Page 32 of As You Walk On

All the framed photos on one wall imply the unlocked bedroom belongs to Chloe’s little sister.

I shut the door behind me. No one needs to know I’m here. I don’t bother with the overhead light switch. Thanks to strings of fairy lights tacked above a queen-size bed, I’m not in complete darkness. Everything’s bathed in soft, artificial yellows and pinks. A collage of Disney princes is painted on the opposite wall. Apastel green bean bag sits in a corner next to the tween-size desk with a MacBook decorated in mermaid stickers.

“Okay,Maddie,” I whisper after clocking her name engraved on a trophy. “Bedroom challenge accepted.”

My own room has a chaos-meets-GQvibe. Framed graffiti art I’ve found online. All-black furniture and bed frame. Chrome-painted standing lamps. My white desk has scribbled art from highlighters and Sharpies.

Dad helped set it up. More than once, he’s offered to bring in vintage pieces from Granny’s old room, but I always decline.

I think he’s relieved every time I do.

After two minutes assessing myself in the attached bathroom’s mirror—I don’t stink, my clothes aren’t a mess, and I gargled a precautionary capful of mouthwash—I hop onto Maddie’s bed. When I pull out my phone, several notifications await me.

Dad sent a photo as a response to my earlier check-in text. His sock-covered feet kicked up on our coffee table next to a takeout box of wings and fries, plus a two-liter bottle of cherry Coke, his favorite. On the television, slightly out of focus, is the original live-action Transformers movie. The only one we genuinely like.

There’s a message underneath.

Dad:

BIG party plans over here!

9:32 P.M.

I grin. My fingers blur over the keyboard—lol dont party too hard!Then I think a simple text isn’t enough. Pics or it didn’thappen, right? I scroll through my camera roll. There’s a randomly saved photo of a half-eaten pizza pie—pepperoni, pineapple, and jalapeño, a truly lethal combo—from a few months back when TNT crashed at Darren’s after bowling and laser tag. I send it along with another message—this pizza is sus but im killin it on this new mario!!!

His reply is instantaneous.

Dad:

NEEDS MORE PEPPERS! Looks tasty! Have fun!

10:34 P.M.

For the record: Miles Davis Wright is an emphatic fan of the exclamation point in text. But it’s the ensuing message that makes my stomach jump, then knot. It has me seeing double, thankful I turned off my read notifications.

Dad:

While youre kicking butt be sure to talk to MrScott before it gets too late! remember to smile and say THANK YOU!

10:35 P.M.

Quickly, I exit out of my messages. No reply. No thumbs-up or prayer-hands emojis. Nothing except tight shoulders and the sour taste of guilt at the back of my throat. It’s not the lying to Dad about where I am, what I’m doing that’s overwhelming. It’s that, once Dad’s found a new way to improve The Plan, it becomes his entire focus. The sooner he can X something off the list, the better.

I’ll get a recommendation letter. But why does it have to be tonight? And whyhim? There are over 150,000 Duke alumni. Isearched it. I’m not even done with junior year. Haven’t taken the SATs yet. Every portion of the college application process is sourgentonly to become another name in the pile of applicants they won’t decide on until a couple months before you graduate. A continuous cycle of anxiety over what you can do to help tip the scales in your favor when, really, no one knows the exact formula.

Yet Dad keeps trying to crack the code. I’m going to be the exception. Duke-bound, come hell or high water.

I don’t feel like thinking that far into my future tonight. I only want to concentrate on winning this dare. Going to prom with Christian.

I flop backward on the bed. Log in to YouTube. It’s time for research. Ignoring all theCraig of the Creekclips recommended to me—I’ll watch them later—I type in the search bar:

Best promposal ideas.

Over a hundred results pop up. I don’t have time to watch them all. Who knows where Christian might be by now? Instead, I set a timer on my phone for seven minutes, then click on the first video.

It’s a tutorial by a white guy. He’s asking a girl to prom using cardboard, lights, and his friend’s pickup truck. Sweet as it is, it’s out of my current capabilities being that I’m lying in a kid’s bedroom watched over by an army of stuffed mermaids.

The next one involves cheerleaders. Immediate skip. I’m saving my one BFF favor for the recommendation letter, not to have Jay ask his Theo-hating girlfriend for aid with a promposal.

---