“You know what I was planning on saying to you today?” she choked as we sat on some stoop. “You know what I was practicing in my mirror this morning? ‘I love you, Ned Vizzini. I love you, Ned …’ ” She started to cry.
I held her in my arms and told her I loved her, and we went to dinner. I did love her. Maybe I loved her because she loved me, which isn’t the best reason, but I did love her, and in the ensuing months we spent almost every day together, and when it wasn’t horrible, it was really, really good.
But that’s all beside the point. The point was that, no matter what happened, we were going to Judith’s prom. June 9. It was a contract, and it was binding, irrespective of love, incarceration, or grievous bodily harm.
• • •
Being a cheap and petty person, I was shocked at how expensive the modern prom is. There’s a floor charge of a few hundred dollars—that’s the price of two tickets, which are needed to get you and your date in the door. Then, unless you’re some kind of bohemian, you need a limousine to arrive in style. You split the cost of the limo (i.e., rent a huge stretch limo for a bunch of couples), but no matter what, it’s going to cost you—plus you have to tip the driver. Then the guy needs to rent a tuxedo, which is a nice round figure—one hundred dollars.* The girl needs a dress, which I won’t even get started on: they seem to cost thousands of dollars.
Those are your basic prom expenses, but then there’s the after-prom—an invention to keep drunk prom-goers from driving into telephone poles and impregnating each other. The idea is, once the prom ends, you go to another party, where you dance some more; then you go home around 8:00 A.M. The after-prom can be on a boat, a beach, or a rooftop, but it’s going to cost you no matter where it is.
Three weeks before the prom, Judith started nagging me about my tux and corsage. Those were my only responsibilities, so you would think I had them under control, but no. On June 5, finally, with the same attitude I had starting an English paper at the last minute, I looked up “Tuxedos” in the Yellow Pages and found “Royal Crown.” I called them and spoke to Marilyn, who sounded disturbingly like a grown-up Judith. I told Marilyn I needed a tuxedo for Thursday June 9, and she said it would be ready, but I was very lucky, because they only had one brand left, and a day later it would have been sold out.
Phew. No problem. Thursday June 9 rolled around; I went to school as usual, but when classes ended at 3:40, the marathon began. I ran out of American History and got home by 4:30. I packed a small bag of things I would need—deodorant and clothes for the after-prom—and left my house at 4:45. At 5:00, I dropped by a florist.
“Hey, I need a wrist corsage, with a white rose,”* I told the florist as I blundered in, making the little bell over the door go nuts.
The florist was a little European lady. “When do you need it by?” she asked calmly.
“Um, I kind of need it now, actually.”
“Oh, well, we can’t do now.”
I panicked. “Well, I’m going to get my tux now. What about when I come back with my tux in about an hour?”
“Hmmmm.” Was this woman torturing me intentionally? “Hmmmm, yes, it can be done in an hour.”
I paid her on the spot and got the hell out of there. At 5:35, I arrived at Royal Crown. Marilyn greeted me at the door, a woman with such blond hair and such red lips that I was temporarily blinded.
“Hi, I’m Ned. I’ve come to pick up a tuxedo.”
“Oh, suuure, Ned, right this way.” She sat me down, got me my tux, and told me to try it on in the changing room. I took some deep breaths in there, unpacked the thing, and put it all on. A tux is like a Lego set, difficult at first, but the pieces fit together logically. I only had a problem with my cummerbund.
The cummerbund is this fat belt that goes around your waist and anchors your whole tuxedo getup. Unfortunately, my waist was a dainty thirty inches, so my cummerbund was way too loose. It just flapped around. Marilyn had to call some big guy named Johnny who worked in the back of Royal Crown. With several comments (“Damn, you’re thin. You’re really thin. You look so young. Are you really going to your senior prom? I’ve never seen anybody with less meat on their bones,” etc.), he tightened my cummerbund to fit me. Satisfied, I walked toward the front door.
“Wait!” Marilyn screeched. “You’re leaving in the tux?!”
“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”
She smiled. “Have fun.”
