The Anti-Prom (2 page)

And there she is: perched up on a cluttered shelf, smoking out of the open window. That spiky bleached hair has been gelled into something sleek and almost stylish, a pink silk dress is crumpled around her knees, and a pair of gorgeous strappy sandals lie abandoned on the dusty floor.

Jolene Nelson, the baddest girl in school.

“Do you want something?” Flicking ash out the window, she looks down at me with the trademark icy stare that’s reduced freshmen to tears.

“I . . .” I pause, but just as I’m about to take it back and turn around, the music drifting through the open window switches to a new song. Not just any song, but ours — mine and Cameron’s. The one he put on that old-school mix CD, the one playing in his car when we went on our first date. I wasn’t lying to the girls in the bathroom: I asked the DJ to play it especially. I thought it would be a perfect romantic moment for us, something to look back on when I’m old and gray and sucking strained beets through a straw.

Instead, I get to remember his hands up someone else’s skirt, and the color of Kaitlin’s hot-pink thong panties.

I steel myself and take a couple of steps into the room. “I need your help.”

According to my ex–algebra teacher (who, despite what everyone thinks, I didn’t seduce, blackmail, and leave penniless working as a fry cook at a roadside diner in Idaho), the only real impossibilities are mathematical. You know, two plus two equaling five, or a triangle not adding up to 180 degrees. Everything else, even gravity failing or Miley Cyrus releasing a death-metal album, is just improbable — wait around long enough, and they might just come true.

I’m beginning to get what he means. Because right now:

1. I, Jolene Roseanne Nelson, am at the East Midlands prom.
   

2. Wearing a stupid pink dress.
   

3. And Bliss Merino is asking for my help.
   

Thanks a lot, Mr. Milton.

“Say it again?” Taking a slow drag, I look down from my vantage point atop the shelf of cleaning supplies. Bliss looks plastic and perfect as ever, a white floaty dress taped to her perky chest, almost glowing against the silver heels and tumble of black hair. She looks totally out of place in the messy supply closet, but then again, I can hardly judge.

Freaking ruffles.

“Will you help me?” Bliss edges closer, her face lit up in this hopeful expression, and I can feel my prospects of peace and solitude disappear right out that window with the last of my cigarette smoke.

So much for staying under the radar. A half hour more was all I was going to give this thing, and I figured I could avoid the hyper, squealing drama that long at least. But I can already hear, “You look so cute!” “No, YOU look so cute!” drifting in, and guitar from that stupid, soft-rock slow jam echoing from the ballroom.

“Help with what?” I finally ask when I get over the fact that she’s actually looking me in the eye, let alone asking for a favor. “Wait, don’t tell me . . .” I wouldn’t have figured this one for a raver, but hey, I’d need to be out of my mind to tolerate her friends and their in-depth debate over the merits of Sparkle Sheen versus Juicy Glow lip gloss. “I’m not holding. Try Miles Parsons,” I suggest, icy. “I saw him with some pills out on the back terrace.”

“What?” Bliss looks confused. “No, that’s no it!”

“Then what?” I smush out the cigarette, wondering how much of my lung capacity I’ve just killed. It’s a crappy habit, I know, but it calms me down, and God knows I need calming in this getup. Every time I glance down, there they are: enough ruffles to smother a small child, erupting from my chest like a foul wave of pink taffeta, out to drown every ounce of credibility I’ve got.

“I . . .” Bliss takes a breath. “I want to destroy Kaitlin Carter.”

“Rebellion in the social ranks, how thrilling.” I roll my eyes. “So, don’t sit with her at lunch. I’m sure it’ll be like, OMG, the biggest scandal!”

“That’s not what I mean.” She shakes her pretty little head. “I’m serious. I want to tear her life apart.”

I pause. It is, after all, either this or braving the main ballroom again to watch the dry-humping Olympics. Raising an eyebrow, I ask, “What happened — did she wear the same color eye shadow as you?”

Bliss folds her arms. “Nope, she’s actually fooling around with my boyfriend in the back of our limo right about now.”

