101 prom nights, p.1
101 Prom Nights, page 1
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Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Daly, D.E.
Title: 101 prom nights / D.E. Daly.
Description: New York : West 44, 2024. | Series: West 44 YA verse
Identifiers: ISBN 9781978597037 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781978597020 (library bound) | ISBN 9781978597044 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Proms--Juvenile fiction. | Interpersonal relations--Juvenile fiction. | Conduct of life--Juvenile fiction. | Friendship--Juvenile fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.D359 On 2024 | DDC [F]--dc23
First Edition
Published in 2024 by
Enslow Publishing LLC
2544 Clinton Street
Buffalo, New York 14224
Copyright © 2024 Enslow Publishing LLC
Editor: Caitie McAneney
Designer: Leslie Taylor
Photo Credits: Cover (girl) AI Image composite/Shutterstock.com; (balloons upper) Billion Photos/shutterstock.com, (blue glitter) Mirror Flow/Shutterstock.com, (balloons lower) Grekov’s/shutterstock.com; Series Art (interior bottom & accents) Craevschii Family/Shutterstock.com.
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For my high school friends, who are still my best friends
Great Expectations
Prom: The best of nights. The worst of nights.
In TV and movies,
anyway.
Mariana
(one of my Two Actual Friends)
wanted the Perfect Prom.
Nothing went that wrong.
Nobody spilled punch on Mariana.
(Suzy Thomas: purple stain,
all down her pale dress.)
Nobody kicked Mariana out of prom.
(Philip Masters: not so lucky.)
Nobody spread rumors about Mariana.
(Alicia Tan looked so happy.
Guess she hadn’t heard the rumors yet.)
Mariana’s problem was just:
Jordy Perez.
Cool,
curly-haired,
off-in-the-corner:
Jordy Perez.
Everything he does
looks
as cool as his face.
Jordy Perez:
all Mariana talked about.
Maybe
he’d ask her to dance.
And then
Jordy Perez walked right at us.
It was Mariana’s Movie Moment.
Except:
“Excuse me,” Jordy said.
And stepped around her
to punch Mark Peterson.
Total harmless jock, Mark Peterson.
They fought,
I guess.
I missed that part.
I was busy
chasing Mariana
to the girls’ bathroom.
Everybody Claimed
Jordy left prom running.
With the principal chasing him
in her high heels.
They called an ambulance for Mark.
(I did not hear sirens.)
(But Mark was gone from prom.)
Prom Math
Mariana didn’t dance with anybody.
Except me. And Roman, of course.
But we don’t count.
Roman
(my other Actual Friend)
and Mariana
and me:
we’re kind of
one person.
Roman helped us
pick our dresses.
He bought our corsages.
And we three
went to prom.
Like we went to kindergarten:
together.
Mariana
spent one quarter of prom upset.
In the bathroom.
So I spent one quarter of prom
with her.
In the bathroom.
I finally got her out,
because
we couldn’t leave Roman
alone.
We spent the next quarter of prom
looking for him.
We found Roman outside,
with theater friends.
Trying a vape pen.
Despite his asthma.
And allergies.
Prom’s last half:
• Roman coughed.
(Constantly.)
• We found the buffet stations.
(The good stuff? Gone.)
(The rest? Cold.)
• Watched our classmates.
(Plus Mark Peterson’s date,
who doesn’t go to our school, and who
hung around alone.)
And we three
danced.
(Mariana and Roman took dance as kids.
I did not.
You can tell.)
So,
Mariana was disappointed.
(But, next year!)
Roman said he had “an actual blast.”
(Between coughs.)
When my parents asked if junior prom was fun,
I said, “Sure.”
Prom added up
to fine.
Just fine.
Most importantly: prom was
over.
Until I woke up.
In the Morning
My prom dress was hanging up.
Tags on.
I’d left it
on the floor.
My new shoes?
In their box.
No gym-floor scuffs.
My feet weren’t sore.
