Chapter Forty-Three
It was Rosie’s fault that Marigold had to go to prom.
Peony and Marigold knew that the youngest Yuen was their parents’ favorite.
Rosie could paper the insides of her locker with tardy slips and ditch sixth-period algebra to sneak over to Tower Records, yet somehow she was able to coax Helen into piano lessons, a weekly allowance, and now—permission to go to senior prom.
“It’s more like a ball,” assured Rosie, who could be a genius at marketing. “In fact, it’s senior ball, not senior prom. Everyone will dress up in their nicest clothes—tuxes and evening gowns—and the committee’s working on an actual castle. Did I tell you my date is the king?”
“I don’t know,” said Helen. “These sorts of parties have drinking. And drugs! Aunty Yip told me her friend’s daughter went to prom and they put weeds in the punch to get young people addicted.”
“Weed, Mom. Not weeds.” Rosie planted a bar of milk chocolate in front of Helen. “This is Berkeley High, not the Cow Palace. How is it any different from P’s ball last year?”
“Peony had Paul with her. And she came home at nine-thirty.”
Rosie pretended not to hear that last part. “There’ll be teachers supervising, and lots of balloons and glitter and fancy swizzle sticks with stars on the top . . .” She trailed off to emphasize, “It’s a fairy-tale theme.”
Helen had a soft spot for fairy tales. Years ago, before they moved, she’d brought home a collection from the used-book store.
The cover was faded, its corners bent, but Marigold took to the stories with rapt attention.
Night after night, she and her sisters nestled in Helen’s arms, all of them struggling to sound out the English and resorting to the pictures to navigate the tales.
And little Marigold learned that though her mother would never talk about her past in China, she could glean hints through the stories.
“It should be a golden slipper, not a glass one,” Helen said after they read Cinderella. “Also, she prays to fish bones, not a fairy godmother.”
“Fish bones?” Rosie wrinkled her nose. “That’s not very romantic.”
“Glass shoes are not romantic. They will break and then cut your feet.”
“Not if they’re magical,” Marigold pointed out.
“The Chinese version is more realistic,” Helen insisted with a twist of her lips.
“You think that prince would really love Cinderella after dancing one dance? The Chinese one teaches important lessons: After Yeh Shen marries the king, he makes her a concubine and sells the golden slippers that she wore to supply his army.”
She paused then, for once sensitive to how her daughters’ faces fell.
“Sometimes it’s nice to believe in happily ever after, Ma,” said Peony gently.
“Hmm,” said Helen, closing the book. A sad yet wistful smile stole over her face—just long enough for Marigold to catch.
Marigold had never forgotten it. Soon after the incident, the bedtime stories ended, and it was years before she became drawn to tales of magic and fantasy again. Often she wondered whether it was in quest of that fleeting bond she’d once shared with her mother. Or was there something more?
“You can go to your ball,” Helen was telling Rosie. “But be home by eleven.”
“How about midnight?”
“Eleven.” Helen was firm. “Marigold will go, too.”
“What?” Marigold exclaimed, flabbergasted. “You want me to go to prom?”
“Senior ball,” Rosie corrected. “And technically it’s your ball. Please? Danny Chen—you know, the homecoming king last fall—asked me to be his date. Me, even though I’m a junior. I’ve got to go.”
“I’ve got a calc exam the next day.”
“Who cares about grades anymore? You’ve only got a month of school left.”
“It still counts toward my GPA.”
“Mom!” Rosie turned to their mother for support.
“Marigold, go with your sister,” said Helen, unwrapping the chocolate. “You’ve been sulking ever since Stamford rejected you.”
“Stanford,” Marigold corrected. “And I haven’t been sulking, I’ve been studying.” She regarded her little sister. “Do I have to wear a dress?”
So here she was in the Electric Underground, standing by the buffet, sipping a cup of punch, and wearing Peony’s old prom dress, a festoon of chiffon ruffles, and white satin gloves.
Her sisters had curled her hair and brushed Revlon Cherries in the Snow on her lips and a touch of blue shadow on her eyelids, which was all decidedly un-Marigold but she looked less like a fool than she’d expected. She felt . . . pretty.
The seniors had done an impressive job decorating the venue.
Someone had constructed a ten-foot-tall castle out of cardboard with clouds of silver-white balloons that must have taken an entire fleet of vans to transport.
Along the walls were reams of shimmering pink tulle and tinseled gold garlands, crepe paper stars and rainbow crescents.
It was rather magical, she had to admit, feeling a glow start to warm in her chest. She tamped it down immediately, then turned down Rosie’s invitation to come dancing.
The first thing she did was stake out an empty corner by the buffet, where she fully expected to be rooted until eleven, reading the book she’d tucked into her purse once she finished her punch.
A few classmates waved, and she returned the gesture shyly, noting their surprise at seeing her.
They’d disappear into the sea of familiar yet unfamiliar faces, joining the buzzy din of laughter and music.
A world barely ten feet away, yet one where she didn’t belong.
She sipped her punch, ignoring the twinge that nibbled at her heart.
How different would she have been, she wondered, if not for the burdensome power beneath her gloves?
Would she be dancing with Rosie and giggling in line for pictures with a pack of friends?
Might she be holding hands with a date instead of a paper cup, touching skin to skin, waiting for her first kiss? She supposed she’d never know.
She turned back to the buffet and was about to collect one of those starry plastic swizzle sticks Rosie had talked about to keep as a souvenir, when someone tapped her on the shoulder.
“Getting drunk off the fruit punch?”
Marigold almost choked. It was Kenji.
