Simone breaks all the ru.., p.23
Simone Breaks All the Rules, page 23
“I really don’t think I can fit this entire bouquet around my wrist,” I tell him.
“Can’t a brotha play the gentleman?” he jokes.
I wonder what other roles he’s playing, standing there looking like the prom king at Wakanda High School. He makes it seem like he really wants to be here and is not just going through the motions. A big part of me can’t help wishing those googly eyes he’s making right now are really meant for me.
“Not to worry—I got your button-ear, too,” he assures me.
“Um, don’t you speak French better than I do? It’s boutonnière—or really, it’s a corsage if it’s for me.”
“My bad.” Ben hangs his head in mock shame. He looks so adorable doing this, I have to restrain myself from leaning over to kiss his cheek as he places the sweet-smelling corsage on my wrist.
“I’ve got something for you, too.” I pull the Etsy baseball cuff links from my purse and hand them to him.
Ben’s face does that light-up thing that goes along with his smile. “Simone, these are amazing. Thank you so much!”
“I got them before I met you—which is kind of psychic of me, because they are totally meant for you.”
“Not psychic,” says Ben with a chuckle. “Just Haitian.”
Anne takes the flowers while I help Ben put the cuff links on. Then we pose for a gazillion pictures alone, together, and with different relatives.
“You guys make such a cute couple!” claims Gabby.
Ben and I eye each other with bashful smiles.
“Don’t they?” Tante Nadine coos.
They don’t know that Ben is only keeping up his part of the bargain. He’s expected to be here and play the role of the arranged prom date. It’s his final act in this charade we’re pulling off on my parents. Yet somehow, I don’t feel like I’m the one having the last laugh.
“You look beautiful, just like I imagined,” Mummy says before wrapping an arm around my waist for another photo.
“Merci.” I angle my head toward hers until her forehead makes contact with my chin. It’s a closeness we haven’t experienced in a while, which makes me realize how much I’ve missed her. “And thanks for this party, Mummy. I love it.”
“Anything for you, Simone,” she says. Her index finger affectionately boops the tip of my nose. “Even things you don’t approve of.”
The first notes of the next song drop, and it completely throws us off our train of thought. We wild out and throw our hands in the air. It’s a popular old-school konpa hit that’s an ode to our island nation. The lyrics paint a vivid soundscape, until you’re visualizing Haiti’s mountainous peaks, vibrant culture, and survival spirit. Everyone pairs up or dances in groups in front of Grandmère’s perch on her favorite recliner in the living room. It’s good to see her fully recovered from her surgery. I’ve got to think maybe a little of her holy water had something to do with that.
As we two-step to the song, I pick up the same bliss in the singer’s voice in this room.
The love and support around me keep my heart and my flat feet light. It reminds me that while being sheltered has been somewhat stifling to my independence, no one here is out to stifle my joy.
* * *
The St. Clare Academy senior prom takes place every year at The Mayfair, a sprawling venue in Millwall Cliffs. The place looks like a country estate you see in Hollywood, gated and glamorous. The fountain right outside the entrance spouts in elegant formation, and once we walk into the marble interior, the sound of running water fades into the familiar bass thud of our favorite jams.
There’s still a dull pang in my belly that reminds me I am here with Ben but not here with Ben. Like tearing off a Band-Aid, he and I part the moment we enter The Mayfair. He’s off to the restroom and I’m off in search of my friends.
In the main ballroom, the fierce prom looks are front, center, and wall to wall.
“You look amazing!” I squeal between selfies with different classmates.
“What about you, queen?” Kenzie points at me. We promise to save each other a dance later.
As I cross the ballroom, I make my prediction on who deserves the prom queen and king fashion title. In this case, they are prom queen and queen Alexa and Stacie, who match fabulously in an all-checkerboard pattern and are wearing roses like they’re from some avant-garde production of Alice in Wonderland. I have no choice but to stan. I give them air kisses and pose with them for yet another dope selfie.
Finally, I find my HomeGirls at our very own prom table. When Amita stands up to greet me, that one-shouldered black gown she bought online is in full view, and she’s stunning. And just as I suspected, Kira looks dazzling in the emerald-green high-necked dress we bought together in Jersey City.