I let out a snort of laughter. Bliss, of course, looks wounded.

“Come on.” I hop down from the shelf, my feet bare on the dusty floor. “Weren’t you dating that football frat dude? I weep for your loss.”

“Cameron,” Bliss replies, her voice thin. “And he needs to pay as well.”

“OK, so she’s a bitch and he’s a slut.” I shrug. “Tell me something I don’t know.” I begin to strap myself back in those heels, trying not to wince at the pain. I thought about coming in my boots, but our deal was all or nothing: him in a cummerbund and flashy suit, me with the full
Seventeen
prom extravaganza. We laughed at the time, like it would be the biggest joke to crash their party, but I guess the joke’s on me. I haven’t heard from Dante in months, but I still trussed myself up like an idiot, hoping he’d come.

I make to leave, but to my surprise, Bliss blocks the door.

I glare.

“Look, I get it,” she protests hurriedly, backing off. “You don’t like me. And that’s just fine. But I want revenge, and I can make it worth your while.”

My jaw drops.

“You have
got
to be kidding me.” Just when I think these girls couldn’t get any more entitled. “What’s next — paying someone to wipe your ass?”

“Stop, Jolene —”

“I’m not one of your little groupies.” I fix her with a deathly stare. “Get one of them to do your grunt work.”

I head down the hallway as fast as these perilous heels will take me. Groups of glitzy students litter every room, but I cut through the crowds, fuming at Bliss’s nerve. She and the rest of that clique are all the same. I see them every day; we all do — fawning over each other’s preppy designer clothes in the cafeteria, strutting down the halls like they own them. Sometimes, they even swing by the Dairy Queen, so I can serve them milkshakes and clean up the mess they always leave behind.

I used to let it slide, like everyone else. Petty social games — they’re a high-school fact of life, right? That’s what everyone thinks, anyway, but it’s a lie. You can quit, it’s simple. You just walk away. Let mindless dolls like Bliss Merino tie themselves up trying to be perfect and popular — I got the hell out. They think I’m white trash anyway, so I may as well live up to my damn name. It didn’t take much, in the end: some big boots, a pair of headphones. Turn up late, fight back, carve some desks, get suspended. The rumors started up, and just like that,
they
get out of the way for
me
in the hallways. I’ve got four more days until graduation, two months until I start college, and most of them are smart (or scared) enough to leave me well alone until then.

Except Bliss. I’m swiping some pastry shells from the refreshment area when I hear the
tip-tap
of heels approaching. Sure enough, Bambi bounds up beside me, her white dress swishing around like she’s got a personal wind machine trailing her. And who knows — on Daddy’s budget, maybe she does.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think,” she insists like we never stopped talking. “I don’t mean it like I’m better than you. I just thought you’d want some kind of . . . incentive.”

I turn my back on her. Crab filling? Awesome.

“Please”— Bliss keeps at me —“would you just —”

“Jolene? Yoo-hooo, Jolene Nelson? There you are!”

I freeze. A perky-looking woman is bearing down on us, marked with the bright red pin of official chaperones. I scan the room, but it’s too late. There’s no escape.

“Look at you! That dress is so cute!” she gushes, enveloping me in a hug. Immediately, I choke for air, smothered by a heavy cloud of floral perfume. “When your mom said you were coming, I couldn’t believe it, but here you are, looking like your old self!”

My mom? I pause, alert for danger. “Uh, hi . . .”

“Can I get a photo of you and your friend?” She waves a digital camera at me. “I know your mom would love some pics.”

“Sure,” I say weakly. “Come on,
friend
.” I give Bliss a look. Luckily, those girls take classes in being a camera whore. Throwing her arms around me, she grins maniacally at the woman.

“Everybody say
prom
!” Bliss squeals.

“Fab!” The camera flashes away a couple of times, and then the woman beams. “So glad I caught you! I have to go back on patrol now. Did you know some kids are sneaking out to
get drunk
?” She drops her voice to whisper the last words.

“No!” Bliss gasps, almost sarcastic.

She nods. “You girls have fun. Be good!” And then at last, the woman sweeps away in a blur of gold beading. I let out a sigh of relief. Pure oxygen, the joy.

