Simone breaks all the ru.., p.5
Simone Breaks All the Rules, page 5
“Lou-ise from Queens.” Mummy is gaping at me, frustrated that my mind is detouring into chupee analysis.
Still nothing.
“Honoré’s wife! Her son was Anne’s prom date.”
“You mean Madame Honoré?” Why in the patriarchy does she go by her husband’s name?
“Oui.”
My nose tingles with emotion. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no!
I mentally scroll through my memories of the trip to Queens four years ago, when I was thirteen. The arranged prom discussion. Anne’s blank gaze. Her zoned-out date. The creepy Victorian figurines. My vow to myself. And—gasp—the younger brother in the baseball uniform!
Red. Frickin’. Alert.
I take a breath. I’d almost forgotten about that day. I knew that Anne’s prom was arranged, but I thought that tradition had fallen out of fashion for my mother. I’d even imagined she’d regretted doing that.
Okay, play it smart, Simone, and calmly get ahead of this, NOW.
“Mummy—”
“Her younger son is seventeen and graduating this year, too, so he will be perfect as your date.”
“Just because we’re the same age?” I’m heating up; my skin is dampening. My tortoiseshell glasses start their slow descent down my sweaty nose.
Mummy nods and gently pats her chest. “And because he’s from a good Haitian family that I respect and trust.”
“I can’t believe this!” I say.
So much for keeping cool.
“Simone, don’t play with me,” she says.
“Mummy, don’t ruin prom for me,” I snap back, wondering what will become of my prom daydream—Gavin and me making an elegant entrance, arm in arm.
“You think I could ever fix my lips to say that to my mother when I was your age? I had to trust that she knew what was best for me.”
I give her a look. “Did you even have a prom in Haiti?”
“That’s not the point.” She dismisses me, waving her hand at the pesky logic mosquito buzzing its way into our conversation. “Trust me when I tell you it’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be.”
“Uh, this is exactly my idea of bad.”
“Anne took the older son to the prom and she had a perfectly fine time,” Mummy continues.
I roll my eyes. “Well, I’m not Anne.”
Mummy crosses her arms as if to seal off the entrance to any more rebuttals. Argument closed. The creases in her forehead deepen. That telltale Haitian pout to her lips is back. Another chupee is a few heartbeats away.
But this is not over. I find a calmer tone. “I don’t understand why—”
Honk!
“Your ride is leaving,” Mummy says dismissively before turning on her heels and heading out the door.
Anne and I ride in tense silence. She’s pissed I made her wait, and I’m pissed she hasn’t pulled her weight. If only she took a stand once in a while, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. But instead of blazing trails, she’s been all, “Yes, I’ll go to an all-girls high school,” “Yes, I’ll go to prom with the date of your choosing,” and “Yes, I’ll stay home for college.”
Anne swings out a protective arm to safeguard me when she stops short at a yellow light. I’m wearing my seat belt, but her reflex says Just in case.
“Sorry,” Anne breathes. “Didn’t want to chance the yellow light—not at this corner.”
Suddenly I feel like an unmasked villain on Scooby-Doo, except I’m the guilt-ridden kid sister inside the ghost costume. “No, I’m sorry,” I say in all sincerity.
Anne shrugs, turning the steering wheel with more ease than you’d expect for someone driving with her coat on. The girl is always cold. I’m grateful she hasn’t cranked up the heat today, no doubt remembering the nosebleed this habit gave me the last time I was in here.
“It’s all good,” she’s calmly telling me. “I make it a policy not to hold an after-lecture funk against you—especially one from Mummy. What was it about this time?”
I suck my teeth. “Your mother is lining up an arranged prom trip to Queens for me.”
Anne’s sleek strands swing like a co-wash commercial when she whips around to glance at me.
“No way. I thought she got all that out her system,” she says.
I make a popping sound with my mouth. “No such luck.”
“I’m sorry this is happening to you. You’re way cooler than I was in high school, so I can’t understand why Mummy can’t tell that you can get your own date to the prom.”
