The Anti-Prom (3 page)

I exhale loudly. “You ask too many questions, you know that?”

Bliss grins. “Maybe you should give me that therapist’s number.”

Touché.

I check again, but our escape route is still blocked; meanwhile, Bliss is studying me with that perky head-tilt of expectation, utterly unswayed by my acerbic replies. I think I preferred it when she thought I was a loser drug-dealer.

“It was either this or boot camp,” I finally declare. Like I’m going to tell her the truth.

“What?” It gets the reaction I want: Bliss widens her eyes and takes a tiny step away from me.

“This summer,” I elaborate. I’ve already got a reputation, but there’s no harm in striking some fear into her before we get things started. “I don’t turn eighteen until September, so my mom said that if I didn’t follow her rules again, she’d ship me off to boot camp.” I give a shrug. “This place out in Arizona where they make you hike twenty miles through the desert and live on soya and psychotherapy.”

“Wow,” Bliss breathes.

My mom’s not that hardcore yet, but I’m pushing her, I know. She’s already confiscated the keys to my hard-earned junkyard car, grounded me from everything except work and school, and sworn to call the admissions board and have them rescind my acceptance if I don’t stop scaring her with the smoking, late nights, skeezy boyfriends, and occasional (and completely unjustified) arrests. Tonight was an olive branch, of sorts: for one night, I’d be a normal teenage girl again. No felonies, graffiti, or fights, I promised.

Guess that’s not going to work out.

Bliss peers out the doorway again. “Wait, I think he’s gone!”

The coast is clear. “Stay close,” I tell her, creeping back down the hallway. I can see the lights of the emergency exit winking in the distance. The promised land. “And when you hear the alarm, run.”

“Alarm?” she repeats, wide-eyed, just as I pull open the door. An ear-splitting wail rings out.

I grab her skinny, corsage-wearing wrist with one hand and hike up my skirt.

“RUN!”

With one hand clutching the steering wheel, I press my cell phone to hear the message again.

“Uh, hey, Meg, it’s Christopher. . . . I’m not going to be able to make it tonight. . . . Something, uh, came up. So, yeah, have fun without me!”

Beep.

“Uh, hey, Meg, it’s Christopher. . . .”

I let it play once more, lost in some kind of haze as I circle the country club parking lot. I’ve been here ten minutes, and I know Christopher’s words by heart, but I still can’t seem to make a decision. Up ahead, the exit is marked with grand columns and a drifting bouquet of balloons, and to my left, the main doors are polished and gleaming, inviting guests in. Stay or go, stay or go. I make another loop instead, feeling a hot tear begin to trickle down my cheek.

I wipe it away, foolish. This isn’t how I imagined my first formal dance. For years, I’ve pored over that red leather album showing my parents at their high-school proms. The photographs are full of teased hair and netted gowns, but what I always loved was the simple happiness in their expressions: Dad, stiff in his tuxedo, goofy grin too big for his teenage face; my mom, pale and slight even back then, but lit up with a glow of giddy excitement. It’s not as if I was naive enough to think it would be the same for me — after all, I’m not one of those girls tearing pages from magazines and planning their parties, gossiping over dresses and dates like the glossy elite of East Midlands High. That isn’t my life, especially these days, but despite every instinct that prom would be just another lonely rite of teenage passage, I had hope. Hope that maybe when it came to my turn, I’d have just a taste of that romance, a glimpse of that glitter of dancing and fun.

I wish that for once, my instincts weren’t right. Because despite the dress, the shoes, and even the son of a family friend we found as a date for me, I’m not even up the front steps and it’s all falling apart.

Pull yourself together, Meg Rose Zuckerman.

My mom’s voice comes suddenly, as loud as if she’s sitting right here beside me. It’s been three years now, but it still makes me jump a little to hear her like this. Everyone says that it’s a form of comfort, the mind’s way of coping, but I don’t get anything as sweet as soft encouragement from my subconscious. No, when I hear her, it’s the way she would talk near the end: impatient and full of dark humor. I used to feel bad for laughing then, when she would only joke to relieve the awful tension lingering in every sterile room, but now I prefer the no-nonsense attitude.

