Best of Miami Portfolios 2001 - Units.muohio.edu

honors for past dances, but I figure this is my senior year. I should know how to pin a boutonniere.
“Wait, does it go on the left or the right?” I ask.
My brother tenderly shakes his head, “The left.” Right. I knew that. My fingers twiddle
with the pin and grope with the bunching material, but after a few eternal seconds the task is
completed, and I feel prepared for anything. The doorbell rings. Well, maybe not everything.
Okay, Lord. Please don’t let my cheeks look like two flaming flamingos, don’t let my voice sound
like a frozen frog, don’t let—
“Oh, hi, Samantha, Mark. Come on in. Matt’s not here yet.” Mark strides into the kitchen,
chomping on a bag of barbecue potato chips while Samantha’s gold metallic dress glistens against
her bronzed skin as they make their boisterous entrance. Immediately, a whirl of grandparents,
aunts, and siblings start clicking and flashing their cameras while the three of us pose with plastered
smiles. The red letters on our radio clock read 6:15 and instead of fretting over Matt’s whereabouts,
I begin to ease into disillusioned clouds, once again nimbly looping across the dance floor twinklewinking
at my peers as they stand gaping around me.
“Matt’s here,” my dad booms from the other room. “He’s walking down the street. Looks
like he had to park a few houses down.” Subconsciously I poof my hair, smooth down my dress,
and hold my breath as I wander to the door. My 110-pound Golden Retriever barrels excitedly
into my side, beating me as always to a formal greeting. As I open the door, I putter and avoid
Matt’s intense gray eyes, afraid mine will link with his and melt my gelatin-composure. But I
understand his smile. You look amazing too, I think.
The kitchen is awkwardly silent while 14 pairs of eyes watch Matt slide on my wrist
corsage. I try not to stare at his trembling hands. My own fingers are uncannily still as I expertly
weave the needle through the stem and onto his sharp black jacket. We stiffly endure more creative
photographs on the deck, the stairway, and the front porch. I don’t relax until we slide into the white
leather backseat of Mark’s uncle’s Cadillac.
We careen around the corner, and Samantha rolls down her window, lights a cigarette, and
exclaims, “Holy pictures. Get together you two—this is my idea of pictures.” We scoot as close
together as my seatbelt will allow. I notice that despite Samantha’s elegant hair twist and being
seated in a fancy car, she appears to be everything but the envy of the school as she rummages
through her clunky purse for her cell phone, reeking of stale tobacco. And as she puffs smoke
through her matted ruby lips, I glance at Matt. He captures my eyes and instead of my composure
melting, it’s my Cinderella fantasy that dissolves.
In this moment, as the sun bounces like a fireball off our windshield and crackles against
headlights, the air dissociates into molecules of barely breathable oxygen. In this moment, I may
not be hip. In the moments to come, darkness may envelop our forms and my moss eye-shadow
and “Barely There” foundation may fade like lifeless clowns booed out of the circus ring. In the
moments to come, I may not dance like Janet Jackson.
No, in this moment, I am still an eighteen-year-old prom junkie. Although my glittering
fantasies of popularity and beauty may sometimes threaten my happiness, I know who I am. I do not
need to prove myself with a cigarette, a rowdy mouth, or a provocative dance. And when the
dandelions become a golden blur in my window, I feel their secret whisper through my soul. I am
beautiful.
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