It was 6:30. I got some looks walking down the street in a full tuxedo, but eventually, I made my way to the flower place and picked up the corsage.
“You have to keep it cold,” the European lady told me. I saw why: there were frosty beads of water on the white flowers, perfect, as if they’d been placed there by an eyedropper.
“I’ll do my best,” I told her, blowing on it as I left the store. At 6:40, I got on the subway to Judith’s.
I got a lot more looks riding the subway in a full tuxedo, but I put on my headphones so no one bothered me. I was listening to a song about leaving a bad relationship. I looped it over and over, vowing each time that once the prom was done, I would cool things off with Judith. From the beginning, I had promised her the prom, but we really weren’t right for each other, and now I was delivering on my promise, and when I was finished delivering, I’d return to life as a fun-loving single guy.
I forgot all that when I saw her. She came to the door in a shimmering silver-blue dress, with her hair cut short and stylish, displaying her neck and shoulders. She had a small bag and high-heeled shoes, and a boutonniere for me. But above all, she was so happy. I’d never seen her so happy; her smile had weight to it. She hadn’t even gone to school. She’d been home preparing all day.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“Gorgeous, gorgeous,” I said, pulling her close. I would have kissed her, but I didn’t because I knew it would ruin her makeup. We left her house and got in the limo.
I’d never been in a limo before, but it was much like I expected: TV, some drinks, a sunroof (that wouldn’t open), a nice stereo system. The limo seated twelve people: Judith; her friends Alexis, Lisa, Katy, Michaela, and Girl Number Six; me, Charlie, Harris, and Guys Four through Six. Of the new people, only three were interesting: Charlie, Harris, and Michaela.
Charlie was Lisa’s date, and it was clear from the start—even before he’d had any alcohol—that he was unhinged.
“Yo, I’m gonna effin’* go to the prom and get effed the eff up!” was what he said upon entering the limo. He slapped my hand. “What’s your name?”
“Ned.”
“Ned, man, that’s a effin’, that’s a effin’ name, yo.” He sat down with Lisa. I didn’t see them touch the whole night; maybe she just brought him along for comic relief. Charlie had a long, thin head and eyes that looked in different directions at the same time.
Michaela and Harris also provided entertainment. Michaela was one of those unfortunate girls who didn’t get a backup date. She found herself stuck without anybody during the week of the prom, so she settled for Harris, a guy who clearly didn’t want to be in the limo. From the beginning of the trip, Michaela and Harris fought; an hour into the prom, they were sitting as far away from each other as possible, glaring.
The limo drove slowly through Brooklyn, picking people up. Guys Four through Six, like Charlie, were interested in getting “effed the eff up.” I would’ve liked to get a little effed, too, but Judith had a vise grip on all that.
“You’re not going to get drunk, right, Ned?”
“No, no, I’m not.” I didn’t mind, really. I figured I’d need all my wits about me to navigate the prom successfully and emerge at its end with some kind of sex.
I was still a virgin. That was something I worried about every day; something I had worried about since I was thirteen or fourteen; something that particularly worried me because the average American male loses his virginity at sixteen. I was two years behind. I had lied about that so many times, to so many different peopl
e, that I could never keep my stories straight. Ike thought I’d had sex when I was sixteen; Hector and James believed I’d done it a month earlier with Judith—even Judith herself was under the impression that I’d slept with someone about a year before, probably the only time in history a guy has lied to a girl about sex in that direction.
I was totally dense with Judith and sex. Three weeks into the relationship, I asked her if I should show up with condoms the next time we saw each other. She cried for hours. “You think I’m that much of a slut? Is that why you’re so nice to me?” I held her for a long time to calm her down. “You’re not a slut; I’m just an idiot,” I said over and over.
Now, four months later, at her prom, Judith was beginning to suspect my virginity, because after the initial condom fiasco, I never talked about sex. I did an about-face; I felt so bad about being high-pressure that I became no-pressure, never discussing it, never bringing it up. It scared the hell out of me. I didn’t know what was going to happen at the prom, but if we had some reciprocal contact by the end of the night, I’d be happy.
