
"Yes Dad, that is my high school prom date you're watching on TV."
"I knew I recognized that face," my dad said into my ear from the brown living room sofa with the red cabbage rose print. "What was his name again?"
That would be Ryan Alvarez. My Ryan Alvarez, up there on stage singing and dancing on National Television, all light and magic and jazz fingers. I call him mine because he took me to prom once, and really, is there any greater hold a person can have on somebody than that?
I felt a certain kind of pride seeing him up there tonight. Pride in my "hometown," pride in the high school honors choir we sang in together TEN YEARS AGO, but mostly, pride in my choice of prom dates. Pride that a famous a capella singer who has been in the same room as Nick Lachey once had the idea to ask me to junior prom, and drive me there in his dad's slick Mazda Miata.
Proud that as soon as his group started singing I could pick out his baritone over the voices, since I used to sing right next to him.
And then I felt the crushing pain of "But what have I done?" What have I done with this, my mortal experience?
Things to ponder for sure.
(Becca, I know you went with him to Senior prom where he was crowned Prom King and everything, but let's not get all catty okay? I say we can share him. If you would like. (Does that make us sister wives?))
Oh but that brings me to my other point! Which is that as much as I am contractually obligated to root for the SoCal VoCals due to my verbal-agreement-via-prom-date-request-acceptance, I am also contractually bound to root for thoseProvo girls. You know, the ones that are all blonde, all cute, all more talented than me? (Basically sums up my entire BYU experience.)
Where am I now?
Anyway Alvie, I just wanted to tell you this: Way to make good, buddy. I am so, so proud of you. My eleventh grade heart is just full to bursting.









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