Xs and Os (but not on the first date),

Chamomile

Just in case a prom date falls out of the sky in the next seventeen days, I go to Willa’s Closet on Saturday. It’s been a long morning doing boring things like ordering my cap and gown so that I don’t attend graduation in knee-high combat boots and underwear. I was going to see if my dad wanted to go for a walk now that the weather is better, but he was Skyping his sister about the Brain Degeneration Walk (not a happy conversation, especially since my aunt ended up being there alone). I want to be here with him now, but I don’t really know what that looks like sometimes. Cue a little shopping break.

“You’re back,” the same girl from before says as I open the door. It jingles shut and I breathe in the smell of second-hand stuff, which has a sort of sweet rejected quality to it. “Still looking for a prom dress?”

I sigh. “Who knows.”

“Bad day?”

“Yeah, like twenty on top of each other.”

“Try some shopping therapy,” she suggests, and I look over at the mannequin in the window. She’s still wearing the lacy white dress.

“I wanted that one. I love the lace around the collar and the sleeves. But shopping isn’t going to help me.” I lean on the counter and fiddle with the essential-oil testers.

The salesgirl is looking at me as she runs her finger along the rim of her big hoop earrings. “Would you like to vomit-speak about it?”

I take a large whiff of patchouli, decide I’m not interested in smelling like a hippie’s underarm, and rest my elbows on the counter. “I might fail English ’cause I can’t write a freaking college essay and my boyfriend broke up with me and my dad is dying and I don’t think I can go with everyone to Nicaragua after graduation because, well, lots of reasons that mostly have to do with my dad dying and I just really need a sign from the universe.” My head is too heavy. I make a pillow with my hands to rest my forehead.

“Oh, girl.” She frowns, then gets off her stool. “I’m Izzy.” She extends her hand. “Who are you?”

“Cham.” My voice is muffled by the glass.

“Cool. You’re a senior?” I lift my head and nod. “Don’t worry, it gets better after high school. You don’t have to see the same people every day and be spoon-fed the same bullshit and pretend something like a dance you get a corsage for could possibly be the best night of your life. Once you stop being forced to be a zombie, you stop acting like a zombie. You fucking wake up.”

I blink at her. “But prom is the last dance of high school. It’s not not a big deal. It means we made it.”

She shakes her head. “None of those things actually mean anything. We grow up at weird, unexpected times.” I shift back and forth and she laughs. “Oh no, I hope I didn’t crush your high school dreams. Shit, I was trying to cheer you up. All I mean is don’t sweat it, any of it: prom, graduation, college. It may not seem like there’s anything more important, but trust me. There’s a whole world out there.” She points beyond the display window, with its lacy white dress and pink cowboy boots and open trunk of scarves and pocketbooks that people gave up on.