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first one he didn’t even let me see.
    He yells from inside.
    “Really? Seafoam green? What are you trying to do to me?”
    I know exactly what I’m doing. I want him to look like crap. Why? 'Cause he’s going to prom with crap. Said crap is Veronica Matthews. I hate her. She’s not right for Mack. I know his type and she’s not it. I’m not even sure what he sees in her. He doesn't go for the girly-girls. He goes for either the smart or athletic ones. Veronica Matthews is neither.
    Dumb as a rock, she wears way too much lipstick, and she shakes her pom poms like they’re an appendage. She fawns all over him like some tramp. She has since the seventh grade. She makes me sick. Flipping that hair off her shoulder at his locker and laughing over-enthusiastically at his unfunny jokes.
    “You think Veronica is going to like me in this color, Rinny? She only wears pink. She may not like it.”
    I don’t fucking care if the bitch likes it or not, Mack. She’ll hate it and I’ll love that she hates it.
    “Oh, please. You could wear a burlap sack and she’d love it.”
    She’s going to hate that color. Ha! Take that, bitch.
    I toss my hair over my shoulder and mimic Veronica’s high-pitched squeaky voice quietly so Mack doesn’t hear.
    “Oh, yes, Mack. You look so hot, Mack. You’re so funny, Mack. No one is as funny as you, Mack. The way you swing a bat, Mack. No one swings like you, Mack.”
    He’s not that funny, and I swing better than he does.
    I stick my finger into my mouth and pretend to gag.
    I still can’t believe it’s our senior prom.
    Our junior prom last spring was downgraded to casual dress and was just in our school’s cafeteria because of 9/11. People in our school voted on it. The reason was that it was morally irresponsible for our student body to celebrate prom when three thousand people died and the city was in turmoil.
    Since we live so close to New York City, you could see and smell the smoke in the sky. The skies were bluer than blue but the odor of death and destruction lingered in the air. Wherever you went, people were crying. Driving around, you saw children on every street corner crying and holding their father’s fire helmet—hanging onto some kind of hope they'd come home. Many local people never did. We spent days upon days going to churches and masses for the missing or the dead. Everyone knew someone affected by the tragedy. A turn of a head and you knew someone who knew someone. This included us.
    Mack’s dad, John, died in the South Tower.
    We were in school when we heard screaming. TVs were turned on in the classrooms that had them and I knew John worked there. As soon as I saw, I ran from my classroom to Mack’s. I knew what class he was in, and I knew I needed to get to him. When I reached his classroom, I threw open the door and scanned the room for him. The students knew why I was there and some just cried and pointed to the hallway. I figured that meant he was at his locker. I ran as fast as my legs could take me—around the corner past the gym and the workout room. I saw him at his open locker, but he wasn’t moving. His hand was on the top of it, and his body leaned into the open door. I couldn’t see his face. I stood there for what felt like forever. I was frozen as I waited to see some kind of movement. I unsteadily walked towards him. When I reached his locker, I placed my hand on top of his. Despite not seeing my face, Mack knew it was me.
    “Rinny, do you think he’s dead?” That’s all he said to me. I told him I didn’t know, but we needed to get to his mom. Jocelyn was home. Hopefully Mom was with her. I prayed she was.
    When Mack raised his head out of the confines of his locker, there was nothing there. No emotion. His eyes were empty at the prospect of his father being dead. When I saw this, I raised my hand and stroked his scar. I’m saying sorry, even if I wasn’t sure I needed a reason to be sorry. His face fell into my hand, and then his