FAZE

Our Senior Prom was different.
I didn't get to have a dress—even though my grandmother swore that she would make sure I could wear one—we nixed the idea of renting tuxedoes and buying corsages but had no plans for that Saturday in late May.
Michael was at the front door early on Saturday morning. I answered the door, possibly looking like death warmed over. He was wearing a cowboy hat, something he did on occasion and I loved the way he looked in one.
“Good day, sunshine.”
“You're too happy. What time is it anyway?”
“Seven. It's great that you're up.”
“I'm up now, since you've been banging on the door.”
“Where are your parents?”
“No idea,” I shrugged as I stepped forward and hugged him.
“I have a surprise for you, but you need to get ready.”
“How so?” I asked as I stepped away.
“Jeans, loose shirt, or whatever you're comfortable in. I'll wait down here.”
“Can I get a hint?”
“Nope,” Michael replied with a smile.
“You know, just for that. I am going to take a long shower.” I said as I walked to the stairs.
“I can turn the faucet on in the kitchen.”
“Different piping system," I smiled back.
“You can't blame me for trying.”
I took a quick shower, not trying to keep him waiting for too long. Michael stayed downstairs the entire time I got dressed: we had agreed that it was best to keep up the appearance of two friends to my parents, even though mom was aware, as Michael didn't want to be on their bad side. He wanted to the gentleman, but I would lead us astray-sometimes.
An hour later, I had written a short note that I had gone out with Michael and would be back soon.
“Where are we heading?” I asked as Michael opened the passenger side door.
“Franklin, Tennessee.”
“Where is that?”
“Near Nashville, ma'am,” he replied with a tip of his hat. "Remember when you said I should take Mels to a rodeo?"
“Yeah.”
“Well, I thought, why don't we go instead? I mean it’s like the Prom with the crowds but with better music.”
“No tuxedos.”
“There are a few rodeo clowns who wear suits.”
“Sounds like fun. Yahoo!”
“More like, a Yee-haw, but it’s a good first try.”

The trip took over three hours as we stopped at various locations that looked interesting. It could have been a train station, an odd rock formation or some person doing a handstand on the side of the road. He wasn't asking for money, just performing, I suppose.
We arrived at the Williams County Fairgrounds a little after one o'clock in the afternoon to a parking area with so many trucks that Mike commented there must be a few bartenders wondering where their customers were at. I felt kind of out of place as the only shirts and jeans I had were boyish. I tried to do something with my hair earlier, but it didn’t happen. I figured that we would just walk around like friends, but Michael took my hand and kissed my cheek.
“You're about to enter into a whole new world.”
“Of cows?”
“Bulls, horses, maybe a goat or two.”
“You're sure you want to hold my hand?”
“Of course, I do. It's a rodeo, not high school. The crap’s on the ground, not walking around.”
I squeezed his hand as we stood in the line to enter.
I had never heard more songs that had a steel guitar and fiddle than that afternoon. It wasn’t too hot as the clouds masked the sun at just the right point to make the cool breezes feel even better. We watched people of all types riding horses as fast as could around what looked barrels and instantly change direction, i guess a time trial. We saw some crazy guy on bull that tried to get him off its back less than a second after the chute was opened. The rider stayed on for a few tense seconds before he was thrown to the side of the bull; and, yes, a pair of clowns—one in a suit and the other in a dress—worked to distract the animal as the rider struggled to get up.
“They’re the real stars,” Michael said as he clapped.
“The clowns?”
“Oh yeah. They stand in front of a bull with a bad attitude to distract him from the guy he threw off. They have to be one step ahead of it or they get the horns too.” He pointed at the two as they waved their hands and moved in tandem in front of the bull.
“They’re in wedding attire?”
“Yeah, they’re married. They’ve been doing this for years as a couple. We should take their place.”
“We’d have to get married first, right?”
Michael looked to the arena and then took a step away.
“Well, since you mentioned it.”
He reached into his pocket with one hand and took my left hand with the other.
"Kristina Allie Novoselic?"
"Yes, Michael Thomas Nelson?"
"I've loved you since I first saw you. Since that day I wanted to know all about you as there was something special about you. You’ve been my best friend, and we’ve gotten out of some weird situations and I want to thank you for being there for me and I promise that I will always be there for you, however or whoever you want to be. You make my days brighter and I can't think of anyone else I would want to spend my life with. "Kristi, will you marry me?

