The Anti-Prom

With one hand clutching the steering wheel, I press my cell phone to hear the message again.

“Uh, hey, Meg, it’s Christopher. . . . I’m not going to be able to make it tonight. . . . Something, uh, came up. So, yeah, have fun without me!”

Beep.

“Uh, hey, Meg, it’s Christopher. . . .”

I let it play once more, lost in some kind of haze as I circle the country club parking lot. I’ve been here ten minutes, and I know Christopher’s words by heart, but I still can’t seem to make a decision. Up ahead, the exit is marked with grand columns and a drifting bouquet of balloons, and to my left, the main doors are polished and gleaming, inviting guests in. Stay or go, stay or go. I make another loop instead, feeling a hot tear begin to trickle down my cheek.

I wipe it away, foolish. This isn’t how I imagined my first formal dance. For years, I’ve pored over that red leather album showing my parents at their high-school proms. The photographs are full of teased hair and netted gowns, but what I always loved was the simple happiness in their expressions: Dad, stiff in his tuxedo, goofy grin too big for his teenage face; my mom, pale and slight even back then, but lit up with a glow of giddy excitement. It’s not as if I was naive enough to think it would be the same for me — after all, I’m not one of those girls tearing pages from magazines and planning their parties, gossiping over dresses and dates like the glossy elite of East Midlands High. That isn’t my life, especially these days, but despite every instinct that prom would be just another lonely rite of teenage passage, I had hope. Hope that maybe when it came to my turn, I’d have just a taste of that romance, a glimpse of that glitter of dancing and fun.

I wish that for once, my instincts weren’t right. Because despite the dress, the shoes, and even the son of a family friend we found as a date for me, I’m not even up the front steps and it’s all falling apart.

Pull yourself together, Meg Rose Zuckerman.

My mom’s voice comes suddenly, as loud as if she’s sitting right here beside me. It’s been three years now, but it still makes me jump a little to hear her like this. Everyone says that it’s a form of comfort, the mind’s way of coping, but I don’t get anything as sweet as soft encouragement from my subconscious. No, when I hear her, it’s the way she would talk near the end: impatient and full of dark humor. I used to feel bad for laughing then, when she would only joke to relieve the awful tension lingering in every sterile room, but now I prefer the no-nonsense attitude.

Can’t wait around for Prince Charming forever, she would always say, and I hear it again now. You aren’t the kind of girl who ever needs rescuing. It’s a waste of a damn pretty dress, that’s what it is.

She’s right. Swallowing back my tears, I force myself to find a free parking space and check my reflection in the mirror, carefully wiping away the smudge of mascara beneath one eye. My purse is a tiny beaded thing, twinkling black sparkles in the car light, and I grip it firmly as if it’s my only protection.

You’re here now. You might as well do this.

People are spilling out of the grand double doors as I approach: clusters of girls hugging on the front steps as they pose for photographs. I wait patiently to the side while they giggle and fuss over their hair, making everything perfect for those online profile pictures and albums they’ll upload in the morning — if they can even wait that long.

“You got a light?”

I turn to find another straggler, lurking back from the steps in a three-piece white tux. He looks too old to be here, tall and dark-eyed, restlessly flipping a cigarette through his fingers like a magic trick.

“Umm, no. Sorry,” I add, apologetic.

“Guess it’s for the best.” He doesn’t move, looking reluctantly at the building for a long moment, as if he’s trying to decide something. At least I’m not the only one in two minds about this. We stand in silence together, watching, until suddenly he shrugs. “Enjoy your night,” he tells me, almost sarcastic, before he turns and walks away from the lights and laughter.

Part of me wants to follow, simply change my mind, but then I hear my name coming from the group on the steps.

“Hey, Meg, get over here!”

I stop, not quite believing it.

“Meg, hurry up!”

I start to move, but then somebody pushes past me and hurls herself at the group. It’s a tiny redhead I recognize from the hallways, always tucked under the arm of her student government boyfriend. “I’m here, I’m here!” she cries, bright blue silk swishing around her legs.

“Finally!” The girls clutch one another, and the flash goes, capturing the perfect frame of friendship and delight.

I slip past them, unsteady on new heels.

