Prom Part 4: Prom Weekend

If you haven't read the beginning of this story, please begin with Part 1, Prom Preparation.

The limo dropped me off and I watched as my family flooded down the stairs to open the Kapu. I peered back and the driver shot me an evil stare as he drove away. I sighed, but before I could even inhale, my mother started asking questions. Anyu always asks a lot of questions, but never listens to the answers because she is too busy thinking of the next question. I ignored her, sauntered into the bathroom, and shut the door.

For about a half-hour, I chiseled layers of makeup off my face as she bombarded me with questions through the door. “Stephie, vhat are you doink in dere? Did you see Jordan? Vas he wit hiss new girlfriend? Does she look fat? Stephie, don’t git soap in yer eye. Do you tink he still vants you? Vas his new girlfriend very heavy? I tink he still luffs you. Did you git soap in yer eye? Stephie…”

I plopped into bed and set my alarm for 8 a.m. Although the prom was a total bust, I couldn’t wait to go down the shore with all my friends in the morning. Though some miracle, Anthony’s mom convinced my mom that she would make sure I hung out on the boardwalk, far way from the deep, dark, dangerous ocean. You see, the problem is that I can't swim.

When I was 13, Anyu signed me up for swimming lessons after one of my teachers yelled at her for being too overprotective. So, there I was, the only 5’foot 8” girl in a 4-foot deep swimming pool with a bunch of three-year-swimming laps around me. Sadly, I actually flunked out of the class because I refused to “jump” into the pool from the side; I was convinced that my lungs would fill with water, my eardrums would explode, the water would hold me down, and I would be unable to resurface. So, instead of sending me to more lessons, every time I went on a school field trip, Anyu simply made a large note on the “Allergies” section of my permission slip: “Stephanie, she cannot swim, don’t let her drown,” next to a drawing of a curly-haired girl swimming with an “X” through it. I don’t even HAVE curly hair.

I woke up the morning of Prom Weekend and immediately ran to the bathroom to get ready. As I was brushing my teeth, Anyu swung open the bathroom door without knocking and pinned the cordless phone to my ear. “Hew-whoa?” I said, my mouth full of minty paste.

I heard Allen’s pre-pubescent voice on the other line. “Hey, it’s me.”

I spit the toothpaste into the sink. “Oh, hey...I’m almost ready, should I bring the soda in a cooler or do you already have one?”

“Well, uh, don’t worry about it, see, I don’t think we’re going.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, some stuff came up, and uhhh, yeah, I think we’re just gonna hang out today, just the guys, but we’ll go down to the shore later on in the summer. Okay, I gotta go, my mom is calling.”

Click.

I stood holding the phone in one hand, with my toothbrush still partially hanging out of the side of my mouth. I immediately called Crystal, hoping she would still want to hang out and save me from yet another weekend with my family. Alas, I got her answering machine. I left a desperate message and glumly sat down to play some Sega games.

My mom stood over me with her hands on her hips. “Vhat are you doing? Don’t just sit dere! Vhile you vait, go outside with grandma.”

“Go outside with grandma” always meant “manual labor.” Nagymama kept a large vegetable garden in the back of our one acre yard, and I was in charge of getting the water from spicket at the front of the house to the garden. I begged my mom to just buy a hose, but she always said “A hose is too much, I don’t vant to vaste vater.” I probably wasted more water carting overfilled buckets to empty into Nagymama’s leaky watering can than if I had ran a garden hose from New Jersey to China.

So, I spent the entire afternoon trying to keep the buckets of water from soaking through my shoes, wondering where the hell everyone was. It wasn’t until Monday that I heard what really happened: The boys decided to ditch all the girls because they didn’t want to people to assume we were their girlfriends, thus ensuring that they would “bang some hot chicks” down at the shore. I don’t know if any of you guys have ever seen the Jersey Shore, but I don't think any “hot chicks” frequent the area, unless you like chicks that wear hideously big plastic earrings to match their hideously big plastic hairdos.

“I’m so sorry,” Crystal said as we piled books into our lockers, “I was so pissed about the whole thing, I just went off-roading with my brother and didn’t even think to call you. What did you end up doing all weekend?”

I sighed. “I helped my grandma water her vegetable garden so that she could grow more crap to put in her famous ‘letcho,’ which is basically over-boiled tomatoes, peppers, and rice.”

“Oh, so THAT’S what smelled-up the limo the other day!”

Dammit. I hate Letcho.

Photo by Diego Medrano

Prom Part 3: The Actual Prom

Please see Part 1: Prom Preparation and Part 2: The Promenade before reading this.

Once we arrived at the prom, the boys got out first to help their dates out of the limo. When it came to my turn, I reached for a hand, but my date was nowhere in site. I looked over and there he was with Jordan Sanders – my evil ex-boyfriend.

