Prom Dates from Hell (15 page)

My posture mirrored his. “Apparently I can simply read a book.”

“Great idea. Because a book will definitely give a damn what happens to you when you get in over your head.
Further
over your head.”

He seemed to be waiting for me to say something else, but reeling from the fact that (a) he’d cursed and (b) he gave a damn what happened to me, I hesitated too long.

“Fine.” He dropped his arms and turned away. “You know where to find me.”

I needed to respond. I wanted to say
something
. But I didn’t know what would fix the mess I’d made of things. Except “I’m sorry” and even that wouldn’t come out past the stubborn stranglehold of emotions in my throat.

So I just let him leave.

19

t
he real world marched along, for the moment at least. Regardless of what went on in the supernatural realm, I had an English paper due in a couple of days. As I plugged away at it without enthusiasm, my dad came halfway up the stairs and peered through the banister rail. “Mom and I are thinking about Chinese food for dinner. Are you in?”

“Yeah.” My stomach growled at the thought. Those three bites of cheeseburger hadn’t gone far. “I want egg foo young and an order of spring rolls.”

But instead of going back down the stairs, he came up to the study. “Did you and Justin have a fight?”

“What makes you say that?”

“The shouting on the lawn was a clue.”

I groaned and slithered down until my butt was nearly hanging off the chair. “I was such a brat.”

“Probably.”

“You’re not supposed to agree with me.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you’re my father.”

He bent over and kissed the top of my head. “That only guarantees that I’ll love you when you’re a brat, not that I’ll never think you are one.”

I sighed, deeply. “That’s fair, I guess.”

His curious glance fell on my desk. “What’s this?”

I spun the chair with my foot. “My theory that the microcosm of the American high school is represented in the lands that Gulliver encounters in his travels.”

“Interesting theory, but I was talking about this.” He held up the sketch I’d made that morning, of the symbols engraved on the brazier.

“Oh.” How much to tell him? If I spilled it all, he might believe me. And then he’d lock me in my room and call for a priest. That would put an end to my Nancy Drew–ing.

So I parceled out a little of the truth. “I dreamed about an oasis, with tents, and a woman at the well. There was a campfire, and those symbols were carved in the brazier that held the coals.”

Dad raised his brows. “Interesting. They look Assyrian, or maybe Babylonian. That’s not really my area.”

“I thought they looked Hebrew.”

He considered them again. “Perhaps the same family. I can ask Dr. Dozer if you like. She’s done a lot of work in the Middle and Near East. Went on some expeditions there, before the first Gulf War.”

I stopped listening after the name “Dozer.” Stanley. How could I not have seen it before?

Dad had stopped talking, expecting an answer. I backtracked to his question. Thank God for mental TiVo. “No, thanks. Let me do a little more research, okay? It could be just nonsense.”

He laid the paper back on the desk. “Okay. You know I’ll help you however I can.”

I smiled up at him. “I know.”

He headed for the stairs. “Egg foo young and spring rolls,” he confirmed before he left.

I rooted through piles of paper and books until I found the flash drive where I’d stored those pictures from the week before. I plugged it in and clicked on the folder marked “in_case_of_death.”

The first photo popped open, showing Stanley’s face frozen in terror, his long legs hooked over the brick wall of the elevated walkway, while Brandon and Jeff, laughing like maniacs, held him suspended over the two-story drop. Brian stood back, looking torn and miserable, and the Three Original Jessicas pointed and twittered like the birdbrains they were.

Of the seven people in the snapshot, four had something strange happen to them. Only Karen wasn’t in the picture. Did she not fit the pattern, or was I not seeing the whole thing?

I clicked “print” and picked up the phone to call Justin. Then I stopped. I wasn’t angry with him anymore, but my pride still stung. We’d both thrown a lot of darts, and maybe his were more just than mine. It was all very complicated, even more so because I was unsure if this was a friends and colleagues argument, or a guy/girl thing.

I had guy/girl thoughts about Justin, but I had no idea if he thought about me that way. When he met Brian today, his careful neutrality could have meant anything from “Me, Tarzan. You in my tree,” to “Maggie’s like a sister to me.”

Brian, on the other hand, hadn’t quite thumped his chest, but when I accidentally agreed to Monday’s date, he was pretty clearly thinking “guy wins girl.” If only I didn’t have this picture of him, standing by and doing nothing while his friends terrified Stanley.

I stared at the photo, studying the faces, frozen in that pivotal moment. Stanley Dozer. “You’ll all be sorry,” he’d said. Had he found some otherworldly alternative to a black trench coat and an AK-47?

