21 Proms (5 page)

He laughs. “Summer?”

Is he trying to kill you here? You're going to have to just blurt it out in one quick word:
“Andwhataboutprom?”

“You mean who am I going with?”

“Yes, who are you going with?”

He opens his lunch bag, reaches inside, pulls out an unwrapped sandwich, and starts munching. “Not sure yet. You're going with Brent, right?”

“That didn't work out as planned.”

“No?” he asks while chewing. “So who are you going with?”

Is he hinting? Is that hope you hear in his voice? “I was thinking that maybe it would be fun if
wewenttogether, whatdoyouthink
?” Your words come out faster and higher than you expected, like the way your voice sounds on an answering machine.

He stops chewing and cocks his head to the left. “You and me?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Oh” is not the answer you wanted. You were angling for more of a “
That's a great idea, Drew! Brilliant! What time should I pick you up
?
”

“Wouldn't that be fun?” you squeak.

“Well …”

Pause. A pause so long you can feel your hair turning gray. “Well, what?”

He shrugs. “I kind of want to go with someone I like.”

You don't know what to do with that statement. “Excuse me?”

He laughs. “That didn't come out right. But I was thinking of asking Becky Darien.”

Becky Darien is known as Backseat Becky. A nickname she gave herself.

“Sleazeball,” you say. “You don't like Backseat Becky.”

He laughs again and slides off the desk. “I could.”

You kick him in the ass. “You're that desperate for action on prom night?”

“Why are you always kicking me?”

“Because you deserve to be kicked.”

“Is it so wrong to want to Get Some on prom night?”

“Yes! It is!”

“Is that any worse than just wanting a date on prom night? Why don't you just go in the Winnebago? Look,” he continues, “maybe we can work something out. I want action and you want a date. If you're willing —”

You kick him again.

 

Prom is three weeks away. You, Jen, and Kyra are sitting on Kyra's tiled kitchen floor, eating your usual: tortilla chips dipped in Kyra's mom's homemade pizza sauce. Truth be told, you're more fake-eating than eating, since you want to lose five pounds before prom. If you lose five pounds, you know you will look your best. Your ultimate. (The pink dress, which you bought with a slimmer you in mind, is a smidgen too tight.) You want to look the way you looked when you and Shane first kissed back as freshmen. Five pounds less and tanned. Five pounds less, tanned, with whiter teeth. Yes, it is finally the time to try those Whitestrip thingies again. Only this time you'll have to avoid swallowing them.

“I just need to find another date,” you say as you fake-nibble on a tortilla.

Kyra picks up a chunk of tomato with her chip. “I heard that Shane and Reese are going in Brent's limo.”

You freeze at the sound of his name. Shane's name, that is, not Brent's. You assumed he would be taking Reese to prom, but hearing it somehow makes it official, which makes you want to throw up. It's not fair that your ex-boyfriend, the guy you were planning on going to prom with since you first started high school, is taking some random sophomore.

Jen flicks Kyra in the knee. “Why would you even bring him up?”

Jen and Kyra are the ones who had to deal with you every time you and Shane broke up. Who had to follow you to the bathroom when you started crying so hard in class that you couldn't breathe. This last breakup was the hardest — on them as well as you. They convinced your parents to let them take turns sleeping over because you were too depressed to sleep. But they think you're over it now, and you are … sort of. You're over it because you know what it takes to get him back.

Last spring, you and Shane decided (actually
he
decided; you merely nodded your head) to date other people, and he spent the summer dating a lifeguard named Meredith. You hoped all would fall back into place when school started, but on the first day of class you spotted him with a cheerleader named Cecelia, and your hopes deflated faster than a punctured water wing. You didn't want to call him, but you caved. You knew you sounded pathetic, but you didn't care. You wanted him back. Not that it did any good. And then you started dating Ethan Shappell. He was sweet and made you laugh. You finally stopped wishing that every time the phone rang it would be Shane. Of course, as soon as you stopped caring, your cell rang and it
was
Shane. Shane who was bored with Cecelia. “I miss you,” he said, and your mouth went dry, and your heart was in your throat, and Ethan who? And then you and Shane were back on, back together, back on track. Until The Model.