“It’s not that.” I swallow down my hurt feelings. “It’s that she doesn’t trust my judgment like she does yours.”
“Well, her judgment is way off a lot of times. I told you how charming my prom date turned out to be, right? He was on his phone the entire time and barely talked to me all night, except when they named me prom queen.”
An amused laugh knocks my head back. “I still can’t believe you were prom queen. That’s kinda dope.”
Anne sits up and nods delightedly at the lived facts. The guy waiting for the light in the neighboring car beams, assuming that gesture was meant for him. None the wiser, Anne leaves him behind at the green light.
“That was back when faculty used to be able to vote for prom queen,” I say. “They stopped that nonsense.”
“What can I say? Adults just love me.”
“Including Mummy.”
“I know it doesn’t help you, but once you get to college, she doesn’t ride you nearly as much anymore. Look how much she loves Max.”
“Yeah, but what if you and I do college differently?” I say. “You’ve been with Max since your freshman year. And you forget—Mummy had me tag along on your first date with him.”
Anne’s face pinches. “Ugh, I forgot about that.”
“Mmm-hmm, I think you’re on the brink of moving out the house, so all your Thibodeaux family memories are looking rosy.”
“Could be. But prepare yourself for that trip to Queens anyway, because there’s no use resisting Constance.”
* * *
Come next Saturday morning, rain, shine, or meteor shower, we will be heading to Madame Honoré’s house.
But for now, a tiny victory. I can make that house party without any complications. This miracle was made possible by the unseasonably warm weather we’re having. Over the course of an afternoon, all of North Jersey has ditched our coats and sweaters for long-sleeve tops. So Millwall Prep’s basketball team decided to turn their house party into a backyard barbecue with a mercifully early start time. That means I can hang out for about two whole hours before heading home.
After school, Amita, Kira, and I change in the pink bathroom. As much as I don’t want to kill the happy buzz, I can’t stop thinking about Mummy’s threat of an arranged prom date. Not even my excitement over potentially seeing Gavin at the party is enough to get my mind off it.
I’m over by the glazed window’s ledge, carefully folding my uniform into my bag, Amita’s at one mirror refreshing her already-perfect eyeliner, and Kira is at another mirror trying on different headbands. Amita and I pause to witness Kira’s polka-dot selection.
The tiled walls amplify Amita’s voice. “Kira is switching up her style, and I love to see it.”
I nod. “Yes, Kira!”
Kira smiles at her reflection. “Aw, thanks. I figure this is more fun, like my jumpsuit.”
“I need some polka-dot fun in my life today,” I lament.
Kira winces. Amita reads my face in the mirror. “Uh-oh, what happened,” she states instead of asks.
“No big deal—my parents are just forcing me to take their friend’s son to my prom, that’s all.” I look down at my sneakers.
Kira lets a shout get past her inner censors. “Yay!” she squeals.
“Is that a good thing?” Amita asks, turning from the mirror.
“I’m sorry,” Kira says, giggling. “It’s just that sometimes misery loves company. I’m kinda in the same predicament. Except my parents expect me to go solo. They try to frame it in some woke message about not needing a date to have fun, but I know it’s because they think I’m too naive to handle a date.”
“The condescension,” says Amita. She makes a gagging motion.
“Right?” Kira cops a Jersey girl attitude, and I can’t help but giggle.
“Do you want to go with a date?” I ask her.
She nods. “I do. I’m not crushing on anyone in particular, but I’m not picky. As long as the guy is a nice person.”
“There, the universe heard you loud and clear,” I say.
“If only my parents could hear me,” Kira sighs. “I don’t know how much you guys remember, but my dad went on a media tirade over a hurricane being named after me.”
I nod sympathetically.
Confused and clearly unaware of Kira’s hurricane-gate history, Amita asks, “There was a Hurricane Kira?”
“No, Kira’s my middle name, which I decided I’d go by since then, because Priscilla would blow my cover.”
Amita looks on the verge of asking, Sa blan an di? so I blurt out the first thing that pops to mind.
