The Anti-Prom (10 page)

“Uh, Meg? It’s me, Scott. From the library?”

I whip my head around so quickly, I almost tumble right off the couch.

“Whoa.” Scott laughs, putting out a hand to steady me. “You OK there?”

“Yes, fine,” I say breathlessly. He’s dressed in the same outfit from before: the graphic print T-shirt and a pair of black skinny cords, but in the midst of all the ridiculous costumes, he suddenly looks like a beacon of sanity. “Hi.” I try to recover, hoisting myself back up on the couch arm. “How’s it going?”

“Stressed, hectic.” He gives a rueful grin, straightening his hipster glasses. “Figured I’d take a break from the all-nighter, try to relax for an hour or so.”

“Good plan,” I agree. “Although, I don’t know how relaxing you’ll find it here. . . .” I pause, wondering if I sound like a loser, but he laughs.

“Yeah, maybe not.” Scott glances around, but unlike the other guys in the room, he turns his back on the floor show and looks down at me with what I can almost convince myself is genuine interest. “So, how about you — did you find that guy you were looking for?”

“Jason? Not yet. That’s where the others are. Looking for him, I mean.” I cross my arms over my chest, trying to cover the low-cut neckline. I thought I felt self-conscious in my prom dress, but this much, much worse. Does he think these clothes are mine? And that I’m wearing them by choice?

“Cool.” Scott nods slowly. There’s a pause as he studies me. “You know, I was thinking, after you left — it’s weird that I haven’t seen you around. It’s a big campus, but you usually run into everyone at least once. What are you, a freshman?”

I feel a pulse of embarrassment. “I, umm, I don’t actually go here. I’m in high school,” I admit, my voice small.

“Really?” He doesn’t seem fazed by the news, but I’m sure he’s just humoring me. “So what brings you all out here?”

“It’s a long story.” I don’t want to bore him with the immature details, so I give a vague shrug instead. “It’s mainly their thing; I’m just the designated driver for the night.”

Scott chuckles. “I know that one. My sister’s always calling me up, begging for a ride. Last week I wound up with a car full of fourteen-year-olds, driving to the city for some mall tour autograph signing.” He gives a rueful grin. “I’m counting the days until she gets her license.”

I exhale, starting to relax. “So you’re from around here?”

“Over in Adamstown,” he says, naming a town another hour away. I nod. “It’s kind of nice, being so close to home. But that probably sounds lame.” Scott sticks his hands in his pockets, as if he’s the embarrassed one now.

“Oh, no.” I shake my head vigorously. “I understand. I’m trying to figure out where to apply now, but the schools I want are all so far away. Part of me likes the idea,” I add shyly, “of just starting over somewhere on the other side of the country. But, then reality sets in . . .” I remember the girl from the bathroom, and her careful isolation.

“I know what you mean.” Scott grins. “Even starting here was overwhelming, at first, but I think you adapt to it. Like you grow to fit the space.”

“I hope so.” It’s a nice thought, but I’ve been drifting around in a school of hundreds for years now, with no sign that I’ll blossom to meet the environment. Perhaps my evolutionary instincts are faulty, despite the fact that I score perfect As in all my science classes.

“Hey, can I get you a drink?” Scott asks suddenly, and I remember that we’re in the middle of a party, surrounded by other people. For a moment, I’d forgotten.

“Sure.” I hop down from the couch and follow him into the crowd.

“There’s beer, if you want. . . .” He falls back, resting a hand lightly on my back as he guides me through the mess of people and noise.

“Oh. No, I’m driving. And even if I wasn’t . . . I mean, I don’t ever drink . . .” I trail off, feeling like a child all over again. I can’t help it; most of the kids here are clearly underage, but I’ve had my dad quoting statistics about alcohol poisoning and drunk drivers ever since I was in junior high.

“Then I guess we’ll give the punch a miss.” He nods at where two jock guys are ladling peach liquid from a huge plastic bowl. Empty bottles of juice and vodka are abandoned nearby, and the whole corner is giving off a potent smell.

I laugh. “Yeah, maybe not.”

