Sisters prom

 

 

Who knows where the apostrophe has to be?

 

 

Note to readers. This is a work of adult fiction. No resemblance to reality should be inferred or expected.

 

 

The last day at school. Kids don't listen to what teachers say while they are dreaming about the upcoming summer break. Those wonderful things they will do. Or those wonderful places they will visit.

Except for me. My rents separated three years ago and my father got custody of me and moved away from our home. To another city in another state. From York in Maine to Burlington in Vermont. Mom and my older sis Nadia lived in our old family home at the shore of the ocean.

I wasn't allowed to visit mom and sis. Instead, I was sent to a kind of boot camp every summer. To man up. My father's words. To grow up and become tough. Not a wuss like I really was.

I hated those camps. I hated summers. I didn't know my father's plans, but I expected to be sent to another boot camp for the whole of the coming summer.

As I have mentioned already – it was the last day at school. Two periods before farewell, I was called into the school office.

“This is young Mr. Gromov,” the vice-principal said as I entered the office. I saw that there was a uniformed officer waiting with him.

“I'll take him from here,” the police officer said, standing up.

“What…” No one had spoken to me and I did not know what was going on or why I had been summoned.

He didn't let me finish the question, “Sgt. Gromov was shot dead this morning. As you have no other close family, I'll take you to the CPS office.”

“Wait!” I interrupted the officer hastily. “I have a mom. And sis.”

“Sgt. Gromov had indicated himself as your only living relative in the United States,” the officer said.

“No… I have a mom. You may call her. I remember the number…”

Then I thought, what if they had removed their fixed-line phone? Who uses fixed lines anymore? I didn't know mom's mobile. Only Nadia's, but it's a prepaid phone, so it could be different now.

They called and mom didn't answer, but there was an answering machine with my voice recorded, saying, unfortunately, nobody's at home, etc. Mom had to be at home. She's working from home. She got on the line when the vice-principal started to recite the reason they were calling.

 

 

I spent the night in the precinct where my father formerly worked. I wasn't allowed to go home because my father was killed at home. The whole apartment was the crime scene. And I wasn't allowed to leave the precinct due to some legal requirements I didn't know.

I was given a room to sleep. Wrong word. Place. Four chairs side-by-side. I was up at five in the morning. No shower. No teeth brushing. I tried chewing the soap, but it wasn't the smartest idea.

I hadn't gotten much sleep. The lack of a bed was only part of the problem. No one had really spoken to me when they brought me in. My father's boss talked to me to tell me he was sorry that my father was dead. The night shift was leaving, and the day shift was coming. Someone had been nice enough to stop by a fast food joint to buy a breakfast for me. While I ate the barely warm pancakes and sausages, I could hear officers walking around, talking to each other in loud voices, typing away on computer keyboards.

Over the whole police station uproar, there was a scream like a siren, “Saaashaaa!…”

Sasha is my name, short for Alexander, and the source of the scream was my sis Nadia. When she came rushing into the room and hugged me, the only thing I noticed was how much she had changed in those three years I hadn't see her.

Only one year older than me, she looked mature now. She looked like a second mom. And she sounded adult. I hadn't changed at all in that time. At sixteen, I still was five-three and sounded like a kid.

“Put him down,” the police officer who was keeping an eye on me ordered, and Nadia let me go. At that same moment, mom hugged me and didn't let me go until she had to sign some documents for my release.

 

 

We stayed at home for two days before we had to go again back to Burlington for my father's funeral. I didn't like my father. Every so often, I could admit I hated him. Because of what he did to our family and me. And now he was dead. It wasn't my guilt. But I felt guilty. Not because of his death, but because I didn't like him. Mom said she felt the same. Nadia too.

Those two days at home were like staying at a nuthouse. I had literally nothing to wear. Because I had only things I had at school. All three of us had to get ready for the funeral. So we got pantsuits. I got some underwear from Walmart and some essentials. Mom couldn't go with me to the mall because the mall was in Portland or Boston. Both places are some sixty miles away. And mom had some great work to finish. She said she was almost hitting the deadline. So I got something from Nadia. But she was much bigger than me. The only consolation, she's an athletic tomboy, so she had nothing too girly.

