Chapter 2 Harper
Harper
Dear God—or whoever is up there listening. It’s me. Again. Harper, the girl who hit you up last month about that weird rash she had on her backside and prayed it would go away before her cousin’s wedding? Yeah. That Harper.
So I’m not trying to be annoying or anything…if that’s a thing?
But I have a dilemma. And you might not think it’s a big deal, because there are way more important problems on the planet than my stupid problem, but here goes anyway: I don’t have a prom date.
I know. It’s so embarrassing.
Can you please send me one? Like, a good one.
I know that of all things to pray for this one is super self-serving, but cut me some slack—I’m almost eighteen and I’m desperate. Ha ha.
And not to be picky, but can you make him semipopular and likeable? So we can tolerate each other for one night? Oh. And can he be taller than me. And cute? Not that looks are everything—we all know I’m a sucker for a good personality—but if he had a nice smile with nice teeth, that would be great.
Okay, now that I’m actually praying for this, I feel like the most selfish jerk on earth. I know my not having a date for prom is the least of your worries, but the thing is—
I assumed I’d have a date, so like a dum-dum, I volunteered for the prom committee, but now I don’t have a date and everyone has been asking who I’m going with because no one can mind their own business!
Plus, I have a dress.
It’s THE dress. My dream dress.
It’s pink and like a cloud and so expensive I felt guilty letting my mom buy it. I AM THAT GIRL WHO WENT AND BOUGHT A DRESS BEFORE SHE HAD A DATE! I lied to my parents about it, but what choice did I have? I don’t want them to think I’m a loser.
So yeah. If you’re there and you’re listening, could you send me a sign that everything is going to work out? Because prom is in two weeks and it’s not looking favorable.
I give myself a glance in the mirror, pull my brown hair back into a ponytail, and tie it with a scrunchie. Sending off my silent prayer ending with an Amen and hallelujah, time to make magic.
Alone.
Yup, that’s me. Harper Conrad: forever dateless.
What am I, a glutton for punishment?
Ugh.
Why do I do this to myself?
Because I’m excited about prom! Blame it on every single romance novel I’ve read, and television and the movies, not to mention all the dress posts I’ve seen that are now part of my algorithm when I’m mindlessly scrolling.
I’m a victim of great marketing, okay?
I want to be a part of the big day. I want the gym to sparkle. I want it to shine! Glimmer!
I know what you’re thinking: Harper must be an art nerd or a sucker for painting and drawing. But that’s the first thing you’re wrong about. I am not artistic. I cannot draw a stick figure.
I cannot paint.
The second thing you might be assuming about me is that I’m a Goody Two-shoes for volunteering—usually the class officers have to beg for help. But not with me on the committee—nope. I’ve recruited enough people to have a full team of students to decorate.
I’ll take my bow later…
For now, I have men to manhandle.
Making my way to the garage, I select one of the massive pieces of cardboard we’re using for the occasion and prop it against wall, checking to see that it’s tall enough to be a realistic height, for I am in charge of the knights.
According to the directions our committee head gave me, I need at least ten knights in armor to decorate the gym.
I shiver with excitement. Is there anything more romantic than a fairy tale theme? Or “A Knight Under the Stars,” as our school is calling it.
Eek!
Perfection.
Still. Now that the cardboard is in my possession and at my house, the task feels daunting.
“Of all the things you could have been in charge of, you choose painting knights,” I grumble. Ugh.
I groan, looking down at the sample drawing that I’ll use to project onto the garage wall so I can trace it. Ten times.
“Why didn’t you keep your mouth shut?” I add. “How nice would it have been to be in charge of the ticket sales? Or the photo booth?”
Or the massive balloon arch that’s going to be in the lobby of the gym when you walk into school.
“Now look at you. None down and all these to go, and you don’t even have a stupid date.”
Plenty of my friends were going to go dateless, but they’re dropping like flies.
One by one, cringey promposals are showing up in my Snap Stories, too.
My best friend Macy? She was just asked to the dance by a guy in her chemistry class; he sent her a pizza with the words I KNOW THIS IS CHEESY written in black marker on the inside box cover and BUT—PROM?
? spelled out in pepperoni on the pizza.
