The Anti-Prom (9 page)

Jason tosses the mirror aside. “Like hell, we can’t! Those suckers can eat it.”

They charge out, off to defend the honor and beer-chugging reputation of the brotherhood. I beckon Bliss over. “All clear,” I tell her. “And he should be gone awhile.” Or however long it takes to drink himself to the emergency room.

We slip into the room. It’s messy, with dirty laundry and books littering the floor. Bliss looks around.

“Well?” I ask, impatient. “Don’t you want to make the drop? Unleash destruction?”

“Uh-huh.” She bites her lip. The journal is in her hands, but she doesn’t make a move.

“What are you waiting for?” I frown. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

“It is,” Bliss says slowly. “I just . . . It’s a big step, you know? I’d be destroying everything.”

“I think they did that already,” I remind her, surprised that she’s wavering now, when all the hard work is already done.

Then again, maybe this is why she asked me along, to show some steel when she’s set to wimp out. “Are you forgetting the whole limo thing?” I remind her meaningfully. “Think of this as karma. Making sure she gets what she deserves.”

It seems to do the job. Bliss suddenly crosses the room and deposits the journal on the nightstand. “Karma,” she says, steely.

“Payback’s a bitch,” I agree. “Although, I’ve got to ask: what do you even see in these guys?”

Bliss just gives me a look.

“No, really,” I insist, picking up a porn magazine between my thumb and forefinger and dangling it like evidence. “I want to know. Is it their conversational skills? Personal hygiene maybe? I’m just trying to figure this out.”

“Maybe it’s none of your business,” Bliss snaps.

“Except you made it my business when you came looking for me,” I point out. “So what’s the deal — did you really care about him, or are you just mad Kaitlin stole your trophy?”

She doesn’t respond, turning away to rifle through some of the papers on his desk.

“You shouldn’t waste yourself on these morons.” I sigh. It’s beyond me how Cameron and his jock crew are even considered hot, let alone worth all this energy. “There are some decent guys around, you know. They might not have the money and the car and be, like, sooo cool, but at least they won’t treat you like crap.”

“What, like JD?” Bliss spins back to me, her lips set in a thin line. “And that kid who got busted for pot — what was his name, Marcus?”

I narrow my eyes. “Hey, at least I was dating those guys because I wanted to, not just because it made me look good to everyone else.”

“That’s for sure.” She gives a mean smirk. “But can you really call it
dating
if you just go down on them in the alley behind the Loft?”

My temper flares. “Instead of what — giving head in the backseat of his SUV?” I give a bitter laugh. “You can pretend like you’re so much better than me if you want, but I’m guessing you give it up just because he lights some candles and calls you baby.”

She flinches.

“See?” I say, smug. “At least I fool around because I want to. You’re just afraid he’ll call you frigid if you don’t.”

I wait for another bitchy remark, some of that famous condescending sarcasm. Instead, Bliss sinks onto the edge of Jason’s unmade bed, her shoulders slumped and an utterly miserable expression on her face.

Oh, boy.

“You’re better off without him,” I advise lightly, hoping we can skate over this part without some epic confessional session. “Anyway, you’re done with him now, remember? You don’t have to put up with that bullshit anymore.”

“But, it’s done,” Bliss says quietly, tearing strips from the label of her beer bottle.

“What do you —? Oh.” I stop, realizing what she means.
“That.”

“That,” she echoes, looking very young. When she’s all dolled up with makeup and that hair, I forget she’s only what, sixteen?

I sigh. Anger can only fuel you for so long. Sooner or later, the grief is going to bleed through. Now, clearly, Bliss is succumbing to the wretched, heartbroken part of her betrayal. Great.

Crossing the room, I settle on the bed beside her and try not to think when Jason last got around to changing his graying sheets. “Are you OK?” I venture. Bliss isn’t exactly high on my list of deep and meaningful confidantes, and judging by the pained look on her face, I don’t figure on hers, either.

