My twins are high school juniors, and prom was last Saturday night. The event went something like this:
For my son: He brought his Joseph Banks suit downstairs at about noon. It looked like it had been in a pile on the floor since he last wore it in March. There was a button-down shirt with it. My wife took the clothes and began steaming the wrinkles out. She asked, “What flowers did you get your date.?” A blank look. “Go to Publix and get some flowers. We’ll make something.” He returned with one hydrangea. My wife quietly returned to Publix and came home with an assortment of flowers and began making a bouquet. My son borrowed my dress shoes.
For my daughter: She called her older sister earlier in the week and asked if she could return from college and help her with her hair for prom. Saturday, early afternoon, for about an hour, the two sat in front of a mirror and pre-prepped her hair. My prom-bound daughter left the house, hair in giant rollers, for the next stop in her pre-prom prep tour at someone’s house. There she would follow her sister’s instructions on getting the hair to the next step. Her dress was hermetically sealed in a bag to be opened only when put on. Walking to her car, she carried an assortment of bags including make-up, clothes, hair dryers, miscellaneous things I couldn’t ID, and a Stanley cup in her hand, of course.
My son and his buddies stood together for pictures in a yard where they collected before prom. Parents quickly snapped photos before the boys wandered off. They looked disinterested and annoyed by the photos.
My daughter and her friends, now fully primped, posed in front of a fountain downtown, while one of their friend’s mothers, a photographer, posed the girls individually, then in pairs, then as a group. Per the photos, the girls appeared happy to comply. The next day, parents were sent a link to a website where we could review and download the photos we liked.
At prom the boys sat on the stage, from what we heard, looking over the sight and largely talking amongst themselves. The girls stood in front of the DJ and danced. There may have been some co-mingled dancing toward the 10pm hour, but those details remain shrouded. The DJ, they said, was good.
From there, my son went to a friend’s house for a late meal cooked by parents, and they slept on sofas and mattresses in a den. He arrived home about noon the next day.
My daughter was treated to a night in a hotel for a friend’s birthday where she shared a room with three friends. They gabbed until late, discussing the particulars of the evening. She arrived home about the same time as my son. Both looked tired.
Dinner Sunday night, my wife and I asked, “How was prom?”
“Good,” they both replied.
“Tell us about it. What happened?”
“Nothin’.”
“Nothing? Really?”
“Nope. Nothin’. Just prom.”
After all that, we get “Nothin. Just prom.” Tight lipped, no details, close to the vest, tell us nothing. They should work for the CIA. Maybe they do.
I’m Cam Marston, and I’m just trying to keep it real.
