Chapter 2 Prom And Principles
PROM AND PRINCIPLES
A WESTESS STORY
TESSA
“How much farther?”
“Tessa, you’ve asked me that five times in the past five minutes.”
“And you’ve answered in the same unsatisfactory way every time,” I say with an indignant huff. “‘Not far.’ You know, that’s not the answer I was—”
Whoa.
I stop dead in my tracks when we emerge from the woods and find ourselves at the edge of a secluded little pond with a gazebo in the center and a boardwalk leading out to it. The gazebo’s interior is decorated with twinkle lights and hanging flower baskets.
It’s like something from a fairytale.
Weston holds his hand out to me, watching my reaction as if it’s the best part of his day. “Shall we?”
Arm in arm, we stroll down the boardwalk to the gazebo.
“How did you find this place?” I breathe. “It’s magical.”
Weston shrugs. “Just came across it one day.”
Once we’re inside, I stop and turn in a slow circle, tipping my head back to take it all in.
Sunset light kisses the pond’s surface in a shimmer of rose gold, turning the water to pink champagne.
Benches circle the gazebo’s interior, making it the perfect place to soak in the view—or the perfect place to dance.
“You know what this reminds me of?” I say, turning to find Weston fidgeting with his phone. “The gazebo in The Sound of—”
“Shh, don’t say it,” Weston cuts in. “You’ll ruin everything.”
I frown, puzzled, until I hear the unmistakable first notes of a song I know by heart. Only this time, the voice accompanying the music is Weston’s as he turns around theatrically and takes my hands in his.
“You wait, little girl, on an empty stage… for fate to turn the light on.”
A surprised laugh jumps out of me, and my heart instantly melts at his honey-rich voice singing me one of my favorite songs from my favorite movie of all time.
“Your life, little girl, is an empty page you’ll find something to write on.”
“That’s not—”
“To wriiiiiite onnnnn…” He gives me a pointed look, as if to say, Don’t correct my mistakes right now, Tessa.
So I keep my lips sealed. Because it doesn’t matter if he gets some words wrong. This is quite possibly the most romantic thing he’s ever done for me.
As the music changes tempo, Weston begins leading me in slow circles around the gazebo, his eyes sparkling, his grin lovestruck. “You are seventeen going on eighteen, baby, you’re on the brink… of making me fall down dead at your feet—oh, what would my parents think?”
I burst out laughing, realizing now that he’s deliberately changing the lyrics—and I like his version much better.
I hop up on one of the benches, still holding his hand like the starry-eyed Liesl dancing with her secret lover in a moonlit garden.
I’m glad I wore my twirliest dress for this date—it swirls around my legs as I skip from bench to bench, laughing the whole time.
“I need someone younger and wiser correcting my grammar for meeeee.” Weston’s voice carries the rewritten lyrics with cheery confidence.
“You look like a dream, what I really mean is—” He grasps my waist and sweeps me off the bench as if I weigh no more than a feather.
Suddenly, I’m standing right in front of him, and he’s sinking down on one knee, making my heart flop backward in my chest. With an impossibly cute smile, he looks up into my face and sings the question, “Will you come to prom with me?”
I gasp, my hands flying to my mouth. “Oh my god, I thought you were going to ask me something else for a second.”
Weston freezes, his eyes darting around as the karaoke song continues playing on his phone.
“Yes, of course. I will absolutely go to prom with you.”
As understanding hits him, he springs to his feet. “You thought I was gonna ask you to marry me?”
I laugh, shaking my head because it sounds ridiculous when he says it out loud.
“We’re seventeen, Tessa,” he reminds me with a wink. “But someday, I absolutely will propose to you.”
My heart squeezes as he catches my waist and pulls me close, resting his forehead gently against mine.
“For now, it’s just a promposal.”
I kiss him, lacing my fingers behind his neck and basking in the perfection of this moment and all its sweetness—the sparkling pink water all around us, the music drifting through the evening, the soft press of Weston’s lips against mine.
“It was perfect,” I whisper.
WESTON
“It was kind of perfect.” I swerve Rudy a grin as we walk into the locker room after track practice the following day. “If anything, she was disappointed it wasn’t a real proposal.”
Rudy laughs, shrugging off his backpack. “Can’t do a real proposal without a ring,” he says. “And you can’t get a ring when you’re flat broke.”
I punch him in the shoulder, but he’s right; I have no money for diamond rings. We make our way through the chaotic locker room, which is a madhouse of sweaty guys shooting the shit, throwing dirty socks around, slamming lockers, and telling dumb jokes.