Jordan was my very first boyfriend, and we broke up after five months because “he went into depression.” During our relationship, I had developed fascination with Vlad Tepes since my mother had just informed me that we were Transylvanian (and not 100% Hungarian like my father claimed). In addition, I was having a bit of a crisis of faith, so I started studying many religions, including Islam, Judaism, and Wicca. Jordan’s friends knew all of this information decided that I was the reason for his depression. They told the entire school that, “I put a Wiccan curse on him because I was nothing but an evil satanic vampire that sacrificed chickens.” No kidding.

The irony of all of this was that I was actually a devout Christian vegetarian at the time, and the whole “depression” was a ruse to cover up the fact that I refused to participate in sexual activities (or chicken sacrificing) with Mr. Sanders. In retrospect, I am really glad it happened because it opened my eyes to the stereotypes and stigmas Wiccans go through daily, just for following a peaceful, 100% Satan-free religion. People always fear what they don’t understand.

So, of course, on this day of all days, I did not want to see Jordan and his entourage. His moron best friend Chip, a squat little man with a voice reminiscent of “Nelson” from the Simpon’s, pointed his finger at me.

“Whatchu doing here, Step-On-Me You-ASS?!” Chip snorted. My date looked slightly conflicted, but did nothing to help me.

“I’m sorry, what did you call me?” I asked, as I walked closer. Crystal trailed closely behind me; she must have known that this was not going to be good. Now, I must forewarn you, I am not a violent person, but as you can see from Part 1 and Part 2 of this entry, I was not having a good day.

Chip continued his teasing, “You heaaaard me, Step-On-Me, You-Ass!”

So, I did as he told me to do: I placed one high-heeled foot directly on his and stomped down as hard as I could. Sure, it was immature. But you should’ve seen the look on his face.

“What the fuck, bitch?” he screamed, as he jumped in place holding his foot.

“You keep saying “Step-On-Me,” so I simply obliged.”

Surprisingly enough, even Jordan laughed at this remark. But Jordan’s and Chip’s dates were not pleased and rushed them inside. Crystal shook her head. “Wow, that was random and unnecessary. But awesome.”
My date sat down next to me and immediately started devouring his dinner roll. I was worried that he was mad about the Chip incident, but he simply complained about his retail job and then asked if I wanted my bread. I was relieved – sharing food usually implies friendship. He must have been really hungry though, because he even stole a roll from the empty seat next to us and snagged Crystal’s piece because she was “dieting.”

Meanwhile, my friend Ian stopped by the table and I was thrilled to see him. He was an interesting blend of an athletic ROTC (Reserved Officer Training Corps) guy and a complete socially inept nerd. He wasn’t even bad looking, but he wore a trenchcoat (which had its own stigma in high school) and spent most of his days creating duct-taped swords for RPGs (Role Playing Games). This, unfortunately, did not score many points with the ladies, but I always thought he was a pretty funny dude.

As Ian and I were talking I noticed that Allen had disappeared. “Tony, where’s Al?”

Tony barely looked up from the intricate Anarchy symbol he was drawing on the tablecloth. “He’s upchucking in the bathroom or something.”

“Wait, why?”

“I dunno, he ate too much.”

“He doesn’t know when to stop eating? What is he, a goldfish?”

Tony gave me a mild shrug.

“Typical.”

Ian gave me an awkward glance. “So, uh, do you wanna go dance or something instead of sitting here?”

“Um, okay.”

I timidly walked with him to the dance floor. It would have been too awkward to slow dance, but I knew I could survive if a fast song came on because of the few Spanish dance classes I took freshman year. I was releaved when some early 90’s techno song came on. We danced for two or three songs and for a moment, I forgot myself –

Until my oversized top fell down.

It was only for a split second, but that second was long enough for my buddy Ian to glimpse his first set of real-live female breasts. See, I’m a good friend, right?

After the prom was over, we all walked outside and it was freezing. I noticed most of the girls were wearing their date’s jackets, whereas my date walked 50 feet away from me. I would take a chilly evening air over wearing a jacket with puke all over it any night.

I heard footsteps behind me and felt a jacket go over my shoulders. Ian had ran out to give me his jacket. I muttered a thank you and shruggled into the coat. I was mortified and couldn’t even look him in the face. Writing this all out now, I realize the kid probably kinda liked me, but I was too much of a moron to even see it. If you’re out there Ian, I’m really sorry about that – thanks for letting me borrow your jacket.

Photo by Ltz

Velcome to the Kitchen

Please remember to watch Part 1 and Part 2 before viewing this video.

If you can't see the video above, try this link instead.

A typical visit to my family's kitchen. Pretty stressful, but you get used to it. :)

Thank you to Cameraman Matt, http://www.cinevore.com, for his assistance with capturing our family events on film.

Songs used: Brahm's Hungarian Dance No. 1, performed by Leo Christopherson, http://www.leochristopherson.com