She was freaking thrilled!
“You don’t eat meat,” I reminded her as her squeals pierced my eardrums and she lunged into Marcus Fields’s waiting arms. “And you don’t eat cheese.”
The look she gave me over his shoulder as he was spinning her…
I shudder at the memory, only a teensy-weensy bit jealous.
And by teensy bit I mean: a lot bit.
None of us are dating anyone, but that isn’t stopping my besties from getting actual dates to prom. I seem to be the last girl standing—or at least, that’s how it feels.
“How long are those going to take up space in this garage?”
My mother interrupts my inner complaining, motioning to all the cardboard scattered around her parking space.
“I’d love to be able to park in here. It hasn’t been fun carrying groceries into the house from the driveway.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind her there are worse things in the world than having to walk her groceries from the driveway to the kitchen—or to remind her that not everyone has a home to walk groceries into. Or to remind her that not everyone has groceries.
But if I actually said those things? She would start yelling.
“Sorry, Mom.” I’m adjusting the projector so its beam of light is lined up with my cardboard. “I promise I’ll get these out of here as soon as they open the art room for the committee again.”
Currently the art room has no space; too many other prom-related decorations are swallowing it up.
“How was work?” I change the subject.
My mother’s frown deepens.
She sighs. “Work was work.” She checks her wrist for the time. “Dad should be home in a bit; it’s his turn to start dinner.”
I nod.
My parents aren’t divorced…yet. But it feels inevitable. They don’t exactly get along these days, coexisting in the house though barely communicating. Not unless they have to. It’s strained and awkward and so uncomfy.
I hate it.
I doubt they have sex anymore—not that I want to picture my parents having sex, but isn’t that, like, part of a healthy adult relationship?
Anyway, I don’t think they have it and I don’t think they can stand each other, and they’re at the point where they don’t even hide it well. I wish they would call it quits; as much as I love them both, they are so…
I don’t know.
Removed.
It’s stressful tiptoeing around the two of them when we’re all in the same room. On the other hand, if they separated, would I have to move half my crap to another house? That would be a huge pain in the ass, so I’m not sure what’s worse: their weird relationship or starting anew.
“Where did that all come from, anyway?” Mom asks, still standing on the threshold of the laundry room, hip against the doorjamb.
“Art teacher ordered it.”
“Remind me again: Why aren’t you doing this at school?”
I shake my head. “We can’t bring any of the decorations into the gym until the day of prom—they need the space for basketball games and stuff. There’s literally no room to store any more of the decorations at school.”
And there are a ton of them.
She nods, understanding. “Are you still excited about your dress?”
I shrug. I was so ridiculously excited about the dress when we first bought it, but now it’s a daily reminder that I have no date and likely never will.
None of my prayers are being answered.
Ugh.
“What’s the shrug for?” my mother demands, standing up straight now.
“Yes. I’m still excited about my dress. I’m just nervous.”
Mom tilts her head. “What are you nervous about?”
I shrug again. “Just…maybe that prom won’t live up to the hype. But seriously, I love my dress and can’t wait to wear it.”
She wants to say more but doesn’t have the energy—I can see it on her face.
“We should probably make an appointment for your hair.”
We should, but I don’t see the point.
Not if I don’t have a date.
“I was going to have Macy do my hair and makeup.”
“Are you sure? Because I can make an appointment at my salon.”
I nod, unenthused. “You can if you want.” But it may not be necessary.
She hangs out a little longer, finally disappearing into the house. When she does, I go back to the task at hand, sketching the outline of my knight onto the cardboard.
Flashy metal.
Swords.
Cool helmets.
Breastplates.
My knights will have it all!
I concentrate, working well into the evening, far past the time my dad gets home. Working so long he brings me a plate—spaghetti. He sets it on the workbench, my music blaring from the wireless speaker.
Dad doesn’t question me the way Mom does, nor does he seem to mind that art supplies are scattered everywhere. For some reason, I’m not sure if his silence feels better or worse.
I twirl my paintbrush between my fingers, staring at the half-finished knight in front of me. The outline is bold, the details sharp. He looks powerful—like nothing could knock him down.
I wish I felt like that.
Instead, I feel stuck.