Drew, p.19
Drew, page 19
“Yes, of course.” He shuffles papers into a messy pile, pulls out the chair beside him. “Have a seat. How’s it going?”
I drop my messenger bag on the floor and sit, immediately regretting the decision. “Pretty good.”
“You excited for this school year to be over?” he asks. “Not that I’m a fly on the wall, but from what I can tell, you—”
I interrupt him: “I have a question about a decision I’m trying to make.”
“I’m great with decisions,” he says, brightening.
“Well, I’m thinking of doing this thing that would be fun and I really want to do,” I start. It’s already so convoluted in my head, I can only imagine how loopy it’s going to sound to him. “But I have to lie to somebody in order to do it, and I guess that’s not really sitting well with me.”
“I see, I see.” He’s frowning, really trying to understand. “Or, maybe I don’t. I’m sorry, can you tell me a little more?”
“Not really.”
“Is this about prom?”
“Oh my gosh, how’d you know?”
He looks pleased, starts talking meanderingly like a television psychic. “I’m thinking maybe there’s somebody you think you should go with, but you really want to go with somebody else,” he tries, “and you really don’t want to hurt the first person’s feelings, so you want to know whether you should tell that person the whole truth, knowing the information will probably upset him or her—or fib and say you’re not going at all, taking the chance that the person finds out the truth and is hurt even more than he or she would’ve been in the first place.”
I start laughing.
“What?”
“That’s not it at all,” I say flatly, and he starts laughing too.
“I’m sorry, I’ve been watching too many Beverly Hills, 90210 reruns. Why don’t you give me just a teeny bit more information?”
I consider it. Especially in light of how careful he was not to use specific gender pronouns . . . Okay, let’s do this. “I want to go with a friend. Well, you know her—Audrey?”
“Of course, Audrey, another one of my favorite students—you two had quite the synergy in Romeo and Juliet.”
“It’s not like that,” I say, flustered. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I just mean . . .”
“It was heartening to see that you two seemed to patch things up after the assignment,” he says.
“What do you mean? You knew we were in a weird place?” I’m starting to wonder whether Tracy or somebody is feeding this guy information.
“Teachers notice things. I don’t mean to overstep.”
“You aren’t. It’s true,” I concede.
“But after that scene, I noticed you two were getting along better—so as far as I’m concerned, mission accomplished.”
“You put us together on purpose?”
He doesn’t answer.
“Well, anyway,” I say. I’m getting flustered. I think I’m being so careful about information all the time, but maybe I’m an open book and everybody knows it but me. I take a deep breath. “I guess I’m just wondering whether you think it’s ever okay to do the wrong thing for the right reasons.”
He thinks on it. “I believe there are some situations where that is okay, yes.”
“I think so too.”
“Am I going to get you in trouble? Because if so, then I want to change my answer.”
“Nah, not too much,” I say.
“Because life is short,” he adds, then seems to be considering whether to continue. “And make no mistake: convention is there to be flaunted. But that’s just my two cents. Which are probably worth less than half that in today’s economy.”
“Thanks, Mr. Crowell,” I say, and I mean it. “See you in class tomorrow.”
“See you later, Drew,” he says, scratching behind his earlobe. “You’re a good one. And don’t let anybody ever make you feel differently.”
CHANGE 1–DAY 288
Dad wanted me to wear a gown. He actually went so far as to circle some likely candidates in the Delilah prom catalog, underlining the color he thought I would “really shine” in.
“I’ll look like an Easter egg,” I winced. “An Easter egg at her bat mitzvah.”
“I don’t think that combination is possible,” Dad said.
“Neither is me and any of those dresses,” I cracked back.
Hence my rented tuxedo, a fitted black number with a retro ruffled shirt underneath. I’m pairing it with a sequined scarf and my black Chucks. I let Mom blow out my hair, and even glue on some fake eyelashes. I look like an ’80s Brit-pop star. Cool, full of swag. David Bowie when David Bowie was pretty. Exactly what I envisioned. This night is going to rock.