“Because,” Kyra says, bringing you back to the here and now, “she should be glad that she's not going with Brent. Then they'd all be in the same limo.”

If you're all in the same limo, then Shane will see what he's missing, up close. You can already smell his salty, buttery scent.

“I don't want to talk about Shane,” you say. “I want to find a new date.”

“But who?” Kyra asks as tomato sauce dribbles onto the tiles.

“But why?” Jen asks as she passes Kyra a napkin.

“I don't know,” you say. “Help me brainstorm.”

“What about Jeff Odom?” Kyra asks.

You shake your head. “He's going with Melissa Fields.”

“Ethan Shappell,” Kyra suggests. “He really liked you last year.”

“Alesha Zelnick,” you say.

“I got one!” Kyra exclaims. “Nick McNearly!”

Hmm. You reach for the last chip in the bag and take an extra-small nibble while contemplating the suggestion. Nick is a nice guy. He helped you with an assignment just last week. You lent him a pen. You always say hello and wave when you pass each other in the hall. He's also going to MIT next year, which will make Shane (who applied to all the Ivies but only got into his safety school) go ballistic.

“He's a possibility,” you say.

Jen grabs the empty bag and tosses it into the garbage can. “I
cannot
believe you'd rather go to prom with Nick McNerdy than with us.”

“You are so mean,” Kyra says. “Don't call him that!”

“Gimme a break,” Jen scoffs. “You know he's a nerd. It doesn't mean he's not a nice nerd. I'm sure he'll end up running Microsoft when he's older and being a kazillionaire, but he's still a nerd. And I know Drew agrees. We have math together and he picks his cuticles all through class and leaves the skin in a pile on his desk.”

“That's not nerdy,” Kyra points out. “That's disgusting.”

You brush away their concerns with the back of your hand. Nick is tall, dark, supersmart, and semi-handsome in a Clark Kent kind of way. Maybe in a tux he'll turn into a superhero. A tux
and
a manicure.

 

You wait until the bell rings and then gently rest your hand on Nick's shoulder. You were planning to engage him in small talk, but you're too nervous and too afraid to look at the mound of cuticles piled on his desk, so you just blurt out, “Nick, do you want to be my date for prom?”

His pencil case falls from his ripped-up fingers and lands on his chair. “Me?” he yelps.

“Yes.”

“You want to go to prom with me?”

“Uh, yes?”

“I would love to go with you —”

Hurrah!

“— but I can't.” His face crumples. “Heidi asked me at lunch and I said I'd go with her.”

Damn. “That's too bad. Well, have a good —”

“I wish you had asked me first. I would rather have gone with you. Will you be my date at the movies on Saturday instead?”

 

After asking him to the prom, you couldn't exactly say no, could you?

“Do you want to share a box of Junior Mints?” Nick asks as you reach the front of the concession line. He picks at his fingers while he waits for your answer.

“I think I'll have my own, thanks.” You don't want his fingers anywhere near your food. And anyway, you always order popcorn. The smell reminds you of Shane.

 

“I can't believe you went out with Nick McNerdy,” Jen says from across the cafeteria table.

“Actually, I had a lot of fun,” you say. If he weren't moving to Boston and if you weren't still in love with Shane, you would even consider going out with him again. “He's a really good—” The rest of the words in your sentence get caught in your throat like they're coated in the low-fat peanut butter you're fake-eating. When you first sat down, you saw that Shane and The Model were sitting only a few tables over, eating pizza. You could have dealt with that. But now his fingers—his surely greasy fingers—are running their way through Reese's light blond hair, and the very sight of it is making you sick. And then he gives her the look, his eyes crinkled with attraction and laughter. The look he used to give you.

“You have to ignore them,” Kyra says softly.

You can't. You want to, but you can't. You lay your sandwich back down on its tinfoil wrapper, then roll the foil between your fingers, your gaze masochistically glued on the happy couple.

“What an asswipe,” Jen spits. “Don't they realize that you're right here?” She pulls out her phone and sends someone a text.

“What are you doing?” Kyra asks.

