Crash Into Me

"Every chance I get. But that's not my question."

"Look, if it's about last night-"

"It's not. Will you let me finish?" That comes out harsher than I expect, based on the expression she now wears. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it to sound like that. But this is... Well, it's serious, and it's honest, and I kinda don't know how you'll take it, so I'm nervous as hell asking, so..."

I'm babbling, but thankfully her expression softens and she nods.

"So, first of all, has anyone asked you to prom yet?"

Her lower lip does that thing where part of it seems to turn inward. She fights to stay composed as tiny pools of water form in the corners of her eyes before turning away to look out the window. Bingo...that's what she's upset about.

"No..." she says, a quiver creeping slowly into her voice. "But, I mean, it's still two weeks away, so there's still time, right? Like, m-maybe somebody just wants to make sure they can rent a tux or...or...you know...before they ask."

I swallow. Hard. God, my kingdom for a swig of Mountain Dew. Breathe, Colleen, breathe. "Are you allowed to bring someone from outside West Orchard?"

"Sure, there's always some girl... Who brings her... Public school... Jock douchebag... Boyfriend, isn't there?" She punctuates every few words with quiet hiccups.

"In that case," I say, putting my hand on her knee as we pull up on the street in front of our house, "Lynn Elizabeth Singleton..."

She turns, confused because no one ever uses her middle name unless she's in trouble.

"...would you do me the honor..." I continue, focusing my eyes directly into hers, willing her to connect with the feelings pouring out of me in buckets, "...of allowing me..."

She exhales.

"...to escort you..."

She inhales.

"...to your senior prom?"

When at first she doesn't answer, I begin kicking myself and preparing my apology. I'm so sorry, that was extremely rude, I didn't mean it, oh fuck me what was I even thinking and fuck poetry for making me believe I had a chance, any chance at all, to make this work, and when I get to my room I'm going to tear that book into pieces, and soak it in water, and flush every word Yeats ever wrote down the toilet, and-

Hands covering her mouth, she murmurs something. One syllable, barely audible over the engine idling, the music on the radio, and the blood rushing through my ears at tsunami-level pressures exerted by my thudding heart, but I hear it clear as day. My little sister says, "Yes."

* * * * *

Mom doesn't look at me hardly at all during dinner, but Dad is surprisingly cheerful. According to his version of events, he single-handedly crossed two oceans, slew a half-dozen dragons, and recovered the Holy Grail, all before lunch, in order to land a whale. Said whale is the account of a local law firm composed of ambulance-chasing slime-balls, but even ambulance-chasing slime-balls need to keep track of all of the money they spend litigating against other slime-balls, and they're apparently paying Dad a not-inconsiderable sum to do so. Maybe I'll be off the hook for rent, but that's the least of my worries.

Lynn can't contain her excitement, and blurts that she has a date for prom in two weeks. Both Mom and Dad ask with whom simultaneously, then turn to stare when she announces it's me. Thankfully they keep it together enough to be supportive, at least until Lynn races off her her room after dumping her dishes in the sink. In my imagination, I see her picking up her phone and texting everyone in her contacts list to let them know she'll be attending.

"Colleen, what exactly do you think you're doing?" Mom asks. Dad takes this opportunity to duck into the living room and catch the news.

"Escorting Lynn to her prom," I answer neutrally. "Why?"

"Frankly, that's what I'd like to know. I mean, do you think this is some kind of joke?"

"No, as a matter of fact, I don't."

"Sweetie, I know you mean well, but this might not be the best way to show it."

I roll my eyes. "Mom, I'm hardly the first person in the history of high school proms to take her own sibling."

"Colleen, this isn't about you, this is about her."

"Why do you think I asked her, Mom?"

"Wait, you asked her? I thought-"

"If she'd asked me, I'd have said yes too. But prom's in two weeks. No one asked her last year. This is it: either she goes or she doesn't. You remember yours, right? Senior prom? You're not old enough to have forgotten it?"

"For heaven's sake, I'm not senile. But...why you?"

"Because no one else was going to. The least I can do is make sure she graduates from high school without thinking I got to do something she didn't."

Mom sighs, sets her elbows on the table like she's praying, and rests her chin on her thumbs. "Colleen... You know the accident wasn't your fault, right?"

