There wasn't a fancy hotel or a posh location anywhere near Hannah Lake to have the Prom, so Hannah Lake High School made do decorating their gymnasium with hundreds of balloons, twinkle lights, hay bales, fake trees, gazebos, or whatever the prom theme dictated.
This year's theme was “I Hope You Dance,” an inspirational song which offered no inspiration with regard to decorating ideas. So the twinkle lights and balloons and gazebos made yet another appearance at yet another Hannah Lake High School Prom, and as Fern sat next to Bailey, staring out onto the gymnasium floor filled with swirling couples, she wondered if the only thing that had changed in fifty years was the style of the dresses.
Fern fiddled with the neckline of her own dress, smoothing her hand over the creamy folds, swishing her legs back and forth, watching the way the skirt draped to the floor, thrilling at the hint of gold sparkle when the fabric caught the light. She and her mother had found the dress on a clearance rack at a Dillards in Pittsburg. It had been marked down over and over again, most likely because it was a dress made for a tiny girl in a color that was not fashionable among tiny girls. But taupe looked good on red heads, and the dress looked wonderful on Fern.
She had posed for pictures with Bailey in the Taylor's living room with the bodice pulled up around her chin the way her mother liked it, but two seconds after she left the house she pushed the ruffled neckline off her shoulders and felt almost pretty for the first time in her life.
Fern hadn't been asked to the big dance. Bailey hadn't asked anyone either. He had joked that he didn't want to make any girl dread going to her prom. He'd said it with a smile, but there was a flash of something mournful in his face. Self-pity wasn't Bailey's style, and his comment surprised Fern. So she asked Bailey if he would go with her. It was Prom, and they could sit home and sulk that they didn't have dates or they could go together. They were cousins, and it was completely lame, but being uncool was better than missing out. And it wasn't like going to Prom together would cause any image problems. They were both the epitome of lame–literally in Bailey's case, figuratively in Fern's. It wouldn't be a night for romance, but Fern had a dress for her Prom and a date too, even if it wasn't a conventional one.
Bailey was outfitted in a black tux with a pleated white shirt and a black bow tie. His curls were moussed and artfully placed, making him look a little like Justin from N'Sync . . . at least that's what Fern thought. Couples rocked back and forth, their feet barely moving, arms locked around each other.
Fern tried not to imagine how it would feel to be pressed up against someone special, dancing at her Prom. She wished briefly that she was there with someone who could hold her. Fern felt a flash of remorse and looked at Bailey guiltily, but his eyes were locked on a girl in hot pink sparkles with cascading blonde hair. Rita.
Becker Garth held her tightly and nuzzled her neck, whispering to her as they moved, his dark hair a striking contrast to her pale tresses. Becker, who had more confidence that he deserved and a swagger that some smaller men develop out of a need to make themselves seem bigger, was twenty-one and too old for a high school Prom. But Rita was in the early stages of infatuation, and the dreamy look on her face as she gazed at him made her more beautiful still.
“Rita looks so pretty.” Fern smiled, happy for their friend.
“Rita always looks pretty,” Bailey said, his eyes still held captive. Something in his tone made Fern's heart constrict. Maybe it was the fact that she, Fern, never felt pretty. Maybe it was the fact that Bailey had noticed and was captured by something Fern thought he was immune to, something she thought he put little value in. Now here he was, her cousin, her best friend, her partner in crime, lured in like all the rest. And if Bailey Sheen fell for the pretty face, there was no hope for Fern. Ambrose Young would surely never look at one so plain.
It always came back to Ambrose.
He was there, surrounded by his friends. Ambrose, Grant, and Paulie seemed to have come without dates, much to the despair of the senior class girls who sat home, uninvited to their Senior Prom. Resplendent in black tuxes, young and handsome, slicked up and clean-shaven, they celebrated with everyone and no one in particular.
“I'm going to ask Rita to dance,” Bailey said suddenly, his wheelchair lurching out onto the floor as if he had just stumbled on the decision and he was going for it before he lost his nerve.
“Wh-what?” Fern stuttered. She sincerely hoped Becker Garth wouldn't be a jerk. She watched in equal parts fascination and fear as Bailey motored up alongside Rita as she and Becker looped hands to walk off the floor.
Rita smiled at Bailey and laughed at something he said. Leave it to Bailey; he was definitely not short on charm. Becker scowled and walked right past Bailey, as if he wasn't worth stopping, but Rita dropped his hand and, without waiting for Becker's permission, sat gingerly on Bailey's lap and looped her arms around his shoulders. A new song pulsed from the speakers, Missy Elliott demanding to “Get Ur Freak On,” and Bailey made his wheelchair spin in circles, round and round, until Rita was laughing and clinging to him, her hair a blonde wave across his thin chest.
Fern bobbed her head with the music, wiggling in place, laughing at her audacious friend. Bailey was fearless. Especially considering Becker Garth still stood on the dance floor, his arms crossed unhappily, waiting for the song to be over. If Fern were a beautiful girl, she might dare go up and try to distract him, maybe ask him to dance so that Bailey could have his moment without Becker chaperoning. But she wasn't. So she gnawed at her fingernail and hoped for the best.
