With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Prom
Although Malachi and I talk every day and see each other in school, we’ve been more chill since Spain. We’ve fallen into an easy rhythm of friends who kiss and talk all the time, but there’s no pressure for much else.
We haven’t talked about “us” and what long-distance will mean. And I’m fine with that.
“You just hanging around the house?” ’Buela says as she puts in an earring. I lean around her to watch the TV. Reruns of Barefoot Contessa are on.
I nod. “Yeah, just me and Babygirl.”
“Is Angelica coming over?” She puts on her coat and grabs her purse.
“No. She’s planning her prom outfit with Laura.”
’Buela has the lipstick halfway to her lips when she stops. “And when are you planning your outfit?”
I nod at the screen. “The contessa just always knows what to add to make a table look classy. I need to email Aunt Sarah some of these tips.”
“Emoni, you didn’t hear me ask you a question. Why haven’t you mentioned prom?” She sits next to me on the couch. “Nena, do you not want to go?”
“No, ’Buela, I don’t. We already spent all that money for the Spain trip and my school deposit. Aren’t we stretching every dollar as it is? My tips from serving lunch at school only go so far. I can’t ask you to give an extra two hundred a month later.”
“Apaga la televisión.” And I can tell she’s about to Mama Bear me, which is what she does when she wants to be strict without nagging me.
“C’mon, ’Buela. You’re going to be late for your date with Joe. Can’t we talk about this later?”
“A . . . pá . . . ga . . . la.”
I roll my eyes and turn off the TV.
“You don’t want to go to prom? Malachi didn’t ask you?”
“He did. He’s been asking me but he understands that it’s just not something we have the money for and that I don’t want to go.”
“You’re a woman soon. But for the next month and half, enjoy high school. Go to prom.”
“The only thing I want to do on prom night is hang out here, watch JLo movies, and make delicious snacks. What do you think?”
She leans her forehead against mine. “Well, nena, I think we could live with that.”
And a week later, that’s exactly what I do. Malachi goes to prom but leaves early and joins us at the house. He brings me a bright-red rose, and tucks my hand into his suit pocket as we slow-dance to a corny Jennifer Lopez song. Babygirl and ’Buela clap when we are done. And it’s exactly the memory I wanted.