Inside, I’m quickly swallowed by the crowds, rushing in a rainbow of gowns and uncharacteristically crisp shirts. For a moment, I’m caught up in their excitement, but then the groups scatter, and I’m left conspicuously alone in the middle of the marble lobby. I can feel my brief spark of determination fading already, wilting under the curious gaze of a chaperone. This was why I accepted the Christopher setup — to have some kind of shield against this awkwardness, even though having your stepmom recruit your date from her friends’ ranks of teenage sons is nothing if not pathetic.

Worse still, I realize, is getting stood up by a guy you’ve never even met.

I take a tentative few steps down one of the empty hallways, the floor swirled with coral and gold. It’s certainly pretty; the planning committee came through for that. Garlands of blue and white balloons bob gently in every corner, the huge bouquets trailing ribbons and faint floral scent. I can’t help but let out a wistful sigh. It’s all fit for a princess, the perfect romantic event.

And then I see him strolling toward me, his tuxedo jacket looking faintly crumpled, and his slick little bow tie askew. Tristan. I freeze. He’s with the rest of his guys, of course — Danny and Kellan and Nico — and as he saunters closer, he holds his hands out, palms up, greeting the girls who emerge fresh from the bathroom behind me. I melt back against the wall to let them past. “Ladies.” He dips in a funny little formal bow. “Looking lovely, I see.”

They laugh at his old-fashioned tone. It’s the usual suspects: Brianna and Nikki, and Kaitlin joining them too, hurrying from outside with her dress clinging dangerously to her remarkable chest. But even a potentially embarrassing wardrobe malfunction can’t keep my focus from Tristan: the careless ruffle of his dark blond hair, that irritatingly charming smile. I usually only see the right corner of it from my vantage point two seats over in AP Calculus, but full-on, it’s devastating.

The two groups meet in the middle of the hallway, just a few feet away from me.

“You didn’t RSVP for my after-party.” Brianna pouts, reaching up to adjust Tristan’s bow tie. I try to imagine just putting my hand out and touching him like that, or even touching any boy who doesn’t belong to me. I can’t.

“Maybe I’ve got other options. . . .” He grins down at her, teasing.

“Sure you do.” She laughs before turning to the others. “Remember, keep all the booze out of sight until my parents leave. And invite people if you want, but nobody . . . undesirable, OK?”

At that last word, her gaze drifts over to me, still lingering in the shadow of one of those bouquets. She doesn’t even think to muster a frown or sneer — no, that would imply effort, like I matter — instead, she just flicks her eyes back to the group. “Come on, let’s go hit the floor.”

They hustle away, pushing through the main ballroom doors so that a blast of music echoes out. And then the doors swing shut, and it goes quiet again.

I can’t do this.

I know what my mom would say, but I can’t help it. I’m not this girl. I hurry back through the lobby, all but tripping down the front steps as I race across the parking lot and fling myself back into the Honda. I reverse out of my space and circle toward the exit, already feeling tears well up again. They were so excited for me, fussing with my corsage and photographs on the stairs, but I can already imagine Dad’s disappointed expression, and Stella swooping in to comfort me with ice cream and DVDs —

There’s a flash of pale dresses in front of me, two girls rushing into the road. My heart stops. I slam on the brakes.

Silence.

Wrenching open the door, I struggle out of my seat belt and rush around the front of the car. A faint alarm is wailing somewhere, but we’re all alone in the far end of the lot, next to a cluster of huge trash cans and empty boxes.

“Oh God, did I hit you?” I gasp for breath, looking in horror at the girl collapsed in a tangle of tanned limbs and white silk on the asphalt. “Oh God! I wasn’t going fast, but you just came out of nowhere and —”

“It’s OK!” The other girl pulls her friend up. “You didn’t hit us, she tripped. That’s what you get for wearing those freaking ridiculous heels,” she adds with a note of disdain.

“You were the one yanking my arm!”

“Yeah, well, when I say run, I don’t mean that beauty-pageant strut of yours!”

As I look back and forth between them, my panic gradually subsides. Then I realize who they are.

The girl in pink looks over, as if seeing me properly for the first time. “You go to East Midlands, right?” She frowns. “I’m Jolene.”