Mom considered going to Burlington by plane. But then she found out we'd need to get to Portland or Boston and take a flight from there. And it would take us five to six hours. Riding in her car with one bathroom stop took us less than four hours.

Father had died on duty and his funeral was special. In all the speeches by the mayor and police dignitaries, my father was portrayed as a caring and dutiful officer. I didn't recognize him. It was like they were talking about some stranger and not my father – the tyrannical despot.

 

 

At last at home for real. Not afraid to do what I want. Not afraid to watch what I want on TV. Not afraid to read what I want. Not afraid to visit the bathroom when I need to. Not afraid to eat what I like. The freedom is a luxury.

During dinner, Nadia suddenly announced to me, “I have a prom in a week.”

“The same prom all you girls are crazy about?” I asked.

“I'm not,” Nadia retorted.

“She's not,” mom added. “Nadia's not like that.”

“Have a dress yet?” I inquired.

“Nah…”

“But you have a date?”

“She has,” mom answered for Nadia, “handsome and sweet like Solomon Nemo.”

“Maybe Napoleon Solo?” I asked.

“Exactly,” mom agreed. “How do you know? It's an archaic TV show.”

“It's one of the few things I was allowed to watch that was watchable.”

“I see,” she sighed.

“Has this Mr. Solo a real name?”

“Tony Newman,” Nadia said. “He's not sweet. Don't tell him he's sweet.”

“Have you an appointment to a salon?”

“I have time,” Nadia retorted.

“It's only a week!” I exclaimed. “I'd be in full panic mode if I were you.”

“I am not so girly,” Nadia stated.

 

 

All three of us went to the mall at last. It was not the next day. It was two days later, after mom delivered the completed work she had been doing for the last three months. Five days to the prom, and Nadia was still as calm as a cucumber.

I still had nothing to wear. Only Nadia's hands me down. White sneakers on a one-inch platform. You would think an inch is almost nothing! Nah. It's something when you are five-three. I was wearing denim shorts that looked almost normal because they had no embroidery. They were from the time Nadia didn't have the hips she has now. They were tight around my butt and I had to tuck my appendages to hide the bulge in the front. Not a great deal – it wasn't big, and I wasn't proud of that appendage anyway. For a shirt, I had a black tee with a white “Don't let daddy know” on the front. The tee was kinda longish, so I had to tuck it at one point into shorts. Otherwise, it would look like a short dress.

Mom and Nadia were in shorts and tees like me. Only their shoes were different. Mom had sandals and Nadia had flats.

I expected the first stop to be a dress store. But no. First lingerie. Then jewelry. Then again lingerie and a bridal shop for some accessories. Then shoes and again lingerie. At every place, we got one or two paper bags with their logos. I was carrying all of them. Like a pack mule.

“Go put the load in the car,” mom said, offering me the car's remote.

My hands were full with the bags, so she pushed the remote into the back pocket of my shorts. The only pocket I had because side pockets were only decoration.

I moved to the Eastern exit, where mom's car was parked. Good thing all doors on my way were automated, or I would have been unable to open them carrying so many bags. In the parking lot, I found out that rain had moved through. I had forgotten the Maine weather – rain, sometimes a few times a day. Due to Labrador's current, mom said. It had stopped. The rain, I mean, not the current. Water was everywhere. Not big puddles, but water anyway. Not only on the ground but on the car too. I had planned to put the bags down, take the remote from my pocket, open the trunk, and put those bags into the car. I couldn't now. The water around and paper bags would result in everything ruined in those bags. Now I was dancing around the car trying to hang all the bags in one hand and with my free hand fish the remote from the pocket. Crap. I had managed to get all the bags into my right hand, some of them up to the elbow, and was trying to reach with my left hand the right back pocket which was partially covered with tee hem. I couldn't get into the pocket. So I started moving bags one by one from the right hand to the left.

At this moment, a car stopped near mom's car, and two young men exited it. Both were in white tees with powder blue wildcat on the front.

“May I help you?” one of them offered.

I was hesitant. I wasn't used to strangers helping me.

“I'll hold it for you,” another man said, taking all the bags in his hands.

“Thank you,” I said and got at last that damned remote from my back pocket.

All bags were now in the safety of the trunk.