“I’m fine.” She tries to brush it off with one of those fake smiles, but neither of us is convinced. “I guess,” she amends, “I will be.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the noise from the party drifting in through the gap in the door. The impossibilities just keep mounting, but I can’t help feeling a flicker of sympathy. Jesus, what’s next: me and Meg painting each other’s toenails and lip-synching to Lady Gaga?

“I lost my virginity to this guy from down the street,” I offer awkwardly. Girl talk isn’t exactly my thing, but I need something to snap her out of this slump. “He had a goatee, a sharks’ tooth necklace, and was way too old to be scamming on high-school chicks.”

“Ewww.” She gives a faint smile.

“Mmhmm,” I agree. “And then he dumped me because I talked trash about the Dave Matthews Band. He really loved those guys.”

Bliss manages a giggle. There.

“It’ll get easier, I guess.” She sighs, hair falling in her eyes. “I mean, I won’t have such big expectations next time. It won’t matter so much. That’s what Kaitlin said, anyway,” she adds darkly. “And she would know.”

I shake my head. “It always matters. It should.”

She gives me a sideways look. “JD McGraw mattered?”

“I don’t sleep with everyone I date, you know.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Bliss at least looks a little guilty.

“It’s OK.” I shrug. “I thought I was supposed to, in the beginning.” I shift to get more comfortable. “You know, like when you’ve been with a guy a while, and he starts pushing, like it’s obligated.”

She nods. “I thought it would bring us closer together. . . .” She trails off. “Prove he really did care about me.” Bliss gives a tight little shrug.

“Asshole.” I roll my eyes. This is why I don’t date high-school guys. Not that my exes are that great, either. “Well, they’re going to get what they deserve now,” I tell her brightly. “You’ve seen to that.”

Bliss nods, unconvinced. “I guess . . .”

“Are you kidding me? Once that stuff gets out, they’ll be ruined. I’ve seen how your group works.”

She brightens, clearly spurred by their warped view of social justice. “You’re right. It’s over.” With a reassuring look at the journal — balanced precariously on Jason’s nightstand beside a mold-filled mug and a suspiciously scrunched-up T-shirt — she bounces up. Picking up the mirror from where Jason discarded it, she fluffs out her hair and adjusts her PJ outfit, as if reminding herself who she is.

“You’ve got my dress?” she asks, without looking up. “I need to change before we head back. And you have no idea how much it cost.”

Yup. The great Bliss Merino is back.

“Right here.” I pat my bulging backpack, a little relieved. Enough with the bonding.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Stalking past me, Bliss heads back out into the hallway. “Meg is probably, like, having a breakdown by now. I still can’t believe you dragged her along. If anyone sees me with you both, my status will be totally wrecked.”

Maybe tearful, vulnerable Bliss wasn’t so bad after all. . . .

Perhaps I was wrong, and being invisible has its advantages too. Because for five whole minutes, I’m left blissfully alone in the alcove by the stairs, unnoticed as the party shrieks and thumps around me in a riot of Victoria’s Secret nightwear and trashy dance music. I watch it all with a curious mix of fascination and fear. I’ve never been to a college party before. To tell the truth, I’ve barely been to high-school parties, either — at least, not the kind where kids drink and flirt and fall against walls making out with each other as if there’s nobody else around. No, back when I still had an approximation of a social life, my experiences were always on the safe, sedate side: juvenile slumber parties, or birthday gatherings where we would all go bowling or to the movies or something, like we did when we were in fifth grade. I suppose I’m all grown-up now, because here, the Jell-O comes in shot glasses, and the only punch I’ve seen is the one being guzzled from red plastic cups by enthusiastic frat boys.

Something tells me it’s not plain old lemonade.

“Hey!” A stocky guy in neon boxers suddenly catches sight of me, lurching closer with a beer in his hand. He must be nineteen or twenty and looms over me. “You’re that chick from my chem lab!”

“No.” I try to edge backward, but I’m already against the wall. I give him a polite smile. “I think you’re confused.”