“Pun intended,” I point out. The girls stare at me blankly. “Blow my cover? As in hurricane-force winds—ah, never mind.”
Kira chuckles, and then lets the joke lighten up her mood. “The real funny part is,” she says, “my dad can’t stand my mom’s mom, Kira, who I was middle-named after, and I won’t let him call me Priscilla. Kira fits who I am way more than Priscilla anyway.”
I nod in understanding. “Well, at least we can count on Amita to do prom the way it was intended.”
“Um, no,” Amita confesses. “Having a cousin as your prom date is not exactly the night of my dreams.”
Oh man, I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
“My parents don’t even know Pritpal exists, and they act like they’re doing me a favor by insisting I take my cousin Krish,” she explains.
“That’s it—doing prom our way is officially added to the Playlist,” I announce, walking to the windowsill to grab my wallet from my bag. I unfold and smooth out the Playlist.
“Here, you should keep the special pen with that,” says Kira, handing me the grape unicorn pen.
“Thanks!” I say, positioning the list on the cool stone of the windowsill. I add Resist arranged proms with intense satisfaction. Next, I pass around the list for the HomeGirls’ inspection and they nod with approval.
“We have less than two months to make this right,” says Amita. “We got this.”
“Yes, we got this,” echoes Kira.
Crickets from me.
“Seriously,” I say to my HomeGirls as I stow away the list in my wallet. “Any ideas for how I can get this Queens meeting canceled? Asking for a desperate friend who wants to take her Millwall Prep crush to the prom.”
Kira’s bottom lip puffs out with intrigue at the mention of a crush.
“Hold up,” Amita says. “Before we get to the whole Queens business, I want to know who this crush is.” She mimes sipping tea.
“Right?” adds Kira, laughing.
I smirk. “His name is Gavin, and he’s this gorgeous new transfer at Millwall Prep. We’ve only spoken once—on the bus. But he’s on their basketball team, so he’ll be at the party.”
Amita nods approvingly. “Nice. Sounds like a cute potential prom date. But as far as this Queens trip …”
“Don’t go,” mic-drops Kira.
Amita and I look at Kira like she has two heads. Kira is obviously not as well-versed in the nuances Amita and I have had to learn and navigate.
“What?” Kira asks. “What did I say?”
“You don’t just not go to something that’s been preplanned and set up between two families,” Amita explains.
“Why not? It has nothing do to with the adults and everything to do with Simone,” says Kira.
“It has everything to do with the adults and nothing to do with Simone,” says Amita. “That’s the whole problem.”
I rummage through my bag. “It’s so much about my mom—she stars in a one-woman show called Afflictions I Suffer Because of Simone.”
“Oh, my dad’s in the same show,” Amita says. “Migraine. Sinus headache.”
I list some of Mummy’s greatest hits. “High blood pressure, heart palpitations, vertigo … plus, she can out cry you any day.”
“I think the best thing to do is to just go to Queens,” says Amita. “Go with the flow, and when you get a chance, speak to this guy in private. Tell him you have other prom plans.”
“Maybe,” I say. I decide to stop worrying for now, and I pull out a few choice accessories I brought from my collection at home. “Okay, ladies.” I hold up a pair of large hoop earrings, a printed headscarf, and a pair of interconnected metal bracelets. “It’s just a laid-back barbecue, so we’re going for casual cool, but with a bounce. Any takers?”
Amita goes for the earrings and Kira takes the bracelets. I tie on the headscarf, rocking a 1940s vintage look that goes great with my red lip shade and my denim jacket.
“Looking good,” Kira says to our reflections before we exit the school and make our way to Amita’s fancy car. I call shotgun-slash-co-navigator, and we all hop in.
Amita’s ride is a Honda, like Papi’s car, but a way newer model. I downplay my surprise. St. Clare is not known for its bus-riding students from urban centers, like Gabby and me. Well-off kids like Amita and Kira are the norm. My family wasn’t awarded financial aid, but we are on a payment plan, paying tuition in smaller quarterly installments. I see how much my parents scrounge and save to keep me at the Academy while also paying Anne’s undergrad fees. It’s obvious when they fall behind on my tuition, because the reminder letters start rolling in. Once, I was denied my grades at the end of the term. Them St. Clare nuns don’t play.