“Are you somehow related to Nadia Gromov?” the first man asked.

“She's my sis,” I said.

“I wouldn't guess otherwise,” the second man said, “so much resemblance…”

“York Junior High?” the first one asked.

“I'm sixteen!” I protested.

“Didn't see you around…”

“Burlington High…”

“Oh…” the first one said and then extended his hand to me, “Paul.”

“Sasha,” I took his hand.

“Tony,” Paul motioned to another man and then kinda stage whispered, “your sister's fan.”

 

 

I went skipping back to where I had left mom and Nadia. I did some shuffle steps I had learned unknowingly from my father. I was something excited – I'd met my sister's boyfriend. Mom had said the truth – Tony was sweet. Not as sweet as Robert Vaughn but cute nevertheless. Stop! I can't think of a man as cute. I can't be like that. I was doing and thinking something very wrong.

When I came at last to mom, I was on the verge of tears. Nadia was already in the changing room trying some dress.

“What happened?” mom inquired, taking me in her arms.

“I met Nadia's boyfriend Tony…”

“Did he do something to you? Did he call you names?” mom interrogated.

“No! No…” I whispered. “I thought he's cute. But I'm not allowed to think this way. It's wrong! I wronged…”

“It's ok baby. It's ok. You may think what you want. You didn't do anything wrong. Even more, Tony is really cute,” mom calmed me, rubbing my back.

 

 

“Are you ok, sweetie?” mom knocked on the changing room door.

It had been a while since Nadia disappeared behind that door. Almost ten minutes, mom's words. When I arrived, Nadia was already inside, and I didn't even know what dress she was trying on.

We heard some commotion behind the door and then muffled, “No… I'm fine…”

Another couple of minutes later, she emerged. Nadia's fashion sense was sorta non-existent. It was mom and occasionally Nadia's friends who bought her what she needed. Otherwise, she would look like a complete disaster. Like now.

Her choice was a red dress. Not simply red – royal burgundy. Off shoulder. Showing a lot of skin. On some other girls, that same dress could look ok, but not on Nadia. Nadia – star athlete of York High School, captain of the field hockey team and captain of the girls' basketball team, five-eleven, one hundred fifty pounds, pale complexion, extremely short dark brown hair, gray eyes.

“WHAT?!” she snapped at us.

Neither mom nor I said a word.

Nadia stood in front of us hands akimbo tapping her left foot.

“So?” she wanted to know our opinion.

“How do YOU like that dress?” mom asked her at last. It occurred to me that was a very diplomatic way to approach it.

“I don't like dresses,” Nadia retorted, “I prefer jeans. But I made a mistake and agreed to be Tony's date. And this piece was the first in the rack of ‘Prom dresses'. It's not my idea. The tag says it.”

“Well…” mom started, and then she turned to me, “Do you have some idea about how to help your sis, sweetie?”

“Me?” I was perplexed.

“I do remember you having an excellent taste.”

“That's quite a challenge,” I offered.

“I'm in,” Nadia encouraged me.

I decided to take a chance at helping my sis.

“First, not so intense of a color and not red. Your colors a bluish, maybe lavenderish or greenish on a white background or with something white. The material is not so heavy. Silky… Or some synthetic, but not see-through. If see-through, then several layers to feel like see-through but opaque. In no case, a see-through with a slip underneath – that looks awful. The skirt should be below the knees. You are tall, and a mini will make you look giant. For the bodice… Falling folds in front over breasts, kinda some cleavage but not emphasizing because, you know…”

“Yeah, I know,” Nadia agreed, “size A, nothing to show off. Go on.”

“I'm done,” I said. “No. Shoulders. It would be nice with some shoulder pads.”

“My shoulders are wide enough,” Nadia complained.

“That's the idea. Without pads, your shoulders look wide, with pads it would seem the width is faked while actually, your shoulders aren't wide. Capisce?”

“Huh… When you say it, it sounds reasonable,” Nadia agreed.

“Sounds good. But where to get it?” mom brought us back to reality.

“In the designer section,” said the voice from behind us. It was a sales assistant.

“Designer section? I'm afraid it costs a fortune,” mom mused.

“Nowadays, things are different,” the sales assistant said. “Follow me. You'll see.”