♦♦♦

I stood next to the outside of the dorm hall with tears streaming down my face and my heart feeling like it would crack a rib or two. I wished Michael had been there to slam Richard's head into the wall; or we both could have taken turns at him. What I had said in there was the truth and I was happy, in a way, to say it to him but I also felt like I had loaded the rifle and personally handed it over to my executioner; or at the very least, I was in for mountains of paperwork, administrative hearings and several calls from my father about the hell I most likely unleashed.
I was okay with that.
The thought of being separated from Michael was a bigger hit to me. Yeah, I’d probably be alone in the women's dorm room, either in some protected area--like in a hastily reconfigured janitor's closet or next to a dorm hall monitor. We would have less time to spend with each other and I would miss having him sleeping next to me--as having him close was the best thing in the world--and that thought made me smile as I stepped away from the dorm room and walked to the theatre.
The stage was lit up but no one was there. I slowly walked down the aisles became at the time I was kind of afraid of everything--or at least of some people. My podium was where it normally was, devoid of any demonic looking teachers or letters from dungeon--dorm--masters.
"Kristi!"
Heather stepped out of the wings and ran to me. I wasn't sure how to feel at that moment--I mean for as long as we knew each other, she had the fondest disdain for me and I guess my expression tipped her off.
"I. Want. To apologize to you, I mean I just thought about it yesterday and I thought, wow; I was a bitch."
"Excuse me?" I had no idea what she meant.
"I tried to steal your boyfriend."
"Fiancée', actually," I replied as she hugged me.
"Even worse. I mean--I see why you were like that and I--"
"It's okay," I replied as she stepped away. "We're used to it."
"Also, I want to thank you for what you did and about Miss--Holy shit, where did that come from?"
Heather looked at my arm.
"Miss Peterson." I replied.
"She grabbed you?"
"Uh-huh," I sighed, "but I'm okay. What doesn't kill you makes you strong, right?"
"You should report her."
"Some battles are avoided to win a war, you know?"
Heather's expression stated that she wasn't sure how to answer my question as the other members of the troupe filed in with Mr. Montesi rushing in from behind.
“Everyone on stage. Quick. Quick, quick now! Tally ho and all the sort.”
Heather and I joined the rest of the group. I got a few friendly waves and a look of arrogance from Marcus, but I didn’t really care.
“Everyone have a seat on the stage. Wherever. That’s good.” Mr. Montesi paced back and forth and looked up a bit. “We have a small problem. We have received threats.”
“I knew we should have performed Macbeth; less controversy,” Brendon raised his hands in mock anguish.
“Maybe 12th Night?” Marcus interjected.
Mr. Montesi shook his head.
“Death of a Salesman?”
“Madame Butterfly?”
“Marcus, Brendon?”
“Yes sir?” Marcus laughed for a moment.
“Hush.”
There was some muffled laughter from the rest of cast.
“What was the threat about, Mr. Montesi?” Halley asked.
“A part of me thought it was a hoax—theatre hating pond scum of the lowest caliber. I guess if we erected goal posts at the ends of the auditorium, maybe. Anyway, it may very well be nothing. In fact, I admit I shouldn’t have told you. Keep it to yourself, they told me, but you’re all old enough to know about security matters and I just want you all to know that there will be security present on opening night. So, I suppose we will kind of be like a football game—we just won’t sell beer.”
“What was the threat?”
“They didn't say, Chad. The office just said there was be heightened presence of campus police. If all goes well, we will have quite the captive audience. Let’s get going. We’re starting at the beginning of Act Three.”
We all got up and walked to the back of the house as the lights went down.
The stagehands and actors crisscrossed past me as I readied a headset.
“Test check, Mr. Montesi?”
“Check, Kristi,” came the reply. “One minute to start.”
“Yes, sir.” I waited a moment as the actors moved into their places. “Mr. Montesi?
“Yes?”
I hesitated my question, for fear that is would sound like I was either feeling like I was extra special or that I was a pariah on the production. “Was the warning about me?” I asked, possibly loud enough for everyone to hear if everyone wasn’t in their own world.
