Chapter 2 Prom And Principles #2
I shove the violent desire back down, focusing on the task at hand: putting my prosthetic legs on. I slide my right stump into the socket, but it doesn’t fit. Wrong leg. Idiot. I switch to the left and push the pin into the lock until it clicks, ignoring Ferg’s obnoxious voice the whole time.
“Tell us, Weston. We’re all dying to know—has she inducted you into her cult yet? A life of celibacy and never keeping her up past her bedtime?”
I clench my teeth, fire building in my core as the urge to punch him grows even stronger. I cut Rudy a sideways glance, and he shakes his head slowly as if to say, Don’t fall for it.
Normally, I wouldn’t. I’ve had some practice letting offensive remarks roll off me, not rising to the bullshit that kids like Neil Ferguson throw around to make themselves feel more important. I’ve endured lots of locker room talk in the past four years. But this is different. It’s not about me.
It’s about Tessa.
With every cutting word that comes out of Ferg’s mouth, something in me winds tighter and tighter… getting ready to snap.
He pushes me too far when he leans down and says in a stage whisper loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’ll take her up to Hickley Point myself if you ain’t got the balls.”
I lurch to my feet, ready to knock his teeth out—
Correction: I lurch to my foot.
I stumble, falling face-first into the lockers but catching myself just in time. My backpack flies off the bench in the process, spilling my running blades onto the floor.
There’s a burst of laughter as my ears blaze red-hot with embarrassment.
I sit back down, not looking at Rudy, even though I can sense him staring at me.
Ferg smiles and slaps me on the shoulder like I’m some football buddy of his.
“Hey, I’m just kidding, Ludovico. Don’t sweat it.
After all, you’ve got the perfect excuse.
” He nudges my running blade on the floor with the toe of his shoe.
“No girl’s parents would be worried about you taking their daughter to prom. ”
My gaze snaps to his. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
But I know exactly what it’s supposed to mean.
And I hate the way it makes me feel: like he just scored the final point of a boxing match, and I’m on the ropes with blood in my mouth and a sickening knot in my stomach.
Ferg grunts a laugh and walks off, exiting the locker room with his moronic disciples trailing after him.
Neil Ferguson’s stupid accusations haunt me for the rest of the day, unpunched punches thrumming in my fists.
Man, I should have decked him when I had the chance.
So what if I only had one leg on? I could take that sleazebag on with no legs and one hand tied behind my back.
I could have made him pay for talking shit about Tessa. I should have.
“Would you stop thinking about this? It’s over,” Rudy says with a sigh later that day when we’re training on the heavy bag in my garage. “Why is it still bothering you?”
“It’s not bothering me. It’s just…” I shake my head, crossing my arms over my chest. “That’s not the reason Tessa and I don’t… you know. It’s because she has boundaries. She believes in purity and stuff. And I’m fine with that.”
Rudy wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his boxing glove. “Why are you telling me this, Wes? Who cares what Ferg says? He’s a moron, always has been.”
“I know. He is.”
We switch places—Rudy moves on to shadowboxing while I blister the heavy bag, giving it a face. Neil Ferguson’s face. I unleash all the violent energy boiling in my veins, pounding the piss out of the bag and hoping it will improve my mood.
But even after I’m dead tired and covered in sweat, those words still echo through my mind.
You’ve got the perfect excuse.
No girl’s parents would be worried about you taking their daughter to prom.
Was he right? Is that why Tessa’s grandparents have never had reservations about me being alone with her? About leaving us in the house together unsupervised? Did they trust me because they figured I couldn’t try anything with their granddaughter?
They’ve liked me from the beginning, and I wore that approval like a badge of honor. I have nothing but respect for Mr. and Mrs. Dickinson, so it made me proud to think they had respect for me, too—that they trusted me.
But now I’m starting to wonder if trust is something I should be proud to have.
I decide to come right out and ask Tessa about it that night as we’re driving to see a movie together. She’s in the passenger seat, sneaking me smiles and telling me to keep my eyes on the road when I get distracted looking at her.
That’s when I pop the question.
“Do your grandparents ever get worried about you going out alone with me?”
Tessa frowns, puzzled. “What do you mean, worried?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, like… say we stayed out past your curfew. Say we stayed out… all night. Would they be worried?”