All three of us followed this lady to another section. You could see at once that the dresses and accessories looked different. Not posh. Maybe better coordinated. Both pattern and material. Or maybe it was just my imagination because the prices were higher.

The dress that suited Nadia the best wasn't exactly as I had described it. But similar. It had cape sleeves. Like a cape of the same material attached to the shoulders of the dress and covering arms to the elbows. It looked even better than I could imagine, covering the most muscular part of Nadia's arms.

And the price was… Mom said, do not worry about expenses. I didn't, but anyway…

 

 

Time slips through our fingers like grains of sand. Four days to the prom. I started the countdown. First days and then hours. I was excited about the upcoming prom more than Nadia.

We went together to Portland Downtown where the designer salon was. The same place that made the dress mom had bought for Nadia. Some alterations were due. Because Nadia, though athletic and not fat, her waist was more than the dress was made for. Because of muscles.

Then mom scheduled an appointment at the salon. Because Nadia needed a perm. All three of us went together again.

“I've scheduled an appointment for you too,” mom told me.

My hair was on the longer side. Because my father took me to the barber twice a year. For Halloween and before leaving for summer camp. It had made me used to losing things that were not essential. Like hair. For now, I had hair that was almost three inches long. Maybe a little more. I wasn't sure how much, cause I didn't measure it. But I liked it this way.

“No haircut, please, no, mom, I like it how it is. Please…” I begged mom.

“Who says haircut,” mom said assuring, “You need split ends trimmed. And maybe some styling.”

“I don't need styling. Men have a haircut. No styling.”

“Plenty of men nowadays have their hair styled. Just give it a try.”

“Station four. Mireille,” the lady at reception said to mom, indicating a station where a woman about my mother's size stood smiling at us.

Mireille was mom's age, a woman with short jet-black hair. She had a slightly aquiline nose, but it looked good on her.

“Hello. My name is Mireille, and you are?” she started cheerfully with a prominent French accent.

“Sasha, ma'am,” I replied.

“Mademoiselle, not ma'am,” she corrected me. “My niece is Sasha, too, and she's as sweet as you.”

She took my face by my chin and turned my head left and right.

“Your hair asks for some life,” she said. “But it's so short… I'll do garçon.”

“What's it?” I asked.

“A boy, the hairstyle is named for a boy, only in French.”

I could live with a hairstyle named for a boy. Probably.

A salon is not like a barbershop. My hair was shampooed. Then combed. Then something smeared on it. Then dried. Then shampooed again. Trimmed and cut more than I liked it. Then smeared again. Washed, dried, trimmed, combed, and sprayed with something that smelled like car color spray.

When Mademoiselle Mireille finished, mom was at my side. Mireille turned the chair for me to see the result in the mirror.

“Voilà! Un garçon,” she announced.

I looked kinda girly. To tell the truth, I looked more like a girl than like a boy. I liked it, but… It was wrong! I had gone wrong again! I panicked and started hyperventilating…

“You look adorable,” mom said, assuring me and patting my back. Then she bent down and whispered to me in the ear, “You look the same as you looked three years ago when you left.”

“Is it ok for me to look like that?” I turned to her. My voice quivered a bit as I asked for approval.

“Yes! And yes, again. It's ok for you to look like you are and like you feel.”

“Isn't it wrong? Father and the counselors…”

“Forget them. Just forget.”

 

 

Three days to the prom and Nadia was almost ready. Maybe just some details.

It was time to get something for me. I could wear Nadia's hand-me-downs from the time she was younger, but even then, she was much taller than me. The only things in her wardrobe that I could borrow were shorts and short-sleeved tops.

The day was overcast. One of those special Maine summer days that looked more like October rather than June. And the temperature was in the lower fifties.

“You can wear pantyhose under shorts to keep you warm,” mom offered. “It's almost invisible.”

I put it on and it wasn't invisible. Well… It was kinda, but I had some sparse hair on my legs, and it was enhanced by the pantyhose. Things like that. Crap! Sorry…

“Not so much a problem,” mom commented. “I use Veet cream for exactly the same reason.”

I applied that cream not only on my legs. I used almost the whole tube of it. But it paid off – the skin on my legs, arms, armpits, and other places was silky smooth without a single stray hair.