Fuck. Why does she have to bring that up? "No, of course it wasn't. I wasn't driving at the time, it was someone else. Here I am thinking it was my fault when it was really 'Not Me' all along."

"Sweetie, no one blames you for what happened. What on earth will it take for you to stop blaming yourself?"

"I'll stop blaming myself when Lynn can run down the hall like every other kid who's trying to beat the bell. This isn't an episode of Family Circus, Mom, you can't blame Ida Know. I was there, you weren't, end of story."

Mom's palm strikes the table a solid blow. "That's not the end of the story, Colleen Alexis, and some day you'll get that through your thick skull. The man who ran that light was drunker than-"

"-Dad last night?" I interrupt her before I even realize what I'm doing, and as soon as it's out of my mouth, I wish I could take it back. She wouldn't look half as startled if I'd smacked her across the face.

"Your father," she begins levelly, "is under a lot of pressure with his job at the moment. So yes, things are a little tense right now."

Ohhhhh shit... "Mom, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"But!" The word comes out as a single sentence, cutting me off. "He and I have also been married for twenty-four years. We're allowed to disagree with one another, and yes, even fight, without you playing referee. And much as you might think you're an adult, young lady, you have an awful lot to learn about relationships. Part of being a child is learning how to talk, Colleen, but part of being an adult is learning when to keep your mouth shut.

"Now. I hope you know what you're doing with Lynn. I know you're close to your sister, but this is moth-and-open-flame territory, and I swear to whatever God might be listening: if this is some sick joke, if you're not completely serious about her feelings, if she comes home and I learn you have in any way ruined her night, there will be hell to pay."

The last six words come out as barely a whisper, and I know it's too late. The damage has been done, and all I can hope to do now is avoid Mom long enough that she cools off, so I head for my room.

"I tore up that check you left," Mom says just as I reach the hallway. "But don't get too comfortable in your room. I can always reconsider."

Flopping down on my bed, I thank God tomorrow's Friday. I'm not sure I could take another week like this one.

* * * * *

I assumed it'd be my responsibility to see Lynn got everything she needed, given Mom's initially frosty reception. As it turned out, not only were Mom and Dad willing to help, but Lynn flat-out barred me from doing anything with her that was at all prom-related. She's been tight-lipped about the whole affair, only telling me what type of corsage she wants (wrist as opposed to pin-on), and what color her dress is (green). With that in mind, I've spent the last two weeks scrambling for suitable attire. It hasn't been easy, but I've got everything assembled:

Dress -- Cobalt blue prom gown, strapless, ankle length, bead-wrapped waist, long slit to show some tasteful leg when walking.

Shoes -- Dyed blue flats, peep-toe style, one ankle strap, small golden flower design on the instep. Learned my lesson with heels last time―never again!

Nails -- Manicured/pedicured to perfection with bright blue polish infused with silver sparkles, and a layer of clear-coat to prevent chipping.

Earrings -- Silver studs, square, simple, elegant.

Bra -- Black, strapless, multi-way. You'd be amazed what a bit of push-up can do for a B-cup. Well, I'm amazed at any rate.

Panties -- Dark-blue, black-lace-trimmed, cheeky cut.

Anklet -- Sterling silver chain composed of linked hearts, worn on right ankle for a bit of flair.

Nerves -- Shot all to hell. I wasn't even half this nervous with Brian, but maybe that's because I knew we were going just as friends. This is... It's like winning a hundred bucks from lottery scratch-off tickets, only to learn the money's good solely for additional scratch-offs. I got lucky the first time, but now I'm crossing my fingers to hit the jackpot. I'm well aware the odds of winning big on a scratch-off ticket are not at all in my favor. So why can't I keep my eyes off this particular prize?

Maybe it's because I'm spending less time with my sister. Lynn's gone so far as to have Mom drop her off early at school and pick her up afterwards so they can go shopping and set up appointments. The one time I tried to ply Mom for information, she shot me a look that could have cracked granite at twenty yards. I don't even get to enjoy our morning Q&A in the shower, since they're gone before my alarm goes off. That's OK though; with all the prom-related stuff I haven't had much time to read. I got as far as picking up a collection of Yeats' poetry for my Nook and skimming roughly a dozen pieces before real life got hectic. So much for impressing her that way.

