A Warped Prom

The bus is bouncing up and down. Packed with twenty-five people -- maybe more. Some girl has her shirt off, but only two thoughts prevail: how are these tires not bursting? And this is the best prom. Period.

Perhaps I should've started with a confession. In Russia, I finished high-school in three years, so there was no senior prom for me. No ordering the limo. No picking out the right corsage. No photos where you're forced to hover your hand six inches away from your date's hip because her overbearing father's standing there, eyeing you, trying to murder you telepathically. 

On Warped Tour, there's no time for these traditions. Usually, that is. Still, we pre-game like teenagers and everybody takes a turn spiking the punch. There's even a red carpet unfurled into a white tent, and just outside, a 6'by6' Vans backdrop where 'couples' have their pictures taken.

It's me, Bethany the press manager, scarlet hair, flowered dress, an old soul in a woman's body, Mod Son, and Dan. A 'couples' quartet. We file in front of the camera phones. Smile. Flash. Laugh because we're all already tipsy to drunk.

"To Prom!" commands Mod. 

"To Prom!"

Dan and Bethany scurry to the dance floor while Mod and I, and now T-Mills and Mike, work on a handle of Jack. T-Mills hops up onto the table, kicks his head back and chugs.

"Chug, chug, chug," his watchful audience demands.

Meanwhile, on the dance floor, Dan and Bethany slow dance their way into Amy the Pit Reporter and Shaun, lead singer of Yellowcard. 

"Watch those hands, young man," warns Dan.

And Bethany adds: "We decided to chaperon this dance."

Wait. 

Go back.

A few hours before, Bethany and Dan are sharing a Vodka and Blue drink with friends on bus #10 when a sudden rapping at the door excites a smile on everyone's face. Shaun ascends the stairs in a neon, sleeveless tuxedo t-shirt. Holding a corsage. 

Amy clasps her hands over her mouth.

"Hi." Shaun announces, "I'm here to pick up Amy..."

Wait. 

Go back.

Just days before, the entire band asks Amy to prom in front of thousands. Jealousy burns in the eyes of every teenage girl in attendance.

Wait.

Should we go back even further to high-school, when people like Dan and Amy got stood up, or went stag, to prom? Had their best friend swipe their date out from under them? Got too drunk and made a fool of themselves? Cried more than they'll ever admit?

Now all of that is an afterthought. Here they are -- Amy, about to go to prom with a rock star, and Dan, passing his drink back to Bethany, sliding on a pair of non-prescription glasses, about to give them the overbearing father routine.

Shaun whisks Amy away on a quad. She clings to his waist with her right hand and a Vodka and Blue drink in her right. Dan and Bethany watch fondly.

"I'm so proud of her," says Bethany.

"We did well," says Dan.

Back to prom. 

Heavy-drinking at the cocktail tent. Everyone is getting a bit too rowdy. Mod, T-Mills, Dan and I head back to the parking lot, where Machine Gun Kelly joins our group, takes our empty bottle of Jack and shatters it against a metal pole. Then someone yells "Fuck Soda," and suddenly, cans of Orange soda rain down like hand grenades. God only knows how we got on board the We The Kings' bus -- but there we are, packed in with the others, bouncing the bus up and down, up and down, presumably until the tires do burst.

But they don't.

And it's the best prom. Period.