Chapter 6 - My Choice
I found Noah outside beneath the hotel’s covered entrance.
Rain had begun to fall, turning the city lights into blurred streaks across the pavement. He stood near a stone column with his hands in his pockets.
The burgundy bow tie was crooked again.
For twelve years, Noah had been the person who stayed until things hurt less.
Now it was my turn.
I stopped beside him.
“I’m sorry.”
He didn’t look at me.
“For what?”
“For asking everyone else what they thought you needed and assuming I already knew.”
He studied the rain.
“I didn’t want a speech.”
“This isn’t a speech.”
“It sounds like one.”
“I’m nervous.”
That made him look at me.
“You don’t get nervous.”
“I’m wearing shoes designed by an enemy and trying to answer a question I should have asked myself years ago. I’m nervous.”
His expression softened, but he remained quiet.
I took a breath.
“When we were six, I promised to go to prom with you because I wanted to make you feel better.”
“I know.”
“But I’m not six anymore.”
“I know that too.”
“I came tonight because I wanted to be with you.”
“As friends?”
“At first, I thought that was the whole answer.”
His shoulders fell slightly.
“It wasn’t.”
I moved closer.
“I don’t know exactly when things changed. Maybe when you brought me ice cream after my driving test. Maybe when you kept that awful dinosaur drawing. Maybe there wasn’t one moment.”
“Your dinosaur was very bad.”
“It was historically bad.”
“A potato with arms.”
“Focus, Noah.”
“I am focused.”
I smiled despite myself.
“I love you too.”
He stared at me.
“Like me?”
“Like you.”
“As a date?”
“Yes.”
“Not because I said it first?”
“No.”
“Not because of your mother or your dad or Jake?”
“No.”
“Not because people are watching?”
I glanced through the glass doors. Half our class appeared to be pretending not to watch us.
“Definitely not because people are watching.”
Noah considered my answer with the seriousness he once reserved for dinosaur trivia.
Then he nodded.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“That is good.”
“I reveal my heart, and you say ‘that is good’?”
“I had a longer answer, but I forgot it.”
I laughed.
He smiled.
Then I reached up and straightened his bow tie.
“May I kiss you?”
His eyes widened.
“You’re supposed to wait for me to ask.”
“You were taking too long.”
“I was planning.”
“Since November?”
“Maybe.”
I kissed him gently.
It wasn’t a grand cinematic moment. The rain didn’t suddenly stop. Music didn’t swell from nowhere.
His nose bumped mine, and we both laughed.
It was imperfect, private despite the people behind the glass, and entirely ours.
When we returned to the ballroom, Principal Harris approached us.
“I owe both of you an apology,” he said.
“Yes,” Noah replied.
The principal seemed unprepared for immediate agreement.
“I should have asked permission before including your photographs.”
“Yes.”
“And I mishandled the concern about your ticket.”
“Yes.”
Principal Harris looked at me for help.
I folded my arms.
“You’re doing fine,” I said.
Noah continued.
“I want the school to make a rule. Do not use students with disabilities in inspirational videos without asking them.”
“That is reasonable.”
“And don’t review someone’s prom ticket because one parent sends an email.”
Principal Harris’s face reddened.
“That will not happen again.”
“Write it down,” Noah said.
The principal promised he would.
When we rejoined our friends, Maya hugged us both.
“Are you okay?”
“No,” Noah said. “But I will be.”
That was another thing I loved about him. He didn’t pretend pain disappeared just because something good happened afterward.
The rest of prom belonged to us.
We danced badly.
We ate tiny desserts.
Noah requested a baseball stadium anthem, and the band played thirty seconds before giving up.
Near midnight, the prom court was announced. Neither of us won anything, which felt like a victory. Nobody called Noah an honorary king. Nobody invited us onstage. Nobody turned our relationship into a ceremony.
We were allowed to be ordinary.
When the limousine brought us home, Mom, Rachel, Aunt Karen, and Lillian were gathered around the kitchen table.
A pile of old letters lay between them.
Mom stood when we entered.
“How was prom?”
“Complicated,” I said.
Noah smiled. “Good.”
Rachel noticed our joined hands.
Her eyebrows rose, but she said nothing.
Lillian noticed too.
She said everything.
“So this was a real date?”
Noah’s face turned red.
“Yes.”
“Did you kiss?”
“Lillian,” Mom protested.
“What? I missed thirty years. I need information.”
I laughed for what felt like the first honest time all day.
“Yes,” I said. “We kissed.”
Rachel pressed both hands to her heart.
“Mom,” Noah groaned.
“I’m not saying anything.”
“You’re making a face.”
“I’m allowed a face.”
Mom approached me carefully.
“Your father called.”
I stiffened.
“He withdrew the summer-program payment.”
“I expected that.”
“He also said he won’t contribute to college unless you stop seeing Noah romantically.”
The kitchen went silent.
Noah released my hand.
“Christina—”
“No.”
“You need college.”
“I need people who don’t use money to control me.”
“That program matters to you.”
“So do you.”
“I don’t want you to lose something because of me.”
“This isn’t because of you. It’s because of him.”
Mom placed an envelope on the table.
“There may be another way.”
Inside was a letter from the New York art program. My remaining tuition was due in three weeks.
“I called the director,” Mom said. “They have one additional merit scholarship, but you need to submit a new portfolio by Friday.”
“That’s five days.”
“I know.”
My best pieces were already in the original application.
“What could I possibly create in five days that would change their decision?”
Lillian pushed the faded dance photograph toward me.
“Paint the locked room,” she said.
I looked at the girl she had been—the girl waiting in a dress for a boy who had been told not to come.
Then I looked at Mom, who had carried that room inside her until she nearly built another one around us.
An idea began forming.
Not a portrait of tragedy.
A series about doors.
Locked doors. Open doors. People standing on both sides.
I looked at Noah.
“Will you help me?”
“Do I have to pose?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Probably hours.”
He sighed.
“Artists are exhausting.”
But he held out his pinkie.
Before I could take it, Mom’s phone rang.
She read the caller’s name and went pale.
“It’s your father.”
“Don’t answer.”
“He says he’s coming over with his attorney.”
“Tonight?”
May you like
Mom looked toward the front window.
Headlights were already turning into the driveway.