“Texting Daniel Heller. And getting Drew a prom date. He's an ass, but he's hot.”

Your heart leaps. “Who's Daniel Heller?”

“The pitcher on my baseball team. Do you remember him? Kyra called him Hot Heller last spring. He goes to Farmington High. You were with Shane then, so you didn't come out with us that often —”

Kyra whistles. “I remember. He was gorge.”

“I think I do,” you say. “He has reddish hair and looks a bit like he could play the high school quarterback in a teen movie?”

“That's the one. You'd think red hair would be hideous, but he somehow makes it hot.
Red
hot, get it?”

“Why haven't you fixed him up with
me
?” Kyra whines.

“Because he's a total jerk. Calls all women hon. And is so anal you would not believe. Irons his baseball jersey. He doesn't deserve a date like Drew, but if she's so insistent on going to prom with a date, he'll do. At least he'll look good in pictures.” She looks down at her phone. “He wants to know if you're the blond friend.”

“That's me,” you pipe up.

Jen keeps typing and then gives you a thumbs-up. “He's in. You, my dear, have a date.”

You can't keep the smile off your face. You look over at Shane's table and the word
hah
is at the tip of your lips, but you swallow it down. Yum. Tastes good. And it's all you're allowed to eat for the next week, since your plan is back on and you really have to look your best.

 

It is one week until prom and you are sitting on your carpeted floor doing leg lifts as you talk to your perfect prom date via phone. Gorgeous, built, perfect Heller.

“The party should be cool,” Heller says.

“Definitely.” You can't wait to see the look on Shane's face when he sees you looking your hottest with Hot Heller. Hah!

You have lost five pounds. You have whitened your teeth. You have visited a tanning salon. You have found the perfect date. You have even convinced Brent that he owes it to you to squeeze you and Hot Heller into his and Shane's limo.

You and Heller will look so good together that Shane will die and want you back.

“You're going to pick me up in the limo, hon?” Heller asks.

He has taken to calling you hon. This would probably annoy you more if not for the fact that you're hoping Shane will overhear and interpret it as a sincere term of endearment.

“Actually,” you say, “would it be possible if you came over here so my parents could take some pictures?”

He sighs. Loudly. “How am I supposed to get there?”

“Any chance your parents would let you borrow their car?”

“It's not the car that's the problem. I have a BMW X3. But I intend on getting wasted and don't plan on driving.”

“Oh. Of course. Can your parents drive you here?”

“What am I, twelve? Why don't I just take a cab?”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “That would be great, thanks.”

“No problem. Obviously, I expect to be reimbursed.”

“Of course,” you say quickly. You remind yourself that while he's sounding a bit jerky, he is doing you a favor by coming to prom. By being your hot date so Shane can fall in love with you again.

Hopefully.

“I have a sweet tuxedo tie I'm going to wear,” he says. “What are you wearing?”

“A pale pink dress.”

“Oh, I don't think so, hon.”

“Sorry?”

“I hate pink.”

You wrap the phone tighter around your wrist. “You hate pink?”

“I have red hair. Trust me, you should wear something black. Or white. White is cool.”

“I didn't think of that.” He's right. What are you going to do? You don't want to clash with your date. “I guess I can look for a new dress.” The tag is still on the gown. You hope they have it in other colors.

“Good plan. It should be a cool night.”

You hope not. Because the pink wrap was on sale and you can't exchange it.

 

Hot Heller rings your doorbell at 5:22, twenty-two minutes later than he was supposed to.

“Come in, come in,” your dad says, ushering him in.

Wow. His nickname is not for nothing. “You look great,” you say, which is clearly an understatement. He's gorgeous. Tall, broad shoulders, chiseled cheekbones, big smile. Perfect teeth. And his hair isn't red-red, it's more of a strawberry blond. A strawberry blond that would not have clashed with your pink dress. But no matter. Your black dress looks hot. Hot as in attractive. Although with its long sleeves, you might get a little warm, too, but it's all you could find at the last minute. It's a bit funeralesque, though in a sexy way. He is wearing a black tuxedo tie instead of a bow tie and he looks like he could be in an ad for groomsmen.