Poor Little Dead Girls (18 page)

In the center of the room, the tipsies were already on the dance floor, making their best effort to grind to the tasteful, predinner music. The deejay wasn’t even on the stage yet, and Sadie watched as a sophomore in a tight white dress struggled to gyrate in time to instrumental jazz. In less than an hour, they would all be stumbling around, barefoot and humping each other, doing the faux-lesbian thing.

The rather-be-studyings and the too-cool-for-dancings were seated at the tables farthest from the dance floor, heads bowed in conversation or boredom. They would take the first limo ride back as soon as it seemed socially acceptable, and spend the whole drive passionately discussing how little they cared.

The jocks were nowhere to be seen — they were probably all packed into the bathrooms doing shots — but their table was already littered with crumpled tuxedo jackets. At Sadie’s old school, they usually lost about one article of clothing per hour, but the Graff guys seemed to be setting a more ambitious pace. At this rate they would be in slacks and bowties, grinding on the dance floor like a bunch of male strippers, before dessert was even served.

And then, of course, there was Thayer and Finn. They staged their entrance ever so carefully to guarantee the whole school would be forced to acknowledge their presence as they elevated the event from simple gathering to religious experience. Sadie had to admit, though, they made Portland South’s own Veronica Madden and Brendan Wyckoff look like amateurs.

They swept in dramatically, and their entourage’s chattering increased sharply in volume as soon as they crossed the ballroom’s threshold, inevitably calling the whole room’s attention to their group and the intense amount of fun they were having. Thayer was wearing a gown that could only be described as fantastic, with a train at least six feet long and an intricate texture made up of a million different pieces of gold fabric. Something about it looked distinctly familiar, but Sadie couldn’t quite place it.

“Oh my god, she didn’t … ” she heard Jessica say from over her shoulder.

Something in Sadie’s head clicked. “Wait … is that — ”

“The dress Samantha French wore to the Oscars?” Jessica finished, her voice rising incredulously.

“The one-of-a-kind gown that was part of Zachary Kane’s final collection before he died,” Brett said softly, her jaw hanging open. “It’s usually displayed at the Met.”

“Can’t she just take a day off for once?” Jessica muttered. “It must be exhausting.”

“Hey, who cares,” Sadie lied. “Everyone in here is thinking the same thing we are. She tries way too hard, and nobody likes that.”

“Nobody except for everybody at Graff. Guys eat that shit up.”

“Yeah, well, the one guy she wants to pay attention to her won’t. Plus, we have dates that actually like us. She should be jealous of us, not the other way around.”

They grinned at each other, each pretending they were convinced.

“Okay, whatever. We’re here to have fun,” Brett said, tucking a lock of hair back into her updo. She picked up an empty water glass and held it up in a mock toast.

“To Sadie’s first dance in something other than jean shorts,” she yelled. The girls burst out laughing, toasting their empty glasses in the center of the table like drunks at Oktoberfest.

“What’s so funny?” Josh asked. Jeremy handed Sadie a wine glass filled with Diet Coke, brushing her fingertips with his as he passed it off.

“Oh nothing, just that Sadie wears jean shorts,” Jessica said, dissolving into laughter again. Jeremy cocked an eyebrow.

“Pink jumpsuits and jorts? I might have been wrong about you.”

“Oh, shut up. At least I don’t wear the same sweaty blue Cubs hat to practice every single day,” she teased.

“Ah,” he said, suddenly looking smug. “So you noticed.”

“Uhhh, maybe — ” she trailed off, realizing she had basically just admitted she was a stalker. She felt her cheeks flush, and she looked down at her plate.

“Busted,” he said quietly. When she finally looked up he was smiling at her, with just a hint of something else in his eyes.

“So, why the Cubs, anyway?” she asked, hoping to leave the moment behind as soon as possible. “You said you were from San Diego.”

He nodded. “My dad’s from Chicago. We go every time they face the Padres — been doing it for as long as I can remember.” He laughed. “The Cubs lose almost every time, but it doesn’t matter. You ever been to a game?”