A crowded locker room has never been my favorite place to change out of my running blades and into my everyday prosthetic legs. But hell, over the past four years, I’ve had no choice but to get used to it. Everyone else has gotten used to it, too. They don’t stare anymore.
I grab my stuff and claim a spot on a free bench—uncomfortably close to the captain of the football team, Neil Ferguson.
Yep, that Neil Ferguson. The first one to welcome me back to school with scathing insults after my amputation all those years ago.
He goes by “Ferg” these days because he thinks it sounds cooler.
But a skunk is a skunk by any other name.
He’s shirtless right now, a damp towel hanging around his neck as he shoots his mouth off about some girl he’s taking to prom, bragging about how hot she is—in explicit detail—like his single most important goal in life is to make the whole damn world jealous of him.
I try to zone out of his obnoxious voice as I bend over to release the prosthesis from my left leg.
“You ask Clara yet?” I question Rudy over my shoulder.
He smirks, toeing off his running shoes. “She asked me, actually.”
“Damn. Girl knows what she wants.”
Rudy grunts. “She’s threatening to wear sweatpants just to be rebellious. I don’t think she’s caught the drift that my family doesn’t exactly like rebellion when it comes to tradition.”
“You’re getting them used to it, though,” I say, grabbing a towel from my backpack. “Wouldn’t they have preferred you asked some cute Jewish girl from synagogue?”
Rudy relents to a sheepish smile. “Yeah. They would’ve. But you can’t help who you fall for.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“You bet your ass we’ll be up at Hickley Point before any of you losers get to second base.” Ferg’s sneering voice rises above the murmur of the crowded room. He leans back against the lockers, his arms crossed over his chest and a smug grin on his slappable face.
“What’s Hickley Point?” asks Kent, a transfer student. He’s been here long enough not to stare at my legs, but not long enough to know what Hickley Point is.
Ferg laughs at the question. “You serious, man? Well, I guess you have an excuse. You’re fresh meat. Not yet tenderized.” He smacks Kent on the shoulder, making him jump in surprise. “Hickley Point is where it happens.”
“Where what happens?” Kent asks, apparently not as bright as he looks.
“Oh, man. Here it comes,” Rudy mutters under his breath, rising from the bench to shove his running shoes back into his locker.
Ferg goes on to explain—in explicit detail—what exactly happens when you take your girl up to Hickley Point at night.
The spot is so notorious that someone even blacked out the letter L on the sign and added some very imaginative doodles to emphasize the actual function of the place.
Despite its reputation, Hickley Point is a perfectly G-rated public park—the main attraction being a lookout point where you can park your car and enjoy the view of Rockford sprawled in the valley below.
I’ve driven Tessa up there a few times during the day (she either never noticed the defaced sign or was too sophisticated to say anything about it).
While Kent has his eyes opened about Hickley Point and all the luck to be found there, I towel-dry my stumps and slide my prosthetic socks back on.
The sooner I get out of Ferg’s proximity, the better.
“Man, I wish I had a date to take to prom,” Kent says with a sigh, shaking his head.
Ferg chuckles, yanking on his T-shirt. “Hey, I’ll give you a tip.”
Kent perks up, eager to learn.
“Pick a girl with glasses. Then, before you ask her, do this.” He pulls Kent’s glasses off his face in one quick motion, holding them out of reach. “You’ll look a lot better—trust me!”
A couple of dumbass guys laugh at his joke, but something in me bristles. My muscles lock up as I watch Kent blindly grope for his glasses.
“Hey, Ferguson!” my voice booms out, killing the laughter. “Knock it off.”
A flash of irritation sparks in his eyes as he swivels away from Kent and turns his bloodthirsty smile on me.
“Aw, what’s the matter, Ludovico? Feeling left out?” He shoves Kent’s glasses at his chest, stepping closer to look down his nose at me. “We all know you won’t take your girl to Hickley Point on prom night.”
His entourage of deadbeats makes a collective “ohhh” of understanding and starts laughing.
“The holy virgin would never let you go that far.” Ferg grins down at me, his tongue in his cheek. “Would she, Ludovico?”
A coil of anger tightens in the pit of my stomach as I slide my gaze up to his. “I’d shut my mouth right about now if I were you, Ferg.”
“Oh, I stand corrected—you’re both holy virgins!”
I shouldn’t let that bother me.
It doesn’t bother me.
It doesn’t.
But I can’t deny that it gives me a strong, unstoppable urge to punch him in the face.