I take a tiny step back. I know who she is. Everybody knows. Half the graffiti in the girls’ bathroom is devoted to Jolene Nelson and her multitude of sins. And most of it has probably been scrawled there by Bliss Merino’s closest friends. “Meg,” I tell her, nervous. If even a couple of the stories I’ve heard about her are true . . .

“So you’re here for prom?” Bliss is on her feet again now, smiling at me without a hint of recognition. “Cute dress.”

I glance down at the folds of black I thought would make all the difference. “Thanks,” I mutter, embarrassed. When I tried the dress on, it made me feel . . . special. Graceful. Like a waltzing starlet in all those classic movies. Now I know it’s just a length of satin. “I, umm, like yours, too.”

As if in response, Bliss begins to fluff out the floaty layers of her skirt and hitch the bodice back up, preening. It’s an outfit made for the spotlight, dazzling even in the dusk light.

“What’s that noise?” I ask, turning in the direction of the alarm. “Is there a fire or something?”

“No idea,” Jolene replies quickly. She nods behind me at the Honda. “Is that yours?”

I nod again. “For tonight, anyway.”

“Could we sit inside a minute? It’s getting kind of cold out,” she adds. As if to illustrate, she wraps her arms around herself and shivers.

Even though it’s at least sixty degrees out, I agree. You don’t refuse Jolene Nelson — not if you want to stay out of the emergency room, anyway. They bundle into the car and I follow slowly, still wondering what Bliss is doing with her. And how anybody managed to force Jolene into that dizzying waterfall of ruffles.

When we’re all in the car, Bliss leans forward from the backseat. “So what now?”

“Now we chill,” Jolene tells her, almost like an order. She flips down the mirror and begins to mess with her short, spiky hair. Bliss reaches between us and starts playing with the radio settings, searching for a new station. Jolene slaps her hand away.

“Manners!”

“Oh! Sorry!” She blinks at me, wide-eyed. “You mind if I . . . ?”

I shake my head quickly. “No, go ahead.”

She finally settles on a pop station and sits back, humming along with the song. I wait, trying to decipher what’s going on. Bliss seems breathless and excited, and even Jolene keeps glancing back toward the building. She notices me watching her.

“What are you doing out here, anyway?” Her eyes narrow, assessing me. “The party started ages ago.”

“I, ummm, my date couldn’t make it.” My voice comes out almost a whisper. It hurts to admit, especially to these two. They’ve probably never been left waiting more than a minute in their entire lives. Some people, you don’t even dare.

“You got stood up?” Bliss exclaims, her head popping up next to me again. “That’s awful.”

I try to shrug, like I don’t care. “It’s cool. I mean, it’s only prom.”

The words sit, hollow between us. I want to slap myself. Who am I fooling? Only prom?

“So, what — are you going home?” Jolene is still watching me carefully, her blue eyes cool and unblinking. It’s the first time I’ve seen them without smudges of dark liner, but they’re still as unnerving as ever.

“I guess. I don’t know . . .” My words catch in my throat, and then to my horror, I feel another tear spill over and slide down my cheek. I swipe quickly at my face, hoping they haven’t noticed.

“Maybe you want to come with us?” Jolene suggests suddenly. I blink.

There’s a noise of protest from the backseat, but Jolene whips her head around and fixes Bliss with a fearful stare. “We were thinking of heading to DQ,” she adds. “Just getting out of here.”

My heart sinks. “So, you need a ride.”

“Well, yeah. But you don’t have to . . .” Jolene shrugs, nonchalant as ever.

I waver.

For three years, I’ve been invisible to girls like Jolene and Bliss — drifting silently around that school; overhearing snatches of everyone else’s crazy gossip, while I sneak my sandwiches in the quiet of a library carrel and daydream of one day, maybe, being a part of things. I’m not stupid; I know that they just need a chauffeur tonight, and I happened to turn up at the right time, but even so . . .

Bliss and Jolene do things. They have adventures. They don’t sit, weeping in a parking lot while everyone else has the night of their lives.

It’s a waste of a damn pretty dress, that’s what it is.

