The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Six

      “Will you go to prom with me?” he asked after the elaborate scheme that had transpired before, all leading up to the heavily pressured question. It was a cute and not really creative way to ask someone, but that was Eric: cute and uncreative.

      When I walked into my homeroom, Lauren, Tara, and Alice were all whispering in murmurs as I entered, giggling manically about something. I assumed that their hysterics had to correlate with a new beauty product or one of Justin Bieber’s latest Tweets, so didn’t bother asking anything. Instead, Tara was the one to squeal as she told me to look at the white board at the front of the room. Lazily, I turned my head as I stared at the simple word of “PROM?” with a question mark attached to it that was scrawled in large letters on the modern replacement for a chalkboard.

      The girls continued to secretly converse, as I just rolled my eyes, wondering what idiot had lightly vandalized school property with an erasable marker for their own benefit. Evidently, that “idiot” had to be my dear boyfriend. Eric suddenly arrived at the room, everyone stopping to stare and admire his attractiveness (as they often did) when he strolled over to me, a grin larger than life itself on his face. “So, what do you say?” he had said, pointing over to the board. And that was how I landed myself in the most awkward position of my life; I was the daughter of Monica Turner, so that was definitely saying something.

      “E-excuse me?” I gulped.

      “Will you, Elizabeth Turner, my wonderful girlfriend,” Eric took my hands in his, “go to prom with me?”

      “Aw!” Tara and Alice chorused, looking over to us adoringly.

      “You had better say yes!” Lauren threatened—just to add some assortment to the responses.

      “So,” he began, unable to shield his confident and bursting smile, “what’s it going to be?”

      “Can we take this out into the hall?” I questioned, not wanting an audience for what I was about to say to him.

      “Of course!” he agreed with a jovial nod.

      I sent a sharp look over to the girls, silently telling them not eavesdrop. Eric and I exited the classroom, closing the door behind us. Heading over to a vacant bench across from the room, I felt his presence behind me as I sat down, making room for him to sit next to me. His body lowered beside me on the wooden seat, regret filling me as I knew that I was about to pop his balloon of happiness and possibly jeopardize our relationship within the next five minutes.

      “Eric—” I choked out, as he gathered my hands back into his.

      “Liz, this is starting to become too dramatic. Just say yes already!” he laughed.

      “Eric,” I tried again, more determined, “I don’t know how to say this, but I can’t go with you to prom.”

      “What?” he demanded, confusion and distress saturating into his tone. “Why not? Liz, you’re the prom queen, and I’m the prom king—we have to go together. Besides, we’re dating!” When he mentioned me being the prom queen, I thought that I would puke right then and there. I still couldn’t process that I had won. I was not a prom queen.

      “I know, Eric, and I feel like crap for doing this for you, but when I make a promise, I keep it.” My throat went dry as I searched for how to express the next part of revelation to him. “Ummm…I already have a date.”

      “You already have a date?” he raged loudly, standing from the bench so I could see the agony within his eyes in addition to the fury. It was like at Christmas. The boy before me wasn’t the Eric Wilson I knew. As Shakespeare would say, this wasn’t Eric—he was “some other where.”