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

Prom Part 2: The Promenade

Please see Part 1: Prom Preparation before reading this.

After the debacle inside, I grabbed Allen and ran to the limo as fast as my high heeled shoes would carry me. But I was stopped by The Kapu.

The Kapu ("gate" in Hungarian) is the front gate to our home. This gate remains locked at all times to "guard the fortress," despite the fact that my family lives in a 1920's 435 square foot, 1-bedroom house next to a ton of brand-new bi-levels and colonial homes. Coming to and leaving the house has been an issue my whole life because of The Kapu. Mom said it was to protect us from “crazy psycho killers.” The way I see it, crazy psycho serial killers are probably good at three things: psycho killing, gym class, and hoping fences. Why bother?

So as usual, I had to wait for Nagymama to come out with her key to unlock the fence as my entire prom party watched from the parked limousine. I started getting anxious; I was sure that the sight of two young adults in formalwear getting locked behind a fence by a 4-foot tall woman wearing papuchs and a babushka was getting captured on everyone’s camera. As she unlocked the gate, Nagymama made sure to throw a few more criticisms about my appearance my way before we ran like hell to the limo.

We desperately crawled into the car and I prepared myself for the onslaught of teasing. However, I found our prom party rummaging through a mini fridge in the limo and inspecting some sort of liquid in a glass decanter. My date’s friend Anthony whispered, “Yo, I think they have BOOZE on dis bus!”

I was thrilled. Not about the liquor, but about the fact that no one but my date witnesses my entire family chasing me around the back yard with cameras, curling irons, and kapu keys. But my joy quickly subsided when my friend Crystal said, "Whoa, what smells like dirty diapers?"

“We live in New Jersey, EVERYTHING smells like dirty diapers,” I retorted.

Thank goodness, everyone laughed and their attention turned back to the booze, which Anthony was proudly pouring into Dixie Cups. But I knew the truth - it was the letcho! The stench of peppers cooked for ten-thousand years probably covered every single inch of my being, and probably my date's tux, too. My grandma always tried very hard, but her cooking usually causes mild nausea and the occasional seizures.

Suddenly, the door of the limo opened. Crystal’s date, Keith, started to climb into the car. But the driver spotted Allen drinking the mystery booze, pushed Keith to the side, and started screaming something unintelligible in Russian. He grabbed the cups, poured the contents on Keith’s driveway, grabbed the rest of the Dixie Cups, and brought them to the front of the limo with him.

Keith sat down and we immediately took off. “Uh, what the hell just happened?”

“The driver musta left the booze in the car from the last people and now he’s pissed,” said Anthony.

My date chimed in, “Yeah, but he took away our cups and not the booze, if that makes any damned sense.”

Anthony scoffed. “I don’t need a cup to drink booze, cups are for sissies.”

“Please, Tony,” I begged, “Don’t be an ass.”

But he still reached for the decanter of mystery liquid and took a swig. And then the “privacy partition” between us and the driver dropped down. So Keith put used the remote to put it back up. And the driver put it back down.

“I can do dis all day!” the driver yelled.

Great, I thought. My mom’s sent one of her spies from the old country to make sure we don’t have any fun.

Eventually, we made it to our high school for the "Promenade." Now, I'm not sure if it's typical for most schools to have this, but my high school had a prom opening ceremony where the staff and parents would decorate the cafeteria with balloons and crepe paper in order to take more embarrassing photos of their awkward teenagers. I figured my mom wouldn’t really understand the custom, so I didn’t invite my family to this event. Besides, I was still reeling from the last time my mom came to my school when she managed to embarrass me in front of everyone watching the football game (I’ll write more on that some other blog).

It was customary for all the prom-goers to enter through the back of building in order to “make an entrance” through The Archway, aka, some hideous sparkly crepe paper explosion some soccer moms glued together. I tried to walk with my Allen, but he already ran ahead to talk to Keith about monster trucks or something. Anthony was busy talking to the other people in the party that I didn’t know. Luckily, I wasn’t alone because Crystal had fallen behind as she struggled to make it through the freshly mopped hallway in her three-inch heels. She rolled her eyes, “Why are they running like they have a class to catch?”