Now it's come down to this, I've done all I can, and still I'm not sure it's enough. What if, despite the fancy hair style, the mani-pedi, and the make-up expertly applied with assistance from my friend Sara who knows more about this stuff than I ever will, she still can't see me as more than just 'Collie'?

More to the point...what if she can?

Deep breaths, Colleen. Deep breaths. In just under an hour, we have to get into the car and drive to the hotel. Before that, I have to open this door, exit my room, walk to the den, and stand before my parents for all the fussing and the pictures. I've checked myself in the mirror a dozen times, and there's nothing out of place. I couldn't look better on my budget if I tried.

Her corsage, freshly cut and cool from the refrigerator, rests in its box on my dresser. No more excuses. No more delays. This happens tonight or not at all, and either way I have to accept the outcome. I hear you in my head, Mr. Yeats: 'Have you but courage equal to desire?' Well, we already know I've got the desire.

There's the door, Colleen. Reach out, open it, step into the water, and see where the stream takes you.

With one final glance towards the mirror, I pluck the corsage from its box, spread my wings, and take the first step into the rest of my life. How am I doing so far, Mr. Yeats?

* * * * *

"Close your eyes, Collie," my sister orders from down the hall, and I comply. "Does she have them closed, Mom?"

"Yes, they're closed," I growl. "Good God, what's the big secret? I'm taking you to prom, not walking you down the aisle."

"Colleen, be nice," Mom says, but in a tone indicating she's too excited to play the disciplinarian. "She worked hard getting this right."

"I did too, but you don't see me-"

"Shhhh," Dad hisses. "Here she comes."

I listen to the sounds of Lynn's footfalls until she reaches the den. I hear her step into the room, and Dad and Mom both go nuts telling her how pretty she looks. Dad starts fussing about how he's not sure the camera battery's charged, Mom's giving him the 'You had one job!' lecture, and I just can't take it any longer. "Is anybody gonna object if I open my eyes? Or is that still against the rules?"

"Open sesame," Lynn says. Like the mountain in 'Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves' I obey, and my first thought, which I barely manage not to blurt out, is, 'Holy shit!'.

Even at her most dressed up, Lynn looks insecure and out of place. As a little girl, she turned her nose up at skirts, fussed like a badger if you tried to get her into a dress, and woe betide the person who came between her and her Reeboks when formal time was over. My sister's wardrobe consists almost entirely of t-shirts, capri pants and jeans, stuff she can wear that doesn't call attention to her leg. No wonder she was keeping this a secret―tonight, that all went out the window and I can't help devouring her with my eyes as she does a slow catwalk turn.

Her makeup, what little she used, is perfect. Mascara to thicken her eyelashes, a bit of concealer here and there, and some pink gloss to make her lips shine. Her hair looks like something Jennifer Lawrence would wear to the Oscars: a formal updo, pulled back from the front and wrapped into a complex knot at the back, held in place by physics, not hairspray, the way only a professional stylist can manage. A pair of white-gold studs, her favorites, adorn each ear, and a silver chain choker adds flair without being gaudy. Like me, she's had both hands manicured, the nails ending in a glorious deep green polish. Her shoes, a pair of white strappy heels that will be killing her by the end of the night, reveal the same green hue on the toenails of her left foot. But that's just the show opener; the act everyone's paid to see is the dress.

My sister wasn't fitted for this dress so much as had it vacuum-formed around her. Emerald fabric contours every curve from her chest down, wrapping tightly at her waist and only giving breathing room once it reaches her thighs. One strap across her left shoulder holds it in place, leaving her back exposed to the base of her spine, and her arms completely bare. Unlike my dress, which flows straight down to my ankles like a waterfall, this one goes to her knees with a sideways-skew in the pleat before coming to a full and complete stop, leaving both legs on display.

She's made no effort to hide or cover her prosthetic, only using the flesh-colored sock and sleeve to wrap both the stump and the cover of the cup it rests in like normal, and this, along with the way she carries herself, makes her look that much more elegant. It makes a statement, as the fashionistas of the world might say, only in this case the statement is: 'This is who I am, and if you don't like it, fuck off.' If every last boy at this dance isn't wishing he'd asked to be her date by the end of the night, I'll eat my shoes and won't even use barbecue sauce.

"So...worth the wait?" she asks with that crooked little grin that tells me she already knows my answer, but wants to hear me say it anyway.