Getting accepted into NETWORK two summers ago has helped. It’s an enrichment summer program that feels more like a paid internship, and because of it I’ve been able to save pocket money for irresistible accessories. But most important, I’ve saved money to pay Auntie Victoria, the Ghanaian seamstress I’ve always wanted to hire to make my prom dress. She used to live in my neighborhood, and I miss all the creations she’d model up and down the block each time she walked to the corner store. I’ve kept in touch with her, and found out how much she’d charge to custom-make my prom dress. The only thing left to do is for me to visit her workroom to pick out my favorite printed material, called cloth or African wax print, for the dress.
The burst of Amita’s bubbly voice startles me back to the moment. “We are not just on our way to an actual house party thrown by actual BOYS,” she’s saying. “We’re on our way through our Playlist!”
She’s right. My hands in the air, I snap over and over. “HomeGirls, we are manifesting!”
“More women should team up like this—it’s powerful,” says Kira, a tinge of awe in her voice. “We even changed the weather pattern!”
We holler and high-five. Amita turns up the music and we keep the vibe going until we pull up to the house party. It looks like we’re not the first to arrive. The upscale suburban street is lined with parked cars, and a whiff of smoldering charcoal permeates the spring air. That’s when I decide the party will be worth the lecture I’ll get if I decide to stay longer than expected—especially if I stay later because of Gavin.
We enter the house and follow the sound of thumping music and clinking glasses down a long hall. When we reach the gleaming gourmet kitchen at the end of the hallway, the scene is totally not what we pictured. There’s a tall blond boy balancing jars of condiments in his arms.
“Welcome, ladies!” he greets before zipping past us to the sliding glass doors leading to the smoking grills.
Kira, Amita, and I head through those sliding doors and check out the scene on the wraparound deck. There’s a lively game of cards in play at a table, and a set of stairs leads down to partygoers hanging in the backyard.
I wonder if Gabby is here yet. Since my cousin is on our school’s basketball team, she hitched a ride with her teammates. This being her first year playing, it’s her chance to not only get to know the St. Clare players but the Millwall Prep ones, too. Gabby crushes everything she sets her mind to—sports, hair styling, people’s feelings. It’s amazing to see her in action, even when it’s not.
After the HomeGirls and I grab burgers, waters, and sodas, I lead the way down the stairs.
“Damn, girl!” It’s Gabby. I don’t know where she just popped up from. My cousin reaches out and unbuttons my top button. “Gavin Stackhouse is looking right over here.”
I glance over for confirmation. Gavin is swirling the soda in his plastic red cup and watching me like my face is ESPN and I’m airing game highlights. I hope he can’t tell I’m squealing inside. I try to channel Anne’s calm vibe, but for some reason, I can’t get this goofy smirk off my face.
“You need to get his number before somebody else does. Now’s your chance.” Gabby moves behind me. I can feel her knuckle poke the small of my back, nudging me in Gavin’s direction. Amita and Kira couldn’t look more entertained at my current situation.
Is that him? Amita mouths, and Kira widens her eyes waiting for my answer. I give both Amita and Kira the slightest head nod as confirmation. They back away like they’re expecting Gavin to join me.
Gavin is standing with the blond boy from the kitchen. I’m guessing this must be his house because he’s playing host like he’s being graded on it. The blond boy moves on, distracted by another guest to his right.
“You gonna stand there and stare, or meet me halfway?” Gavin calls out as he casually strolls toward me. He is empty-handed now. Behind him, his plastic cup teeters on the edge of an Adirondack chair’s armrest.
“Looks like you’re covering ground just fine—you don’t need my help,” I reply. Thank goodness I’ve inherited some of that quick wit Haitians are known for.
There’s a glint in Gavin’s dark, dreamy eyes that can only be interpreted as amusement.