He put on a cautious smile. “Congrats on valedictorian. I heard you got the Regents’ Scholarship, too. That’s a big deal.”
She mirrored his smile halfway. “Congrats on salutatorian. And Stanford.”
“It should’ve been you.”
Marigold thought she’d resent him for getting in, but she didn’t. He deserved his spot. “Nah. Cal’s got a better football team.”
There was a look of relief about him as he laughed.
She expected the conversation to end then and there, but Kenji looked her in the eyes. “How about a dance?”
Marigold appeared so shocked that he laughed. “I promise I don’t have two left feet.”
“I’m the one with the two left feet,” she said, fidgeting with her gloves. “I missed all of social dance in seventh grade.”
Even Kenji had heard the story. “We’re not going to do the tango here.”
“It was the foxtrot.”
He glanced at his watch. “Ninety seconds.”
“Pardon?”
“That’s how long we’ve gone without insulting one another.”
“Must be a record.”
“Calls for celebration.” He extended his hand. “Come on, you can’t leave prom without one dance.”
“All right,” she said before she could stop herself. She didn’t take his hand, though.
They caught the tail end of “Superstition.” Marigold bobbed awkwardly, trying to catch the beat. She’d begun counting in her head, figuring she could politely excuse herself from Kenji’s company once she got to fifty.
“You know, I’m surprised to see you here,” he said. “I didn’t think you were a prom-goer.”
“I’m not. My parents made me come babysit my sister.”
“Rosie?”
“You know her?”
“I’ve seen you eat together on Fridays. I mean, because it’s the only time you’re not in the library tutoring.”
Marigold raised an eyebrow. “Were you spying on me?”
“Spying’s a strong word. Your table was right next to the zoology books. I like reading about turtles.”
“Turtles? What kinds?”
“Hard backs, hidden on the shell-ves.”
Marigold couldn’t catch herself in time and snorted with laughter.
Kenji smiled. He’d stopped dancing and shuffled his feet around the confetti scattered across the floor until he’d gathered his next words. “Hey,” he started, “I know I’m late, but I wouldn’t have taken your gloves if I knew how much it’d upset you. I just wanted to get your attention. I’m sorry.”
They were standing in the middle of the stage, the only ones not dancing, oblivious to the bop of the music and their classmates’ loud cheers as the band started blaring “The Loco-Motion.”
“That was five years ago,” said Marigold.
“Yeah, and you’ve hated me ever since.”
“I was irritated, but that’s not why I didn’t like you.”
“Then why?” Kenji looked genuinely curious. “It’s not because I’m Japanese. There’s at least twenty of us at school. You played badminton with Naoko for a whole semester.”
Marigold swallowed. It was her turn to confess. “I . . . I heard a rumor that you vandalized someone’s car back in LA. I thought you were going to be trouble.”
“Where’d you hear that?” Kenji asked, surprised. “Never mind. Can I tell you what really happened?”
He guided her toward the edge of the dance floor, where it was quieter.
“I was twelve. My brother had just gotten drafted, and my parents were fighting about everything. They couldn’t be in the same room without yelling.
The day I smashed the car, Mom told me we were moving back to my grandparents’ in Berkeley, and Dad was staying in Torrance. ”
He exhaled. “I was angry, and unhappy. I’d tried everything to get them back together, but it’d just backfire.
So I thought, maybe I should make them upset at me instead of each other.
Stupid, right? I wasn’t thinking. As soon as I picked up my bat, I knew it was a mistake.
I kept hoping they’d come out and stop me.
” He grimaced. “So I swung. I broke the windows, even broke off one of the side mirrors.” His voice deepened.
“Took a long time to pay it all back, even longer before I could look my parents in the eyes. Worst thing was, they still got divorced.”
Marigold hadn’t moved a muscle while he spoke, and now she didn’t know what to say. She’d wronged him. After one glimpse of his past she had assumed the worst. Humbled by his story, she bent her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, meaning it. “Can we start over? I’m Marigold.”
A slow smile spread on Kenji’s face. “Ken. But you can call me Kenji.”
She looked up at him. “Why do you look so pleased?”
“Because. You were the only girl in eighth grade who knew sandworms were from Dune, not ‘some part of Arabia.’ I’ve wanted to be friends from the start.”
A slow song had come on—“Let’s Stay Together”—and Kenji offered Marigold his hand once more.
This time she took it.
They got to dance for two minutes before Valerie Hodge stalked over and claimed Kenji’s arm, flashing the pink corsage he must have gotten for her. She threw Marigold a smirk that read scram.
For a second, Kenji looked like he had a stomach flu, and it surprised Marigold how disappointed she was to stop talking with him. There was only a month until graduation; she doubted there’d be many more chances.
“Enjoy the rest of prom,” she said lamely, making her way back to the buffet table.
“Hey, Marigold,” Kenji called after her. “Want to read some Fantastic Four?”
She couldn’t believe he remembered that. “Sure.”
“I’ll bring a stack on Monday.”
Marigold couldn’t help smiling. She didn’t notice Rosie coming up beside her wearing a mischievous look. “I saw that.”
“Saw what?”
“You and Kenji Yamamoto. He’s pretty cute.”
Normally Marigold would roll her eyes at her sister’s audacity, but there was a shining feeling inside her from the wonder of having made a new friend.
Laughing, she grabbed Rosie by the hands, surrendering to the infectious beat of a song she didn’t recognize.
“Come on, dance with me.” Fallen pom-poms crunched under their shoes, and the sisters twirled each other until they were dizzy.
It tied for her favorite dance of the night.