My hair was stick-straight.
Last night it was curled.
Stiff, from too much hairspray.
Like I’d dreamed it all.
The thing is?
My dreams never feel this real.
Downstairs, my mom said,
“I’ve got blueberry pancakes
for your big day!”
Blueberry pancakes,
because my dress was blue.
Because it was prom morning.
Again.
Prom, Take Two
I don’t know what to do.
So
I kind of
don’t do anything.
I check the date
. . . on my phone
. . . then with my mom.
“You mean the time?” she says.
I woke up around 10 yesterday.
. . . Today.
. . . Saturday.
The thing about prom:
you spend most of the day getting ready.
“You should shower soon,” Mom says.
Since I haven’t moved.
And now it’s noon.
So I shower.
Paint my nails.
Play the same
how-to videos.
How to:
get
not-long,
not-short,
just-straight
hair to curl.
Nicely.
Mariana Comes Over at Three
“Nice,” Mariana says
when she sees my hair.
“Needs more hairspray.”
She sprays too much.
My hair holds, though.
Mariana’s dress is green.
Coordinated with my blue.
Her hair’s henna red,
newly dyed.
It’s very
Little-Mermaid-meets-Prom.
We put on the same makeup.
But
like the first time,
hers turns out
glam.
And mine just looks . . .
too much.
I wipe half of it off.
The Three Musketeers
Roman shows up:
At five.
With pizza.
With a photography plan.
Same poses. Same takes.
And I just . . .
-flash, flash, flash-
go along.
Roman checks the pictures
on our phones.
He’s tall, plus two inches of hair
combed up like Elvis.
Mariana’s heels are higher than mine.
So we’re exactly the same height.
We bookend Roman, one on each side.
Same pictures:
I just look more confused.
Same old comments from my parents:
How we’re the Three Musketeers.
The trio.
There are so many pictures
of us standing
just like this.
Same Night
I get into my dad’s car at 6:45.
Float into prom behind my friends.
Same blueberry-blue dress.
Same chaperone line
of teachers.
Same
Starry Night
decorations above.
Once Mariana sees
Jordy Perez,
she starts
the same sighing,
hoping.
“Maybe,” I say, this time.
“Ask him to dance?”
Roman agrees.
“W
We’re wrong.
Mariana asks.
Jordy Perez
answers,
“Can’t right now.”
He stalks
right toward Mark Peterson.
. . . Oh, right.
I kind of forgot about the fight.
Mariana runs for the bathroom.
So I go after her
again.
The Stalls
Mariana says,
between tears:
“This is your fault.”
“I don’t mean that.”
“Why doesn’t he like me?”
“You don’t get it.”
. . . I don’t get it.
Jordy Perez has a great face. But . . .
Mariana doesn’t know him.
I’ll never get
liking somebody
you don’t know.
I point out,
“He didn’t say no.
He said ‘not now.’”
That works.
We escape
the bathroom.
And Jordy Perez is
already gone.
Mark Peterson, already gone.
Mark’s date still stayed at prom.
And Roman . . .
will be coughing, soon.
He’s outside
with the theater kids
about to vape.
I Interrupt Him This Time
Roman tells me
I’m making my “mom face.”
I tell him my mom’s awesome.
So my face must be, too.
But his comment stings.
He should know better.
His asthma, his allergies.
I know how this plays out.
But I’d make the same face
even if I didn’t.
I always play the “mom” part of our trio.
One of us has to know better.
This Time
We get food when it’s warmer.
I say hi to Alicia Tan by the food.
She doesn’t hear me.
She doesn’t look happy, anymore.
Mariana keeps talking about Jordy
and the fight we missed
and why he’d fight
Mark Peterson
over Mark’s beautiful date . . .
Philip Masters still
drops his flask
and gets caught.
Roman again
calls the night
“an actual blast.”
Without coughing.
After midnight,
I sit up in my bedroom.
Making notes.
I don’t remember
falling asleep.