“Well?”

When I look up, Bliss is staring at me, smug.

“Thanks,” I mumble. I didn’t expect her to play along, but it’s still not as if I owe her or anything.

“Don’t go OTT.”

“Whatever.” I’m done humoring her, but just as I’m about to tell Bliss exactly where she can take her fake smiles and vast reserve of entitlement, I catch a flash of something in her expression. For a moment, the smile strains at the edge of her lips, and her eyes are full of anger. Then it’s gone, and that careful mask flips back into place.

I pause, softening just a tiny bit. Anger, I know. Damn, I could write an epic novel on that. I know how it burns at you, hardening inside until you’ve got nothing but a metal lump in your gut that won’t shift, not for anything.

At least, I didn’t think there was anything . . .

“You really want them to go down?” I ask, suddenly curious. This is about more than just a wrecked prom, I can tell, and if Bambi here wants it bad enough, then perhaps she could be useful to me, after all.

Bliss nods, her face even again. “I said before,” she answers, almost flippant. “I want revenge, and I want you to teach me how.”

Yup. Tonight is definitely the night of impossibilities.

Suddenly, the room is invaded by a crowd of girls, chattering in that high-pitched whine about how freaking awesome the DJ is and how freaking cute Sam looks in his tux and how freaking uh-MAY-zing their photos will look online. They swarm around me, filling plates with tiny, calorie-free snacks and shrieking about what might get stuck in their teeth.

“Jolene?” Bliss is still pestering me, so I check my phone. Forty minutes late. There’s no way Dante’s going to show now. He probably doesn’t even remember our deal, and even if he does . . . Well, the way things went down the last time I saw him wouldn’t exactly make me leap at the chance to hang out again, prom or no prom.

“And Mellie said that SHE saw this dress first, but I was like, no way, and anyway, she has blond hair, and everyone knows blond and silver, like, so don’t go, and . . .”

What the hell.

Checking that the coast is clear of gushing chaperones, I take a handful of stuffed mushrooms and head toward the back of the room. Just as I thought, there’s a dark hallway, so the staff can bring out those fancy trays without the prized partygoers even having to glance at the help. The sign out front says
NO GUESTS ALLOWED
in big black lettering. I push it aside.

“Where are you going?” Bambi is still trotting after me. I don’t bother to turn.

“Anywhere but here. You in?”

“Seriously?” she gasps. “Yes! I’m so in.”

I lead her into the labyrinth of hallways, but once we’re out of sight, I pause. “If we’re going to do this, we do it my way,” I warn, hands on hips. “You do what the hell I say, when I say it.” Bliss nods eagerly. “And don’t even think about paying me,” I add, glaring. “You cover the cost of materials, and unexpected expenses, and that’s it.”

Her forehead wrinkles. “Unexpected . . . ?”

I roll my eyes. “Bribes, bail, you know.”

“Umm, sure.”

I spot a waiter coming toward us. He’s still looking down at the heavy tray of glasses, but any minute now . . . “Quick,” I whisper, “hide!”

We duck into a side room. “Umm, I know this might be a stupid question,” Bliss whispers, crammed next to me in the dark. “But why don’t we just walk out the front?”

I sigh. “Because we need an alibi. You saw that woman before?” Bliss nods. “She’s friends with my mom,” I explain. “If anything goes wrong with this revenge plan, there are hundreds of people like her stationed all over the place, ready to report they saw us leave together.”

“Hundreds.” Bliss giggles, so I elbow her. She falls silent for a moment. But just a moment. “If you don’t want to be here, why did you even come?”

“I’m not allowed?” I snap back.

“That’s not what I said.” I can feel Bliss studying me. “You’re really touchy, you know that?”

“No,” I drawl, sarcastic. “My therapist didn’t mention it.” I crack the door and peer out. The waiter has stopped about ten feet away and is chatting to another staff member. She’s young and pretty, and by the adoring look on his face, we’ll be here all night.

I close the door again. Bliss is still watching me. “So, why did you come?”