“Hey, Fern.”
“Uh . . . hi Grant.” Fern straightened, hiding her jagged nails in her lap. Grant Nielsen had his hands shoved into his pockets as if he were as comfortable in a tux as he was in blue jeans. He smiled at her and tossed his head toward the dance floor.
“Wanna dance? Bailey won't mind, right? Since he's dancing with Rita?”
“Sure! Okay!” Fern stood up a little too fast and wobbled in the heels that gave her three inches and made her a staggering 5'5. Grant grinned again, and his hand shot out to steady her.
“You look pretty, Fern.” Grant sounded surprised. His eyes roved over her and settled on her face, his eyes narrowed as if he was trying to figure out what was different.
The song changed about twenty seconds after they started dancing, and Fern thought that was all she was going to get, but Grant looped his arms around her waist when a ballad began and seemed happy to partner up for another song. Fern swiveled her head around to see if Bailey had relinquished Rita, only to discover he hadn't. He was making lazy figure eights around the other dancers, Rita's head against his shoulder as they mimicked slow dancing as best they could. Becker was standing by the punch bowl, his mouth twisted and his face red.
“Sheen's gonna get pounded if he isn't careful.” Grant laughed, following Fern's gaze.
“I'm more worried about Rita,” Fern said, realizing suddenly that she was. Becker made her nervous.
“Yeah. Maybe you're right. You'd have to be pretty messed up to hit a kid in a wheelchair. Plus, if Garth touches him, all heck would break loose. No wrestler in here would allow it.”
“Because of Coach Sheen?”
“Yeah. And because of Bailey. He's one of us.”
Fern beamed, glad to know the feeling was mutual. Bailey loved every member of the wrestling team and considered himself the team's assistant coach, mascot, personal trainer, head statistician, and all-around wrestling guru.
Next, Paulie asked Fern to dance. He was his sweet, distracted self, and Fern enjoyed dancing with him, but when Beans sidled up and invited her onto the dance floor, Fern started wondering if maybe she wasn't the butt of a private joke, or worse, a bet. Maybe Ambrose would be next, and then they would all ask her to pose with them in a picture, laughing uproariously at their sham of a prom. Like she was a circus sideshow.
But Ambrose never asked her to dance. He never asked anyone. He stood head and shoulders above most of the crowd, his hair pulled back tightly in a sleek tail at his nape, accentuating the plains and valleys of his handsome face, the wide set of his dark eyes, the straight brows and the strong jaw. The one time he caught Fern looking at him he frowned and looked away and Fern wondered what she'd done.
On the way home, Bailey was unusually quiet. He claimed fatigue, but Fern knew better.
“You okay, B?
Bailey sighed and Fern met his gaze in the rearview mirror. Bailey would never be able to drive, and he never sat in the front seat. Whenever he and Fern cruised around town, Fern would borrow the Sheen's van because it was rigged for wheelchair use. The middle seat of the van was pulled out so Bailey could drive his wheelchair up a ramp and into the body of the vehicle. Then his wheels were locked and he was strapped in with belts that were anchored to the floor so he wouldn't tip over in his chair. Dragging Main Street wasn't much fun with Bailey in the backseat, but Fern and Bailey were used to it, and sometimes Rita would come along so that Fern didn't feel like a chauffeur.
“Nah. Tonight's one of those nights, Fernie.”
“Too much reality?”
“Way too much reality.”
“Me too,” Fern said softly, and felt her throat close against the emotion that rose in her chest. Sometimes life seemed particularly unfair, unduly harsh, and beyond bearing.
“You looked like you were having a good time. Bunch of the guys asked you to dance, right?”
“Did you ask them to dance with me, Bailey?” The realization slammed into her.
“Yeah . . . I did. Is that okay?” Bailey looked stricken and Fern sighed and forgave him instantly.
“Sure. It was fun.”
“Ambrose didn't ask though, did he?”
“Nope.”
“I'm sorry, Fern.” Bailey was well-aware of Fern's feelings for Ambrose Young and her despair after the debacle with the love letters.
“Do you think there's any way someone like Ambrose could fall in love with someone like me?” Fern caught Bailey's gaze in the mirror again, knowing he would understand.
“Only if he's lucky.”
“Oh, Bailey.” Fern shook her head, but loved him for saying it . . . and even more for meaning it. She and Bailey had agreed they weren't ready to go home, so they cruised up and down the dark Main Street, the darkened windows of the businesses reflecting the bright headlights of the old blue van and the dim prospects of the lonely pair inside. After a while, Fern turned off the main drag and headed for home, suddenly tired and ready for the uncomplicated comfort of her own bed.
“It's hard to come to terms with sometimes,” Bailey said abruptly.
Fern waited for him to continue.
“It's hard to come to terms with the fact that you aren't ever going to be loved the way you want to be loved.”
For a moment, Fern thought he was talking about her and Ambrose. But then she realized he wasn't talking about unrequited love . . . not really. He was talking about his illness. He was talking about Rita. He was talking about the things he could never give her and the things she would never want from him. Because he was sick. And he wouldn't be getting better.
