Page 21 of Everything I Promised You

Formal

Fifteen Years Old, Virginia

Raiden Tanaka approached me in the courtyard while I was making my way to first period. Macy was walking beside me and, as he stepped into our path, arms laden with pink roses, we both stopped short.

“Hey, Lia,” he said, lifting a hand to wipe his brow. It was February, the dead of winter, but he was glistening.

Raiden sat beside me in math class. We were in tenth-grade math, though I was a freshman and he was a junior. He’d explained early in the year that he had dyscalculia, which made him confuse numbers the way someone with dyslexia confuses letters.

“Math trips me up,” he’d said, rubbing his reddening neck. “But I’m not stupid.”

“Obviously not,” I’d said, endeared by his openness.

We’d been math buddies since.

Raiden is a virtuoso on the cello, and cute. His parents immigrated to the US from Japan, and he has shiny black hair and intensely brown eyes. Also, he has the longest lashes of any person I’ve ever seen in real life.

He passed me the roses and said, “I was wondering if you’d come to formal with me?”

I was so surprised it took an elbow from Macy to prompt my response.

“Oh, wow, Raiden.”

“Wow, as in yes ?” he said, eyes lit with hope.

“Yes, of course,” I said, finding my footing after the surprise of his invitation. “Thank you for asking me.”

He grinned. “Can’t think of anyone I’d rather go with. We’ll hammer out the details in class later, cool?”

“Yeah. And thank you for the flowers.”

He stepped forward and wrapped an arm around me, a hug that was as awkward as it was sweet. And then he was off, with a spring in his step.

Macy pivoted to face me. There was a waggish gleam in her eye. “Raiden Tanaka,” she said, equal parts amused and delighted. She knew him from orchestra; she’d been playing the violin since fourth grade. “I had no idea.”

“Don’t be weird. He and I are friends.”

Even in the cold, I could feel myself blushing. Raiden’s invitation had been unexpected, but not unwelcome. He was very cute and very nice, and I was sure we’d have fun together.

“Still. Formal. As a freshman.”

“Right?” I said, imagining myself in chiffon, curls falling around my shoulders, a fragrant corsage on my wrist. Raiden, sporting a suit, twirling me on the dance floor. “Who would’ve thought?”

At Rosebell High, freshman and sophomores are only allowed to go to formal if they’ve been invited by a junior or senior. I’d had no illusions about attending. With the exception of the casual friends I’d made in my classes, I hung out with Beck’s social circle. There was no way Raj or Stephen would invite me to a dance. I’m pretty sure they thought of me as a kid-sister. Wyatt was with Macy. And Beck hated school dances, and dancing in general.

“Too cheesy,” he used to say. “Too cliché.”

“I wonder what Beck will think,” Macy said, giving voice to the thought that’d just rooted in my head.

I shrugged. “He won’t go to formal. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.”

“Totally. I just wonder if he might be bummed.”

“I doubt it.”

She gave me a look that communicated her uncertainty, but she didn’t dampen my excitement. She hooked her arm through mine, careful not to smoosh the flowers I’d be carrying around for the rest of the day, and asked, “Want to go dress shopping this weekend?”

***

Macy’s musings on whether Beck might be upset about me and Raiden going to formal bothered me enough that I’d spent the morning considering whether to swing by my locker to stash the roses before lunch.

But…why?

I’d been harboring a crush on Beck for months, and he’d given me no indication that his feelings had escalated the way mine had. I would’ve happily jumped into an ocean of more , but I was okay with the status quo. He obviously was too.

I took the roses to lunch.

When I sat down, placing the bouquet at the end of the table where it would be out of the way, Beck looked at it. Then he looked at me.

“Someone gave you flowers?”

“Yes,” I said, pulling my lunch from my bag. I didn’t like the way his mouth had dipped in disapproval, but I kept my expression neutral.

Side-eying the roses, he asked, “Why?”

“Why not?”

“That’s not an answer.”

Even though his sense of entitlement to the goings-on of my life was irritating, I used a sunny tone because I didn’t feel like arguing. “I’m not sure that question warrants an answer.”

“Who gave them to you?”

An uncomfortable tension had descended on our table. Raj, Stephen, Wyatt, and Macy had paused in their eating to observe Beck and me.

“Why do you care?” I said.

“I don’t. I’m…curious.”

Folding my hands on the tabletop, I met his gaze. “Raiden Tanaka gave them to me when he asked me to formal.”

In my periphery, I caught Raj grimace, while Stephen let out a low “Oof.”

“Formal?” Beck parroted, like the tradition was alien.

“Yes. It’s a school-sponsored social event. Everyone dresses up and spends the evening dancing and posing for photos and having a fabulous time. I was invited. Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

“No. Who the fuck is Raiden Tanaka?”

