Parking Lot Prom
*Steve Harrington-centric (season 3)
Inspired by this prompt list (I don't know how or why I found it-- I know it's super old!) @deity-prompts
Prompt: "What a waste of a perfectly good dress."
You should’ve known it wouldn’t happen.
When Kevin Palmer asked you to prom two weeks ago, there’d been a small part of you that almost laughed in his face– it had to be a joke, right? People had been planning for the dance since February. But his face was blank, no trace of malice or prank to be seen; none of his friends were hiding around corners, snickering.
“Sure,” you’d slowly said. “That sounds… okay.”
The two of you weren’t friends– more like distant acquaintances. You’d known each other since sixth grade and were in the same physics class now, as seniors. Your mother had been insisting that you go to the prom since August. (“You haven’t gone to any others!” she’d said one night. “Everyone wants to go to their prom! It’s the red-blooded American thing to do!) You’d fully been planning on sealing yourself away in your bedroom, pretending that it was just another ordinary April night in Hawkins. But now that someone had asked you… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to go.
When you got home that afternoon and told your mother, she immediately went into planning overdrive. She practically threw you in the car and headed downtown to the formal wear store, rambling a mile a minute about hoping they still had plenty of options for you to try. You went through the motions of trying on dress after dress, each one seemingly more poofy and less like you. You finally settled on a floor-length navy one that was embedded with minuscule stones that glittered when you moved, like a thousand stars in the night sky.
The night of the dance, your older sister did your hair and your makeup, loaned you small silver star earrings and a matching choker. She tried to force your feet into heels, but you managed to evade her– you weren’t graceful enough for those. And, with the dress being floor-length, you could get away with wearing your Converse, the one piece of armor that made you feel like you underneath all of the glitz.
All that was left to do was wait.
You waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
The sky darkened; no headlights appeared in your driveway.
You could feel the anxious energy radiating from every member of your family– your mother, your sister, even the dog. You glanced at the clock on the wall– it was almost nine. The dance had started an hour ago.
“Oh!” you said, your voice clear, overly loud in the quiet living room. “I forgot– Kevin told me yesterday that his car was in the shop. He was getting a ride with a friend, and I’m supposed to meet him at the school.”
Your mother shared a surprised look with your sister– did they dare believe you?
You swiped your purse from the end of the couch, pulling your keys out with one hand as the other reached for the front door. “Gosh, I hope he isn’t too mad!” you called out over your shoulder as you stepped into the night. You hurried towards your car, thankful once again that you hadn’t given in to your sister’s heels– your getaway wouldn’t be nearly as quick.
You folded yourself into the vehicle, left hand snagging the draping fabric, pulling it into the car before slamming the door closed. Your right hand shoved the key into the ignition, the vehicle rumbling to life. You just barely saw your family’s silhouettes framed in the door as you backed out of the drive and sped off.
There weren’t any tears in your eyes as you drove through the darkened streets, no sense of sadness in your core, just a deep acceptance. The voice in your head whispered, ‘told you’ in a light tone. If you’d felt ridiculous in the dress before, the feeling was now tenfold.
Your body was driving on autopilot, but not towards the school. The parking lot of Starcourt Mall was practically empty– the mall-walkers had called it quits earlier, and all of the teens were at the dance. You drove through the lot, pulling up beside the lone familiar BMW under one of the tall lightpoles. Your dashboard clock said 9:17. Scoops Ahoy was officially closed, the remaining staff finishing their end-of-day duties.
You turned your car off and stepped out onto the blacktop, rounding the front of your car. You slid up onto the hood of your vehicle, settling on the still-warm metal. You propped an elbow on your knees, chin dropping into the open palm, eyes trained on the far entrance of the mall.
Soon, a figure appeared in the distance. Even in the dark, you could see the practically neon shade of blue of the sailor uniform. You watched as it grew larger, approaching you. When he finally saw you, Steve slowed. “Y/N?”
You lifted the wrist hanging over your knees, giving him a slight wave.
