Page 1 of Woke Up Like This
ONE
One month until prom
Prom is the single most important night of a teenager’s life, and you can’t convince me otherwise. I know what you’re thinking—it’s overhyped, the same as any other dance. And sure, there are infinite ways it can go horribly wrong:
Your date could ditch you for their more attractive ex, leaving you to brood in a dark corner while everyone else slow dances to the songyourequested.
The cleavage-enhancing silicone inserts you stuffed into your bra could fall out when you get a little too low on the dance floor. (Ask me how I know.)
A drunk band nerd could projectile vomit cherry punch all over your dress.
You could spend the entire night chasing down the disease-ridden lab rat someone set loose while everyone watches in horror.
Things can really go from zero to tragic in a millisecond. Trust, I’ve seen the originalCarriemovie. But bloodied, telekinetic, murderous prom queen aside, name a better occasion to mark the end of four tireless years of social and academic Olympics. It’s the rite of passage wedeserve. A fabulous night to trade in those tearstained SAT prep books for outrageously priced formal wear you’ll never wear again. One night to forget being unjustly denied from your dream college. Your final night to be a teen, before adulthood drop-kicks you in the privates.
As the student council vice president, executing a magical night to cherish fondly when I’m wrinkled, frail, and demanding a senior discount on my rum raisin ice cream is not something I take lightly.
That’s why I’ve spent all weekend obsessing over my PowerPoint presentation:Around the World in One Magical Night. It comes complete with an itemized budget, food vendors, and lists of highly rated DJs and decor items, including translucent globe balloons etched with gold foil that shimmer when the light hits just right.
I’m at the kitchen table agonizing over the font color when Mom shuffles in, disheveled sandy-blonde hair in a french braid from two days ago. She’s still in her pajamas, even though she has to be at work at the pharmacy in less than half an hour.
“How long have you been awake?” she asks, popping onto her toes to fetch her red FUTUREBESTSELLINGAUTHORcoffee mug from the cabinet. She hasn’t published a book yet, but I often find her hunched over her laptop late into the night, guzzling Red Bulls, typing feverishly until her eyes give out.
“I was in bed early. Got up around the same time you went to sleep,” I counter, stuffing my face with a spoonful of oatmeal when I catch the time on my computer.
“These bags under my eyes were worth it. Guess what?” I catch the excitement in her expression, and it’s not about the fact that I premade her coffee. “I finally untangled that plot bunny in the second act.”
“Wanna tell me in the car? We have to leave soon,” I remind her as she leisurely pours her coffee. Being late is inevitable with Mom, which is why I usually opt to ride my bike to school. Unfortunately, my bike is still being repaired by the Bike Doctor (a.k.a. the thirteen-year-old computer hacker down the street who also fixes bikes on the cheap).
Mom nonchalantly leans her hip against the counter and begins flicking through her phone. “We have tons of time.”
We really don’t, but I don’t bother arguing. I love Mom, but she’s my opposite in nearly every way. She resembles a blonde, blue-eyed shield-maiden straight from the set ofVikings, while I’m Asian, vertically challenged, with dark hair and eyes “the color of the abyss” (a deranged and misguided compliment from my ex-boyfriend).
Unlike me, Mom is never in a rush until the eleventh hour and is forever forgetting important things, like a bra, for instance. She’s always been this way, even before Dad left. But having single motherhood thrust upon her only worsened her tardiness. At nine years old, I taped a color-coded extracurricular schedule on the refrigerator so she’d stop forgetting to pick me up from swimming lessons. Over the years, making lists and schedules has become my version of meditation. It calms my nerves when things start to feel out of control.
Steaming mug in hand, Mom peeps at my screen over my shoulder, still in no rush. “How’s the PowerPoint coming along? You changed the background again, I see.”
“Aesthetic is important,” I explain nobly.
“You don’t think seventeen slides is overkill?”
“Hey, I started at twenty-five. This is the lean version.”Magic is in the details, after all. Admittedly, I just made that quote up, but I’m sure some wise creative said it at some time in history.
She plops into the seat across from me with a sympathetic, yet puzzled frown. “I can’t believe you skipped out on Tony Freeman’s big bash.”
“Mom, you’re the only parent in history who’s disappointed her underage daughter didn’t get wasted at the biggest party of the year.” In fact, Mom actively encourages partying, which she never did at my age. Her parents (my grandparents) were relentlessly strict. So now she tries to live vicariously through me. “Kassie said there were college kids there,” I add.
“Last I checked, you’re going to be in college in”—she pauses to consult her imaginary wristwatch—“three months.”
“Exactly. And I can’t close the book on high school until I’ve planned the perfect prom.” Prom is one of the last remaining “to-dos” on my high school bucket list. I won’t find peace until it’s crossed off.
“Right. The checklist,” she drones, sliding down in her chair, long legs extended. She thinks it’s ridiculous to pin the success of my high school career on a checklist I made when I was thirteen. Maybe it is. But there is no better feeling than striking out each milestone, one by one.
I move to the sink to rinse my bowl, hopeful she’ll get the hint and get dressed.
Instead, she stretches her arms above her head and yawns. “I just hope you’re prioritizing fun. You drove yourself into the ground with SAT prep and college applications. Don’t you want to enjoy life? Live a little instead of stressing about things you can’t control?” She says it like it’s an easy choice not to stress. Like I can just opt out on a whim.
“No,” I say over the clink of dishes and the burble of water from the faucet. “I much prefer obsessing over everything that could go horribly wrong. Besides, catching grammatical errors in PowerPoints is an underrated thrill.”
