We gathered in my cinder-block basement, my closest friends and I, seated around a dry erase board that my dad got when his company got bought out a few years before. Sorry about your job--here, have a file cabinet and desk. Husks of dead camel crickets lurked in the dark corners, but we stayed in the light.
Along the top of the whiteboard, I wrote our names. Down the side, a list of guys. "Let's start by elimination," I said. "Who do you not want to go to prom with?"
I made x's in some columns, questions marks in others, and check marks for preferred dates. The chart was less about desire and more about practicality. August was already looming, when we would all go our separate ways. Forget romance--we were taking control of prom. We would ask our dates so we could all go as a group. Apparently the idea of going together without dates did not occur to us.
"It's senior prom--I'm not going to ask a sophomore."
"No, no way, and maybe."
"He's still mad about Homecoming."
"If I can go with him, that would be, like, amazing."
"Same here."
"Maybe we should all just go with him. Like a harem."
There were subtle nuances and histories that had to be taken into account. Who had already dated, who had crushes on someone, who didn't get along. I reserved all opinions. For the first and only time in high school, I would choose my friends over guys. Whatever we decided, I would take this one for the team.
I was already half-dreading the night. Virginia loves old money and old traditions, which intersected in the form of the prom court. Twelve girls and twelve guys were voted onto the court and in the middle of the dance, they performed three classic dances: the cha cha, the waltz, and the fox trot. All of which we should have learned at cotillion during junior high, home of white gloves and formal manners. Only I had dropped out of cotillion early and had three left feet.
Worse than the performance aspect, all the girls had to wear the same dress: seamstress-sewn from a lilac taffeta, it looked like the kind of dress your grandmother might make for you. When you're seven.
I had tried to get off the ballot for prom court, but they had already been photocopied. I had hoped I wouldn't make the list, but I did. Now I was stuck. Finding a date was the least of my concerns. The thought of doing the cha-cha to Michael Jackson's "Rock with You" was making me sweat.
We came up with our whiteboard plan, wrote up The Prom Proclamation on a sheet of printer paper, and signed it into law. The guy I really hoped to go with called and asked me, but taking one for the team meant that I had to say no in favor of our group plan. But our Plan A failed, then Plan B, and meanwhile, one by one, everybody got a date. Except me.
It was only fitting that after years of ditching friends for guys, I had to call back the guy who I rejected, asking if I could change my mind. "I need to think about it," he said. "Overnight."
In the end, prom had (awkward) dancing, laughter, an ugly taffeta dress, and maybe even a tiara. And somewhere in a cardboard box of keepsakes, the signed Prom Proclamation is still a testament to the Murphy's Law of best-laid plans.
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Joining up with Yeah Write, where most people are smart enough not to try and proclaim prom dates. But they don't judge my past naivete, which is awfully nice of them. Do yourself a favor--go read.
