The YA Prom - My Prom (My Entry)

What is The YA Prom?

YA Prom is an event open to anybody (authors, bloggers, book aficionados...) invented and hosted by Gaby and Alexa. It's a lot like regular prom. But this time you can skip waiting anxiously for that perfect boy to ask you, obsessively rifling through clothing stores for the perfect dress, all that other perfect jazz, and go straight to the partying on twitter in your pajamas!

All you really have to do to join The YA Prom is:

1. Write a post detailing who your YA date is (ex: Harry from Harry Potter), what you're wearing, and any other information you deem necessary.

2. Post said post on your blog/tumblr/wherever by June 25th at 8:30pm and link up to the Linky that will appear on both Gaby and Alexa's blogs when their prom posts go up.

3. Pop onto Twitter at 8:30pm on June 25th and, using the hashtag #YAProm, spend an hour with your twitter friends celebrating YA, prom, and other excellent things!

Please note the following:

-If you don't have a blog or a tumblr, you can still join us. Let everyone know who you're going with and what you're wearing in a tweet and use that tweet to link up on June 25th in the Linky that will be on Gaby and Alexa's blogs.

Oh I've been waiting for this too long... My YA date is Patch Cipriano from Hush, hush by Becca Fitzpatrick. I love this book and Patch was among my first hardcore book crushes. I adore his witty remarks, his badassness and his other protective, tender side. As if it wasn't enough, he would rule the world of handsomeness - if there was one. In case you haven't read the book you should go start it right away here's how he looks;

• black hair 
• deep black eyes (that "take in everything and give back nothing") a rugged skin tone (like a Spaniard) 
• six-foot-two 
• sharp, almost Italian features
• “dark-Levi’s, dark-Henley, dark boots kind of guy who smells of spice, fresh cut grass and leather

Swooned yet? I did. Again.

The next few paragraphs will be about my prom. Make-up, dress, hair, Patch...I didn't know how to do it, a picture seemed insufficient, so I did it up a bit. I sort of wrote my YA prom as if it was part of a real YA book - except I'm not that good -, so it's really made up and really YA-ish, but based on real feelings and personality. Therefore, I'm a bit anxious, I don't usually give so much from myself, and also it's my writing and I'm afraid it's not good - I'm not good enough enough and you won't like it which would be kind of the apocalypse of my world. So without further ado, I'll just sit here and bite my nails until you read it.

I was never really good with make-up so I have mum do it for me. It's nice to do something together even if it's something as short and one-sided as applying cosmetics. Being a single mum, she rarely has time for me, but today is a special day; a day of my prom, the last and most significant event of my high-school years. Well, apart from graduation of course. That's pretty important, too.

I'm already nervous and not only because of the prom or the date, though they add to it, too. Yet, what makes my legs shaky and my tummy knot up on itself is the fact that mum will be there. I know it sounds strange, like I'm overreacting. big-time. It's just my mum after all. I should rather be worried if she might embarrass me before my friends with something as awkward as childhood memories, or frets about me, but the fact is that my mum hasn't been on any of my notable events since... too long to remember. She wasn't there when I left primary school, not a dance performance,or violin exam, or even a puny parent conference. Nothing. Not that I blame her. Not at all. She has to work to make a living for us, I get that. However, now that she'll finally come and see me, I desperately want to put my best foot forward.

   "Can we start?" she asks then, snapping me out of my reverie. I nod.

We don't talk much during the procedure. She's too preoccupied in doing her best with my beautification and not wanting to bother her, I watch her deft movements instead.

She applies foundation first. It has a rather pale shade which blends in perfectly with my skin tone as she spreads it over my face, using her fingers to do so. Only when there's not a single blemish to be seen does she move on to pick up a brush from the vanity table in front of me. She presses it into the turquoise eyeshadow and asks me to close my eyes. I obey and a few moments later I feel the powder getting swept on my eyelid from the inside out. When she stops, I peek to see as Mum musters powder again, a different color on a different brush. She brings it up and I close my eyes again. I think she's doing that smokey eye thing for me that I've seen in a magazine and tried out, but turned out to be a disaster with my non-existent skills. 

She dabs the outer part of my lids and I get a bit excited which results a serious drop in my nervousness; I am going to have smokey eyes!

When she finishes, a short pause follows then something cooler touches my lids, close to my lashes. Mum says it's eye liner to define my eyes. She also tells me we're almost ready - with my eyes. I let out an exasperated sigh; it already feels too much. But I don't resist, I must look as great as possible and anyway, who know when I'll have time like this with her next.

