[Continued from, “The Frog Who Did Not Turn Into A Prince (Part 2: The First Kiss)”]
“So…what color is your dress? I need to know what color of corsage I need to get,” Frog inquired with the enthusiasm of a slug.
“Cream with gold thread,” I answered.
“Oh. Hey, did you know that when a girl wears a red dress to prom it means she wants to get laid?” he asked casually.
“No,” I said blandly, “I did not know that.”
I woke up on the morning of Prom with a sinking sensation in my stomach. May 1st had finally come, but after two months of bad first dates and even worse first kisses, I had the feeling that my first Prom was going to be a nightmare.
Two hours before Frog was due to pick me up, I left for my hair appointment. Inspired by Shakespeare in Love, I decided to get my hair styled like Viola de Lesseps:
When I showed the hairdresser a picture of Viola, she took one look at my thick, bushy, witch hair and said, “I think I’m going to cry!”
Poor lady. She had no idea how to go about shaping my mop into a flowing, midevil coif. In the end, she decided to start off by curling my entire head with the skinniest curling iron I’d ever seen. After an hour and a half, she was still curling.
I began to shift anxiously in my seat, my eyes glued to the minute hand on the clock. Sensing my angst, the hairdresser began to panic. At last, unable to handle the pressure of the assignment any longer, she ran to the salon owner who pinned and primped everything into place in under five minutes.
The drama at the hair salon left me feeling even more unsettled about the evening ahead as I raced home to throw on my dress. I was reapplying my eyeliner for the third time when the doorbell rang.
It was Frog.
“I forgot what color you said your dress was,” he said, handing me a box with a red corsage in it.
“Um…thanks,” I said, trying not to hurl the box across the room. Frog attempted to help me put the gawdy corsage on, but his thick, hotdog fingers were too beefy for the straight pins. I had Momma take over when his eyes grew too beady for my comfort. Then, sensing that Frog wanted to get the heck outta there, we left.
A black sedan that looked like a monster truck had rolled over it awaited us outside. Since the passenger door handle was broken, Frog had to open the door for me from the inside, a process which took a few minutes since the inside handle was missing. In fact, the entire door panel was missing, exposing a matrix of greasy wires. Cursing under his breath, Frog squeezed one of these wires with a pair of pliers before the door finally popped open.
“I hate having to open that door!” Frog puffed. “Yesterday, I didn’t have to open the door for my friend. She just crawled right through the window. And she was wearing a really short mini skirt. It was awesome.”
I had always hoped my prom date would tell me a story like this.
“I can’t believe how far away this Prom is,” Frog continued, “I don’t have the money to be driving all the way out to east El Paso, especially after spending a fortune renting this stupid tux!”
He spent the next few minutes complaining about how he never had any money, so I was surprised when he said he was taking me to Olive Garden. I had never been to this restaurant before and had always wanted to try it, but at that moment I was more ready to vomit than to eat a plate of spaghetti. Nevertheless, I ordered the cheapest item on the menu, took two bites of it and asked the waiter for a doggy bag.
After a long and silent drive, we finally arrived at the dance hall, and I practically cried when I spotted my friends. After hugging each one of them like I was a soldier returning from war, I went in search of Frog to see if maybe he would ask me to dance.
I found him in a corner flirting with a blonde girl in a red dress.
Needless to say, he never danced with me.
Three miserable hours later it was eleven p.m. Prom was over.
“Hey, some guys from the baseball team have reserved rooms over at the Marriott. You wanna go?” Frog asked.
“No!” was my quick answer.
“Well, then, do you think you could find a ride home so that I don’t have to drive all the way to your house and back?”
Frog ceased to amaze me.
“No,” I said again, “You are my only ride, and I need to get home.”
As Frog pulled into my driveway, I half expected him to kick me out with his shiny-shoed foot. Instead, he put the car in park and turned to face me, an oily grin on his face.
“I had a wonderful time tonight,” he murmured.
“Yeahh, I did, too,” I lied, confused by Frog’s sudden friendliness. I would have thrown the car door open and slammed it in his face had I not had to first struggle with the pliers to get the damn thing open.
“I’ll call you,” Frog said at last in a voice that, to me, really said, “I’ll actually never call you…unless you want to mess around. In that case, you can totally call me, because I can tolerate anyone if it means I get some action.”
That night, I lie awake in bed thinking about what a miserable time I’d had, along with all of the miserable things I’d had to endure just to experience it. I’d wasted two months of my life on a total loser and all I had gotten out of it was a tacky red corsage and a box of spaghetti leftovers.
The spaghetti I would eat the next day for lunch.
The corsage I would keep on my dresser as reminder to never wear red and to never waste time on a Frog.