“Tracy’s here!” Mom announces, already snapping photos as I walk into the living room, shrugging on my jacket.
I pop a pose, giving disco realness, and Mom seems utterly delighted.
“You’ll never forget your first prom,” she says, eyes misty. “I’m so happy you decided to go after all.”
Dad is hovering in the background with a plastic box, Tracy behind him waiting in the entry.
“What’s the deal, Dad?” I ask.
He shuffles over, produces a wrist corsage made from a black rose. It’s bad-ass. For a flower bracelet. “You don’t have to wear it,” he says, holding it out.
“Are you kidding?” I remove the wrapping, snap the elastic around my wrist. “It’s great. I love it.”
Tracy taps her watch. “We should get a move on if we are going to be on time.”
“I don’t think there’s an on time for prom, Trace,” I say.
“Well, I have been to four proms in my lives, and I can safely say the cake table is a disaster after twenty minutes, so I suggest we skedaddle tout de suite.”
Hugs from the ’rents, and then Tracy and I head to the limo she procured from a “friend” (translation: the underground Changer nexus), to pick up Danny and the others before hitting Central and the impossibly unrealistic expectations of a thousand amped-up teenagers in cheesy masquerade drag.
* * *
We roll up on Danny’s ranch house. He sprints down the sidewalk and hops into the limo, slamming the heavy door shut behind him. He’s in shiny, skinny pants and a bedazzled jacket with enough sparkle to eclipse the sun.
“Drive!” he commands Tracy, before turning to me. “Where’s your mask?”
“You can’t tell? I’m already wearing it,” I (sorta) joke.
“Nice. Aren’t we all?” he intones with mock gravity.
“You on the lam?” I ask. “What’s with the ground-speed record setting?”
“My parents were all up in my business about my new ‘girlfriend’ and insisting upon meeting her,” Danny says. “I was sparing you from certain protracted interrogation.”
I nod. “I feel your pain.”
“Who’s driving, Miss Daisy?” Danny asks.
“My name is Tracy, an old friend of Drew’s, and her chauffeur-slash-chaperone for the evening,” Tracy replies officiously.
“She’s not serious,” Danny says, wrinkling his brow.
“She’s always serious,” I reply. “But she’s dope. Ish.” I can see Tracy smirking in the rearview. “Have you talked to Aaron today?”
“Have I breathed today?” Danny snorts. “We coordinated our outfits.”
I have a moment of panic. Was I supposed to do that with Audrey? Danny reads my mind.
“Mary, you didn’t compare color stories?”
“I don’t even know what a color story is,” I say. I hear Tracy gasp from the front seat. I raise my voice, enunciating dramatically. “And I am comfortable not ever knowing, so neither one of you needs to spend another second stressing about my lack of fashionista cred.”
“Bitchin’ corsage, by the way,” Danny offers. “Very Elvira, Mistress of the Dark.”
I thank him, then awkwardly begin to apologize for that day at the beginning of the year when I saw Jason terrorizing him by the lockers and just kept on walking. “I was a coward, I’m a different person now—”
He stops me short. “From what I understand, we’ve both had more than our share of Jason’s sad attempts to convince himself he’s a real man.” He flashes a knowing look. “Trust me, that turd cutter will get what’s coming to him eventually. Karma is a bitch. And so am I.”
“I think I might kind of love you right now,” I say, relieved.
“Join the club!” he lobs back, giving me a high five.
Minutes later we collect Aaron, who is indeed dressed to complement Danny, though more understatedly, then head a couple more miles over to Audrey’s. The two boys hold hands in the car, Danny resting his head on Aaron’s shoulder.
When we arrive at Audrey’s, I brace myself, but Jason is nowhere in sight. Instead, her parents are in the yard taking photographs of Audrey posing in front of the azalea bushes. She’s wearing a knee-length polka dot dress with layers of ruffles underneath, a giant pink bow tied around her waist, and a feather thing sprouting out of the side of her updo. She looks like a sexy cupcake.
As we ease to a stop, Aaron and Danny separate. Audrey gestures from the lawn for us to join her, and we file out of the limo and over to the impromptu photo set.
