Crying in my prom dress: musings from a high school graduate
Written by Nia Mahmud
Graphics by Erin Kidd
It will pass. I will feel better soon. Regurgitating the sentiments that have been relayed to me over the past few months doesn’t do much but remind me of the fact that I don’t feel great right now. But it’s prom day! The night of nights, my high school musical moment under a mirrorball of glistening glass. And prom is great. All my friends look beautiful and I get a chance to tell them so. I am twirled and I twirl my friends around the dance floor. Kristina and I jump up and down to songs we normally blast in the car and rush to the photo booth when there is no line. I complain that my feet hurt but refuse to take off my heels because they give me a few extra inches.
After prom my friends and I tumble into cars and haphazard plans. We’ve all changed into more comfortable clothes; dancing around coffee table corners and the truth. Harry’s House just dropped so we listen to it while speeding towards the beach. My home looks so beautiful in this light. “Matilda is actually destroying me,” Isabella cries from the front seat. “You don't have to be sorry for leavin' and growin' up,” Harry Styles sings from the speakers of the car. This was the truth. We were celebrating an ending I couldn’t bear to lose. My heart stutters in my chest and I scrunch my nose, responding out loud to both Isabella and Harry, “yeah, Harry has got to mind his own business right now.” It will pass. Just like the mostly empty roads and the digital clock glowing 1:13 AM, it will pass. If the next song would just start already. We’re all talking and laughing and I don’t remember about what, I just know it’s something I never want to leave.
When we finally get to the beach, we wait around in a concrete parking garage for our other friends to arrive. We picked up McDonalds, so I’m taking absentminded spoonfuls of an Oreo McFlurry. The rest of our friends arrive in a flurry of open windows and music and greetings as if we hadn’t just seen each other thirty minutes ago. I offer Natalie some of my ice cream and then tell her she can have the rest; she smiles and takes the paper cup from my hand. My favorite moments are the ones I can share with others. It’s what matters most. Will there be anyone to share ice cream with in a few months, when I’m living in a city that doesn’t recognize me? The air smells like salt, the moon is tugging at the waves and at the pit of my stomach. “Ready for the beach?” Natalie asks, grinning, parking garage lights shining on her, on all of us, like a spotlight. So then I’m ready, and I’m a mirror, and I’m smiling. Everyone starts towards the elevators that creak and yelp at the proposal we all jump at the same time, which is thankfully rejected.
The beach is illuminated only by the moon and the bright lights from the boardwalk behind us. We throw a picnic blanket down on the sand and collapse onto it, some of us perch on an empty lifeguard tower. The ocean isn’t something you can take a picture of at night. It’s not a memory we can hold, it’s only a dark, grainy picture that slips through our hands like sand. It will pass. But for now I lie down and look up at the sky, letting my friends' voices blend with the crashing waves. Both are comforting.
We talk about the music they played at prom, who went with who, were they dating or just friends?, oh yeah I’ve seen him at the gym before, remember that time we, the pictures came out so good, where are you going to college next year again? I am leaning on Alexis and we are both going out of state, we’re both diverging onto a path that is entirely our own. Maybe we won’t be on the path together, but it’s nice to know this friend I started and finished high school with understands my uncertainty. I can’t be sure of what she’s thinking, but maybe it’s the same thing. Maybe it’s that these moments will pass us by and stay with our friends who are staying in our home state. The distance will make time pass faster. Will render me obsolete. But Alexis says how excited she is and then I think maybe it’s just me.
We keep lingering, keep throwing little stories and memories in the air like a volleyball. I don’t remember who let it drop, but the night ends. We pick up our things and start towards the parking garage. There’s sand everywhere; in the picnic blanket, in between my toes, in my hair. I want to keep lingering but everyone else is sand-free, ready to go home and wipe off their makeup. I trail a few steps behind and Frankie walks with me; we take a picture and it is somehow a perfect replica of every picture we have ever taken together. It is us in the library before class, it is us in the backseat of a car, it is us at graduation. It is every memory that has already passed. “Are you okay?” Frankie asks me, and I don’t remember what I answer. “Yes, no, don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Maybe I say all those answers in one. He doesn’t question it any further; we keep walking.
Nothing feels right, the salt air is suffocating me, settling in the canyon of my lungs. But we need to take one last picture before we go! It hasn’t passed yet. In my grad bash shirt, pajama pants, and mostly-still-in-tact makeup, I pose for a picture with all my friends that are also going out of state. It’s five of us out of eleven. So I’m not alone in the picture, but I will be alone in Georgia. We say our goodbyes that drag on too long, give hugs that don’t last long enough, and then I’m in the backseat hurtling towards home. In four months I might say home and be talking about my dorm room. I am not in my prom dress but as soon as I close the car door I start sobbing.