I try to relax and enjoy myself. As a girl I'm supposed to, at least according to most of my classmates and their Facebook pictures. But I can't help, but feeling false. Like it wasn't me, but a more gorgeous version of my plain self, still false. That's why I never use any make-up. It doesn't feel like me. 

"Open your eyes." Mum orders and I acquiesce. I pry my eyes open, slowly, afraid of what I might see. It's not that I don't trust her skills or taste, rather I don't trust myself. That I can look pretty enough. Because despite how I usually don't care about it and march around saying it doesn't matter, for a day I would like to be beautiful and special. Just for one little day.

"You're beautiful." She smiles, I can hear it in her voice and I finally lift my head up to see the outcome. 

My chin falls slack. I can't believe it's me in the mirror. She, I, she looks more mature than me and truly amazing with her smokey turquoise eyes that are slightly bigger than mine and look stunning as the color brings out the brown of them. Her skin looks paler against the modest pinkish blush on her cheeks, a matching color to the shiny lipstick she's wearing. I can't believe it's me in the mirror. But it must be. And when I indeed begin to acknowledge it, for the first time in so long, I consider myself fairly pretty.

After having my make-up done, Mum leaves me to be on my own so that I can put on my ball dress. For now, it's sagging on a clothes-hanger from the edge of my closet while I'm eying it with growing anxiety. If I do put it on, then I'm ready and then we go and...

I shake my head at my own silliness. I will not avoid or even be late to my Prom, because I chickened out. Seriously, who does that? I shake my head again and quickly approach the dress, before I could in fact coward away, and pull it on.

Inspecting myself in the big, standing mirror cinched on my closet's door, I deduce that as with the make-up, Mum was right concerning my attire, too. I didn't believe turquoise would match my skin tone, but the fact that they actually get the best out of each other is a bitter reminder how hopeless I'm at this. 

The long, strapless maxi brings out my shape as well; the string pulling it tight under my breasts and letting lose under them shows only my strong points and hides my not-so-strong ones. It's not that I'm plump or something - in fact, if you ask anybody else, they will say I'm quite slim, but I don't like seeing myself in tight clothes. Even though that certain affair was years ago and I've been faring well even since, I'm still not utterly comfortable with my body. 

Not wanting to get sucked up in the past, I go to adore the golden struts that ornament the pulling for a jitty and then I walk over to my bed where the shoes are waiting for me. It was the only thing I chose completely on my own and I was satisfied with my decision despite the fact that it was literally the first pair of shoes I caught a glimpse of on my lonely shopping spree. But it was love for first sight, and that kind of thing is never wrong. Well, not when it comes to pieces of clothing at least. Okay, it is very often wrong, but this time it is not and that's the point.

I slip my feet into the white, high-heeled sandals and stand to have a last long glance at reflection. It won't be such a bad night, I decide at last and clack out of the room. 

Just to turn right back for my clutch which I left on my bed next to the shoe-box. I garb it quickly and clack off one last time.

I make my way downstairs slightly wobbling - it's a rare occasion for me to wear these devilish swings.  I can't imagine how other people are walking in them so gracefully, I personally would feel steadier in an earthquake. But I don't complain since Mum's watching me intently from the mudroom and it would only result an "I told you" on her part and today I don't want to hear it. Not like any time else it'd be better, but today I'm feeling as if I was kind of pretty and I'm indenting to keep it that way at least until the end of the ball.

I'm almost able to get into balance when I catch sight of Patch lounging next to Mum, fully in black except from his white shirt and all my work blows up as I trip and nearly fall. I manage to regain my footage just in time though, and glance between them, trying to figure out whether they saw it. But of course they did! Both of them have been staring at me all along and became witnesses of my shameful relationship with the feminine style. Yet, to my surprise, neither of them chuckled or looked smug like I expected. What they do look like is something less dejecting, but more delicate and affectionate; they almost look as if they are in... awe. And full of...pride. 

They are proud. I'm sure of it when Mum hugs me sniffling, then reluctantly hands me off to Patch who tells me I'm beautiful, awe lacing his voice and I realized I wasn't indeed feeling pretty so far. I only wanted to. Really wanted I give it that much, but it wasn't anywhere near how beautiful I do feel when he tells me so.

So this is my YA Prom, though I hope I'll learn how to actually look as if I'm able to walk in high-heels by the time I get there. :) I hope you liked it (I really do because if not it's probably for my awful writing and that would imply I embarrassed myself completely in front of, like, the blogsphere) and I would be happy and rather grateful if you could leave the links of yours in comment. I'm curious about others'. :)