Prom
The clean-shaven gentleman opens the front door of his vehicle and steps onto the sidewalk of the Black Oak Golf Club, the warm glow of the sunset reflecting off his polished black leather loafers. He straightens his tailored black suit and adjusts the cap resting on his dark hair. As he squints against the sun's rays, his iridescent light eyes reveal a lifetime of stories—crows’ feet and forehead lines etched from years of laughter and contemplation. He scans the line of 15 or 20 of us, elegantly dressed in long gowns and sharp suits, positioned behind three rows of retractable belts and stanchions that organize us into a refined single-file line.
“What time is it?” I pat my lips together, evening out my bold red lipstick. My date, Mark, reaches across his tuxedo, carefully grasping the edge of his white button-down sleeve. With a deliberate motion, he pulls it back, revealing a sleek silver watch that rests snugly against his wrist. Sunlight glints off its polished surface as he tilts his wrist for a better view. His fingers glide over the watch face, brushing against the glass as he checks the time, a focused frown crossing his dark, large features. “6:00,” he replies, nodding in satisfaction as he lowers his arm, the sleeve sliding back into place as if it had never been disturbed.
I shift the weight of my black crossbody purse on my shoulder, feeling the strain of standing for three hours at the golf course for photos. “At least our limo is finally here. My brother looks like he’s ready for bed.” Mark tilts his chin, scanning past the two rows of friends lined up in front of us toward the waiting vehicle. His brown eyes land on the family members gathered behind the trunk: Michael, attempting to be supportive with one hand poised to capture photos, yet yawning every few seconds and swaying restlessly on his feet.
Mark nods, stifling a snort. “Look at Devon’s brother.” I follow his gaze, my false lashes fluttering as I spot the small boy positioned on the right-side, his head nearly grazing Michael’s stomach. He stands impatiently, arms crossed tightly over his chest, occasionally cracking his neck from side to side, as if remaining still is the most excruciating thing in the world. I can relate. My cheeks ache from smiling too much, and my flat feet are starting to swell in these delicate, thin black heels.
It’s both amusing and a bit ironic how the excitement seems to triple among the parents, contrasting sharply with our siblings. My mom is practically bouncing on her sandals, the wind sweeping her poofy black hair back so she can see clearly through her iPhone lens. Completely focused, she’s oblivious to everything else, ready to capture every detail like paparazzi. And I'm thoroughly enjoying it. Young Marissa would be relishing this: playing dress-up is my thing—the pictures, the glamor. It feels like we’re about to walk the red carpet.
Mark shifts his chin to the left, and I follow his gaze to a slender woman, about five foot nine, with light brown hair cut stylishly to her shoulders. Her large white teeth flash as she smiles, framed by hooded eyes adorned with dark lashes. Dressed in a vibrant, yellow floral dress and oversized Wayfarer sunglasses, she stands out, a splash of color against the backdrop of our formal attire. With a bold swipe of pink lipstick, she pulls her hands from Devon’s brother’s shoulders and jumps in front of the crowd of parents, reaching for the chauffeur’s hand.
Before a word escapes her lips, the chauffeur, impeccably dressed and gloved, raises an eyebrow, his other hand resting behind his back. “Is this the order for the Hallihans?” he asks, his voice smooth yet authoritative.
“Yes,” she replies, slipping him a tightly folded stack of cash nestled between her pointer and middle fingers. The chauffeur adjusts his hat, tilting it forward as he graciously accepts the tip with a nod. He tucks it into his back pocket, takes a deep breath, and with a gentle click of the white handle, the side door glides open as effortlessly as a tram car rolling down a Boardwalk. “Who’s ready for the Imperia?” Me. I’m ready. I turn to Mark, who wears a soft smile that betrays his humble excitement. My heart races at the thought of hitting the dance floor. We’ve waited nearly an hour for this limo, and the anticipation has reached a fever pitch. Here we go.
Julia, the first in line, steps into the spotlight, her hair elegantly braided, lifting her electric blue dress as her grandparents snap photo after photo. The chauffeur takes her hand gently, assisting her as she ducks her head to fit under the roof of the limo. She and her date settle at the far end of the car, beaming.
One by one, the other couples follow, and with each pair that approaches, Mark and I inch up the line. My nerves start to swell, leaving me feeling weak and shaky, lightheaded and quiet, while Mark stands beside me, casually soaking what’s unfolding in front of us. The chauffeur continues his graceful choreography, taking hands and lifting dresses to ensure every guest feels like a star.
“Okay. As my date, it’s your job to make sure I don’t faint,” I whisper, casting a sideways glance at Mark. He chuckles softly. “You won’t, but sure.” He doesn’t realize how I struggle with attention like this, even if it’s just for a split second. Somehow, a surge of adrenaline rushes through me, and my heart is primed to race alongside my anxious thoughts, but the chauffeur’s presence interrupts that spiral. He extends his hand, cutting through my jitters—that’s our cue. It’s showtime.