"So worth the wait," I hear myself breathe as I step forward, slip the corsage out of its box, take her left hand, and slide it up and over her wrist. "God, Lynn, you look..." She meets my gaze with a steady smile of her own, as we stand, hand in hand. I've no idea what perfume she's dabbed on, but holy shit does it smell incredible. Fortunately for me Dad gets the camera working because never in all my life have I wanted to lip-lock someone as badly as I do right now.

"Alright you two, come over here in front of the door so we can get pictures." Mom directs us into a few different poses, one where we're holding hands looking into the camera, another where I'm standing slightly behind her shoulder, and a third, full-body shot with my arm around her waist and hers held up in front displaying her corsage. Dad suggests a couple of seated shots, so we shuffle over to the sofa to glam it up, until Lynn starts deliberately messing up the pictures by crossing her eyes or rolling her tongue. I join her, and my parents get the hint.

"Fine, fine," Mom says through a fit of laughter, "get going. Be safe, call if you need anything, and send a text if you're going to be out later than two o'clock, okay?"

Lynn and I chorus our agreement. Dad holds the door open and, with an overly Dad-like dramatic bow and sweep of his arm, ushers us out. The porch light begins flashing on and off repeatedly as if to indicate we're in an episode of the Twilight Zone until I hear Mom sharply intone his name and he stops flicking the switch.

I hold up the keys. "So, how would Her Mmajesty like to make her appearance this evening: the van or the car?"

"The car," Her Majesty replies. "I tossed some clothes in the trunk already in case we want to change afterwards. I just pulled your stuff from the clean laundry tub, so I hope that's all right."

Man, she's more prepared for tonight than I am―I wished like everything I'd packed a change of clothes for the after-prom stuff with Brian, who had thought ahead and brought shorts and a less-dressy shirt. It wasn't the end of the world, and I was far from the only girl who didn't have some less-formal wear to change into once we got to Rebecca's house for the after-party, but it still would have been nice to relax in something more casual.

"The car it is." Yeah, we'll likely be the only couple arriving at prom in a Neon, but limousines aren't cheap and much as Lynn obviously got our parents to flip for at least some of tonight's preparations, a limo wasn't in the cards without a half-dozen or so people to split the cost.

I hold the door for her as she slides into her seat, get behind the wheel, and start the car. History...here we come.

* * * * *

The Jefferson Statesman hotel has hosted West Orchard's prom every year for I don't know how long. Pulling into the parking lot brings back a flurry of memories from my senior year, but one look at Lynn is enough to dismiss them. On the walk to the front door, I watch as she swings her head from side to side, taking in everything: the sign reading 'Jefferson Statesman welcomes the Senior class of West Orchard for Prom Night!', the gaggle of other couples arriving, and the interior.

A multi-tiered fountain, with a weird, slab-like, rough-cut sculpture in the center made of bronze or some similar material dominates the main lobby. The water runs down the front of the roughly three foot wide and ten foot tall piece and collects in the pool at its base. It then flows from the pool across the right side of the atrium through a channel cut into the floor to create a swift stream, and collects in another pool beyond a glass enclosure where it's presumably cycled back into the fountain. For special occasions like this, the hotel sets up a bridge which crosses the stream and employs a photographer who directs every individual or couple to the center of the bridge, poses them, and snaps a photo which you pick up later for a souvenir.

The photographer this year is a handsome, tuxedo-clad, man in his early thirties, who wears a grin (and bow tie) that says he's having the time of his life. He jokes with everyone, making pithy one-liners and bringing blushes to the cheeks of the girls with his seemingly endless capacity for double-entendre. Once he drops behind the viewfinder of his camera though (a Cannon EOS that cost more than my car, assuming the guy in front of us can be believed), he's all business, and has no problem snapping several shots to make sure the best one winds up in the subjects' hands. Much better than the freckle-faced dork we had my senior year, who barely said two words to anybody and behaved like he'd taken the job because he lost a bet.

"Hi," he greets us as we ascend the bridge. "I'm Jeff, and this is the only memory I'm in charge of making tonight. The rest are y'all's responsibility. Now, what names do I place on the lovely couple's package?"

"Lynn and Colleen," my sister says before I can open my mouth and explain that we're not really a couple in that way.