The three of us hug, toss flattery bombs at one another, and take the requisite selfie or two hundred. When we’re done, Amita and Kira pull me aside. Kira mimes like she’s putting something in each of our hands.
“These are your coffee cups,” she explains. “Just go with it.”
“O-kay.” I giggle, wondering what this is about.
Amita holds up her empty hand. “We’d like to make a toast on this momentous occasion of our promancipation! The HomeGirls found each other and came together in a time of desperation, not knowing exactly what to expect. But in the end, we found something we didn’t know we needed the most—friendship. And let me tell you, girlies, there has been no better company to my misery.”
“Cheers to that,” Kira says, a hand to her heart. I raise my invisible glass higher in the air.
“Oh, and cheers to the HomeGirls for crushing our research papers and collecting all the A’s we deserve,” I say, holding a pinch of my skirt and fanning it out with a bow.
We celebrate this news by bringing our hands together and saying, “Ting!”
“Um,” I say a moment later, glancing around. “Ben should be here any minute, Kira. He just went to the bathroom.” I pause and ask, “Where are Krish and Pritpal?”
Amita and Kira exchange a glance.
“What?” I ask, feeling suddenly worried.
“Simone, we have a surprise for you,” says Kira.
“Uh-oh.” I give them the side-eye.
Kira grins and faces me, placing her hands on my arm where my butterfly tattoo used to be. “After being the beneficiary of all your tireless prom date rigging, we decided to repay you by personally arranging your prom date for the night.”
“But I apologized to you guys for all that. Didn’t I?” I ask, searching both their faces. “Ugh, I should’ve known there’d be more to pay.”
“Quit your whining, close your eyes, and turn around,” Amita says.
I close my eyes. I assume it’ll just be Krish standing there waiting for me, but what if I’m about to get clowned in prime time? “Oh no. There’s going to be the Millwall High mascot in a tux, I just know it.”
Kira spins me around. I open my eyes and standing there before me is …
“Ben?”
A shy, cautious smile comes across his face. Is he wondering, as I had earlier, if my feelings were just for show? Is he wondering, as I am now, how amazing it would be to be together, for real, for real?
I tear my attention away from him and turn to Kira. “But what about you?”
“I’m never solo with my HomeGirls around me,” she says. “But Krish and I hit it off, and I’m starting to really like him. It’s been super sweet hanging with him. So he’s my date tonight.”
“Ohmygod, Kira, that’s great!” I give her a quick hug.
“How did you guys even know how I feel about Ben?” I ask, looking from her to Amita. “I wasn’t going to mention it until after the prom.”
“We had our suspicions,” Kira answers. “But we weren’t sure until we DMed Ben and had an emergency video chat with him.”
“Once he confirmed everything, we were pretty sure you wouldn’t mind if we arranged one last prom date,” Amita says with a wink.
I just stand there and beam because I’m looking too cute to bust out the slipper dance. Pritpal and Krish come over and greet me with hugs, and it’s a Kool and the Gang celebration all over again.
Amita whispers to me, “Ben’s still waiting.”
I turn to face him again, but this time, I can’t stop smiling.
“What do you say?” Ben asks with a glint in his eyes. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a super-cute set of dangling earrings in the shape of baseball bats. “Simone Thibodeaux, will you be my prom date?”
I’m breathless, my heart is thumping, and it’s the best feeling. “I accept!”
In the blink of an eye, I cross the distance between us, and Ben wraps his arms around my waist. And right there, in front of a much smaller audience than the one at Citi Field, we kiss. But it’s not unsure and tentative like our first kiss. This time, our kiss is deep and sweet. Our lips meet each other, slow and deliberate, locking us in this moment in time, here on the dance floor, surrounded by our friends.
“What is it with us and PDAs?” I ask when we finally pull apart.
“I don’t know,” whispers Ben, his fingers brushing my cheek. “But if we keep up this kiss cam challenge, maybe we’ll finally get on a stadium jumbotron somewhere.”
“As long as it’s where the Mets are playing,” I say.
A smile opens up his whole face, and I smile back at him. I can’t wait to kiss him again.