My dad wraps his thumb around the knuckles of his pointer, middle, ring, and pinky fingers, forming a deep cup with his palms, and each time, a clap bursts forth, echoing in my ears like a dark, thunderous sound. Each flash from my mother’s camera blinds me momentarily, the bright light making my head spin and my balance precarious in these heels.
My brother, clearly bored, has chosen to entertain himself by fist-pumping the air and chatting with Devon's brother, mixing in jokes and commentary while cheering me on as I head to the limo. This helps me relax my shoulders—it's all in good fun, and suddenly, I find it easier to walk straight. I remind myself: I’m killing this. I’m not falling, and Mark hasn’t mentioned my wobbling. I’m doing just fine.
As the door swings shut behind us, I carefully arrange my red ball gown beneath me, sinking into the plush cream cushions that surround us. The cushions feel so pristine and refined that I feel the pressure to sit up straight, trying to avoid any sweat stains on their sparkling, crisp surface. It all feels a bit too fancy, like I’d be damned to ruin the polished image.
I glance out the window, watching as our parents wave goodbye, their smiles growing smaller in the reflection as we glide away from the parking lot and onto the highway, the green light guiding our way into the night. Just then, Devon passes around a gleaming white plate topped with small clear glasses, each filled halfway with a bubbly, off-yellow elixir. Jack, her date, reaches for the tray and leans close to her, whispering with a grin, “Do you have a spoon?” Devon bursts into an infectious laugh. “Yes, actually!” She leans over the passenger seat, her hand diving into a box of party supplies to produce a plastic spoon. Jack snatches it playfully and taps it against his flute.
“Everyone, everyone!” he exclaims, raising his drink high. The tray makes its way around the shuttle, reaching Mark, who hands me a glass before I pass the empty tray back to Devon, who sets it down in front of her feet. “Here’s to PROM!” Jack proclaims. We all cheer in unison, and as I bring the drink to my lips, I catch Mark’s eye as we sip together. The warm, bubbly sensation flows down my throat—bittersweet yet refined, evoking memories of Devon’s New Year’s Eve parties even though it’s May, and we’re here to celebrate our senior year instead.
Suddenly, the familiar opening notes of “Piano Man” fill the limo, enveloping us in one large, shared memory. Just like at Devon’s New Year’s gatherings, she drapes her arm casually around Jack, who then leans into Jess. The chain continues, each friend settling back into the next—Jess into Stan, Stan into Alex—creating a relaxed circle of camaraderie and nostalgia. We start to sway in sync, the rhythm pulling us in as we sing along, our voices rising in chorus: “And the waitress is practicing politics, as the businessmen slowly get stoned. Yes, they’re sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it’s better than drinkin’ alone!”
A buzz from my phone jolts me back to the moment, and I glance down to see a Snapchat notification from a name I thought already left me in the past. Interesting. After what happened last weekend, he’s got some nerve to finally be speaking up. “Mark,” I give him a playful nudge. “You won’t believe who just Snapchatted me.”
He straightens his red bowtie and leans in, his eyes narrowing as he reads the name on my screen. The color drains from his cheeks when he sees “Tyler.” “Why is he Snapchatting you?” he asks, his brows furrowing with concern. The tension in his voice ripples through the laughter around us. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Devon look up from her chat with Jack, her expression shifting as she senses his stress.
My heart races. Why is he so appalled? I did not expect him to react so harshly. And I'd like our friends to not engage in unnecessary drama, so I diffuse with something light. “Remember how you played wing-man? Like when I let you give him my number that he asked for, and here we are—still talking after all this time. Isn’t that a little silly?” I try to keep my tone light, but Mark’s intense glare alarmingly unsettles me.
“Yeah it’s silly now. He shouldn’t be snapping you—he has a girlfriend.”
What? “No, he doesn’t.”
Pause. Mark scratches his head, then intertwines his fingers, pressing them together as if searching for the right words.
“Yeah, he does. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”
I let my phone tumble onto my lap, a heavy dread pooling in my stomach. Who is it? What do I really want to know? So many questions circulate in my mind, but do I actually want the answers? That would be really terrifying for me. If I hear a name, it’ll become all too real, shifting from a laughable idea to a tangible reality. Into something I can’t ignore. That name will conjure a face, and my anxious mind will start weaving a detailed backstory—imagining their age, hair color, favorite sport, hobbies, and interests—without knowing a thing about them. Yet, a part of me craves that knowledge. I need to know for myself if it’s true, to silence the nagging “what ifs” and see if Mark is being honest, which I doubt he would lie about. So, like ripping off a Band-Aid, I steel myself and ask: “What’s her name?”
“Her name is Madison.”
Madison. The name echoes in my mind like a distant bell tolling. I steal a glance at Devon; her eyes are wide and glassy, filled with concern. She mouths, “Is everything okay?” No, absolutely not. Shame feels hotter than the limo’s interior. Despite the shower, the meticulous grooming, the layers of makeup, and the foot long hair extensions, I suddenly feel as if I’ve just crawled out of a dumpster. My skin itches as if I’ve been marinating in regret for weeks. Is this what a homewrecker feels like? I don’t feel beautiful; I feel dirty and betrayed. I’ve been unwittingly thrust into a role I never wanted. He never mentioned he was dating someone – of course he wouldn’t. Why would he, unless keeping it from me serves him? But why would he pull me into this mess? Now, just moments before the most significant night of our senior year, I’m left to carry this guilt.