I tossed restlessly in bed. Time had dilated somehow, and my paper was due tomorrow. Besides the Swift theme, I needed to write an article about Jeff Espinoza’s accident, finish two chemistry lab reports, and compose a one-page essay for civics. No wonder my brain felt feverish and overheated.

I didn’t remember getting up, but abruptly found myself at my computer, facing a blank document on the screen, my paper not even begun. I wondered briefly how I could have forgotten to start the darned thing; some deep, muted voice in my head said that wasn’t right. Something was off about this whole scenario. But the immediate panic of the looming deadline drowned out all logic. I had to get cracking.

Let’s see. Jonathan Swift. Irishman. Satirist and misanthrope.

I typed the title:
Satire for Social Change
. So far so good. Too bad I’d waited until the morning it was due, not to mention the seven chemistry reports and a six-page essay on the judicial branch of government.

Thesis sentence:
Jonathan Swift was a real good writer. When he rote stuff for the Irish noospaper, it pissed off the government and they said, we can tacks you all we want, because we’re English, and we have a big army and a cool flag.

Class started in fifteen minutes, and at this rate, I wasn’t even going to be able to start those ten lab reports. I scrolled up and looked at what I’d done so far.

What the Hell?

Who wrote this crap? An illiterate twelve-year-old?

I deleted and tried again:
Jonithen Swift rote about stuff that was bad and made fun of it, and it was real funny, and made people think…

I shoved back from the computer, rejecting the words there. They were moronic. Infantile.

“How did you get in this class?” asked Ms. Vincent, appearing at my desk. I wanted to ask what she was doing in my room, but I saw we were actually in her classroom, complete with the cartoon pencils and erasers dancing over the chalkboard.

“You should never have been allowed in AP English,” said Vincent. “You’ll have to finish the year in that class, over there.” I turned to where she pointed; a door led to another classroom—this one filled with three football players (in uniform), a couple of Drill Team Barbies (doing their nails), a few stoners (stoned), and a pimple-faced, greasy-haired boy wearing a Wal-Mart smock, who pointed to a desk beside him and said, “You can sit by me, Maggie.”

I turned to Ms. Vincent to protest, but all that came out of my mouth was gibberish. She looked at me pityingly and I ran from the room, into B Hall.

Halloran was there and I tried to tell him there was a terrible mistake with my schedule, but only nonsense words spilled from my lips. “Very funny,” he said. “That’s what you get for pretending you’re so much smarter than everyone else.”

This wasn’t true, and I told him so, but still I could only speak Martian.

“Stop horsing around, Quinn,” he barked, “or I’ll put you in detention until the end of the year.”

I ran the B Hall gauntlet of mocking laughter, sick heat spreading through me at the jeers and taunts. I found Karen, stitches on her head, and I tried to tell her what was happening. She looked at me in sweet-natured confusion. “I don’t understand, Maggie. Is this a joke?”

“It’s the thing I value most…” But of course my words made no sense to either of us.

At the end of the hall, Stanley and Lisa stood side by side. “You did this,” I yelled at Stanley. “It’s not funny!”

“Sorry, Maggie,” Stanley sneered from his towering height. “I can’t understand you. I don’t speak loser.”

I grabbed him by the plaid western shirt and pulled him down to my level. I wanted to hit him, to hurt him. To punish somebody for the panicked terror seizing my mind. “Take this curse off me!”

“You’re dreaming, Maggie.” Lisa’s sensible voice. Just as it had while I was wigging out about the locker room photo, her droll practicality cut through my rioting emotions to the rational person inside. “Wake up now. Everything will be fine.”

I turned my head to look at her, a bubble of hope rising in my chest. “Bewop?” I said.

“Yeah, really.”

And with an abruptness that was almost anticlimactic, I woke up.

The room was dark, except for the nightlight casting shadows on the wall. I snaked a hand out from the covers, irrationally afraid something waited to grab it. The bedside lamp was more effective, and I sat up to cast my eyes suspiciously around the room. I didn’t see or smell anything, but I could feel the sweat of panic drenching my nightshirt, and the dampness of tears on my face.

So, what had I learned from the dream? That I prized my communication skills above all else. And I was probably more proud of my brains than I ought to be. Sobering thought. Perhaps it wasn’t so much a question of what they—okay, what
we
—valued most, but where our vanity lay.

