yet?”
“No.”
“Cool.” He nodded and paused, thinking on it.
Well, this is an all-time low
, I thought. I wished I could have sprinted off the field, done anything to escape the awkwardness of not only admitting to Mike Oppel that I was dateless but also showing him how gross I could look on random Saturday afternoons.
“Will you be my date?”
I flatlined.
I jolted back to life just in the nick of time to answer his question with the most mortifying three words: “Are you kidding?”
The confusion on his face introduced me to my own absurdity. “No … ha. Why would I be kidding about that? I want to go to the prom with you.”
I scanned his expression, picking it apart for a hint of an impending smile that would expose the ruse. My head whipped around to look across the field, certain this wasn’t actually happening. I felt a curious mix of vulnerable and high. As the tiny hairs on my arms stood up with a tingle, I lost the ability to control the deep smile that made its way from my belly to my heart to my head. Completely disarmed, I looked down at my sneakers, wiggling mytoes before raising my eyes to meet his once more. “Uhh. Y—yeah. Of course. I’d love to.” My face flushed rosy.
“Great. Awesome.” He smiled.
I bashfully tucked my hair behind my right ear and made one last pitiful error in playing it cool. “Thank you,” I said, sincerely. He laughed while shaking his head. “No, thank
you
. It’ll be fun.”
I pivoted on my left leg, swiveling around to face the parking lot, where my friends sat in Nicole’s car, anxiously waiting. I walked to them in a dreamy, bouncy stride. My whole body felt warm and fizzy like a shaken bottle of soda. My smile continued, unrelenting and uncontained. What had just happened was outrageous, a little too high-school-coming-of-age-film to feel true.
For the month leading up to that sunny May prom day, I went about my life in pure, almost transparent delight. I moved through the halls of Medfield High with a new level of confidence.
Yes, there were moments of panic, times when I second-guessed and self-sabotaged and stalled my own happiness. Mike Oppel’s asking me to be his prom date brought all sorts of insecurity to the surface.
Is he sure about this? Do you think he regrets it? Have his friends teased him or made jokes about the date he chose?
It was easy to pick apart.
But I chose to feel lucky. I lingered on my high. I felt lustful just imagining the possibility of more joy than I was already experiencing. A month before the big day, Mom and I headed out to a bridal shop that sold plus sizes forty-five minutes away from home in a small town on Boston’s North Shore. After finding not one forgiving fit at Macy’s, Filene’s Basement, JCPenney, or David’s Bridal, this was our last hope.
We walked into a tiny store jam-packed with gowns in everyshimmery shade standing tightly in single-file lines along every wall. Rows and rows of taffeta and tulle snaked around us, ranging from hot-tamale-red silk to jade-green satin, and all manner of sparkle and sequin.
The owner emerged through a draped door at the back of the shop. Warm and smiling, standing a petite five feet tall, she looked me up and down, nodded, and said without hesitation, “We find something, my dear.” Her thick Italian accent, her reassurance—they rubbed the back of the hopeless girl in me. I smiled.
She and Mom sent me to the dressing room—which was more of a sewing room, with barely a suggestion of a door—with three dresses in tow. I eyed each and stopped immediately, gasping at the blue silk one. Floor length and strapless, the dress flowed smoothly, gradually changing from a sapphire hue to indigo to topaz to where the hem flared into an icy blue A-line. I set aside the other two dresses, not even noticing color or cut, and took my clothes off. The weight of the dress Hula-Hooped around my head, swirled down my neck and back, and then settled at my waist. It
“No.”
“Cool.” He nodded and paused, thinking on it.
Well, this is an all-time low
, I thought. I wished I could have sprinted off the field, done anything to escape the awkwardness of not only admitting to Mike Oppel that I was dateless but also showing him how gross I could look on random Saturday afternoons.
“Will you be my date?”
I flatlined.
I jolted back to life just in the nick of time to answer his question with the most mortifying three words: “Are you kidding?”
The confusion on his face introduced me to my own absurdity. “No … ha. Why would I be kidding about that? I want to go to the prom with you.”
I scanned his expression, picking it apart for a hint of an impending smile that would expose the ruse. My head whipped around to look across the field, certain this wasn’t actually happening. I felt a curious mix of vulnerable and high. As the tiny hairs on my arms stood up with a tingle, I lost the ability to control the deep smile that made its way from my belly to my heart to my head. Completely disarmed, I looked down at my sneakers, wiggling mytoes before raising my eyes to meet his once more. “Uhh. Y—yeah. Of course. I’d love to.” My face flushed rosy.
“Great. Awesome.” He smiled.
I bashfully tucked my hair behind my right ear and made one last pitiful error in playing it cool. “Thank you,” I said, sincerely. He laughed while shaking his head. “No, thank
you
. It’ll be fun.”
I pivoted on my left leg, swiveling around to face the parking lot, where my friends sat in Nicole’s car, anxiously waiting. I walked to them in a dreamy, bouncy stride. My whole body felt warm and fizzy like a shaken bottle of soda. My smile continued, unrelenting and uncontained. What had just happened was outrageous, a little too high-school-coming-of-age-film to feel true.
For the month leading up to that sunny May prom day, I went about my life in pure, almost transparent delight. I moved through the halls of Medfield High with a new level of confidence.
Yes, there were moments of panic, times when I second-guessed and self-sabotaged and stalled my own happiness. Mike Oppel’s asking me to be his prom date brought all sorts of insecurity to the surface.
Is he sure about this? Do you think he regrets it? Have his friends teased him or made jokes about the date he chose?
It was easy to pick apart.
But I chose to feel lucky. I lingered on my high. I felt lustful just imagining the possibility of more joy than I was already experiencing. A month before the big day, Mom and I headed out to a bridal shop that sold plus sizes forty-five minutes away from home in a small town on Boston’s North Shore. After finding not one forgiving fit at Macy’s, Filene’s Basement, JCPenney, or David’s Bridal, this was our last hope.
We walked into a tiny store jam-packed with gowns in everyshimmery shade standing tightly in single-file lines along every wall. Rows and rows of taffeta and tulle snaked around us, ranging from hot-tamale-red silk to jade-green satin, and all manner of sparkle and sequin.
The owner emerged through a draped door at the back of the shop. Warm and smiling, standing a petite five feet tall, she looked me up and down, nodded, and said without hesitation, “We find something, my dear.” Her thick Italian accent, her reassurance—they rubbed the back of the hopeless girl in me. I smiled.
She and Mom sent me to the dressing room—which was more of a sewing room, with barely a suggestion of a door—with three dresses in tow. I eyed each and stopped immediately, gasping at the blue silk one. Floor length and strapless, the dress flowed smoothly, gradually changing from a sapphire hue to indigo to topaz to where the hem flared into an icy blue A-line. I set aside the other two dresses, not even noticing color or cut, and took my clothes off. The weight of the dress Hula-Hooped around my head, swirled down my neck and back, and then settled at my waist. It
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