I sighed. “He’s in my math class.”

Macy reached across Wyatt to pat Beck’s arm. “He’s a good guy.”

“Sure he is,” Beck said scornfully. And then, to me: “You told him you’d go?”

“Yeah. I think it’ll be fun.”

He balked. “You’re gonna spend your birthday at formal with Raiden Tanaka?”

The dance was scheduled for the third Saturday in March. I knew this. But I hadn’t realized that the third Saturday in March was the day I’d turn fifteen. Distress quickened my pulse as understanding took hold: I’d committed to celebrating my birthday at a dance with a relatively unknown boy, instead of with my parents and the Byrnes, like I had years past.

Misgiving must’ve been written across my face because, smugly, Beck said, “It’ll be a fantastic birthday.”

He didn’t speak to me for the rest of lunch.

I didn’t look at him.

I took the bus home, roses and all, because screw Beck for stealing my joy. He texted once— You coming? —and I ignored him because I was feeling petty and vengeful. I hoped he was standing in the parking lot. Waiting for me. Worrying about me.

When my mom got home from work, I showed her my flowers and told her about Raiden and formal. She was delighted and started tossing out ideas for dresses and hairstyles.

“You don’t care that I won’t be home for my birthday?”

“Of course I care. But formal is exciting. We’ll spend the day celebrating while we get you ready. And we’ll have the Byrnes over Friday night, or Sunday afternoon. It’ll work out.”

I was so overwhelmed by clashing emotions, my eyes welled with tears. “Beck’s mad.”

Mom zipped it about the dance. She gave me a hug and listened as I recounted the lunchtime squabble in a voice full of despair.

“Oh, Lia,” she said once I’d finished. “I’m sorry that happened. Sounds like Beck is—”

She pressed her lips together, like she was having second thoughts about voicing whatever theory was spinning through her head.

“Sounds like Beck is what?”

“Jealous, maybe?” She said it quietly, as if betraying a confidence, which made me wonder how often she and Bernie discussed Beck and me.

I harrumphed. “Or maybe he’s a jerk. He’s not even planning to go to formal!”

“Regardless, he shouldn’t have given you a hard time. But more often than not, there’s a reason people behave the way they do.”

“And you think Beck is jealous. Of what?”

“I’m not going to speak for him, lovey. But he’s usually very good to you. He gets news that you’re going to spend time with another boy, and suddenly he’s, as you put it, acting like a jerk? Maybe he regrets not asking you to formal himself. Maybe he’s disappointed that he won’t get to spend your birthday with you. Maybe he’s starting to realize something about himself. About you . Whatever the case, I’m sure the two of you will sort it out.”

Her phone chimed in its familiar way: a text from Bernie.

I knew without having to look that its subject was formal.

***

I spent my fifteenth birthday getting all sorts of spoiled. My parents took me to brunch, where Dad promised he’d start teaching me to drive as soon as I was ready. Then Mom and I went for manicures and pedicures. Afterward we visited a fancy salon in DC where my hair was braided into a romantic updo. Bernie came over to help with my makeup and, bless her, didn’t mention her son even once.

Over the last couple weeks, things had been weird between Beck and me. We were back to speaking, but stiffly. Formal and my birthday never came up. His grizzly bear hugs were no more. He’d quit poking my ribs and ruffling my hair and grabbing my hand in moments of amusement. I’d started riding the bus pretty regularly, because sitting beside him in the 4Runner his parents bought him—used and abused—for his sixteenth was too much.

When Raiden picked me up Saturday night, my parents escorted him inside for pictures. His suit complemented the ivory gown I’d picked out during my shopping trip with Macy. He brought a corsage, as I’d hoped. The white roses, stephanotis, and delicate baby’s breath were perfect, and his hands shook a little as he slid it onto my wrist. He brought my mom peonies, her favorite flower, and a box of beautifully frosted cupcakes.

“Happy birthday,” he said, presenting them to me.

I was surprised. I hadn’t told him about my birthday.

We ate the cupcakes with my parents. He held his own with my dad, answering questions about current events as if he’d been previously briefed, and he was super polite to my mom. She flashed me more than one approving smile.

The dance was held at the Washington Hilton near Dupont Circle. The ballroom was gorgeous, and Raiden could not have been nicer. We spent several songs on the dance floor with his circle of friends, mostly from the orchestra, laughing and matching each other ridiculous move for ridiculous move. I saw Wyatt and Macy, who was wearing an elegant floral gown, and Raj and his date, Aimee, who went to Mount Vernon High School and was his on-again, off-again. I saw Stephen, who’d come stag and was clearly glad about it. I soaked up tons of birthday wishes from my friends and Raiden’s.