Can’t wait around for Prince Charming forever
, she would always say, and I hear it again now.
You aren’t the kind of girl who ever needs rescuing. It’s a waste of a damn pretty dress, that’s what it is.

She’s right. Swallowing back my tears, I force myself to find a free parking space and check my reflection in the mirror, carefully wiping away the smudge of mascara beneath one eye. My purse is a tiny beaded thing, twinkling black sparkles in the car light, and I grip it firmly as if it’s my only protection.

You’re here now. You might as well do this.

People are spilling out of the grand double doors as I approach: clusters of girls hugging on the front steps as they pose for photographs. I wait patiently to the side while they giggle and fuss over their hair, making everything perfect for those online profile pictures and albums they’ll upload in the morning — if they can even wait that long.

“You got a light?”

I turn to find another straggler, lurking back from the steps in a three-piece white tux. He looks too old to be here, tall and dark-eyed, restlessly flipping a cigarette through his fingers like a magic trick.

“Umm, no. Sorry,” I add, apologetic.

“Guess it’s for the best.” He doesn’t move, looking reluctantly at the building for a long moment, as if he’s trying to decide something. At least I’m not the only one in two minds about this. We stand in silence together, watching, until suddenly he shrugs. “Enjoy your night,” he tells me, almost sarcastic, before he turns and walks away from the lights and laughter.

Part of me wants to follow, simply change my mind, but then I hear my name coming from the group on the steps.

“Hey, Meg, get over here!”

I stop, not quite believing it.

“Meg, hurry up!”

I start to move, but then somebody pushes past me and hurls herself at the group. It’s a tiny redhead I recognize from the hallways, always tucked under the arm of her student government boyfriend. “I’m here, I’m here!” she cries, bright blue silk swishing around her legs.

“Finally!” The girls clutch one another, and the flash goes, capturing the perfect frame of friendship and delight.

I slip past them, unsteady on new heels.

Inside, I’m quickly swallowed by the crowds, rushing in a rainbow of gowns and uncharacteristically crisp shirts. For a moment, I’m caught up in their excitement, but then the groups scatter, and I’m left conspicuously alone in the middle of the marble lobby. I can feel my brief spark of determination fading already, wilting under the curious gaze of a chaperone. This was why I accepted the Christopher setup — to have some kind of shield against this awkwardness, even though having your stepmom recruit your date from her friends’ ranks of teenage sons is nothing if not pathetic.

Worse still, I realize, is getting stood up by a guy you’ve never even met.

I take a tentative few steps down one of the empty hallways, the floor swirled with coral and gold. It’s certainly pretty; the planning committee came through for that. Garlands of blue and white balloons bob gently in every corner, the huge bouquets trailing ribbons and faint floral scent. I can’t help but let out a wistful sigh. It’s all fit for a princess, the perfect romantic event.

And then I see him strolling toward me, his tuxedo jacket looking faintly crumpled, and his slick little bow tie askew. Tristan. I freeze. He’s with the rest of his guys, of course — Danny and Kellan and Nico — and as he saunters closer, he holds his hands out, palms up, greeting the girls who emerge fresh from the bathroom behind me. I melt back against the wall to let them past. “Ladies.” He dips in a funny little formal bow. “Looking lovely, I see.”

They laugh at his old-fashioned tone. It’s the usual suspects: Brianna and Nikki, and Kaitlin joining them too, hurrying from outside with her dress clinging dangerously to her remarkable chest. But even a potentially embarrassing wardrobe malfunction can’t keep my focus from Tristan: the careless ruffle of his dark blond hair, that irritatingly charming smile. I usually only see the right corner of it from my vantage point two seats over in AP Calculus, but full-on, it’s devastating.

The two groups meet in the middle of the hallway, just a few feet away from me.

“You didn’t RSVP for my after-party.” Brianna pouts, reaching up to adjust Tristan’s bow tie. I try to imagine just putting my hand out and touching him like that, or even touching any boy who doesn’t belong to me. I can’t.