See, Judith had estranged me from my sexual nemesis: television. All the time I was with her, I was so busy running around New York, picking her up from work, buying her gifts, and calling her, that I never watched TV. And when you don’t watch TV—when you divorce yourself from the oversexed teenagers the programmers throw at you—you feel a lot better about your own sex life, or lack of one.*
• • •
We arrived at Judith’s prom around 8:30; it was in the lobby of the Marriott Hotel in downtown Brooklyn. It looked just like a prom from the movies: the guys were in tuxes standing outside the Marriott, smoking; the girls traveled in little groups to and from the bathroom, giggling. Photographers were set up in the lobby, and teachers milled about in suits and dresses hitting on each other.
Judith led me in, introducing me to people she knew from school, whose names I quickly forgot. I found a sort of cocktail room, where I pigged out on chicken fingers being served on little trays before Judith showed me to the main room, with tables and a dance floor.
My inability to dance had by now become a serious phobia; in fact, the first time Judith had taken me dancing, I threw up. Everything was going fine. I was out on the floor with her, and she was smiling, looking splendid under the black light … then I saw myself in the mirrored ceiling and got sick. I excused myself, ran to the bathroom, and retched in a toilet repeatedly.* I just looked so stupid in that mirror: I was the prototypical white guy without rhythm. I could tap rhythms in my head and play rhythms on my bass guitar, but when it came to moving rhythmically, I was a complete bust.
Judith didn’t care. She wanted to dance, and she continued dragging me to clubs. I developed a method to keep from vomiting: I’d hum Led Zeppelin tunes. Led Zeppelin is the ultimate alpha-male band. When you hum their songs, you’re tapping into an underlying male world energy, and it helps you through tough situations. I would be dancing like mad with Judith, lips moving a mile a minute, mouthing the lyrics to “Black Dog” or “Whole Lotta Love.”**
At the prom, however, I found another way to beat my dancing phobia: waxed floors. When Judith took me up to groove, I noticed immediately how slippery the floor was. I could slide back and forth on my toes like James Brown! I got so into it that I forgot about how dumb I looked and just danced, which is what you’re supposed to do at a prom.
“I love you,” Judith whispered. I whispered the same back and meant it. I also told her she looked gorgeous. She did. She was the best-looking girl in the building.
• • •
By 11:30, the prom was over and the after-prom began. Our crew—Judith, Alexis, Lisa, Katy, Michaela, Girl Number Six, me, Charlie, Harris, and Guys Number Four through Six—piled into the limo and drove off to a dance club called Metropolis. Harris and Michaela were fuming, and it was clear that Charlie and Guys Number Four through Six had gotten their hands on some mind-altering substances.
“Yo, man, my effin’ dog, his name is Jake! And I got this effin’ other dog, his name is Jake, too! What the eff kind of effin’ idiot people do I live with, to name both dogs the same thing? You call one dog, the other one comes—”
That was Charlie. He had me in stitches the whole night.
“I’m not talking to her. I got nothin’ to say to her.” That was Harris, in one corner of the limo, glaring at Michaela, in the opposite corner. “I have nothing to say to you either, thankyouverymuch!” she snapped.
“Yo,” Guy Number Five said. “Let’s tear it up.” The limo was stuck in traffic on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. The cars were moving at about three miles per hour. This gave Guy Number Five the idea of throwing open the limo door, jumping out, running around in traffic, and peeing on an abandoned car. Guy Number Four, Guy Number Six, and Charlie followed.
We got to Metropolis at 1:00 A.M.* It was huge, a refurbished warehouse with a giant neon sign and a snaking line out front. Somehow (Guy Number Five had a connection), we bypassed the line and got into the club.
Pulsing music, bright lights, body heat—dance clubs always made me think of rats, and the experiments scientists do to put them into sensory overload. Our group quickly split up, with Charlie and Guys Number Four through Six pinpointing the beer. I stayed close to Judith. The nasty thing about these places was that unless you stayed with your girlfriend at all times, guys would randomly touch her, and then you’d have to start a fight which, despite those years at True Power Martial Arts, I was not equipped to do.
