Or the massive balloon arch that’s going to be in the lobby of the gym when you walk into school.
“Now look at you. None down and all these to go, and you don’t even have a stupid date.”
Plenty of my friends were going to go dateless, but they’re dropping like flies. One by one, cringey promposals are showing up in my Snap Stories, too. My best friend Macy? She was just asked to the dance by a guy in her chemistry class; he sent her a pizza with the wordsI KNOW THIS IS CHEESYwritten in black marker on the inside box cover andBUT—PROM??spelled out in pepperoni on the pizza.
She was freaking thrilled!
“You don’t eat meat,” I reminded her as her squeals pierced my eardrums and she lunged into Marcus Fields’s waiting arms. “And you don’t eat cheese.”
The look she gave me over his shoulder as he was spinning her…
I shudder at the memory, only a teensy-weensy bit jealous.
And by teensy bit I mean: a lot bit.
None of us aredatinganyone, but that isn’t stopping my besties from getting actual dates to prom. I seem to be the last girl standing—or at least, that’s how it feels.
“How long are those going to take up space in this garage?”
My mother interrupts my inner complaining, motioning to all the cardboard scattered around her parking space.
“I’d love to be able to park in here. It hasn’t been fun carrying groceries into the house from the driveway.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind her there are worse things in the world than having to walk her groceries from the driveway to the kitchen—or to remind her that not everyone has a home to walk groceries into. Or to remind her that not everyone has groceries.
But if I actually said those things? She would start yelling.
“Sorry, Mom.” I’m adjusting the projector so its beam of light is lined up with my cardboard. “I promise I’ll get these out of here as soon as they open the art room for the committee again.”
Currently the art room has no space; too many other prom-related decorations are swallowing it up.
“How was work?” I change the subject.
My mother’s frown deepens.
She sighs. “Work was work.” She checks her wrist for the time. “Dad should be home in a bit; it’s his turn to start dinner.”
I nod.
My parents aren’t divorced…yet. But it feels inevitable. They don’t exactly get along these days, coexisting in the house though barely communicating. Not unless they have to. It’s strained and awkward and so uncomfy.
I hate it.
I doubt they have sex anymore—not that I want to picture my parents having sex, but isn’t that, like, part of a healthy adult relationship?
Anyway, I don’t think they have it and I don’t think they can stand each other, and they’re at the point where they don’t even hide it well. I wish they would call it quits; as much as I love them both, they are so…
I don’t know.
Removed.
It’s stressful tiptoeing around the two of them when we’re all in the same room. On the other hand, if they separated, would I have to move half my crap to another house? That would be a huge pain in the ass, so I’m not sure what’s worse: their weird relationship or starting anew.
“Where did that all come from, anyway?” Mom asks, still standing on the threshold of the laundry room, hip against the doorjamb.
“Art teacher ordered it.”
“Remind me again: Why aren’t you doing this at school?”
