Flickers

My lip gloss cracks at the corners of my mouth and the rest of my face feels like I’m wearing a kind of mask and it will peel off at any second and roll on to the floor.  And then we’ll both be stuck staring at it, the make-up version of me on the cold, white tile.  My ankles will break from these shoes, my Jessica McClintock dress will split open, but maybe all of it will be worth it.

“Don’t I get a corsage or something?” I ask.  You don’t get my joke, but I act as if you did.  I pour our cokes into Ally’s nicest wine glasses and hand one to you.  You glance up with that serious expression and I get the feeling something has happened.  You’re back staring at your shoes as if you aren’t sure your feet are real.  And we perform a kind of dance then.  When you look up, I look down.

“We’re like silly puppets,” I say.

This makes you laugh.

“Nice tux.” I say.  “Take a selfie with me?”  I stand next to you and hold up my phone, but you don’t say much, you don’t even smile when I take our picture.  And then I giggle and launch into a whole conversation about why Ally and Don aren’t swarming us with both of their phones.  “My cousin has a show at school tonight,” I say.  “But I need to be home by eleven thirty.  I hope that’s okay.”

You don't say anything for what seems a great long while and then you tell me you're sorry again and it's as if there is some kind of news and something has happened but you don't want to tell me yet and then you just blurt it out.

“I can’t take you to prom.”