We keep going, meandering past open bedroom doors and clusters of partygoers. “So what are you, like, straight-edge?” Scott asks, ducking to avoid a giant inflatable crocodile being tossed around the hall.

“No, just sensible,” I joke, but it comes out flat. I cough. “Are you?”

He shakes his head. “I tried it out for a while; some of my friends were into that scene, back in high school, but — I don’t know, I wasn’t really into the rules side of it. Having such a fixed ideology, you know? I prefer just to do my own thing.” We come to a split in the corridor and he stops, deciding between the two hallways in front of us. “What do you think?” He grins, teasing. “Should we leave some string to find our way back?”

I smile. “I saw a girl with some floss back there. . . . It’s your call.”

“Hmmm . . . eeeny, meeny, miny, go.” He points to the left, and we set off, deeper into the complex. I wonder if Jolene and Bliss are around here somewhere. They can’t have bailed altogether yet; I’m the one with the keys.

“Ah, here we go.” Scott finds a vending machine and digs in his pocket for change.

“Here.” I begin to unzip my purse, but he’s already feeding the coins in.

“No, I’ve got this.” He grins. “So, are you a Coke girl, or a Sprite?”

“Dr Pepper, actually,” I decide.

“Really?” He draws the word out, still almost teasing. “See, you never can tell from a first impression.”

The machine hums and rattles for a moment, but with no result. Scott fakes looking around, furtive, before thumping the side with his fist. A can rolls into the dispenser; he presents it to me with a little bow.

“Thanks.” I’m overcome with a moment of déjà vu, remembering Tristan making his own little bow to the girls back at prom. The prom I’m missing completely.

“So what happened with the dress?” Scott asks, as if reading my mind. He takes his own drink and pops the cap, leaning against the vending machine as he waits for my reply.

“It’s a costume party.” I shrug, as if that’s explanation enough, but — painfully aware of the pink sparkles adorning my body — I can’t help adding, “Bliss insisted.”

“The bossy one?”

I nod, even though to me, she and Jolene are equally determined.

“Shame.” Scott gives me a slow sort of grin. “I thought it looked great. I mean, you did.”

I freeze, feeling a low blush begin to spread across my face. “Umm, thanks,” I manage, staring at the floor. “It’s . . . prom. At least, it was.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Scott nods, still utterly at ease. “My sister doesn’t shut up about it. She can’t wait for hers — she’s only fourteen,” he explains with an affectionate kind of grin.

“Oh,” I murmur, not wanting to admit that I’m only sixteen. No wonder he’s being so sweet — I clearly bring out the big brother in him.

Suddenly, a shrill voice ricochets down the hallway: “Where did you get that shirt?”

A girl with long, dark hair is approaching, wearing one of those almost-indecent black negligee outfits. Her expression is grim, and I take a step back in fear as she gets closer.

“You heard me,” she demands, raking her eyes over me. “Where did you get that shirt? And those socks!”

“Umm,” I stutter, thrown by the fearsome combination of gleaming hair and tiny, tanned thighs. “I don’t, I mean . . .”

She lunges forward and snatches at the tank top, inspecting the label sewn by the lower hem. “It’s mine!” The girl’s glossed lips drop open. “What the hell?” Whipping around, she yells down the hall to a cluster of gleaming-haired, golden-skinned doppelgängers. “I was right; it’s mine!”

They begin to advance.

“Wait a second.” Scott moves in front of me, forcing the girl to back off, just a little. “How can you even tell? You probably both just bought it from the same store. Look at all your friends!”

She crosses her arms and glares at us. “Sure, you can get the shirt anywhere, but Cory had it custom designed for my birthday!”

On some level I register disbelief that anyone could choose to have
snuggly
emblazoned across her chest, let alone as a special gift. But that thought is quickly dwarfed by fear as her friends line up behind her in solidarity. A silk-clad firing squad, armed with bare skin and kohl-lined stares.

I gulp.

“Look, I’m sure we can sort this out.” Scott is still trying to reason with them, his tall body and soothing voice the only thing standing between me and . . . what, I’m not exactly sure. Death by mascara?