“No way.” He shakes his head vigorously, sloshing sticky liquid over my bare legs. “You sit in the back, remember? And one time, you lent me your notes. That was cool of you.” He grins, taking in my outfit.

“Really,” I say again, painfully aware of his eyes zeroing in on my chest, barely covered by a tiny pink tank top with
SNUGGLY
emblazoned across the chest in sparkly gemstones. “It’s not me.”

“How’d you do on the final?” he asks, unconcerned with the fact that we’ve never actually met before. “Killer, right? I studied so hard, but I still blew it.”

“Mmhmm.” I make a noncommittal noise, looking around for an escape. What’s taking Jolene and Bliss so long? “Killer. Sure. Can I just . . . ?” I gesture to get past him, but the boy doesn’t move; he just sort of leans against the wall, blocking me in.

“Peterson is such a dick,” he sneers. “I was ten minutes late handing in this paper one time, and he gave me an F.” He pauses, distracted by a passing group of girls in silky negligees. I take my chance and quickly duck under his arm.

“See you in class!” I back quickly into the crowd.

It’s hot and noisy in the hallway, and I push my way through the riot of bodies, trying to avoid any more spilled drinks or leering guys. There’s a bathroom just ahead, so I duck into the gray-tiled room, jostling for space by the long row of sinks as I do my best to dab the beer off my legs.

“You saw Elliot, right? In the onesie? That guy is totally ridiculous.”

Beside me, two girls are reapplying lip gloss, dressed in matching athletic T-shirts and men’s boxers. Their drinks are perched on the narrow ledge by the mirror, next to tiny purses overflowing with makeup and keys.

Her friend giggles, ruffling her bangs. “Ridiculously cute, you mean.”

“Ewww! Seriously?” The girl snorts. “You’d have to, like, unbutton it, like a baby!”

They fall into hysterics as I finish cleaning myself up. It’s not too bad, at least: if I were wearing normal pajamas, they’d be soaked through by now, but as it is, I’m just left with sticky skin and the waft of beer around me. Score one for the indecent short-shorts, I decide. Not that I’ll be rushing out to buy myself a pair any time soon.

“Excuse me.” There’s a quiet voice behind me, and I turn to find a petite girl clutching a shower bucket waiting patiently for the sinks.

“Oh, sorry.” I back away, letting her through. She sets out her toothbrush and mouthwash on the ledge and begins to cleanse and tone her face in methodical swipes with a cotton ball. Her pajamas are, I realize, real: flannel printed with tiny musical notes, with fuzzy pink slippers.

“Or he could keep it on!” The party girls are still falling over themselves, clutching each other at the idea of Elliot and his hilarious outfit. “And just undo the crotch! It, like, pops open!”

The other girl’s eyes meet mine in the mirror, and for a moment we share a look of sheer exasperation as the pair collects their things and stumbles out, back to the party. The girl reaches for her floss.

“How will you get any sleep?” I venture, curious.

“Earplugs,” she replies, her voice resigned.

“Oh.”

More girls bustle into the bathroom, brimming over with laughter and gossip, but she ignores them all, curiously detached from the chaos. I watch, my sympathy fading into something else, a new kind of chill. For a moment I wonder if this will be me in two years’ time: still on the outskirts of everything, still alone, while the party whirls on around me. I’ve been thinking of college like it’s my own green light on the horizon, but watching this girl now, it strikes me for the first time that it may never end; that the location may change, but my life could remain exactly the same.

Something I read once pops into my mind like a warning.
You never grow out of high school.

I shiver.

When I get back to the lounge, the party is even louder. I perch on the edge of a couch in the common room area to wait. All eyes are fixed on a group of girls grinding in the middle of the room, but I keep a careful watch on the exits, cell phone in my hand, poised to make the call to Jolene and Bliss if I catch sight of Jason or — worse still — security. I can’t even imagine what my dad would say if I was dragged home at midnight from a college party wearing . . . 
this
.

“Meg?”

It takes me a second to realize someone’s saying my name, but still, I don’t look over. Who here would even know who I am?