“OK.” I wipe my eyes again and start the ignition. “Let’s go.”





Meg drives even slower than my abuela, Jolene switches the radio to some noisy punk rock station, and I get a bunch of desperate WHERE R U?? texts from Courtney, but by the time we pull into the deserted DQ parking lot, I’m buzzing with a fierce kind of energy. Bailing on prom after I spent so long planning for it is crazy, I know, but that backseat lap dance has already ruined everything. There’s no point faking smiles for the rest of the night, knowing all along it’s a lie. No, now’s the time for payback, when I’ve still got this sharp heat in my rib cage urging me on.

Something’s in motion now. There’s no going back.

“I’m, umm, just going to use the restroom.” Meg clambers out of the car. Her mascara is smudged, and her eyes are puffy from all that crying I pretended not to see. She waits, blinking at us.

“Sure!” I reply. What does she want, permission? “See you in there.” I watch until she’s inside before turning to Jolene. “So, what’s the plan? When do we ditch her and get started?”

“Relax.” Jolene looks amused. She slams the car shut and stomps toward the brightly lit entrance like she’s heading for battle, not a soft-serve restaurant. I grab my purse and hurry after her.

“But, you’ve got one, right?” I’m struck with another panic. “A plan, I mean. I didn’t leave the biggest party of the year just to hang out and get ice cream!”

Inside, the place is practically deserted, nothing but a depressing stretch of red-and-white tile and empty booths under too-harsh fluorescent strip lights. An overweight man sits alone by the windows, slowly scooping at a huge sundae. He stops with the spoon halfway to his mouth, staring at us and our formal dresses. I quickly turn away.

Jolene marches to the counter and calls out, “Denise, you there?”

A woman emerges, maybe forty or even older. She wipes her hands on her apron and gapes. “Oh my word. Honey, just look at you!”

“Shut up,” Jolene protests, but it’s softer than all her biting replies to me have been. She folds her arms over the ruffles, like that’s enough to hide them. “I left some stuff in my locker. Can I grab the keys?”

“Sure thing.” Denise waves her through, and Jolene disappears into the back. Right. I forgot she works here, even though I’m sure she must have served me a dozen times.

“Can I get you anything?” Denise asks, clearing up the counter. Her hair is dyed an unconvincing shade of red, and she’s got a tired look around her eyes, the one my mom spends a fortune on spa treatments to smooth away.

I hover, awkward. It seems rude not to order something. “Umm, just a Diet Coke, thanks.”

“I hope you girls are taking plenty of pictures.” Denise beams at me. Moving to the drink machine, she begins filling a huge cup. “I remember my prom. . . .”

“Back in the eighties, when Bon Jovi was still cool.” Jolene finishes for her, reappearing with a bulky backpack. It’s cheap black nylon and clashes badly with her outfit. “I know, you’ve been telling me all week.”

“I wore a pretty blue dress, cut right to here.” Denise passes me the soda with a wistful look. I open my purse, but she shakes her head. “Oh no, any friend of Jolene’s . . .”

“Thanks, Denise.” Jolene quickly drags me toward a booth in the far corner, throwing herself down like she doesn’t care that she’s going to leave creases in her dress. I carefully slide in after her.

“She seems nice,” I offer, peeling the paper wrapping from a straw.

“What do you care?” Jolene raises an eyebrow at me, but I don’t shrink away in fear. I’m back in control now, and she may be badass, but it’s not like she’s going to cut me with the plastic utensils or anything.

“Wow. You really are touchy.” I slurp my drink.

“No, just amazed that you noticed the help,” Jolene drawls, sarcastic. “I figured we were all invisible to you.”

I’m about to ask how she manages to even walk with that massive chip on her shoulder, when the door swings open and a group of teenagers strolls in. I freeze.

“What?” Jolene notices my expression, following my gaze to the door. “Friends of yours?”

“Sure.” I ease back so I’m hidden from view by a fake plastic plant. “Because my friends really wear generic denim and ugly-ass Ts.”

Still, I can’t be too careful. Brianna and the gang would flip if they knew I was even talking to Jolene, let alone plotting . . . something.

Jolene shakes her head. “I know you’re ashamed to be seen with me and all, but you could at least try to pretend. You know, to be polite.”