“Not really. Portland’s not exactly huge on professional sports. I went to a Giants game once when I was little, but I don’t really remember it.”

He nodded and looked toward the dance floor. “Maybe we can go sometime when the Cubs play the Nationals?” He said it so casually, she had to take a deep breath to keep calm.

“Sure. But if you wear that sweaty hat, I’m definitely wearing my jorts.”

The next three hours were so much fun she started to get nervous. Dates were never this fun. They were awkward, sweaty, boring, or at the very least kinda stressful. But everything felt right. Everyone danced — even Brett — and Jeremy was always close, leading her onto the floor or making her laugh while they sat at the table and watched.

This was the point in the night where the prince was supposed to turn back into a frog — try to grab your boob, or slyly put his hand on your crotch while you were kissing like he was hoping you wouldn’t even notice. This was when the rom-com façade fell away and you remembered he was a seventeen-year-old asshole who was probably just counting the minutes until he thought he might have a shot at getting laid. But nothing went wrong, and finally Sadie relaxed.

After the next song ended, the guys went for refills and Sadie went to look for the restroom. She found a door in one corner daintily marked “Ladies Water Closet” and stepped into a small lounge. The air was heavy with potpourri and a cluster of frilly upholstered chairs beckoned to her aching feet. She sank gratefully onto a love seat covered in red and ivory toile and waited for the feeling to creep back into her toes.

Before she could relax, the door swung open and Finn lurched into the room. As he crossed the threshold, the toe of one shiny dress shoe caught on the carpet, and he stumbled, then steadied himself with one hand on the wall. His hooded eyes scanned the room, and when he saw Sadie, his mouth stretched wide.

“Sexy Sadie,” he said, stretching her name out at least two extra syllables. He stood with his eyes fixed on her, his body swaying slightly.

“Uh, hey Finn. You know, the men’s room is next door.”

He just looked at her, grinning stupidly. Finally she sighed and stood up. “Finn, you are in the women’s bathroom.” She enunciated every word slowly, like she was talking to a small child. “You need to leave.” He blinked lazily and took a step toward her.

“I know where I am.” He lurched forward again.

“Whatever you say, champ. I’ll walk you there.” She took his arm and tried to turn him around, but he resisted, stumbling in the wrong direction and then wrapping an arm around her waist. “Come on Finn, help me out here,” she grumbled, struggling to stay upright as he leaned into her.

Suddenly, he pushed forward and she lost her balance. Both his arms wrapped tightly around her back and they stumbled like clumsy ballroom dancers across the room. After three quick steps, she felt her back slam into the wall, and the air rushed out of her lungs.

Finn was in front of her, his full weight pressed against her chest, and his face was inches from hers. She turned away to the side and felt his hot, sour breath on her temple. She struggled to breathe, and he laughed, softly, deep down in his throat.

“Finn, this isn’t funny. I know you’re not too drunk to stand up, so get off of me.” He leered at her, and she felt his hand groping up the outside of her thigh.

“You’re going to tell me you don’t want this? Every girl at Keating wants it, whether she knows it yet or not.”

She put her palms flat against his chest and pushed as hard as she could. He tipped backward and stumbled against one of the couches, finally collapsing onto the cushions.

“Fuck, Sadie.” He struggled to right himself, and the stupid grin was already spreading back across his face. “I just wanted a little preview.” His eyes traveled up and down her body, and he ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “Can’t wait to see what’s under that dress.”

She shoved him again, and he fell back on the cushions. “Try that again and all you’ll be seeing is the tip of my kneecap in your Cranston family jewels.” As she stormed out of the bathroom, she could hear him bellowing with laughter, still sprawled on the love seat with one leg hanging off the side. Outside the door, she paused and leaned against the wall, gulping in deep, ragged breaths. She forced herself to unclench her fists and ran a hand carefully over her hair.

“Hey, there you are. I was starting to think you decided to ditch me for one of the football players.” Jeremy jerked his head toward a bunch of hulking Graff guys gathered around a nearby table. They had stripped down to their tuxedo vests, adding their shirts to the growing pile of jackets. He rolled his eyes and muttered, “Meatheads.”