I tried not to think about the birthdays I’d celebrated before, with the Byrnes. I tried not to think about the sense of missing I couldn’t seem to shake. I tried not to think about the tension that had wedged itself between me and Beck.

And then I saw Beck, standing near the dance floor.

He was wearing a suit—a nice one. I’d never seen him in anything dressier than a blazer, and those rarities occurred because Bernie is good at threats. His tie was loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His hair was in its usual charming disarray. He had one hand in a pocket, and the other was holding a cup of punch. I wondered if it’d been spiked, because how else could he tolerate something as cheesy and cliché as a high school dance if not with a steady drip of booze?

He was talking to Taryn, the girl he’d dated before I moved to Rosebell. The placeholder, Macy had called her. She looked stunning in a floor-length black dress, her hair pinned with a pearl barrette. It was easy to see why Beck had been drawn to her: she was beautiful, poised, and confident. I couldn’t help but steal glances at them as Usher’s “Yeah!” faded out.

I was imploding, heat and energy and envy razing me from the inside out.

As the music transitioned to a slow and sentimental Tim McGraw song, Beck looked away from Taryn to capture my gaze.

He was a struck match, blazing.

Raiden stepped into my line of vision. He smiled, circling his arms around my waist, positioning his hands politely. It was probably unintentional, the way he turned us so Beck was to my back, but it was certainly for the best. I brought my palms to rest on Raiden’s shoulders and tried to reclaim the happiness I’d found before Beck showed up. Raiden had given me a nice evening, after all, and that’s what you’re supposed to do at formal: dance with your date.

As soon as I’d found a rhythm with him, though, I felt a tap at my elbow.

I turned to find Beck.

“Is it cool if I steal a dance with Lia?” he asked Raiden.

Raiden’s mouth bobbed open, then closed again. I had a feeling he wanted to suggest that Beck pound sand, but he seemed to lack the courage to tell off a guy who outweighed him by a solid fifty pounds.

When he’d been silent too long, Beck’s gaze fell to me. “Lia?”

I nodded before Raiden could work out a response. Hoping my expression didn’t appear too eager, I watched him shuffle off the dance floor to join a few of his friends near the refreshment table. Then I turned to face Beck.

I’d expected him to say something, whether it be an explanation as to why he’d come or an apology for the way he’d acted after finding out that Raiden and I were coming to formal together. He didn’t speak, though. He strode forward and drew me against him. There was nothing hesitant about the way he initiated the dance—it was the opposite of how Raiden had timidly placed his hands along my spine. Beck and I had hugged a thousand times, but that night, he held me like the contact between his body and mine was life giving.

Maybe my mom had been right: maybe he had been jealous. Or maybe he’d had an epiphany about himself, or me, or the possibility of us—the same as I’d experienced over the last several months. Whatever the case, that night he made it clear that he cared enough to dress up, come to a school dance, and move about the floor with his arms around me.

I closed my eyes, pressing my cheek to his chest, wholly at peace in his embrace.

During the song’s final melodies, he dropped his chin, touching his cheek to mine. He smelled so good, like himself, but with an added note of cologne. His hands skimmed up, up, up, until they rested warmly against my neck.

He murmured, “Happy birthday, Lia,” and, as the song ended, he let me go.

After the dance, Raiden drove me home. We skipped the various after-parties because I had a curfew, which I was secretly glad for. He’d spent the evening treating me like a princess, even after I was finished dancing with Beck. Still, I was ready to be alone with my journal and the newest layer of understanding I had regarding my feelings for Beck.

“That was fun,” Raiden said as he walked me to the door.

“I thought so too. Thank you for the cupcakes.”

He shrugged. “You should thank your friend for clueing me in about your birthday.”

I smiled, making a leap. “Macy’s considerate that way.”

“No, not Macy. Your other friend, the dude who cut in on our dance.”

It took me a second, though there’d only been one person to interrupt Raiden and me on the dance floor. I spluttered, “Beck?!”

“Yeah, he pulled me aside last week and told me about your birthday. He also told me your mom likes peonies and that I should educate myself about what’s going on in the world, unless I wanted to make an ass of myself in front of your dad.”

I blinked, dumbstruck.

Beck had coached Raiden?

After the drama he’d stirred up a couple weeks before?

“It was cool of him to fill me in,” Raiden admitted, taking hold of my hand.

“Yeah,” I said, struggling to reclaim speech. “It was.”

He ducked forward, pecking my cheek, and then he was off.

I floated into the house and up to my room, romanced not by Raiden, my date, but by Beck, who’d swallowed his pride to ensure that my night was special.

Sitting on my bed, I pulled out my phone and sent him a text.

Thank you. 3