“Maybe I’ve got other options. . . .” He grins down at her, teasing.

“Sure you do.” She laughs before turning to the others. “Remember, keep all the booze out of sight until my parents leave. And invite people if you want, but nobody . . . undesirable, OK?”

At that last word, her gaze drifts over to me, still lingering in the shadow of one of those bouquets. She doesn’t even think to muster a frown or sneer — no, that would imply effort, like I matter — instead, she just flicks her eyes back to the group. “Come on, let’s go hit the floor.”

They hustle away, pushing through the main ballroom doors so that a blast of music echoes out. And then the doors swing shut, and it goes quiet again.

I can’t do this.

I know what my mom would say, but I can’t help it. I’m not this girl. I hurry back through the lobby, all but tripping down the front steps as I race across the parking lot and fling myself back into the Honda. I reverse out of my space and circle toward the exit, already feeling tears well up again. They were so excited for me, fussing with my corsage and photographs on the stairs, but I can already imagine Dad’s disappointed expression, and Stella swooping in to comfort me with ice cream and DVDs —

There’s a flash of pale dresses in front of me, two girls rushing into the road. My heart stops. I slam on the brakes.

Silence.

Wrenching open the door, I struggle out of my seat belt and rush around the front of the car. A faint alarm is wailing somewhere, but we’re all alone in the far end of the lot, next to a cluster of huge trash cans and empty boxes.

“Oh God, did I hit you?” I gasp for breath, looking in horror at the girl collapsed in a tangle of tanned limbs and white silk on the asphalt. “Oh God! I wasn’t going fast, but you just came out of nowhere and —”

“It’s OK!” The other girl pulls her friend up. “You didn’t hit us, she tripped. That’s what you get for wearing those freaking ridiculous heels,” she adds with a note of disdain.

“You were the one yanking my arm!”

“Yeah, well, when I say run, I don’t mean that beauty-pageant strut of yours!”

As I look back and forth between them, my panic gradually subsides. Then I realize who they are.

The girl in pink looks over, as if seeing me properly for the first time. “You go to East Midlands, right?” She frowns. “I’m Jolene.”

I take a tiny step back. I know who she is.
Everybody
knows. Half the graffiti in the girls’ bathroom is devoted to Jolene Nelson and her multitude of sins. And most of it has probably been scrawled there by Bliss Merino’s closest friends. “Meg,” I tell her, nervous. If even a couple of the stories I’ve heard about her are true . . .

“So you’re here for prom?” Bliss is on her feet again now, smiling at me without a hint of recognition. “Cute dress.”

I glance down at the folds of black I thought would make all the difference. “Thanks,” I mutter, embarrassed. When I tried the dress on, it made me feel . . . special. Graceful. Like a waltzing starlet in all those classic movies. Now I know it’s just a length of satin. “I, umm, like yours, too.”

As if in response, Bliss begins to fluff out the floaty layers of her skirt and hitch the bodice back up, preening. It’s an outfit made for the spotlight, dazzling even in the dusk light.

“What’s that noise?” I ask, turning in the direction of the alarm. “Is there a fire or something?”

“No idea,” Jolene replies quickly. She nods behind me at the Honda. “Is that yours?”

I nod again. “For tonight, anyway.”

“Could we sit inside a minute? It’s getting kind of cold out,” she adds. As if to illustrate, she wraps her arms around herself and shivers.

Even though it’s at least sixty degrees out, I agree. You don’t refuse Jolene Nelson — not if you want to stay out of the emergency room, anyway. They bundle into the car and I follow slowly, still wondering what Bliss is doing with her. And how anybody managed to force Jolene into that dizzying waterfall of ruffles.

When we’re all in the car, Bliss leans forward from the backseat. “So what now?”

“Now we chill,” Jolene tells her, almost like an order. She flips down the mirror and begins to mess with her short, spiky hair. Bliss reaches between us and starts playing with the radio settings, searching for a new station. Jolene slaps her hand away.