“Meg!” Someone yanks my arm from behind me, and I turn to find Bliss and Jolene coming from the other direction. “Where have you been? You were supposed to stay out front!”

“I know, but . . .” I swivel back and forth between them and the ranks of angry college girls. “I ran into Scott, and then —”

“She’s wearing my jersey! The one Eric gave me!” A blond backup girl suddenly gasps, pointing at Bliss, who is, sure enough, wearing the jersey with
E LAWTON
on the front.

“And those are so my giraffe shorts,” another adds. “I just put them in the laundry tonight.”

“See, I told you!” the original accuser crows triumphantly. “Who are they, anyway?” She narrows her eyes at us. “Do you even go here?”

“What do we do?” I ask Jolene, who is surveying the area with a practiced eye. Scott is still blocking their way, but I’m not sure how long the girls will stay back — especially now that there is even more evidence against us.

“Plan B,” Jolene announces.

“Which is?” I barely have time to ask before she grabs my hand and takes off, racing back toward the stairwell with Bliss following us close behind.

“But —” My protest is lost as we dash through the crowd. As I look back, I catch a glimpse of six very angry party girls in hot pursuit; behind them, Scott is left by the vending machine, clutching the can of Dr Pepper with a confused look on his face. I want to tell him I’m sorry, but there isn’t time.

Then the door slams shut behind us, and we’re gone.

I can’t believe I told her that.

By the time we stop for gas about ten miles out of town, I’ve thought up at least a dozen ways Jolene could ruin my life — starting with a casual comment to anyone at school, and ending with anonymous blog entries all over the East Midlands network sites, telling the world that, yes, I slept with Cameron, but it wasn’t good enough to stop him from cheating. I climb out of the backseat, shaken. What was I thinking? Like it’s not already dangerous enough with her knowing about Kaitlin and Cameron and this whole diary thing, now I have to go and spill the biggest secret I have.

Double standards, right? Everyone assumes you’re doing it, but the moment anyone says so, it’s the biggest scandal. Gossip like this — my mom always reminds me — you don’t live down.

Jolene is already smoking a cigarette, mooching a safe distance from the gas pumps while Meg fills up the car. I remember her awkward sympathy back in the dorm room and feel a fresh wave of embarrassment. She must think I’m pathetic, breaking down like that, but I can’t help it. She was talking like Cameron had only been a shiny new accessory to me, as if I hadn’t cared at all. But I did.

I do.

“You need to get anything?” Jolene wanders over, already toying with another cigarette. “When I have a bad breakup, I reach for the ice cream. And candy.” She gives a wry grin. “Once you eat yourself into a sugar coma, things don’t seem so bad.”

I shake my head slowly. “No. Thanks.”

She gives me a sympathetic kind of smile. “C’mon, what’s a few calories when your asshole ex-boyfriend is fooling around?”

I stiffen. “I said no. But can I get my dress back? I can’t show up back at prom wearing
this
.”

“Forgive me,” she drawls, sarcastic. “I forgot about your dress codes.” Jolene pulls a handful of dry-clean-only silk out of her bag and tosses it over to me like it’s some kind of rag.

“Careful!” I yelp, snatching it before it can touch the ground. “Jesus. Do you know what would happen if this got ruined?”

“You’d have to charge another?” Jolene seems amused, but there’s nothing funny about my mom and her “my family came to this country with only the clothes on their backs so show some respect for your possessions” speech, even if she does deliver it in a designer outfit with our maid on the other line.

“I’ll be inside,” I tell Jolene instead, stalking away.

“Don’t be long!” Meg calls after me. “I’m going to miss my curfew.”

Of course she is.

The place is empty when I get inside, just long aisles of junk food and auto supplies waiting under harsh neon strip lights. A teenage boy slouches behind the register, flipping through a car magazine while he chews on a strip of packaged jerky.

“Hey.” I manage a grin. “Do you have a bathroom?”

“Customers only.” He sighs. Then he looks up. “Uh, s-sure,” he stutters, blinking at my bare legs. “Out back, just over —”

“Thanks!” I’m already scooting to the back of the store when my cell rings. It’s Nikki.