“No comment,” he says, fussing with his tie—untying, retying, untying.
“No comment? Uh, I’m pretty sure the lavender cummerbund is a comment. Or is that making a statement? I’m not sure—I think maybe both.” I’m having fun with this. My brother looks like a Ken doll.
“Whatever, man. You wouldn’t understand,” he says, getting frustrated with the tie once again and moving to the mirror to obsess over it even more. I could help; I’m actually good at tying ties. But watching him struggle, for just a little bit longer? Yeah, I’m going to give myself this gift.
I’ve given Nate shit for days over this whole prom thing, but I actually think it’s kind of cute. Cute. That’s a word I’ve never used before when talking about Nate. Anyway, I’ve been giving him a ton of crap, but I’m borrowing his idea to use on Cass, of course, Tyson-ized.
My gym bag is stuffed with a bunch of lame CDs I got from the record exchange, some balloons, and a desktop disco ball from Target. The sentiment is there, and really—that’s what my prom was, not that I stayed through much of it.
Nate’s phone rings, and I watch him drop both ends of the tie with a defeatist attitude.
“Oh, good. You’re downstairs then? No, that’s fine. Just wait in the car. We’ll be there soon,” he says to someone on the other end. Curious, I head into the hall and the main study room to look at the parking lot below. Sure enough—fucker rented a limo. Damn, my brother might as well be a contestant on The Bachelor with this shit.
“Did you seriously get a limo?” I get ready for a new round of teasing as I come back into the room.
“I told you, I’m not messin’ around. Prom is serious shit, and when you throw a prom, you do it right. Now come fix my damn tie,” he says, holding both ends out for me. I take them because I don’t want him to look like a sloppy loser, and while I’m tying, I can’t help but snicker at the crappy dollar decorations and random things I’ve thrown together for my version of prom. Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think you need a limo and suit to do it right. I’m pretty sure I can make tonight memorable all on my own—me and Slow Dance Hits from the Eighties.
“How are you my brother? I mean…seriously, I’m starting to think we need to give up on all the Barbie shit in our room, because you’re making estrogen.” I’m pissing him off, and I love it. It’s like when we were kids and I used to make ghost shadows through his window with the flashlight to scare the crap out of him. I’m trying not to bust out laughing all together when I lift the leg of his pants—or dare I say, trousers—and check to see if he’s shaved.
“Dude, don’t touch my leg. What are you doing?” Nate yells kicking my hand away.
“Just checking to see if you’ve started shaving your legs. Your razors aren’t pink, are they?” I can barely finish the sentence without laughing. It’s that kind of laugh where I can’t breathe now, and I’m turning red and coughing. When he gives me the finger, it only makes me laugh harder.
“No, jackass. And this is important, so cut the crap,” he says, holding the loose ends of his tie again. He pulled it apart messing with it. Honestly, he should just wear a clip-on. That thought makes me chuckle.
“Important to whom? To Rowe? Because I was in that room an hour ago, and she was not a happy camper having Paige’s hands all over her face and head,” I tell him. Seeing Rowe get ready for tonight only made me like her more. She’s not fussy. I like that.
I pick on him for a few more minutes, just long enough to finally get his tie to stay in place, and I send him off, blowing him a kiss and reminding him to be home by curfew.
“Shithead!” he yells as the door closes behind him.
I pull my duffel bag into my lap and look through my prom package again—and for a second, I feel bad that it’s kind of pathetic. But Cass isn’t Rowe, and I’m not really trying to create some full-blown experience. I’m just trying to be sweet and romantic, and I kind of suck at that, so I feel pretty good about this attempt. Maybe, though…maybe the workout clothes should change.
Most of my nice things go with jeans, and jeans take me a while, so I send Cass a quick text and tell her I’ll be over in about twenty minutes. I wear the dark pullover shirt, gray and black stripes, because that’s the one I wore the night of the party when I first talked to Cass—the night she slayed every dude in the room at that video game and drank me under the table. How the hell did she end up with me?