Steve crossed the remaining blacktop, stopping a few feet in front of you. “What are you doing here?” His eyes dropped, taking in your dress. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“Got stood up for prom.”
Steve’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit. I’m… I’m sorry.”
You shrugged. “It’s no big deal. I kind of expected it, honestly.” Your eyes dropped to the navy material over your knees, the stones glittering even in the yellowy light of the parking lot.
Your best friend studied you in the dark, knowing how much effort it would have taken you to put yourself out there, to dress in something other than jeans and a sweatshirt. He could hear that tone, the one you were trying to bury, that said you were still a little hurt, despite the words coming out of your mouth. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.
“Who was it?” Steve asked.
“Kevin Palmer.”
Steve’s expression did something you couldn’t name– something like regret mixed with frustration. “You should’ve said something earlier,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “He came into the shop a few days ago, his arm around Samantha Kirby. I guess they’re back in the ‘on-again’ phase.”
You said nothing, letting the information sink in. You nodded once, twice, slowly– that made sense. Kevin had probably already purchased the prom tickets when he and Samantha had had their monthly falling out. You’d been nothing more than a placeholder, a reason to not view the ticket money as ‘wasted’. But when the fences had been mended once more, you’d been shoved to the side. You wondered if Kevin even remembered he’d asked you to go.
“You’re better off without him,” Steve said, his voice breaking into your thoughts. “That whole family’s… weird. His brother is the one who put the dead fish in the locker room toilets a few years ago.”
Your nose wrinkled, the smell still a prominent memory.
Steve studied you for another minute before stepping over to his car. You watched as he opened the driver's door, leaning in. He turned the key, just enough to start the radio. He fiddled with the knob for a few moments, snippets of songs filtering out into the parking lot. Finally, you heard the faint, beginning lyrics of Forever Young. Steve turned up the volume, just enough to fill the space between your vehicles. He backed out of the car and turned to you, holding out his hand. You slipped yours into his, his palm warm despite having scooped ice cream for hours. You let him pull you from the hood of your car, landing solidly before him. Before you could say anything, Steve’s other hand landed gently on your waist. There was nothing tentative or flirtatious about it– it was the warm, platonic palm of someone who’d played freeze tag with you in your grandparents’ yard when you were kids, the comforting touch of the person you’d had numerous Friday movie nights with, the solid reminder that he would be there for you, always, no matter what, to make the shitty moments less shitty.
“What are you doing?” you asked, a small laugh bubbling up in your throat.
Steve began to sway, ever so slightly. “Come on. Dance with me.” His eyes were warm, the corner of his mouth quirked up in that boyish grin that had had a majority of Hawkins High swooning. You would’ve thought he was teasing you, waiting for you to be in on the joke, the punchline hanging in the air before a burst of laughter echoed across the parking lot. But there was nothing but sincerity in his expression.
You felt your body start to move, swaying along with his. “This is absurd.” You looked around, hoping mall security wasn’t doing their rounds yet.
“It’s prom. Everyone has to have one cheesy slow dance at prom. That’s the rule.”
The two of you stood there, swaying to a slow song about nuclear winter; you, in a ridiculous dress that you never wanted, him, in that obnoxious sailor uniform, the scent of waffle cones still on his skin.
The song ended, the jarring voice of the late-night radio DJ announcing the next tune with a vibrant energy that seemed too large for the moment. The two of you stood for a moment, watching each other, before you moved, wrapping your arms around him.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
“Any time,” Steve promised. He gave you a small squeeze before stepping back. “You want to come over? Movies, popcorn, falling asleep on the couch like a couple of old people?”
You smiled but shook your head. “I should probably get home. I desperately want out of this,” you gestured at the gown. “Maybe I’ll burn it.”
“Seems like a waste of a perfectly good dress. But you’re welcome to use the firepit in my backyard.”
“I’ll take you up on that if you’re serious.” Your mom would probably kill you, but you couldn’t stand the thought of the dress hanging in the back of your closet, a formidable reminder of the evening.
Steve smiled at you. “Sure. Bring it over tomorrow. I’ll pick up some extra lighter fluid in the morning.”
