Funny Story -
: Chapter 17
“WHY DON’T YOU just tell me?” I ask Miles as I follow him into the kitchen.
“Because,” he says, opening the fridge, “you already agreed to go.”
“And you’re afraid I’ll back out once I know what it is?” I ask.
He pulls the water pitcher out, fills his glass, and drinks the whole thing, while smirking at me.
“Come on, Miles,” I say. “I hate surprises.”
“Then you should’ve asked questions before you said you’d go with me,” he says.
“Are we skydiving?” I ask.
He refills the pitcher at the sink. “I doubt it.”
“Does what we’re doing involve heavy manual labor?” I ask.
He puts the pitcher back in the fridge. “Go put on something nice, Daphne. We have to leave soon.” He squeezes past me to leave the kitchen.
“Funeral?” I call after him.
He pauses and looks back at me. “Closer.”
“Please tell me that’s a joke,” I say.
His smirk splits into a grin. “You can wear red, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“A funeral for someone you hate?” I say.
He laughs and ducks away. “Be ready in half an hour,” he says, somewhere out of view.
In my bedroom, I put on the only really nice dress I have, the same backless black one I wore to my engagement party and to Cherry Hill with Ashleigh that first night. She and Julia are out at a local jazz club tonight, so I message them in a group chat: do either of you know where Miles and I are going?
Julia writes, he still hasn’t told you?
Ashleigh says, lmao yes I do.
I send a bunch of question marks.
Julia says, oh my god she just told me
What is it, I ask.
Ashleigh only replies with a winky face. Julia adds, take lots of pics PLEASE.
Miles’s truck rumbles to a stop in front of them.
“What,” I say.
“Don’t worry.” Miles puts the car in park. “It’s going to get a lot weirder.”
A teenage valet comes sprinting out of the hotel, and Miles gets out of the truck to hand over his car keys. I follow suit and he meets me at the front door.
“It’s the middle of the summer,” I say.
“June twenty-ninth,” he agrees.
“We’re, like, thirty-five years old,” I point out next.
“Yes, we are,” Miles says.
“How are we at a senior prom?” I ask.
“How are any of us anywhere?” he teases. “Come on.” He sets a hand against the small of my back, a tingle leaping up my vertebrae as I let the light touch guide me into the hotel’s opulent lobby.
Glossy tiled floors topped with thick floral rugs and boldly clashing geometric wallpaper, velvet chairs arranged in seating areas on either side of us, and a mounted sign straight ahead: Waning Bay Historical Society Senior Prom.
The arrow beneath it points left.
I glance at Miles, who looks delighted by my utter bafflement. He grabs my hand and leads me down the carpeted hallway, music swelling as we reach the propped-open double doors at the end.
We step through and pass beneath an arch of silver balloons into a ballroom bedecked in shimmering streamers and balloons filled with glitter. White-clothed tables topped with plump bouquets of white roses ring a glossy dance floor, beyond which a row of back doors sit open onto a veranda limned in twinkling lights, couples already standing around the high-top tables out there, chatting with cocktails in hand.
That’s when I finally notice the guests themselves, all extravagantly dressed, some nearby extravagantly perfumed, most with one obvious trait in common.
“Oh my god.” I spin toward Miles and drop my voice. “What is this?”
“It’s a senior prom,” he says, grinning down at me.
Senior, here, has a different connotation entirely. We’re probably one of three couples here who don’t remember the day of the first lunar landing.
He scoops two champagne flutes off the silver tray of a passing cater-waiter.
“This will help with the shock,” Miles says, lifting one of the champagne flutes up to my lips.
I just barely manage to swallow my mouthful of wine instead of spewing it. “Please,” I say, “explain this to me like I’m new to the planet.”
“You’re newish to Waning Bay,” he says, “so the effect’s the same.”
“What school is this for?” I ask.
