made her arms look big and the dress made her look heavy.
    My date had paid for his tuxedo rental by mowing laws for six weeks. He was goofy looking with stringy blond hair, small pursed lips folded into a permanent smile. He was fairly attractive, loyal, friendly, but incredibly stupid.
    We went to dinner. When we sat down my date exclaimed “I have two forks.” No one said anything. Instead we trade glances as he stares at his utensils. We ordered our meals and when asked how he would like his steak cooked he looked panicked for a moment then stated “rare” looking proud, as if he had just answered the most difficult question. Everyone at the table cringed while he sat looking pleased, a silly grin on his face. The waitress explained the meaning of the word “rare.” I think he went with medium well while I sat and wondered why I was with him.
    We’re in the parking lot, in front of the dance, the last stop for the night. My friend and I head towards the restroom. Her shoes and bag are dyed to match her dress. It’s raining outside and her shoes get wet, causing the dye to run. Blue coloring is all over her hands and feet and she wraps her bag in a paper towel.
    At the dance my friend disappears with her date. I’m sitting while looking miserable. My date is becoming annoying. She comes back in a huff and sits down, hard. She’s crying. I look at her and she answers my question without being asked.
    “We got in an argument and I punched him in the face.”
    I try to ignore the rest of the evening and sit watching the rest of the horny teenagers gyrate on the dance floor. Some girl is wearing my dress. I feel something brushing against my arm repetitively. It’s my date. He’s petting my arm. I think it’s time to leave.
    We carpooled there and I’m the driver. Everyone, specifically the quarrelsome couple, is sick of the evening and wants to be dropped off. I’m somewhat reluctant to do so since this leaves me in bad company, alone with my date.
    My friend looks tired, pale, and ugly with puffy eyes and make up smeared across her face. We’re in front of her house now. She and her date pile out of the car. She gathers up her faded bag and shuffles off in mismatched shoes.
    Down the street there’s a bump in the road that I like to drive over. I drop off my date. Circle the block a few times, bouncing over the bump until I grow tired and go home.

Year Two
    My dress is royal blue, short, with sequins around the top. My shoes are dyed to match my dress perfectly.
    My friend is wearing a short velvet dress in black. Her blond hair is put up with strategically placed curls falling out of place like a well planned disaster. She’s put on weight since last year and to be honest the dress makes her look fat.
    My date is wearing a tuxedo scarf that matches my dress. We’ve been going together for most of the year and he’s something I call a boyfriend. He’s something that I’ve kept around, reluctant to get rid of though I’ve grown tired of him. He told me that he was doing me a favor by attending this event, even though I paid for dinner, the pictures, the tickets, the whole thing really.
    My date’s best friend is the boy who I secretly adore. I threatened to ask him to the dance when my boyfriend balked at the idea. And my boyfriend states that his friend would never go with me—so I stop thinking about it. When my date/boyfriend finally agrees to go he spends his time leading up to the event telling me how great he is, and often tells me I’ll never find anyone who will treat me better.
    The boy in question, the object of my secret affection, who supposedly would have never gone with me, ends up going with my friend, my fat friend in the short velvet dress.
    A mutual friend ends up dancing with our dates, looking stunning in a borrowed dress, as we sit at a table complaining about our shoes and how they hurt our feet. But we won’t take them off. She’s dancing in the dress that she borrowed from me. It’s long and red with a beaded clasp on the back. It now has food crumbs and a stain on it. Now they’re dancing dirty.
    We’re invited to a party afterwards and I say it sounds like fun. My date has a fit right then and there, and refuses to go. My friends look annoyed but talk him into going.
    At the end of the night we leave and my date refuses to go to the party once again when no one’s around and I drop him off and he’s crying as I drive away.
    We break up a day later. He responds, “You were using me for prom.”

Year Three
    I’m wearing a long black velvet dress with white trim. My hair is put up, held in place by tons of pins and whatever else and it looks immaculate.
    My friend passed away during the year. Her ex, the boy she punched in the face a couple of years ago called me to tell me the news. She died some sort of rock star death, the type that involved drugs and car crashes.
    My date for this year is dressed in black and white. His hair is fixed for the occasion, slicked back and wet with styling gel. He’s much taller than I am and I wear heeled shoes to make up for it, plastic shoes three inches high that kill my feet.
    We go out to dinner at a restaurant near the ocean. They serve seafood, no surprise, and the walls contain tanks full of living entrees behind glass.
    We’ve known each other for years. But lately he’s become moody and strange. We laugh and joke as we sit at the table but something’s missing.
    I stare at the crabs in the tank while he eats. They crawl up the side and slide down. They crawl over each other. One stands on another’s back and raises it’s pinchers to the top, reaching pointlessly.
    My meal is served. The rest of the crabs have settled now, given up to the bottom.
    We arrive at the dance. My date greets his friends who I’ve never met before who are brooding in the corner and I can already tell that they don’t like me. They look at me disapprovingly and we scamper away. We dance. They’re watching. He looks embarrassed. And some other girl is wearing my dress.
    I stop to talk to a couple I know. They look miserable, like they just want me to go away and I leave them to their fighting and aggravated silence.
    I watch an old obsession, the boy who I still harbor secret affection for. I watch as his date walks away from him on the dance floor. He had tried to kiss her but she doesn’t want him anymore. He looks miserable.
    Unable to have a good time I retire to a corner where I meet a friend who is alone, who used to date the mutual friend who borrowed my red dress the previous year, and we spend the rest of the evening licking the ice sculptures.
    My date and I exit the dance. We go to a hotel and end up sitting on the bed smoking pot and laughing at the television as we make out. He’s wearing red underwear underneath the black and white.
    He falls asleep. I smirk and giggle at the television and realize I’m amusing myself with no one to laugh with. So I let him sleep and forget about it. It was no surprise when we broke up two days later.



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