Tessa falls silent, considering it. “No. I don’t think they’d worry—not like that, anyway. I’m sure they’d assume we had a reasonable explanation. They trust you.”
They trust me.
I would have preferred it if she said her grandparents would call the cops on me.
I’m not the kind of guy who needs to break the law and have some “bad boy” reputation to feel cool. But God, is there anything more disappointing than being so trustworthy that you could keep a girl out all night long and her grandparents wouldn’t worry even the slightest bit?
“And… why do they trust me?” I ask, pressing her to see if I can get the whole truth.
“Why are you asking me all these questions?” She narrows her eyes, looking suspicious but amused.
“I don’t know,” I say with an easy laugh. “I was just curious.”
Tessa smiles and threads her fingers through mine. “They trust you because they know you’re not like other guys.”
She probably means it to be a compliment, but tonight, it feels more like an accidental elbow in the ribs, hitting a bruise still tender from this morning.
Not like other guys.
That’s me, alright.
TESSA
I’ve never been to a dance before. Jane Austen movies have set the bar unrealistically high for me when it comes to formal gatherings involving music, dancing, and socializing in beautiful ballgowns.
But something tells me Weston’s senior prom isn’t going to fulfill my fantasies of stepping into Elizabeth Bennet’s shoes and being swept off my feet by some dashing stranger with a British accent.
Weston is my Mr. Darcy, and I’m happy anywhere as long as he’s by my side.
I still spend an unhealthy amount of time scrolling through Pinterest for dress ideas. It’s a challenge to find something that meets my standards and isn’t three hundred dollars.
Eventually, I wind up in a subcategory of gowns referred to as “fairytale prom dresses,” and I can sense that I’m getting closer to the one.
I know it when I see it: a tulle skirt made of the palest pink with matching balloon sleeves and a ruffly sweetheart neckline.
Pastel embroidered flowers cover the whole bodice, like a spring garden blooming across the dress—blossoms floating between layers of impossibly light fabric.
The best part is that the dress is reasonably priced and available through an online thrift shop. It’s one size too big for me, but Grandma says she’ll have no trouble taking it in.
Weston badgers me to see a picture of the dress, but I tell him it’s a surprise and he will just have to be patient.
Truth be told, I can’t wait to show him—hoping the flowers will remind him of the time we first met.
How he brought me all those flowers when I was blind, how he helped me learn to love life again.
“This is what I’m wearing,” Weston says whenever I deny him a peek at the dress. He’ll gesture at himself just to drive me crazy—since he is usually wearing gym shorts and a hoodie.
“If you don’t show up at my door looking like you’re attending the Netherfield ball, I’m not getting in the car with you.”
Weston only laughs at that and volleys back, “Who says you can’t wear sweats to a ball?”
The anticipation builds with every passing day, and one afternoon, Mom and I have a hairstyling session—going through my entire Pinterest board of favorite updos and testing them out to see which ones are too complicated or painful to achieve on prom night.
Mom is a genius with hair, though I must admit all the braiding, twisting, and pin-stabbing is rather agonizing.
Between yelps of pain, we discuss the dos and don’ts of senior prom.
Being homeschooled my whole life, I’m not fully up-to-date on typical teenager etiquette—the behavior of high-schoolers is a baffling mystery to me.
But if I stay close to Weston, I’ll be alright.
I know Rudy and Clara well enough to consider them friends, too. Everything will be fine.
At least, that’s what I think until Mom throws a monkey wrench into the situation by adding, “I lost my virginity at my senior prom.”
My gaze snaps to hers through the mirror. “That’s not… a prerequisite to prom, right?”
Mom laughs, as though I just asked her to tell me what it means to lose one’s virginity. “No, of course not. But… it happens. More often than you might think. Sometimes when you least expect it.”
“Mom,” I huff, watching my cheeks blaze pink in the vanity mirror, “I’m not like that. And neither is Weston.”
“Sweetie, all boys are the same. Horny and hopeless.”
“I dispute that. Weston isn’t like other guys; you’ve said so yourself. He respects my boundaries—it’s something we’ve talked about. Not in explicit detail, but… he knows I want to save my first time for my wedding night. And he’s cool with that.”
Mom tilts her head noncommittally as she slides a few more pins into my hair. “You say that now, but sometimes things get out of hand, and before you know it… Well, it’s better to be safe than sorry. I can buy you what you need—”