Saturday to pick out decorations for the Hot Shot Dance. She got so excited when I told her I was in charge; she pulled out her old Youngstown High School yearbook and showed me pictures of when she was senior class president and planned what she called: the best prom my high school has ever seen.
"I spent months sewing fake flowers that fell from the ceiling during the last dance," my mom said, laughing. "By the time prom rolled around, my fingers were so covered in calluses that I had to soak them in a vat of cocoa butter the night before so my date wouldn't notice!"
Then we went page by page through the entire yearbook, and my mom told me about every single person in her graduating class. I saw her eat a tomato like an apple once . Ugh, he was in my Math class and picked his nose . She turned to the page with the Homecoming King and Queen. Last I heard, he's working at a car plant and weighs 300 pounds … she got pregnant in college .
I kept staring at the pictures and thinking how young everyone looked and how old they are now. If my mom's right, life is basically downhill from the second you graduate; I started freaking out about how I'm living the peak of my life, but so far it consists of watching Sweet Home Alabama for the seventh million time with Sarah and daydreaming about kissing Matt without actually doing it.
"Do you have a date yet?" my mom asks as we walk into Hobby Lobby. "Please tell me it's not Sam Higgins again." She rolls her eyes. Along with asking me out in a text, Sam broke my parents' three cardinal rules of dances. 1) Be on time. 2) Bring a corsage. 3) Don't smell like your father's cow farm.
I have few more secret rules. 4) Don't wear boots. 5) Hair gel is meant to be used in small amounts. 6) All undershirts must have sleeves. 7) No camouflage, flannel, jersey, or pink shirts. And finally, and this is the most important, 8) Slow dance.
When I'm slow dancing, I like to pretend we're in some romantic movie, like Dirty Dancing or Step Up , and we're doing something dangerous and sexy. Plus, I get to press myself against a boy and lately that's all I want to do. I blame it on my hormones and lack of sexual encounters. Plus, it's safe. Everyone in town expects kids to slow dance. It's a completely acceptable activity.
"Sarah and I are going stag," I say.
My mom stifles a laugh. "If one of you doesn't get a boyfriend soon, this town is going to think I have a lesbian for a daughter."
" Mom ." I look around to see if any of the old ladies perusing the store at nine in the morning heard her. I can't believe she just said lesbian on a Saturday in Hobby Lobby.
"I'm just saying: my daughter is beautiful and smart and deserves the best boyfriend Minster has to offer." Mom smiles at me and tucks my hair behind my ears. "Maybe if you pull your hair back and show off those gorgeous cheekbones, a boy will notice you."
I force a laugh; really, the comment stings. Sometimes when my mom thinks she's being funny or kind, she's really hurting me. But I know she means well and only wants me to be the best person I can be, so I swallow the lump in my throat and leave my hair behind my ears.
"So, what've you come up with?" she asks as we grab a cart at the front of the store.
I take the piece of paper with my dance decoration ideas out of my purse. It looks more like an architect's blueprint. Last week, I went to the gym and copied down all the dimensions I'd be working with. I almost made a diorama, like the ones you build in elementary school out of an old shoebox, but I thought that might be taking it too far.
"The theme I've come up with is, 'Two is Better than One'," I say as we push down the first aisle. It's crowded with different spools of yarn arranged by color.
My mom walks over to the pink section and picks up a magenta-colored spool. "Um-hmm," she says, closed mouth. "This color is pretty, don't you think?"
A rock drops in my gut. Oh crap . "It is pretty. I love magenta."
Mom puts it back and
"I spent months sewing fake flowers that fell from the ceiling during the last dance," my mom said, laughing. "By the time prom rolled around, my fingers were so covered in calluses that I had to soak them in a vat of cocoa butter the night before so my date wouldn't notice!"
Then we went page by page through the entire yearbook, and my mom told me about every single person in her graduating class. I saw her eat a tomato like an apple once . Ugh, he was in my Math class and picked his nose . She turned to the page with the Homecoming King and Queen. Last I heard, he's working at a car plant and weighs 300 pounds … she got pregnant in college .
I kept staring at the pictures and thinking how young everyone looked and how old they are now. If my mom's right, life is basically downhill from the second you graduate; I started freaking out about how I'm living the peak of my life, but so far it consists of watching Sweet Home Alabama for the seventh million time with Sarah and daydreaming about kissing Matt without actually doing it.
"Do you have a date yet?" my mom asks as we walk into Hobby Lobby. "Please tell me it's not Sam Higgins again." She rolls her eyes. Along with asking me out in a text, Sam broke my parents' three cardinal rules of dances. 1) Be on time. 2) Bring a corsage. 3) Don't smell like your father's cow farm.
I have few more secret rules. 4) Don't wear boots. 5) Hair gel is meant to be used in small amounts. 6) All undershirts must have sleeves. 7) No camouflage, flannel, jersey, or pink shirts. And finally, and this is the most important, 8) Slow dance.
When I'm slow dancing, I like to pretend we're in some romantic movie, like Dirty Dancing or Step Up , and we're doing something dangerous and sexy. Plus, I get to press myself against a boy and lately that's all I want to do. I blame it on my hormones and lack of sexual encounters. Plus, it's safe. Everyone in town expects kids to slow dance. It's a completely acceptable activity.
"Sarah and I are going stag," I say.
My mom stifles a laugh. "If one of you doesn't get a boyfriend soon, this town is going to think I have a lesbian for a daughter."
" Mom ." I look around to see if any of the old ladies perusing the store at nine in the morning heard her. I can't believe she just said lesbian on a Saturday in Hobby Lobby.
"I'm just saying: my daughter is beautiful and smart and deserves the best boyfriend Minster has to offer." Mom smiles at me and tucks my hair behind my ears. "Maybe if you pull your hair back and show off those gorgeous cheekbones, a boy will notice you."
I force a laugh; really, the comment stings. Sometimes when my mom thinks she's being funny or kind, she's really hurting me. But I know she means well and only wants me to be the best person I can be, so I swallow the lump in my throat and leave my hair behind my ears.
"So, what've you come up with?" she asks as we grab a cart at the front of the store.
I take the piece of paper with my dance decoration ideas out of my purse. It looks more like an architect's blueprint. Last week, I went to the gym and copied down all the dimensions I'd be working with. I almost made a diorama, like the ones you build in elementary school out of an old shoebox, but I thought that might be taking it too far.
"The theme I've come up with is, 'Two is Better than One'," I say as we push down the first aisle. It's crowded with different spools of yarn arranged by color.
My mom walks over to the pink section and picks up a magenta-colored spool. "Um-hmm," she says, closed mouth. "This color is pretty, don't you think?"
A rock drops in my gut. Oh crap . "It is pretty. I love magenta."
Mom puts it back and
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