Page 92 of Nineteen Letters
Dearest Jemma,
The tenth of November 2006. It was a Friday, and two weeks before my high-school formal. The following year I would head off to university. You still had one more year of high school left, and as excited as I was to embark on this new journey in my life, there was one major hurdle standing in my way: I was going to be an hour-and-a-half drive from you. That thought made me sick to the stomach.
“I’ve got a fitting tomorrow morning for my tux, do you want to come with me?” I asked as we drove home from school in your red rocket. That’s what you had affectionately named your car.
“Hell, yes. I need to come to make sure you actually get one.”
You were the one who talked me into going in the first place. You said one day I’d regret it if I didn’t, but I doubted that.
Our school had a stupid rule that if you wanted to take a date, it could only be someone from your year, which meant I couldn’t take you.
The next morning after breakfast we headed into town.
“Do I really have to go through with this?”
“Yes, you do.” I heard the tailor snicker when you said that.
“It seems like I’m going to an awful lot of trouble to just stand around and have a miserable time.”
“You will not stand around, mister,” you said, poking my side. “You’re going to dance and have a wonderful time.”
“I’m not dancing.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’ll look pretty silly dancing on my own.”
“You’re not going on your own, you can dance with your date.” This was news to me. “It’s your school formal. One you’ll look back on in years to come with fond memories.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll look back and curse you for making me go,” I replied
When the fitting was finished, I paid my deposit and was told I could pick the tux up on the Wednesday before the formal.
I was thankful that you didn’t mention it for the rest of the weekend, but the following Tuesday, you sought me out at lunchtime. “I compiled this list for you,” you said, handing it to me.
I looked down and saw a list of names. All girls from my year. I didn’t even need to ask, I already had a fair idea of what this was about.
“I asked around and none of these girls has a date for the formal.”
“I told you I don’t want to go with anyone.”
I shoved the list back into your hands, but you promptly thrust it straight back into mine. “You have to take a date. You’re going to look silly turning up on your own. All your mates have dates.”
“I don’t care if I look silly.”
“Come on, Braxton, humour me here, will you?”
I blew out an exasperated breath before scrunching the list up and shoving it into my pocket. “I’ll think about it,” I grumbled.
For the next two days you pestered me to the point where I ended up asking Samantha Murphy. It turned out to be a huge mistake. Not only did she squeal when I asked her, but she followed me around like a lost puppy for the next week and a half. She sat next to me in class and became my permanent shadow at recess and lunch. She somehow even got hold of my phone number. All I will say is, thank god for caller ID.
The day of the formal, my father closed the shop early—which was a rarity—so he could be home in time to see me before I left. He was also lending me his car for the night. I couldn’t expect Samantha to catch a bus with me to the formal, and it’s not like my father had the money for me to hire a fancy car like some of my mates had.
When I was ready I stood in front of the mirror and was surprised by how good I looked in my tux. Dressing up like this was something I didn’t do often. My mum’s funeral and your thirteenth birthday were the only other times I’d worn a suit.
“You look great, son,” my father said when I headed downstairs. “My boy is now a man. Where has all thistime gone? It feels like only yesterday I was bouncing you on my knee.” I was taken aback when he pulled me into a crushing hug. “I’m so proud of you, and if your mother was here, she would be too.”
“Thanks, Pop,” was all the reply I could manage.