“Everybody say prom!” her father coaches, and we comply, feeling ridiculous. “Okay, now just Audrey and Aaron.” Aaron wraps his arm around Audrey’s shoulders, and they both grin like donkeys into the lens. “What a stunning couple,” her mom coos.
“Of what?” Danny mutters under his breath.
“Now just me and Drew,” Audrey suggests, and her father at first looks perturbed, but then shrugs his shoulders, directing us under a pergola with wild vines climbing all over it.
We stand close, but not too close. He snaps a few shots.
“That’s a fun look,” Audrey’s mom says about my tuxedo. “How daring.”
“I love it,” Audrey says, sensing her mother’s insincerity.
Aud’s father waves Danny over. “Hold her hand,” he prompts, indicating me.
Danny inches over to me and puts his arm around my shoulders like we’re buddies.
“A little closer,” Audrey’s dad pushes. “Just a few more . . .”
Twenty minutes and twelve hundred photographs later, all four of us are spilling out of the limo and strolling into the barely recognizable gymnasium, the joint decked out in faux-French decadence, with paper chandeliers, fake candles twinkling, mirrors propped in all the corners, silver urns overflowing with masks on wooden sticks and costume jewelry, a Versailles vibe that truly transports us.
“They vogued the crap out of this place,” Aaron says approvingly as he and Danny walk ahead, quickly scouting the best table and claiming four seats. Audrey and I follow, craning our necks to digest the spectacle of both the transformative decor and the sight of Mr. Crowell shimmying on the side of the designated dance floor.
“Coordination. Not a strength,” I observe.
Audrey laughs. “Check out the Chl-horror show.” She thumbs toward the middle of the floor, where directly beneath the shimmering disco ball, Chloe is spinning in tight circles, flipping her blown-out hair like a manic pony, while her crew of wannabes makes a ring of adoration around her and clap like they’ll be executed if they don’t. “That. Is. Troubling.”
“Come on, let’s throw down,” I say, linking arms and skipping onto the floor, just as a slow jam comes over the speakers. I look for Danny and Aaron, but they have already vanished. I pivot back to Audrey. “Well?”
“Why not?” she says, a devilish grin spreading across her face. “We won’t be the first chicks to dance without their dates at the prom.”
And so we face each other, Audrey draping her arms over my shoulders, me wrapping mine around her waist, careful not to crush the bow. We sway, right foot, left foot, right foot. Giggling a little as we do. I survey the room. Audrey was right: no one notices two girls when said girls don’t want to be noticed.
After a while of rocking back and forth like this, the song transitions into a sappy ballad, and I slowly spin Aud around. Over her shoulder, I spot a masked Jason roaching up on Chloe in a dark corner, and a chill creeps down my spine, but Chloe is clearly enjoying the attention, so I block it out, keep my gaze moving while we dance.
And there’s Kenya by the punch table, smacking her thigh at a friend’s joke, and Mr. Crowell to her left, head cocked like a spaniel listening to a high-pitched whistle audible only to him. Scanning further I see the cake display, a collapsed, gilded monstrosity that has obviously been attacked by a kagillion students in search of a sugar rush. It looks like a rhino has trampled the king-sized cake, but that hasn’t stopped Tracy, who is hovering behind it in her rhinestone mask, inhaling a giant slab balanced on a napkin. Above her a banner reads, Central Masquerade Ball, in gold and black.
“Earth to Drew,” Audrey chides. She’s close to my ear. “You aren’t even looking at me! You are the worst fake prom date ever.”
“My apologies, m’lady,” I play along. “Maybe you should call in Romeo.”
“Maybe I should.” She pauses, then: “Only problem is . . .”
“Yes?”
“Romeo was a horrible kisser.” She smirks, eyes alit with mischief.
“Well, maybe Juliet was a horrible kissee,” I toss back. “There’s only so much passion one can extract from a cheekbone.”
Audrey chews her bottom lip, trains her eyes on mine. I can see her brain cranking. Above us the ballad is swelling, a saxophone solo whining out some poor sap’s approximation of love.