Now, pantyhose was really invisible. Nobody will notice, hopefully. Crap! It was shining in direct light.

“Looking good,” mom tried complimenting me.

I couldn't go out looking like a girl. Despite mom's persuasion, I took pantyhose off and went barelegged. Yes, it was cold, but something inside me just didn't allow me to do it.

There were all three of us again. Nadia, because she planned to meet Tony. Mom, because who else would it be to drive and pay? Then mom said she wanted some new things for her too.

The mall is some fifty miles away. So it's not a five-minute ride. Nadia wanted to start a conversation, but mom shushed her, saying it was not the time yet. We rode in silence. Except radio was blaring.

Nadia disappeared the moment mom parked the car. Maybe it was for the better?

“We'll go for my things first,” mom said, “I'd like your opinion on what I'm about to buy.”

I was in no hurry to visit the store for guys either. I liked female fashions more, so I replied, “I'm in.”

Mom rummaged through dresses. Not gowns, but dresses. For everyday wear. Comfortable, athletic, and feminine at the same time.

I was at her side and just looked and checked them aimlessly. One dress caught my attention. Beach sand color. The top of it was like the athletic shirt with pockets over breasts, buttoned to the waist. The strap of the same material, kinda tied with a loose bow on the left side but really sewn in and more decoration than function. Skirt above knees but not micro mini. To the mid-thigh or something. Pleated. Six pleats.

“What do you think?”

“A dress to die for if I were a girl,” I replied without thinking.

“You are this girl, Sasha,” mom said, looking at me carefully.

It couldn't be true. It was probably another ordeal like last summer at camp. I will be awoken next and then condemned and punished. It will not happen. I'm not a girl. I'm a man my father can be proud of.

“Shush baby. Your father is dead and will never come back,” mom hugged me and rubbed my back to get me to calm down. I had started breathing fast and looking around like I wanted to run away.

Then she released me from a hug and gave me some tissues to wipe my wet eyes.

“Bad memories,” mom said to the worried salesladies, “everything is under control now. And back to normalcy.”

Was I really free? Like, free to be. I remembered the funeral. My father was dead. I felt that guilt again, I was happy for my father to be dead. But it made me free!

With some additional urging from my mom, I changed into the dress.

“You are gorgeous,” mom said when I emerged from the changing room.

“Your mommy is right,” the saleslady said, “but I'd suggest pantyhose. Nude color.”

“What for? If it's a nude color,” I asked.

“Because it's chill outside. Don't you know the saying about summer in Maine?”

I didn't. Mom either. We both shook our heads no.

“Last year summer in Maine was sunny and warm and without a single drop of rain,” the saleslady said.

It couldn't be true. Not in Maine!

“But unfortunately that day I was at work,” she added.

Mom laughed. I giggled. Yes, that was Maine!

I got a pair of pantyhose. It felt good. And it looked good.

“Time to buy some jeans for my girls,” mom said, opening her purse.

“Silly girl! Nadia had left her smartphone in my purse,” she sighed. “Let's go. We're looking for a girl in a mall. It will be funny.”

I didn't change back into the shorts and tee. The saleslady cut off the tags and I went in my new dress. Can you imagine? My-new-dress!

Nadia wasn't very far away from the store we were in. At ice-cream stand. With Tony and that other boy – Paul.

“Oh!” Nadia exclaimed, staring at me, and then added, “You're beautiful.”

“Gorgeous,” added Tony.

“Would you be my date to the prom?” asked Paul. Then he turned to mom, “May I take your younger daughter to the prom, ma'am?”

“It's up to her,” mom replied.

 

 

My sis Nadia had a week before she said she'd go to the prom. I had one day and four hours when I said yes and would go to the same prom with a boy named Paul.

Handsome. Cute. Polite. What else? I liked him and he asked me out. Isn't it enough?

I had no time to panic. Countless things to do. And the day was wonderful. Like that only day of summer in Maine. Maybe because it was a special day. Sisters' prom day.

I was at home at eleven. We parted with a kiss. Sweeter than honey. The first kiss of my first date.

 

 

The prom, I have to say, is the thing, we all girls are crazy about.

 

 

The End?