“I really like you, Simone. I think I’ve liked you for a while now,” Ben says, his eyes studying every inch of my face. Heat rises to my cheeks. I try to keep a steady balance on my heels, hoping there’s no missing plexiglass behind me this time.
I guess there are no secrets with Ben. So I decide to give truth a try.
“I really like you, too,” I say, looking right back at his handsome face. “I think I have for some time—but, definitely not before you liked me.”
Ben smiles. He pulls me close and we kiss again, until there’s another commotion.
The DJ starts playing “You & Me @ Prom” and our whole crew floods the dance floor.
Ben and I join them and I watch him do the two-step while I throw my hands in the air; Amita and Pritpal spin each other around and shout out every word to the song; Kira can’t stop cracking up at all the goofy moves Krish shamelessly tries out.
After the song is over, I tug the HomeGirls by their wrists and lead them to the center of the dance floor, where we can hold a mini dance party to celebrate our Playlist wins, highs, and lows. In true Jersey fashion, the DJ blasts a song from the Bon Jovi canon and my HomeGirls and I sing along. “Take my hand, we’ll make it I swear!”
As the night goes on, our dream dates take breaks to sit down and have some water, but the HomeGirls stay on the dance floor. We stick to the business of partying our hearts out, like it’s the top goal on our Playlist. This is our moment, for now. And we make the most of it.
After all, we still have to be home by midnight.
I’m the third born of four girls, but my mom once lamented I was her first teen-acting teen. Yes, there were restrictive rules (on her part) and lies of convenience (on mine), but thank goodness there was also lots of love, laughter, and journal venting writing.
Writing, for me, has always involved capturing what’s in the ether and sculpting it into letters. The influences I’ve turned to for this book are many. I only hope my characters give off even a whiff of their dauntless spirit and dynamic energy.
To my family, friends, and community: Thank you for living so fully. Your essence leaves imprints everywhere, which I can see, interpret, and weave into stories so that young minds can perceive the message to live life wholeheartedly and express the self in its fullness.
To my dad, the New Jerker (translation: what I call a New Yorker living in New Jersey). He says his umbilical cord is buried in Brooklyn. But New Jersey is where he rests his brainy head. Thank you, Papi, for selling an organ for me that one time. Relax, y’all—he’s an organist.
To my whip-smart agent Laura Dail, who protects my space to create, nudges me when needed, and knows my worth and works dang hard to make sure everyone knows it, too. I am so pumped to be on this journey with you!
Thank you, Team LDLA, especially Samantha S. Fabien and the interns who pored over early drafts of this book.
Aimee Friedman, we get to do this again? Hashtag blessed. You are a discerning editor who sifts through the organic for gold until what was once dull and grainy shines. Thank you.
To the talented Yaffa Jaskoll: Thank you for designing this stunning cover. And to the gifted artist Erick Dàvila: Thank you for rendering Simone so vividly and soulfully! P.S. I am still not over this cover!
Scholastic is such a perfect fit for my voice, and I’ve been blown away by their kind welcome. All-around hugs and utmost thanks to the Scholastic village, including David Levithan, Taylan Salvati, Rachel Feld, Erin Berger, Olivia Valcarce, Caroline Flanagan, Janell Harris, Lizette Serrano, Danielle Yadao, Michael Strouse, Irma Jarvis, Julia Eisler, Emily Heddleson, the @IReadYA crew, the Book Fairs and Book Clubs teams, the Sales team, the Power of Story video series team, and so many more.
Mesi anpil to Professor Cécile Accilien for your feedback on the Creole in this book. You are a gem, and I am so grateful for your work.
Extending so much gratitude and thanks to librarians and booksellers, especially at Columbus Library branches, Westerville Library, Cover to Cover Bookstore, and Watchung Booksellers.
Thank you to Brown Bookshelf, Vanesse Lloyd-Sgambati, My Very Own Library team, and SCBWI-Central Ohio. A heartfelt merci/mesi to bloggers and bookstagrammers and reporters. Loving thanks to my Rutgers University (Newark campus!) journalism professor, George Davis. Thank you, Kimberly Jones, for the coolest book launch parties.
