CW: body horror, gore

I never envisioned going to prom this way. Never saw myself wearing red to prom because I hate red, but everyone knows that Asians wear red and a defiant part of me wants to cling to my ethnicity the way polish clings onto fingernails, colored flakes never chipping at the same time but scraping off bit by bit, as if afraid to let go of the pastel rawness underneath. 

I’m not even supposed to be here anyway. Mother told me not to go to prom. She had torn up my silver prom ticket and threw my golden strapless dress out of my bedroom window, the satin flickering in the moonlight as the wind tore it to pieces. She said I wouldn’t like the pounding music and the sparkly dresses and the scent of expensive perfume. I told her that she never went to prom herself, so she shouldn’t be talking. Then when she wasn’t looking I slipped out and took a taxi to my high school and waited outside the entrance until the student volunteers finally took pity on me and let me in. 

Someone waves to me from across the room. 

“Hey Jess! Wanna sit with me?” It’s Sophie. Beautiful beautiful Sophie smiles and gestures towards the seat next to her. It’s empty. 

“We’ve never really talked to each other but better late than never right?” 

I nod and take the seat next to her. She beams. 

“I was in the same class with you. Biology third period. Eighth grade. Do you remember?” 

“No.” 

That’s a lie. I do remember her, but I hate Sophie’s guts, so I want her to feel uncomfortable and squirm in her seat. I hate her the way I hate paint, the messy liquid sticking to my thumb as I peel the dried layers off, only for me to dip my hands in the paint tin again because I’m addicted to the white colors and I like to pretend it’s my own flesh being stripped and discarded. 

“Um okay. That’s awkward.” She laughs, blowing a loose strand of hair from her face. “So-uh, who’s your date?” 

“I don’t have one.” 

“Oh.” She looks away, her cheeks tinged pink. 

“I guess I’m pretty lucky to end up with Edward.” She says and looks around the gymnasium, searching for her blonde boyfriend, so he can save her from this conversation, so he can drag her away and fuck her while watermelon sugar plays in the background. She laughs again, her voice high-pitched and warm, mostly to fill in the silence. Then she looks at the table next to us and sighs. 

I don’t tell her that as I watch her long for her beautiful friends at the next table who giggle about white boys, I secretly dream of wearing Sophie’s face. That I want to tear her skin off, peel the layers back like slimy grape skin and smash her sweet sticky flesh against my buttery complexion as if both colors could blend and morph, white dominating yellow. 

Someone in the room shouts and there’s a faint pop as confetti and shiny streamers drift above the dance floor. There’s more hollering and whooping as another pack of glittery confetti poppers are set off. 

And as the confetti rains from the room I close my eyes and let myself fall into a sea of cotton candy clouds and Harry Styles's swirly hair and blonde haired boys that press kisses onto my skin with their slippery tongues. I dream of being Sophie, of eating the rawness in her heart and the veins in her wrist and birthing a new body of white skin and blonde hair, finally free from all this redness. 

“Want to head over there and sit with Kim and her friends?” Sophie asks me. She’s already getting up, but her feet drag with the slightest of hesitation, mostly out of politeness. 

My dress’s fabric digs into my skin, my breath shortens. I can’t move. I’m frozen, chained by red. My mother’s brown eyes echo in my mind. You shouldn’t go to prom, 香香. You’ll never be like them. Why do you still try? Is it my fault that you’re not American enough? My mother cups my cheek and laughs, her yellow body disjointed and mangled and dirty as she throws herself out of my bedroom window, her body cutting into red ribbons under the pale moonlight. 

I look into Sophie’s eyes. Her beautiful blue eyes. I want to tell her that I was lying all along, and I do actually love her. That I love her so much I want to take her skin and paste it over mine and then cry tears of happiness because with her skin I’ll finally be America’s favorite. But as I look into her blue eyes my mother’s red dripping body hovers over my own and whispers you’ll never be pure and then pours red paint over my head, so I’m trapped with my dirty flesh. 

“No, thanks.” I grit out. 

“Oh alright. I’ll see you around I guess.” 

I watch as she leaves, the back of her blonde hair bobbing and swaying underneath the disco lights. Harry Styles belts out a falsetto in the background. It doesn’t matter if I went with her or not. In all my dreams I’m dancing with them anyway, red and yellow in a sea of white glitter.