“No school,” he says. “It’s a fundraiser the historical society does every year. Tons of business owners here. I thought it could be a good place for you to meet sponsors. For the Read-a-thon.”
I’m so weirdly touched by this that my whole body feels about twenty degrees warmer than it did a second ago. Then again, that could be the wine I just chugged.
“That’s sweet,” I tell him, “but it doesn’t explain why you’re here. You already had these tickets.”
“Well, first of all . . .” He leans in close, drops his voice to a whisper against my ear. “I love old people.”
“I have noticed you tend to do well with the over-seventy set,” I allow. “Then again, you’re not so bad with the under-seventy set.”
He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “I guess it’s nice being around people who’ve made it through shit, you know?” He shrugs. “Like probably all their worst mistakes are behind them, and they know who they are now, and how to be who they want to be.”
I feel my smile falling, my heart softening. There’s something wistful in his voice. And I’m not used to wistful Miles.
“Plus,” he says, brightening, “Lenore’s on the board for the society, and she badgered me into ‘doing my part’ and buying a couple seats.” He touches my back, tipping his chin toward the mahogany bar across the ballroom. “Here, let’s get a real drink.”
As we make our way over and join the back of the mercifully short line, something dawns on me: “You said ‘first of all.’ ”
Miles’s brow wrinkles. “What?”
“You said, first of all, you love”—I silently mouth old people, so no one in line will hear it—“but you didn’t buy two tickets for this just because of . . .”
I trail off as it hits me.
Well, partly I trail off because it hits me.
Mostly, I trail off because at the exact same time that it occurs to me why Miles might have two tickets to this event, the second reason why happens to walk through the balloon arch.
Blond, willowy, looking spectacular in seafoam green with one hand delicately crooked in the arm of her equally spectacular tux-wearing date.
Miles and I look at each other, mirroring each other’s shock and horror, an endless loop of Oh, god, anything but this.
“I assumed she wouldn’t come,” Miles spits out.
“Uh-huh” is all I can manage. My brain is busy planning escape routes. With Peter and Petra still standing just inside the doorway, our best bet would be to sprint out onto the veranda, pitch ourselves over the railing, and belly flop hard onto the sandy beach below.
“I’m the one who bought the tickets,” Miles is saying. “So I just assumed she wouldn’t come.”
“What do we do?” I ask him.
“I mean,” Miles says, “we could say hi? Or just ignore them? It’s a big room.”
Suddenly, the entire state of Michigan doesn’t feel large enough for all four of us.
I glance back to the doors. Peter and Petra have moved off along the wall, serpentining through the tables toward a group of people in the back corner.
“Granny Comer’s here,” Miles grunts.
“Granny Comer?” I repeat, aghast.
“Petra’s grandmother,” he helpfully supplies.
“No, I gathered that. I just can’t believe that’s what they call her. Do they secretly hate her?”
“No, they love her,” he says. “It’s me they secretly hated.”
“So they have just as bad taste as Petra, then,” I bite out.
He smiles, but it’s quick; there, then gone. “Do you want to run?”
Obviously I do.
But I’m also thinking about the picture of Peter and Petra with Sadie and Cooper, about all those sacred places in Richmond that don’t belong to me anymore, about the house that wasn’t ever really mine, and about Petra bringing Peter here, even knowing Miles already had tickets.
“Ma’am?” the bartender calls toward us.
We’ve made it to the front of the line; she’s waiting for us to order. I lock eyes with Miles. “If you need to, we can run,” he says. “But . . .” His head tips, eyes glimmering beneath his dark lashes.
“But?” I say.
“We could also stay,” Miles replies. “Drink. Dance. Have fun.”
“In a room with our exes,” I point out. “Who think we’re dating.”
Miles’s smile hitches up. “See?” he says. “Doesn’t that sound fun?”
“Ma’am?” the bartender says, more loudly this time.
We shouldn’t have to leave. If they’re uncomfortable, they can go.
I turn back to her. “Two shots of whiskey, please.”
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