It Was Me All Along: A Memoir by Andie Mitchell Page A

was two sizes too big—a twenty-two when I’d normally worn an eighteen. Still, I loved it. I knew it would be perfect.
    Before I could even spin to see all sides of me in the mirror, the shop owner had flung open that whisper-thin door, took one look at me, and tossed her hands up in the air. “Thee one,” she cooed, tilting her head to the side in contentment.
    I pivoted back to the mirror, beaming. I took in the image of me in that blue. “Yes. The one.”
    Mom wrote a check for the dress without even blinking. At $250 before significant alterations, it meant three weeks of overtime and sleep deprivation just so her baby could be the belle ofthe ball. When I hesitated at the register, swallowing the price like a handful of rocks, she took my face in her hands. “You can’t put a price on feeling beautiful.” I looked into her eyes, so loved and in love with her, and smiled through tears. She pressed her plum lips to my right temple and whispered, “You are worth every penny I have, baby. Every last one.”
    The drive to prom with Mike felt seconds long. Our chatting, laughing, sparring back and forth with playful jabs was effortless, comfortable. I was myself and he, himself, regardless of social status. And what I won’t ever be able to forget is the feeling of strolling into the prom venue, arms linked with Mike Oppel,
the
Mike Oppel, and for the first time experiencing exactly what I’d wanted.
    To be seen.
    To be seen as beautiful.
    It was a strange feeling. Foreign. The heads—polka dots of slick crew cuts and hairsprayed updos—turned as we walked past. Friends ran up to say giddy hellos, each leaning into my ear to whisper “You are gorgeous!”
    Our entrance and pure kindness from everyone we encountered as the evening began sent me spinning. We ate dinner, danced, and then, just as the lights dimmed, our principal took to the microphone at center stage to announce who had been voted prom queen. Our class nominated only a queen, and whoever her date was became her king. All of us gathered on the dance floor, whispering in anticipation. I looked around, pausing to admire all the girls in my junior class—each absolutely radiant in some shade of spring. I wondered which would be crowned queen, grinning as I eeny-meeny-miny-mo’ed my way through them. Turning to Mike,I leaned into his ear. “Who do you think it’ll be?” He leaned back, looking me in the eye, his pupils scanning mine back and forth as if to answer silently. He let out a sweet laugh. I narrowed my eyes, searching his for more information.
Did he know already? Could he know?
I felt jealous if he did. I returned my gaze to our principal, my mind trying to select someone immediately so that I’d at least be a betting woman before the announcement, even if only with myself.
    “I’m thrilled to announce that this year’s junior prom queen is …” Our principal pulled a thick card from the envelope. Eric Clapton strummed the first few chords of “Wonderful Tonight,” and I heard it.
    “Andrea Mitchell.”
    Ahem … Excuse me?
    I looked around at the others, clapping and cheering, looking straight back at me.
I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that. Who?
    Clapton crooned, his voice dragging, sultry, across sweet lyrics. “
I say my darlin
’ …”
    As the principal crowned me, my face stained beet red. Mike took my hand and pulled me toward him. He rested his hands at my waist, and I brought my arms to his shoulders, intertwining my fingers at the nape of his neck. My cheek brushed his. “You look beautiful,” he whispered into my ear. I felt my blood coursing through all the veins that led to my heart as it swelled. Pressed together, we swayed to the music. I squinted from the spotlight directed at us and saw the hundreds of faces that encircled us—each adorned with a smile. It was a scene cut from a movie.
    And I—for the four minutes of that song, that sweet slow dance—was not just the fat girl.
    I was beautiful. I was