A special thanks to the generous authors who have invited me to panels and book fests, provided encouragement, support, advice or, most recently, blurbs. Thank you to Edwidge Danticat, Ronke Idowu Reeves, Sylvia May, Julia DeVillers, Sarah Mylnowski, Ronni Davis, Jennifer Baker, Stephan Lee, Christina Soontornvat, Justin A. Reynolds, Alicia D. Williams, Gayle Forman, Maika Moulite, Maritza Moulite, Ben Philippe, Tami Charles, Jasmine Guillory, Nic Stone, Zoraida Cordova, Carlotta Penn, Debbie Michiko Florence, and Varian Johnson.
To the Essex County, New Jersey streets—including the cities of East Orange and Newark. And to the “bugged-out” girls I caught the bus with during high school—Courtney, Celeste, Kofi, Jackie, Kisha, Yolanda, Kasanu, Wilita, and all. Thanks for the laughs, the companionship, and the bus stop dance breaks to keep warm. And much love to my true HomeGirls Myrna Perez, Desiree Jones, Tamra Wilson, and Yvy Joseph.
Extra, extra special thank yous to my family: to my beautiful sisters who helped to shape who I am and to my brothers-in-law who introduced me to Shea Stadium and took me on my first visit to Haiti. Shoutout to my sister Golda, my North Star/Zero-Got-No-Higher, to my cherished cousins who faced the world alongside me, to all my nieces and nephews who amaze me every day, to my aunties who lift me up and cover me in prayer, and to my wonderful in-laws who have given me not only my husband but also two additional amazing sisters.
And finally, to my love, Bernard. Thank you for clearing a path to this life. I am eternally grateful for you. A brotha who thinks fast and turns on an episode of The Office during intense labor is definitely the man for me. To my heaven-sent kiddos, Olivia and Lincoln … getting to know you two has been my greatest joy. Y’all crack me up! I love you both. And, oh, hey Rosie!
Debbie Rigaud is the author of Truly Madly Royally and the coauthor of Alyssa Milano’s New York Times bestselling Hope series. Debbie grew up in East Orange, New Jersey, and started her career writing for entertainment and teen magazines. She now lives with her husband and children in Columbus, Ohio. Find out more at debbierigaud.com.
Also by Debbie Rigaud
Truly Madly Royally
Turn the page for a sneak peek at Debbie Rigaud’s charming novel Truly Madly Royally!
FOR CENTURIES, the famed halls of Halstead University have echoed with expansive dialogue, provocative debate, and poignant questions. Or something like that.
But not at this moment.
“Yes,” I repeat to the incredulous faces around me. “I really do commute in every day.”
There’s an audible gasp among my fellow students.
“So, y-you’re a local?” says the obvious It girl of the group. People lean in when she speaks and agree with her before she’s even made her point. She probably owns the yacht they all look like they’ve just stepped off of.
“Well, local as in fifty minutes by train and light-rail,” I joke.
“Is it safe?” the girl sitting catty-corner to me asks, extra earnestly. I look away before she feels compelled to give me a sympathy hug. On an unrelated note, she’s the same person who used the term “third world” earlier.
Deep sigh. Why did I come to class fifteen minutes early today? If this were one of the common lecture halls, I’d be fine. But in a room that can barely fit the oval conference table we’re all seated around, it’s tough to zone out these Yacht Club kids.
“You don’t drive?” It Girl will not let this go.
“I won’t be seventeen until September,” I say. “Until then, I’m saving up for a car.”
“Why don’t you just … ask your parents for one?” a wide-eyed boy asks.
Blocked.
My answer is to busy myself with my phone. There’s too much awkwardness not to live-text this situation to my best friend, Skye Joseph. Since my summer program started a few days ago, I’ve been sending daily text-isodes of my “Overheard at Halstead U” series for Skye to binge-read.
Ready for this? I type, and then quickly summarize the conversation I’ve just had.
Ugh. Sorry, Skye responds right away. But that’s what u get for taking the bait.
I chuckle to myself. It’s true. This all started when some student asked another what the driving age is in New Jersey. (Everyone else at this program seems to be from out of state or even overseas.) I never miss a chance to rep my home state, so I jumped into the conversation with the answer. Serves me right.