I forced myself out of bed and to the computer; a jiggle of the mouse brought it to life. I let out a breath as I saw my nearly completed English paper on the screen. Then I sat down, opened a new document, and poised my hands over the keyboard.

I typed: “To be, or not to be. That is the question. Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or by opposing, end them.”

I got up. Paced the room. Sat down. Read the words on the screen. They looked exactly as they should.

Then I entered: “The core dilemma for Hamlet is the question we all face: Do we endure the crap that life dishes out, or do we fight against it, even if it would be easier to just lie down and let fortune have its way?”

Not the most eloquent, but when I looked back at what I’d written, it didn’t say: “Trouble, bad. Sleep, good.”

I got up from the desk and rubbed my hands over my tired face.
To sleep, perchance to dream.
Screw that.

Walking to the window, I paused a moment, then brushed back the edge of the curtain. I saw no shadows other than those cast by the pecan tree, rustling lightly in the breeze.

I’d always thought
Hamlet
was a dumb play about a guy who can’t make up his mind. I mean, I face the same drama in the lunch line. But at that moment I understood: When it comes to the big stuff, it
is
hard to decide whether to let things just happen, especially when its to other people, or to take a stand and cause yourself a world of trouble.

The dream could have just been the egg foo young, or the pot of my fears stirred by the events of the day. But no. I hadn’t seen fire or smoke in the dream, but I’d felt the threat. I’d been warned, told to let slings and arrows have their way.

Like that was going to happen. Old Smokey had no idea who he was messing with.

20

m
onday morning I took up arms against a sea of troubles. I marched into the school office, asked to see the nurse, and learned we only have one on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

“What if someone gets sick on a Monday, Wednesday, or Friday?”

The secretary looked at me without humor. “Then you get to go home.”

“I’m just learning this now? All those civics classes I suffered through, for nothing.”

She sighed. “What do you want, Maggie? You know we’re super busy before school.”

I chewed my lip, deciding how to proceed. “What if I’m worried about the health of a student? Who would I talk to?”

The secretary tilted her ash-blond head. I could see her flick through the mental card catalog of possibilities—drugs, pregnancy, depression. “You could talk to one of the assistant principals.”

“Is Mrs. Cardenas available?”

“No. Just Mr. Halloran. Would you like me to see if he has time to see you?” Her drolly bland expression said she knew the answer to that question.

“Uh, maybe later. First I have to make an appointment for that root canal I’ve been putting off.”

“Right. See you, Maggie.”

“See you, Ms. Jones.”

I grumped out of the office, irritated to be sidelined so quickly. Bad enough I had to rescue Jessica Prime at all. I wanted to get it over with.

“Maggie!” Brian found me in the busy courtyard, a smile on his handsome face. He made a token effort to sober up. “I heard you and your friend had a fight at Cadillac Grill. I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“If he’s just your friend, then I am. If he’s more than that, maybe not.” He flashed an unrepentant grin and I had to give him points for honesty. He handed me a ticket. “That will get you into the game this afternoon. When it’s over, I thought we could get something to eat.”

I had a lot to do that afternoon. Besides homework, newspaper, and yearbook, there was saving the world as well. Where was I going to fit in a date?

But none of these excuses actually made it to my lips and Brian took my silence as assent. He dashed off before I could tell him to be extra careful.

I turned to go to my own class, but stopped when I saw Jessica Prime staring at me from near the picnic tables. There was malice in her eyes, but that didn’t shock me. It was the sunken hollows in her cheeks and the collarbones jutting out like knives. She looked like a walking toothpick with a pair of grapes stuck on the front. Her fake boobs were the only things with any life. The rest of her was deflated down to the bones.

How had this happened so quickly? Was the change so fast, or was I looking with new eyes? Either way, it was clear I wasn’t going to be able to wait for the nurse to return tomorrow. I had to take action immediately.

I arrived in the locker room early, which should have given Coach Milner’s marathon-conditioned heart an attack. She glanced up from her desk as I tapped on her office door. “Got a minute, Coach?”

“Certainly, Quinn. Have a seat. If you’re worried about your grade for the swimming portion of the six weeks—”

She broke off with a raised eyebrow as I closed the door and sat down purposefully. “It’s not my grade. Though I will point out that lots of people have phobias about the water. But this is about Jessica Prime—I mean, Prentice.”

“Prentice? What about her?”

“Last Friday, when I went back to get my goggles, I heard her throwing up. In secret.”

The coach’s eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t jump to conclusions, Quinn. Maybe lunch wasn’t agreeing with her.”