“Buy me a drink?” Judith asked. This was her thing: ask for a drink and then drink one-quarter of it. She didn’t like alcohol—she liked the appearance of a glass in her hand.
“I’m out of money,” I said casually.
“What?”
I figured she couldn’t hear me over the dance music. “I said I’m out of money.”
“I can hear you, you idiot! Why the hell are you out of money?!”
“Well, it’s all gone: tux, corsage, paying the limo guy.”
“Ned! You were supposed to bring money in addition to all that stuff!”
“Oh, geez, well, I’m sorry.”
“This night is not over! This is my prom! I’m staying out until eight in the morning. So you had better find some money.”
Judith stormed off. I sat by myself at the side of the club, my worst fears confirmed. Judith wanted her prom to be like the movies; she wanted me to come over, pick her up, and whisk her through the night with everything taken care of, no complications. And if I had been the right kind of guy, the kind who goes to the bank and says, “Damn, it’s my girlfriend, who I love, let me take out a bunch of cash,” I could have made her prom as good as she’d imagined. Instead, I was a disaster.
I’d been sitting there ten minutes when Judith came back. Smiling.
“Someone bought me a drink,” she said coyly.
“Really?”
“That’s right. Some guy bought me a drink. And it wasn’t you.” She pointed at my nose.
“Well, why don’t you go dance with the guy, then?” I offered.
“Nope.” She sat in my lap.
“Why not?”
“Because I’d rather be here with you.” She wasn’t drunk. Judith never got drunk. She had just changed moods. Like I’d seen her do so many times before.
“C’mon, kiss me, it’s my prom,” she said. I thanked whatever god was responsible and kissed her as well as I could.
• • •
We were at Metropolis until around 3:30; things blurred from there. The limo drove us to not one, but two diners, where I borrowed money to pay for Judith’s food. I started drifting asleep around 5:00 A.M., while we were still driving around. Judith reacted to this by flirting with some other guy (“Oh yeah, that’s my boyfriend, the one asleep back there”). Guys Number Four through Six disappeared; I don’t know where they went; Harris and Michaela never settled things. Charlie kept talking nonstop, using the eff-word more and more frequently, hitting st
rides where he was able to make every noun, verb, adjective, and adverb an eff-derivative. Then he passed out on the floor of the limo. I just held Judith and kept my mouth shut. I had nothing to say.
At 7:30 A.M., the limo dropped us off at her house. I couldn’t tip the guy, but I’m sure the other people tipped him enough.
“You want to come up?” Judith asked. I was holding her hand, crossing her street, approaching her apartment building. I nodded.
Her parents were still asleep, so we went to Judith’s room. I took off her shoes and rubbed her feet. I rubbed her back, her arms, her legs, her hands. She was sore from all the dancing. She lay down in her bed and I rubbed her neck and told her I loved her. I kissed her cheeks and her arms … and I realized how wrong I’d been.
Contractual obligation? Nah. This girl, who’d come into my life like a whirlwind—not caring that I was six feet, one hundred forty-three pounds—didn’t think of her prom as a contractual obligation. She’d sealed me up for it early on because she wanted it perfect, like in the movies, and I’d nearly ruined it. In fact, I had ruined it. She’d brought it back from the dead by smiling at me.
So shut up, Ned. Shut up and think about someone else for a change. Shut up and rub the girl’s back and try—I know it’s hard—to make her prom as important in your mind as it is in hers. Try not to be such a cynical eff.
*Like when she told me, “Of course girls don’t want to have sex! It hurts, the guys don’t know what they’re doing, and you could get pregnant. It’s a lot better just to have some kind of reciprocal contact.”
*A nod to the tuxedo industry. They make them cost one hundred dollars, so guys can remember easily.
*The color and style were per Judith’s explicit instructions. She got the same style for my boutonniere.
*Time for a little word association. I’m sure, if you’re over the age of six, that you know what “eff” really means. The fine folks who first published this book told me that if I used the eff-word, I was effed and my book would never see the effing light of day. So just pretend.