I looked over at her and suddenly remembered that I looked hideous. Crystal was tall, thin, confident. She was reminiscent of Cinderella in her $250 baby blue dress from the local bridal shop. She had French tips put onto her fingers with the tiniest rhinestones decorating the center of each nail. Her long blonde hair on top of her head into a cascade of curls, flowers with a fantastic jeweled comb adorning her tresses like a crown. Compared to her, I looked like I just stepped out of a garbage pile. I couldn’t wait to get to the actual prom where there would be flog machines and dark corners for me to hide in.

As fast as we tried to walk, we couldn’t catch up to the herd of boys. As we rounded the corner, we heard an eruption of laugher come from inside the cafeteria. Apparently, Allen and Keith unknowingly walked through the archway together, and didn’t even notice that people were taking pictures of them as if they were a couple. They just continued their conversation about GTO’s and V8 engines while walking down the isle of confetti, glitter, and tool, unaware of the implications.

Crystal smacked her hand to her head. “Freaking morons.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” For a moment, I was excited because I thought this meant that I didn’t have to walk through The Arch. Oh, I am not that lucky.

The hired photographer started flailing his hands,“No no no no no, where are your dates?”

The boys simultaneously turned around. “Oh.”

Crystal glided up the walkway next to Keith with the grace of Marilyn Monroe. I was next – my date didn’t even want to hold my arm. We walked a few feet and as I was ready to run the other way, the damned photographer had to put his two cents in again.

“Um, honey, can you take off your shoes so you’re not taller than him? Just for the picture.”

I was begging for some higher power to strike him down from above. Lightning. Thunder. Locusts. Even TOADS would have made me happy. But instead, I just gave in and took off my big boat shoes. The photographer rubbed his chin.

“Nope, you’re STILL taller. Can somebody grab me The Chair?”

Oooo, The Chair! Alas, it was not the blessed relief of 2000 volts surging through my body as I had hoped. It was simply some cheap, painted-wood, fake-flowered monstrosity that got passed down the isle. The entire cafeteria watched as I struggled to put my shoes back on without my top falling down. The photographer awkwardly positioned us and snapped a photo.

Again, if I ever find this damned picture, I am BURNING IT.

We ended up talking to a bunch of parents and then made our way back to the limo towards the prom. Where, believe it or not, this story gets WORSE. (To be continued.)

Photo by Maciej Lewandowski

Prom Part 1: Prom Preparation

I was thrilled one day when my friend Allen, a Senior at the time, asked me to go to the prom with him. But there was an issue with getting a prom dress. I didn't come from a ton of money, so the idea of spending between $100-$250 on a dress you would never wear again was ridiculous. But my aunt was the queen of savings and a great seamstress, so we figured we could just find a discount gown and she would "make it work."

I probably tried on about 500 fuchsia-sequin encrusted-lace-imbibed dresses before I found "The Black Dress." The black dress actually reached to my ankles (which was a difficult feat, being 5'11") and had amazing rhinestone spaghetti straps. And it was on clearance $19.95. I had struck gold!

Somehow, my aunt convinced me to buy it a few sizes too big because she was convinced that I was "still growing," and I had six months before the prom. She assured me that she would alter the dress on the night before the prom so I could have a perfect fit.

The problem is, my aunt sewed couch cushions, not dresses, and business had been so busy that she didn't have time to deal with the gown. Before we knew it, the prom was upon us, and my dress was still not altered. But my cousin promised we could make it work!

"You know, all the stars just glue themselves into their dresses before their award shows?" she claimed.

"Really?" I asked. This sounded like a really good idea.

I am a moron.