“I don’t think
any
food is agreeing with her.”

“Look, Quinn. Not everyone with a trim figure is anorexic or bulimic. As a cheerleader, Prentice must be rigid about diet and exercise. You shouldn’t let jealousy color your perceptions.”

I sat back in the molded plastic chair. “Jealousy?”

“Yes. You struggle in every physical activity, when you bother to try at all. For your height, you could stand to lose at least five pounds. I’ve been teaching P.E. for a long time, and I can tell you, a healthy body comes with hard work.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think that includes sticking a finger down my throat.” Furious, I surged to my feet. “I thought you’d be an advocate for a healthy person, not just a thin body. My five extra pounds means an extra book read, or another banana split I shared with my dad. I’m happy like I am, and I am certainly not jealous of Jessica Cheers-for-Brains Prentice.”

“That’s detention, Quinn.” Milner’s face went red beneath her sun-bronzed tan. She shoved a D Hall slip at me. “Take it and go.”

“Fine.” I grabbed the pass from her. “But open your eyes and take a look at her
today
, not how you remember her looking last week. Just help her. Please.”

I stormed out, leaving the door open behind me. I ran into a crowd of girls in various stages of dress, their changing interrupted as they gathered to stare in confusion at Jessica Prentice. It was impossible to call her “Prime” while she gazed at herself in the mirror and wept in unfeigned anguish.

“How did this happen?” she wailed, unable to tear her eyes from her reflection. “I haven’t eaten anything. I’ve exercised two, three hours every day.”

I could sense the funeral pyre stench at the back of my throat. I was attuned to the smell by this time; it seemed faint. Days old.

Thespica stood to one side of the mirror, her face twisted with anxiety. “You don’t look fat, Jessica.” She wrung her fingers into a fearful knot. “Maybe, if you’re worried, you should see a doctor.”

The crowd parted for Coach Milner. If the scene weren’t so pathetic, I would have relished her shocked expression.

“What’s going on, Prentice?” Milner asked when she had recovered herself. She pitched her tone somewhere near its usual go-get-’em bluster.

“Look at me, Coach.” Jessica could not tear her gaze from the mirror. “I’m so…fat.”

“You’re not fat, Prentice.” She moved slowly, reaching to take the girl’s arm. “You’re going to be fine. Why don’t we go in my office and talk?”

“No!” She pulled away. “I know you think I must be eating like a pig, but I’m not. I’m not eating at all.” Tears slipped down her gaunt cheeks.

“I know you’re not. Let’s just go in my office….”

Milner turned her gently away from her reflection. Jessica saw me, and started to shriek. That was always such a pleasure.

“It’s her, isn’t it? Did she tell you I’m crazy? She hates me, you know.”

“Let’s leave Quinn out of this.”

“She’s just jealous!” The girl began to sob. “Or she
was
. Now look at me! I’m disgusting.”

I looked. Not at her, but in the mirror. When Jessica opened her eyes and gazed at her image, I saw her toothpick-and-grape figure burble and warp. In its place was a girl I had never seen before. It wasn’t merely that she was fat. She was certainly overweight—rolls of flesh strained against her too-small clothes—but a wardrobe change would do wonders.

No, this girl in the mirror, wearing Jessica Prime’s clothes, her hair, her boobs, was ugly. She had piggish eyes and a bulbous nose and as I watched, her face erupted in a minefield of gaping black pores and pus-filled pimples.

Jessica screamed. The sound echoed off the metal lockers and the tile floors. Some of the girls put their hands over their ears. Some were too appalled to move. They couldn’t see what Jessica saw in her reflection. To their eyes, her perfection was marred only by her emaciation and slipping sanity.

She reached her hands to her face and began to claw at it, to tear the skin. I jumped forward to stop her, dizzy from the dual vision of the girl, nearly perfect and utterly grotesque. As she raked her nails over her cheeks, in the mirror the pimples popped and ran, and I gagged on the putrid smell. It was as if, in the vision-Jessica, all the rot inside her oozed out of her face.

I squeezed my eyes shut and dragged her hands down as Coach Milner came to help. Jessica fought us like a wild thing, flailing and kicking, shrieking at the top of her lungs. Milner got her in a restraining hold, wrapping whipcord arms around her from behind, and gently but inexorably lowering the struggling girl to the floor.

“Call nine-one-one,” she said as Jessica went limp. In her weakened state, she was no match for the coach. She subsided, sobbing, a wretched heap of sticks on the cold tile floor.