John Mayer Might Be the Perfect Prom Date

I had the perfect junior prom date: my first kiss.

Things had not progressed romantically after the night our rival-high-school paths first crossed. We’d only talked enough for him to make a passing joke about prom. But for me, a plan was solidified. I presented Exhibit A — the printed transcript of our MSN messenger chat — to the girls in PreCalc the next morning. Yes, they concurred, you’ve snagged yourself a date.

The first time we hung out, I served him with papers. He demolished an entire pizza as he filled out the forms required by my school to bring this stranger to the dance. Between logistical discussions demanded by the big night and one additional rendezvous (tie shopping — he bought nothing), two things happened: I created a date, and the look.

Unlike much of what I wore in high school, I would take this prom dress to the grave. I went vintage, only because vintage guaranteed unique in a town of few department stores and large high schools.

The dress was a piece of work. It was the first garment I ever owned that coupled tangible weight with obvious fragility. It demanded to be picked up with both hands. It was tea length and sweetheart cut, white with a cream and black lace overlay. A full corset, replete with twelve hook-and-eye closures, lurked under the lining. The slashed label read “Carmen Marc Valvo,” a name that set my romantic fantasy in Italy circa 1940. And it was no longer a dress; it was a gown.

As for hair inspiration, I’d saved two clippings: featuring an excessive number of braids, and Gwen Stefani featuring an excessive number of real flowers. I asked my mother to combine them, and my dad was assigned to buy tea roses. (Yeah Dad, these red roses are close enough!)

My date was charm and intrigue wrapped into a rental tux; my imagination supplied the rest. I couldn’t wait to see teachers exchange knowing glances (yes, it was the teachers I wanted to impress). I’d planned every detail of my outfit, I’d labored over every detail of the event itself, and the hope and prospect of where the night would take us buoyed me along the entire way. I couldn’t get enough of prom.

Until, suddenly, it was all over. After getting portraits with my friends (those packages weren’t so bad, split eight ways), I walked up behind him and caught enough of his conversation to understand that he was making plans for later. Without me.

Our night ended with a hug; my night ended with iPod mini headphones stuffed in my ears as I convinced myself that John Mayer was asking, “Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my hair?” as I cried myself to sleep over a boy for the first time in all my sixteen years.

Carmen Marc Valvo hails from Westchester County, NY and created his first collection in 1989. Regular roses are significantly larger than their tea variety. The John Mayer lyric is “roses in my hand.” My first kiss would not be my first boyfriend, and prom would not be the greatest night of my life. But prom is about anticipation, planning, and pretending. You try on adult rituals for size: your first nail appointment, your first makeup appointment, the first time a date buys you dinner (even if his dad lent him his card), and takes your arm. It’s about waiting to finally hold the pictures that captured the entire charade. Pictures that, to this day, do not cause me to regret anything — not the dress, not the date, and especially not the full-sized roses inexplicably blooming from my bun.

New to the Writers Club? See the newest prompt and past entries here.