“There are times when I think I just can't take it anymore.” Bailey's voice cracked, and he stopped talking as suddenly as he had begun.
Fern's eyes filled with sympathetic tears, and she wiped at them as she pulled the van into the Sheen's dark garage, the automatic light flickering on in sleepy welcome overhead. She slid the car into park, unlatched her seat belt, and turned in her seat, looking at her cousin. Bailey's face looked haggard in the shadows, and Fern felt a flash of fear, reminded that he wouldn't be beside her forever–he wouldn't even be beside her for long. She reached out and grabbed his hand.
“There are times like that, Bailey. Times you don't think you can take it anymore. But then you discover that you can. You always do. You're tough. You'll take a deep breath, swallow just a little bit more, endure just a little longer, and eventually you'll get your second wind,” Fern said, her smile wobbly and her teary eyes contradicting her encouraging words.
Bailey nodded, agreeing with her, but there were tears in his eyes too. “But there are times when you just need to acknowledge the shit, Fern, you know?”
Fern nodded, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “Yep. And that's okay, too.”
“You just need to acknowledge it. Face the shit.” Bailey's voice grew stronger, strident even. “Accept the truth in it. Own it, wallow in it, become one with the shit.” Bailey sighed, the heavy mood lifting with his insistence on profanity. Swearing could be very therapeutic.
Fern smiled wanly. “Become one with the shit?”
“Yes! If that's what it takes.”
“I've got Rocky Road ice cream. It looks a little like poop. Can we become one with the Rocky Road instead?”
“It does look a little like shit. Nuts and everything. Count me in.”
“Sick, Bailey!”
Bailey cackled as Fern climbed in the back, unhooked the belts that secured his chair and shoved the sliding door open.
“Bailey?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Fern.”
That night, after her shimmery dress was put away, her curls unpinned from the complicated twist, and her face scrubbed free of makeup, Fern stood naked in front of her mirror and looked at herself in frank appraisal. She'd grown up some, hadn't she? She was almost 5'2. Not that small. She was still on the scrawny side, but at least she didn't look twelve anymore.
She smiled at herself, admiring the straight white teeth she'd suffered so long for. Her hair was recovering from last summer's hair disaster. Convinced shorter hair would be more manageable, she'd directed Connie at Hair She Blows to cut it short like a boy. Maybe it wasn't short enough, because it had sprung out from her head like a seventies fro, and she'd spent most of her senior year looking like Annie from the Broadway play, further accentuating her little girl persona. Now, it almost touched her shoulders and she could force it into a ponytail. She promised herself she wouldn't cut it again. She would let it grow until it reached her waist, hoping the weight of longer hair would relax the curl. Think Nicole Kidman in Days of Thunder. Nicole Kidman was a beautiful redhead. But she was also tall. Fern sighed and pulled her pajamas on. Elmo stared back at her from the front of her top
“Elmo loves you!” she said to herself in her best squeaky imitation of the puppet's voice. Maybe it was time to get some new clothes, maybe a new style. Maybe she would look older if she didn't wear Elmo pajamas. She should buy some jeans that fit and some T-shirts that actually revealed that she wasn't flat-chested . . . not anymore.
But was she still ugly? Or had she just been ugly for so long that everyone had already made up their minds? Everyone, meaning the guys she went to school with. Everyone, meaning Ambrose.
She sat at her little desk and turned on her computer. She was working on a new novel. A new novel with the same story line. In all her stories, either the prince fell in love with a commoner, the rock star lost his heart to a fan, the president was smitten by the lowly school teacher, or the billionaire became besotted with the sales clerk. There was a theme there, a pattern that Fern didn't want to examine too closely. And usually, Fern could easily imagine herself in the role of the female love interest. She always wrote in the first person and gave herself long limbs, flowing locks, big breasts, and blue eyes. But tonight her eyes kept straying to her mirror, to her own pale face with a smattering of freckles.
For a long time she sat, staring at the computer screen. She thought of the prom, the way Ambrose ignored her. She thought of the conversation afterward and Bailey's surrender to the “shit,” even if it was only temporary surrender. She thought about the things she didn't understand and the way she felt about herself. And then she began to type, to rhyme, to pour her heart out on the page.
If God makes all our faces, did he laugh when he made me?
Does he make the legs that cannot walk and eyes that cannot see?
Does he curl the hair upon my head 'til it rebels in wild defiance?
Does he close the ears of the deaf man to make him more reliant?
Is the way I look coincidence or just a twist of fate?
If he made me this way, is it okay, to blame him for the things I hate?
For the flaws that seem to worsen every time I see a mirror,
For the ugliness I see in me, for the loathing and the fear.
Does he sculpt us for his pleasure, for a reason I can't see?
If God makes all our faces, did he laugh when he made me?
Fern sighed and hit print. When her cheap printer spit out the poem, Fern stuck it to her wall, shoving a thumbtack through the plain white page. Then she crawled into bed and tried to turn off the words that kept repeating in her head. If God makes all our faces, if God makes all our faces, if God makes all our faces . . .