Every breath in this limo is a struggle. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window– sparkly eyeshadow and meticulously styled hair now feel like a cruel joke. I can’t shake the sense that I’ve been played. I should have stopped after the “where’s my boyfriend?” line, which became a running joke with Alison and Mariana at lunch. Instead of being a man and having the decency to end things after three months—especially after I gave him Calvin Klein cologne—he vanishes without a word. No texts, no calls, nothing. It’s infuriating to think that he couldn’t even muster the courage to give me closure.
The music continues, a bittersweet backdrop that amplifies my turmoil. “Sing us a song, you're the piano man, sing us a song tonight. Well, we're all in the mood for a melody, and you've got us feelin' alright!” It’s as if the universe is mocking me, the notes echoing my confusion and dread. I want to scream, escape this suffocating feeling, but I'm trapped in this luxurious vehicle that now feels like a cage on wheels, surrounded by laughter that feels so far removed from my reality. How did I get caught up in this? How did I become a pawn in someone else’s game?
“How do you know?” I ask, my voice trembling slightly, but my insides are seething with temper.
“They make out outside at lunch every day by the Morris Hills football fields.” Mark takes a sip from his flute, his expression shifting from concern to awkward laughter. “He doesn’t think people see it, but we do.” He chuckles, but it sounds strained.
The insider information and humor provides me slight relief since I don’t go to Morris Hills High School—it gives me a clearer picture of what’s really going on. What Tyler did was boarish—completely lacking care or decency for women’s feelings. The fact that he would betray me shows just how little he values me. Part of me even feels a twinge of sympathy for him; if he were the right guy for me, he wouldn’t even consider cheating, let alone ghosting me. This realization strengthens my conviction that I’m not being irrational. He’s got pig-like tendencies. The blame lies squarely on him, and it’s liberating to acknowledge that. I deserve someone who cherishes my feelings, not someone who treats me like an afterthought.
A flashback hits me from last weekend—him in bed, calling me his “dream girl” and insisting that “any guy would be lucky to have me,” while saying he “doesn’t deserve me.” Each word only fuels my anger. I’m revolted; he’ll say anything to get what he wants. Was he talking about Madison when he mentioned, “This one chick didn’t want to go to bed with me”? So his answer is to cheat? The more I dwell on it, the more my feelings shift from romantic hurt to sheer disgust. What a swine.
“PDA is so gross anyway; it makes me cringe.” Same Mark, Same. I force a laugh, but it feels hollow. “We… we hooked up last weekend.” The words slip out before I can catch them, my mind racing to process what I’ve just said.
The words rush out, and I regret the impulsiveness almost immediately. Why did I feel the need to share this? I glance up at Mark, searching for guidance, but all I see is his wide-eyed stare, a mix of disbelief and sympathy. My heart pounds as I blurt out more than I intended, a torrent of thoughts. “I stayed the night and left in the morning.” It feels like I’ve just opened a floodgate, and now I’m drowning in the implications. “What do I do with this information?”
His mouth gapes a moment too long that he starts choking on air, fist clenching as he pounds his chest. “You what?”
I nod slowly, hesitant to meet his gaze, my eyes lingering just below his nose. The words tumbled out of me like a confession teetering on a vulnerable tightrope and now I felt exposed, raw. I dare a glance up, hoping to find some understanding. Instead, it’s like a switch has flipped and he’s got seriousness plastered on his face, which made my stomach plummet to the floor. I hadn’t meant to put him in this position. “Do not bring my name up,” he warned, raising a finger, his tone sharp. The intensity of his expression deepened my humiliation.
I nod again. I won’t bring him up. He’s a good friend, but I’m overwhelmed. It feels like I’ve crossed a line I can’t uncross, and I can’t just sit here burdened by this knowledge. There has to be a way to address the situation without burning bridges or naming names. And poor Madison; she deserves to know the truth, even if it’s difficult. I want to navigate this with integrity, finding a way to support her without causing unnecessary harm. It’s a delicate balance, but I refuse to compromise my values.
“I can’t keep this in though if that’s okay,” I stammer, trying to catch my breath. “Whatever I decide to do.”
I snatch my phone from my lap, my fingers trembling with a mix of rage and determination as I pull up his contact. With each tap, hitting block feels like severing the last tether that connects us. The thought of his blue texts turning green is satisfying, like a small victory that signifies a clean break. I do the same on Snapchat, relishing the finality of it all. I make a promise to myself: I cannot go back to him. He is done. I choose to respect myself and prioritize my own well-being, vowing to never let his words or actions hurt me again. From now on, it is all about me.
Mark looks at me, concern etched on his face. “Just be careful.”