“Drew?”
“Yes, Aud?”
And then, without warning, she does it. And by it, I mean pitches her face forward into mine, where our lips finally meet, full on together, in a deep, lingering, holy freaking cow, KISS.
I keep waiting for Audrey to yank herself back, to say she tripped or something, but she doesn’t. In fact, she presses in harder, and as she does, the whole prom washes away into a sea that is flooding my ears, and I can hear and see and feel nothing but the ripe softness of her mouth on mine; it is as if the entire universe has telescoped to that intimate location, this improbable moment, and I care about nothing else, and am fairly certain I never will again.
Until something else happens.
A vision.
I want to stop it, but Audrey won’t pull away, and anyway, it came into my brain full-blown, an opera in a snapshot. In my head, clear as day, I see Audrey sitting in a car screaming, enraged. She’s fighting with a guy leaning through the window. I don’t recognize him, handsome, big. She screams, I hate you, Kyle! and he grabs her arm, but she frees herself, punching the gas and speeding off. And then. And then . . . No, that can’t be right.
A crash.
At a distance, her car T-boned by a barreling delivery truck.
Smoke. Fire. A horn jammed.
“No!” I scream. “No!”
My eyes snap open. The vision replaced by one of Audrey gaping at me, humiliated. She covers her face with her hands and runs as fast as she can out the gym doors.
“Wait!” I yell after her, but it’s too late. She’s already gone.
I am considering pursuing her when I see him, right where she raced past. Chase. All cleaned up in a suit and tie. A bouquet in his hand. From his traumatized expression I can tell he has witnessed the whole episode. He gives me a curt nod, then disappears through the same exit as Audrey.
I stand frozen on the dance floor. Consumed by only one thought.
Who is Kyle?
CHANGE 1–DAY 290
“I have to do something!”
“No. You actually do not.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because I know more than you do.”
“Then tell me what you know.”
“It is too soon.”
And so it has gone for the past half hour. Tracy and me in the Quonset hut.
Her: evasive, uncooperative, annoying.
Me: doing my blind-panic thing over the Audrey vision.
“What good is this power if you can’t use it to affect the future?” I demand.
“It isn’t a power, it is a gift.”
“Stuff it, Yoda.”
“Visions allow you to feel an even deeper connection with the people you love. And they remind you to live in the moment. To be your best self now, because tomorrow may never be. The future is yesterday,” Tracy recites.
I sigh dramatically. “Tracy. Audrey is my best friend. And if I can stop a tragedy from entering her life, I will.”
“You don’t know there is a tragedy, Drew.”
“A massive auto accident is kind of a tragedy!”
“What you saw is a few frames of an entire movie,” she says. “Context is everything.”
“I’m going to tell her the truth. About all of it.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Okay.”
I consider strangling her. She can decompose in this hut for all I care.
“Drew, I can’t control anything you say or do. Your life is about choices. Everything is a choice. Including how you feel.”
Now she’s gone too far. I didn’t choose to fall in love with Chase—or Audrey. Or to loathe Jason. Or to adore my dog. Or to hate the color purple.
“In fact,” she continues, calm as clams, “deciding how you feel about what happens to you is really the only choice that matters.”
“Want to know how I feel now?” I snap.
Tracy laughs, gives me a look like, Poor lamb. “You have Changer homework this week. As school ends, all Y-1s are required to Chronicle a list of what they think they’ve learned. It doesn’t need to be in order of importance, although it can be if you want. I always submitted mine in descending order of significance, with subcategories, but then, I do like my data to be organized and easily downloaded.”
I pretend to ignore her.
“I found it immensely helpful to the process of choosing my Mono,” she adds.
I am studying the dirt, kick at it with my shoe.
“You’ve come such a long way, Drew,” Tracy says, changing tack. “Don’t lose sight of that. I have to admit I was a little concerned when I was first assigned to you, but . . . I couldn’t be prouder. Really.” And then she rummages around in a pile of rusty junk and pulls out a present that looks professionally wrapped. “Here, a memento.”