“Don’t worry about it, Kristi. Everything will be fine.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied as I clicked the microphone off “Curtain!”
Practice continued as if nothing was wrong.
Technically, that was true. Nothing had happened, and it didn’t help to dwell on an imaginary boogeyman—but of course, I had to. I had to think of the worst; the 21st century of a witch hunt or a tar and feathering party. I mean I had a radio on me so I could contact out for help and I had a cell phone to notify the police or Michael, but I didn't like the anticipation.
I took several deep breaths. I had to break away from my thoughts; concentrate on the comedy before me.
“Kristi?” Mr. Montesi’s voice came over the radio.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m in the audience, near the back, we need to adjust the lighting on the right stage for tomorrow night. Please note that.”
“Acknowledged,” I replied as I scribbled down the instruction.
Yes, if I could keep busy—any minor detail would do: lightning, a microphone issue, earthquakes, birds, snakes, airplane: anything to keep my mind off what I knew would be impending doom.
My cell vibrated in my pocket and I took a second longer than I normally did to think about looking at it. The caller ID read it was my parents, so I declined to answer.
“You okay?” Heather asked as she stepped up behind me. She was in costume; one which left so little to the imagination that Shakespeare would have had to excuse himself.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”
“So, about Miss Peterson?”
“I’m not going to confront her. My word against hers and I’m not going to go down as some scapegoat to her twisted idea of society.”
“Who said anything about confronting her? I hear the power is in the pen, right?”
I had to smile at that—as she was so right. It appeared that we both missed out on a possible earlier friendship. Maybe I really shouldn’t have said “Yo, baby” to her.
“I can help with your list of demands.”
“I don't have any demands.”
“You do. To be seen for who you are, right? To not have to sit in the back of the room like some freak of nature.” Heather replied.
“Been there, done that.”
“And you’re telling me it doesn’t piss you off?”
“It would have been fine if my parents had just signed my birth certificate as they should have—but—but they didn’t. I was talking with Amanda Marks about it.”
“I’ve met her, kind of sweet,” Heather replied with a hint of sadness to her voice. “I mean, she’s an okay person.”
“Did you?”
“Yeah, I did, but—Jacob.”
“Don’t let him stand in your way. If anything, you’d be the best thing for her.”
“I don’t know,” Heather twirled her hair between her fingers as she fidgeted with the gold prop chain. I seriously hoped she wouldn’t get her hair caught in it. “I mean, look at me, I’m--”
“Strong, out-going and willing to get what she wants, right?”
“But, you’ve seen her. I don’t have much of a chance.”
“Why do I feel we should have talked a few months back? Let’s go talk with her, after practice.
“Kristi?” Mr. Montesi’s voice broke the conversation.
“Yes, sir.”
“Make a note on spotlight four. It’s a bit too dim and I want Marcus to enter in from stage left instead of the center.”
“Yes sir.” I turned to Heather. “Sound good?”
“Yeah, you’ll be there, right?”
“I will. And you’re on in thirty seconds.”
“Thanks.”
The rest of the dress rehearsal went on as normal. No one was put off by the earlier threat and several jokes were made about how it must have been from one of the fraternities or a football player who suffered trauma in high school after having to read “Romeo & Juliet”. I admit, I even fell into the self-induced poppy field that is all going to be okay; not like the building would be rigged to explode or anything.
We lowered the curtain at seven forty-five and everyone pretty much fell where they were standing except the make-up department who tried to get everyone who had breads or other prosthetics to come back to the wings to have them carefully removed.
Marcus and Brendon ripped each other’s off in a “this will hurt me more than it does you” competition.
Both lost.
I handed over my long hand-written list of notes that Mr. Montesi has me keep track of—as my playbook margins were already filled with short-hand hieroglyphs and then went out to the auditorium to see Michael sitting in the middle row.
“How long have you been here?”
“The last few scenes.”
I ran to him and he almost picked me up and over his shoulders—and as much as I would have loved that—he lowered me down.
"Are you back to your stage manager job?"
"Yeah, but I'm fine with it. Heather's good with her part. I really misjudged her then, I mean she admits she was being a bitch now that she knows."
"Knows about the 'us' part, right?"
"Uh-huh, she just thought I was some goth punk."
"Aren't you still?"
"I think the correct term is "emo", now. I'm not emo."