My notebook is blank
when I wake up.
My blueberry-blue
prom dress awaits.
It's Giving Groundhog Day
There’s this old movie
on TV, all day
every February 2nd.
Groundhog Day.
February 2nd,
and the movie’s name.
My parents love it.
Some movies you’ve seen
so many times,
they’re just movies you know.
Groundhog Day’s about this
jerk.
He wakes up and
it’s the same day. Again.
And again.
It’s prom morning.
Take three.
Prom’s long
past February.
But I think: Groundhog Day.
I Am a Nice Person
I,
Halley Jane Robbins,
am not special.
That’s
fine.
My parents tell me I am.
(I’m their only child.)
They named me after a comet.
Nothing so easy as
Hailey-with-an-I
or Hayley-with-a-Y.
My mom and dad went to
high school states apart.
But their yearbooks look the same:
They’re both on
almost
every
page.
Dad:
film club president, baseball team,
voted “best all-around.”
Mom:
founded horseback-riding club, swim team,
voted “most unforgettable.”
I’m in my yearbooks
in one place:
my picture.
I’m . . .
mid.
Solid grades.
Member of random clubs.
I don’t have A Thing.
But everyone says I’m nice.
My only school award ever says
I’m a helper.
But in Groundhog Day
And those same-concept
TV Christmas movies . . .
Where it’s Christmas,
over and over . . .
The main character is a Scrooge.
A jerk.
The day repeats,
until they learn
how not to be a jerk.
But I’m not a jerk.
Still:
movies are
the only map
I’ve got.
High school hasn’t prepped me
for this.
Main Character Energy
I call Mariana.
Tell her to come over.
Not at three
in the afternoon.
Now, now, now.
She complains.
But she comes.
And I tell her everything.
She Looks at Me
Not like she doesn’t believe
it’s possible.
Like she doesn’t believe
this would happen to me.
She’s seen
repeating-day movies.
At least two on Hulu.
And a Netflix show.
She says:
“Time loops.
You’re saying you’re
in a loop.”
I remind her
I never lie.
I tell her about Jordy Perez.
Not the turning-her-down part.
The punching part.
That’s weird enough.
Those Guys
We all go to school together.
But we don’t really know them.
They don’t hang out, Jordy and Mark.
Not with us.
Or each other.
Both barely talk.
Unless Jordy’s talking back
to teachers.
I tutored Mark Peterson last fall.
I think he said five words to me.
Mark smiles and nods a lot.
His grades aren’t great.
He’s a human golden retriever.
He’s even got sun highlights
in his bro flow hair.
Jordy’s not an athlete.
Mark is, but not a cool sport.
Mark is on the golf team:
good enough
his name makes the papers.
Everybody likes Mark.
Because Mark likes everybody.
Everybody would like Jordy, too . . .
Everybody likes cool . . .
If Jordy liked anyone back.
The Proof Is in the Punch
So
at prom three . . .
when Jordy Perez’s fist
hits Mark Peterson’s face . . .
Mariana gasps.
She pulls me
to the bathroom this time.
“O-M-G, O-M-G.”
Her hands are in her
careful curls.
Suzy Thomas
walks into the bathroom.
Punch on her dress.
I told Mariana about that,
too.
It’s enough.
Mariana’s always believed
easily.
“You know what you could do?”
Mariana doesn’t care
if Suzy hears us.
“You could kiss anyone you want.
They won’t remember it.
You could eat anything . . .
Those calories disappear,
right?
If you get drunk,
and then it’s prom,
again,
do you skip the hangover?
O-M-G.
How many times
have we had this conversation?”
Question?
I haven’t thought of
Mariana’s questions.
Just
Why?
How do I make it stop?
I only want
those answers.
I want Sunday.
So I can sleep in.
Scroll my phone.
Watch some show
. . . where something like this
happens to somebody else.
Somebody more like Mariana.
See:
I’m not even
my own idea of
a main character.
No Secrets
