“It’s more like a ball,” assured Rosie, who could be a genius at marketing. “In fact, it’s seniorball,not senior prom. Everyone will dress up in their nicest clothes—tuxes and evening gowns—and the committee’s working on an actual castle. Did I tell you my date is theking?”
“I don’t know,” said Helen. “These sorts of parties have drinking. And drugs! Aunty Yip told me her friend’s daughter went to prom and they put weeds in the punch to get young people addicted.”
“Weed, Mom. Not weeds.” Rosie planted a bar of milk chocolate in front of Helen. “This is Berkeley High, not the Cow Palace. How is it any different from P’s ball last year?”
“Peony had Paul with her. And she came home at nine-thirty.”
Rosie pretended not to hear that last part. “There’ll be teachers supervising, and lots of balloons and glitter and fancy swizzle sticks with stars on the top...” She trailed off to emphasize, “It’s a fairy-tale theme.”
Helen had a soft spot for fairy tales. Years ago, before they moved, she’d brought home a collection from the used-book store. The cover was faded, its corners bent, but Marigold took to the stories with rapt attention. Night after night, she and her sisters nestled in Helen’s arms, all of them struggling to sound out the English and resorting to the pictures to navigate the tales. And little Marigold learned that though her mother would never talk about her past in China, she could glean hints through the stories.
“It should be a golden slipper, not a glass one,” Helen said after they read Cinderella. “Also, she prays to fish bones, not a fairy godmother.”
“Fish bones?” Rosie wrinkled her nose. “That’s not very romantic.”
“Glass shoes are not romantic. They will break and then cut your feet.”
“Not if they’re magical,” Marigold pointed out.
“The Chinese version is more realistic,” Helen insisted with a twist of her lips. “You think that prince would really love Cinderella after dancing one dance? The Chinese one teaches important lessons: After Yeh Shen marries the king, he makes her a concubine and sells the golden slippers that she wore to supply his army.”
She paused then, for once sensitive to how her daughters’ faces fell.
“Sometimes it’s nice to believe in happily ever after, Ma,” said Peony gently.
“Hmm,” said Helen, closing the book. A sad yet wistful smile stole over her face—just long enough for Marigold to catch.
Marigold had never forgotten it. Soon after the incident, the bedtime stories ended, and it was years before she became drawn to tales of magic and fantasy again. Often she wonderedwhether it was in quest of that fleeting bond she’d once shared with her mother. Or was there something more?
“You can go to your ball,” Helen was telling Rosie. “But be home by eleven.”
“How about midnight?”
“Eleven.” Helen was firm. “Marigold will go, too.”
“What?” Marigold exclaimed, flabbergasted. “You want me to go to prom?”
“Senior ball,” Rosie corrected. “And technically it’syourball. Please? Danny Chen—you know, the homecoming king last fall—asked me to be his date.Me,even though I’m a junior. I’ve got to go.”
“I’ve got a calc exam the next day.”
“Who cares about grades anymore? You’ve only got a month of school left.”
“It still counts toward my GPA.”
“Mom!” Rosie turned to their mother for support.
“Marigold, go with your sister,” said Helen, unwrapping the chocolate. “You’ve been sulking ever since Stamford rejected you.”
“Stanford,” Marigold corrected. “And I haven’t been sulking, I’ve been studying.” She regarded her little sister. “Do I have to wear a dress?”
So here she was in the Electric Underground, standing by the buffet, sipping a cup of punch, and wearing Peony’s old prom dress, a festoon of chiffon ruffles, and white satin gloves. Her sisters had curled her hair and brushed Revlon Cherries in the Snow on her lips and a touch of blue shadow on her eyelids, which was all decidedly un-Marigold but she looked less like a fool than she’d expected. She felt... pretty.
The seniors had done an impressive job decorating the venue. Someone had constructed a ten-foot-tall castle out of cardboard with clouds of silver-white balloons that must have taken an entire fleet of vans to transport. Along the walls were reams of shimmering pink tulle and tinseled gold garlands, crepe paper stars and rainbow crescents. It was rather magical, she had to admit, feeling a glow start to warm in her chest. She tamped it down immediately, then turned down Rosie’s invitation to come dancing.
The first thing she did was stake out an empty corner by the buffet, where she fully expected to be rooted until eleven, reading the book she’d tucked into her purse once she finished her punch. A few classmates waved, and she returned the gesture shyly, noting their surprise at seeing her. They’d disappear into the sea of familiar yet unfamiliar faces, joining the buzzy din of laughter and music. A world barely ten feet away, yet one where she didn’t belong. She sipped her punch, ignoring the twinge that nibbled at her heart.
How different would she have been, she wondered, if not for the burdensome power beneath her gloves? Would she be dancing with Rosie and giggling in line for pictures with a pack of friends? Might she be holding hands with a date instead of a paper cup, touching skin to skin, waiting for her first kiss? She supposed she’d never know.