"Is that short for emotional, because if it is-"
"You're so hilarious. How was work?" I asked as I took a short look back to the stage.
"Long, hard, draining, but worth it. I get to work with my hands."
"I know something you can work with your hands."
"I like how you think," he replied.
“But first, we have a short, kind of get together,”
“Get together with?”
“Heather.”
“As in?”
“Yes,” I replied. “And Amanda.”
“I’m going to be so out-numbered,” Michael whistled.
“I spoke with Richard today.”
‘Why?”
“I’m not going to have him threaten us. Oh, anyway it was just a threat and he is just scum.”
“Scum?”
“I’m trying to keep my words on a PG-level,” I replied as Heather walked down the aisle.
“Heather, this is Michael Nelson.”
“Hello, fellow Vol, right?” Michael asked.
“Yeah, not one of my better lines.” She replied as her face turned bright red. I’m not sure if Michael noticed or cared to acknowledge it.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be. Let’s do this before I get cold feet, turn around and run away.”
I took my cell phone out and made the call.
“Hello, Amanda?”
Heather’s eyes widened—I never mentioned I had Amanda’s phone number.
“Yeah, I was just wanting to know if you wanted to talk.”
I looked to Heather and gave a thumb’s up.

We met up with Amanda as an Italian entry located on the strip and sat in a booth in the far corner of the restaurant. It was an eatery known for its cheesy calzones and speedy delivery to the campus…at least according to Danny, as always ordered pizza from them.
Amanda and Heather sat across from Michael and myself. It was kind of a strange set-up and to be honest, I wasn’t exactly sure if I could get anything sparked between them because, well, I didn’t know how it was going to go.
“So,” Amanda said as she looked at everything else besides the three of us, I’ve never been here.”
“They got a wonderful salad,” Heather said, “you can ask to have it severed in a bowl made from calzone. To. Die. For.”
“All kinds of cheeses?”
“Skies the limit.”
I tried to hide a smile, no such luck, as Michael patted my leg—unseen by the other side of the table.
I felt my cell phone buzz in my purse and retrieved it. There were thirteen calls, all coming from the Memphis area.
“My parents.”
“They called me five times today. No voicemails.”
“Dad hates talking to machines. Excuse me,” I said as Michael got up to let me out. “Hello?”
"Why am I'm getting calls from a lawyer for Stephen English about his daughter? What's going on?" My dad’s voice was a mix of frustration, slight annoyance with a slow rise of anger on the side.
"Karen Anne?" I asked as I walked away from the table.
"Was that her name?"
"Uh-huh," I replied as Michael walked over to me.
“What happened? He says something about she's being seen for mental anguish.”
“I don’t know, maybe she couldn't take the truth.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Kristopher.”
“Yeah, about that,” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m not your son.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not your son. I still don’t understand what would make a father mutilate his daughter with parts of her dead brother."
“What are you talking about?”
“Really? You’re going to play the ignorance card on this?”
“Elizabeth!” Dad called for Mom and did not bother to hide his anger. “Kristopher Allen, we have had this discussion.”
“I came out at school.”
“Came what?”
“Came out. It was a wonderful looking skirt, it goes with the green streak in my hair.”
“Green? Elizabeth!”
I wasn’t acting, I was being a bitch. I mean, I knew what buttons to push. I knew how to piss my father off and I had just given him two pieces of the triangle.
“Aaron, what is going?” Mom’s voice was loud and clear over the phone.
“Will you talk some sense into him, please?”
“Hello?”
“Mom?”
“Kris, what is going on?”
“Hi mom. I go by Kristi now.”
“Kristi?” She asked. I could feel my father’s veins pulse in his forehead as they turned a deeper shade of scarlet.
“Yes, please put the call on speaker.”
“Okay, one moment, I—Can you hear me?”
“Ask him if he ever got a haircut?” Dad muttered
“No, I haven’t, dad. It’s still kind of long.”
“Kristopher.”
“Kristina. But, okay, if that’s the way want it then, fine, I came to college as your so-called son, I am going to come home as your daughter. Oh, I’m getting married next year.”
“Kristopher Allen Novoselic!” I flipped the cell phone closed.
“You realize you just told your dad off?”
“Yes, and it felt so liberating I want to do it again!”