The Road Trip Wednesday article has gone up on the YA Highway blog. This week, the challenge is: It’s almost prom season, and since we love to read and write about teenagers, we want to hear your prom stories!
At first my response was “Sorry, I went to school in the UK, we didn’t do proms, so I have nothing to contribute!” But then I had a moment similar to Hermione’s in HARRY POTTER AND THE PHILOSOPHER’S STONE–you know, where they’re in the pit and she’s panicking over where to find fire, and the boys remind her, “You’re a witch!” to which she says “oh yes,” and conjures fire? Well, no sooner had I posted my apology on the YA Highway blog than it hit me: “you’re a fiction writer, idiot–make something up!” So here’s a very very short piece called…
Phoebe Parks is wearing blue. The long gown flows over her body like the sea over rocks–effortless and elegant, rippling against her legs as she walks over to the punch bowl. I sit at a small round table, watching in awe as she picks up two cups. Always thinking of others, that’s my Phoebe. I can’t help but admire the grace with which she handles the punch ladle, gently scooping up liquid and depositing it into the cups in one arc, without a splash. Now she’s talking to one of the guys at the table. That’s okay; she has such a warm personality, of course people want to talk to her. And she’s so generous with her time. The guy is Peter Scott, and he’s wearing a tuxedo with brightly polished shoes and a red carnation in his button hole. Much nicer than my suit and tie, but Phoebe’s not one to be impressed with appearances. She’s deep like that. Now they’ve finished talking, and she’s moving away from the table, dodging around dancing couples with such artistry she could be a figure skater. She’s walking this way. There’s Mark Ward in his white suit. Phoebe hands him his drink. They kiss. I sigh. It was a nice dream while it lasted.
So, what’s your prom story? Tell the folks at YA Highway by writing a blog article and posting a link to in the Road Trip Wednesday article comments.