The night of the prom, my cousin attempted to crazy glue this dress to me and I was literally hanging out of it. To make matters worse, the crazy glue left a huge white stain on the front of the dress. I freaked out, and Nagymama didn't notice - she was more worried about me eating dinner, which consisted of a huge bowl of "letcho." "Letcho", is a dish made of various sewed peppers, tomatoes and rice. Supposedly, it is really, really good. But Nagymama always cooked it for HOURS, until it was completely falling apart and stuck up the house. She also never used spices, which is the whole POINT of being Hungarian, if you ask me!

"My dress doesn't fit! My life is over!" I wailed.

"No problem!" my aunt said. "We'll fix it."

There is no weirder sensation than having your cousin curl your hair while your aunt is coloring in your boob with a Sharpie marker while your Nagymama is trying to spoon mounds of letcho into your mouth.

"Nagymama, you're going to ruin her lipstick!" my cousin screamed.

"She needs to eat! And you're making her look like a whore!" Nagymama said.

"You're gonna to poke her eye out with dat eyeliner!" my mom cried.

"Stephie, you should really get a better pushup bra next time," my aunt suggested.

Did I mention that this room was only large enough to hold a bed, a television and perhaps two people? Not an entire family full of women with hot curling irons and various phobias.

So, finally, my cousin held up a mirror. And I cried.

My hair was "crimped" not curled, which might have been great in the 80's, but not 1999. My eyeliner looked more like raccoon makeup than "Sexy and Smoky." My chest was red from the chemical burn and I had a big hard black shiny spot in the center of my dress. And the fabulous rhinestones had started to fall out of the spaghetti straps.

It was at that exact moment Allen arrived at the door.

"ONE MORE MINUTE PLEASE!" I struggled to fix myself as best I could to avoid exposing my naive date to my family under all this stress.

My grandma immediately cornered him and tried to make him sit at our sticky kitchen table. She already had a bowl of letcho waiting for him. He politely declined and then informed us that the limo was waiting outside.

Just as I was about to panic, he said, "Here, I got you this," he said. He put a beautiful corsage of white roses, covered in flecks of glitter on my wrist.

I smiled. For a moment, I felt pretty. And then my cousin said, "Where's the boutonniere?"

I was confused. "What's a boutonniere?" I asked. I looked at Allen and he shrugged.

In the distance, I hear a microwave beep but thought nothing of it.

My cousin was exasperated. "You moron! You're supposed to buy your date a flower that matches your corsage so people know you are together!"

I had never been to the prom before or witnessed anyone else's prom-goings, so I had no idea that this was a custom. My cheeks turned bright red.

"No problem," my aunt said. "Ve'll improvise." She pulled the corsage off my wrist, grabbed a kitchen knife, and started hacking it to pieces.

Meanwhile, Nagymama walked over to my date with a glass of orange juice. "Nice boy" as she patted him on the back. Problem is, when you're about 4 feet tall, if you want to pat someone on the back, your hand usually lands on their ass. My date got a weird look on his face.

"MOM! NAGYMAMA IS TOUCHING ALLEN INNAPPROPRIATELY!"

He looked over at me. "No, it's okay, she's fine...but I really can't finish this....drink. I don't want to offend her."

I realized that she had microwaved the orange juice she had given him. She was always afraid that people would catch a cold, so she frequently warmed up beverages in the microwave - nothing was ever hot, but everything I drank growing up was usually "piss warm."

"Oh, god, forget it, we're leaving."

I threw the drink in the sink, grabbed Allen's hand, and ran out the door with my aunt chased after us. "Vait, vait! Dah flowers!"

My aunt grabbed my date and struggled to pin the hacked apart corsage bits onto his lapel. I pulled the tattered remnants of the corsage back on my wrist and started heading towards this gate.

My mom stopped us. "Vait! Von last ting! Let me get a picture of the happy couple!"

If I ever find this picture, I am going to burn the damned thing.

(To be continued)

Photo by Sasha Dunaevski