Sadie forced herself to smile. “Nope, I was going to go to the bathroom, but it was, um, occupied.” She pointed at the door as it opened and Finn staggered out.

Jeremy raised his eyebrows. “I heard he was a bad drunk, but jeez.” They both watched as Finn made his way across the dance floor, Thayer marching after him, her fading smile looking increasingly forced.

“Hey, want to go upstairs? I have a surprise for you.” He put a hand around her waist and pulled her toward him.

And there it was. His inner frog jumping out and ribbiting all over everything.

“Upstairs?” She narrowed her eyes and stepped back out of his grasp. She could feel the anger bubbling back up in her throat, and her hands curled back into tight fists.

“Wait — what’s wrong? I just meant we could see the view.”

“The view? Does that line seriously work?” It came out louder than she meant it to, and the meatheads were starting to stare.

He opened his hands, palms facing her. “Hold on, Sadie. Back up. What’s wrong?”

“You just asked me to go upstairs … at a hotel. On our first date, or whatever this is.”

He held her stare for a second, then burst out laughing. His whole body shook with the force of it, and she could feel her anger sublimating into rage.

That was it. As he laughed, she saw Finn’s wide, stupid grin and felt his hot, beer-sour breath on her face. She could still feel his hand greedily pawing at her leg, trying to burrow its way under the fabric. She was just a joke to them.

“You know what, screw you.” She turned on her shaky heel and stomped toward the door. She needed a coatroom, a hallway, anywhere she could shut herself in a corner and let the disappointment wash over her.

She was just steps outside the ballroom when he caught up. He touched her arm. She stopped but she didn’t turn around.

“What,” she spat, pulling her arm away.

“Sadie, I’m really sorry. I swear, for whatever reason, I just keep doing really dumb things around you — startling you, or saying the wrong thing, or insulting you by accident.”

Reluctantly, she turned to face him. He ran a hand through his hair and fiddled with one of his cufflinks. He wasn’t laughing anymore.

“When I said I wanted to go upstairs, I meant I wanted to go up to the rooftop terrace. It’s kind of a Hay-Adams thing — at least, that’s what Josh told me. He said you would really like it. It’s supposed to be pretty, and you can see the White House.”

His voice was a little desperate, almost pleading, and as she looked into his eyes, something clicked. The room started to spin as she realized her mistake, and she would have punched herself in the face if she thought she could get enough momentum to actually do some damage. Thayer was constantly talking about her wedding — how amazing her dress would be and how Finn would propose. Whenever she talked about it, it always, always happened on the Hay-Adams rooftop. She had some elaborate plan for exactly how Finn would lure her there, how he would surprise her by covering the roof in a blanket of white roses, and how he would propose with a four-carat Harry Winston canary diamond with a platinum band.

Jeremy was looking at her — a little panicked, a little amused, mostly nervous. He was leaning slightly away from her and flinching, like he expected her to kick him in the shin.

Instead, she smiled.

She didn’t know what to say, and instead just blurted out the first thing that came into her head. “I just don’t want to have sex with you … ” she trailed off, eyes widening. “I mean, I do just … hypothetically, at some point — oh, god.” She gave up, and they both burst out laughing.

“So, now that we’ve covered that … want to go to the roof?” He offered her an elbow and she took it, letting him lead her back to the elevator.

To his credit, the view was beautiful. The city lay spread out beneath them, and the White House glowed under a dusting of new snow. She leaned on the railing and turned to face him. “I’m really sorry about that.” She turned and looked out over the city. “I have no idea why I reacted like that, I’m just always so worried that people here don’t take me seriously — like I’m this trashy skank from the middle of nowhere who doesn’t belong. And then I couldn’t figure out why you would even want to go with me — I mean, I’m sure you could have asked anyone — and then you said that thing about going upstairs and I just freaked out.” He leaned his elbows on the railing and looked thoughtful.