I sigh, still peering through the leaves. “Like your reputation wouldn’t suffer if people saw you with me, looking like that.”

But Jolene just shrugs. “I am who I am.”

Enough with the small talk. Clearly, I’m not going to get her to loosen up any time soon, so I just switch straight to business. “What are we going to do about Cam and Kaitlin?”

“Kaitlin Carter?” Meg chooses that moment to slide into the booth. She’s cleaned up her face, but her eyes are still a little red — and full of that forlorn expression from before. Digging into a cup of plain soft-serve with rainbow sprinkles, she looks back and forth between us. “What’s she done?”

“Nothing, it’s just . . . a thing.” I take another sip of soda, impatient.

“She screwed Bliss’s precious boyfriend,” Jolene announces. “And now Bliss wants payback.”

I choke on my drink. “Hey!”

“What?” Jolene shrugs, unconcerned. “Although, I don’t know why you can’t just walk up and bitch-slap her. Him, too.” She reaches over and scoops some of Meg’s ice cream with her fingertip.

“You know, there is something called discretion,” I hiss. “I asked you for help because I figured you wouldn’t want to get caught!”

“And?” Jolene glances over at Meg. “You won’t rat us out, right?”

She blinks. “Umm, I don’t know what —”

“See?” Jolene turns back to me. “No big deal.”

“It’s the principle!” I protest. “I can’t believe you’re just spilling all my secrets to some random reject. No offense,” I add to Meg, because she’s just the kind to take it. “Seriously,” I keep complaining to Jolene, “it was bad enough telling you. More strangers knowing the intimate details of my betrayal is so not what I signed up for.”

“She’s not exactly part of your rich-bitch clique,” Jolene points out, eating more of Meg’s ice cream. Meg just sits there.

“No, but she’ll probably go running to her parents the minute we do anything bad,” I argue. And in this town, it would only be a matter of time before everyone knew — including my mom and dad.

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“Umm, I’m right here.” Meg tries to interrupt, but Jolene talks over her.

“I know it’s not your forte, Bliss, but think. We need a ride for this revenge scenario to work.”

“So we get her to drop us at my place,” I reply, bristling at her tone. “My car is in the garage.”

“Right,” she says with a sigh. “Your red convertible. Your inconspicuous, untraceable red convertible with the East Midlands bumper stickers.”

I bite my lip. She does have a point.

I look back at Meg again: waiting silently now, swirling ice cream around her cup like we aren’t talking about her right to her face. I sigh. It’s clear she has nothing better to do, and she’s not part of the social scene, at least, so maybe this won’t get out. . . .

“Fine,” I agree, turning to Meg. “You’re in.”

“But in on what?” She looks nervous. “Sorry, it’s just you didn’t even say what this is about.”

“Payback,” Jolene explains, taking a slurp of my drink. “But revenge isn’t a one-size-fits-all kind of thing. This Cameron guy, how long have you been dating him?”

“A couple of months,” I reply, casual, like I don’t even know to the day. “We got together at Nico’s birthday thing.”

I couldn’t sleep that night after he kissed me. I stayed up, talking until dawn about how cute he was, and how long it would take for him to call. Talking with Kaitlin. I scowl. “And I’ve been best friends with Kaitlin since the start of sophomore year.”

“Ouch.” Jolene smirks. “Bet you didn’t see that one coming.”

“No,” I say quietly. “I didn’t.”

“OK. So, you don’t want violence, and I doubt you’ll work up the nerve to destroy any of their stuff. . . .” Jolene muses, like that’s a bad thing. “Then I guess your best bet is public humiliation, and —” She stops suddenly. Denise is approaching, clearing wrappers and debris from the tables nearby.

“Can I get you girls anything?” she asks, beaming at us.

“No, thanks, Dee.” Jolene smiles and waits until she’s gone before continuing. “You know, this would be so much easier if you’d taken photos. Or video. Any kind of proof they’ve been cheating.”

“Sorry, I was too busy having my heart ripped into tiny pieces.” My voice comes out bitter, so I cover with a careless smile. “Not exactly a Kodak moment.”

There’s a pause. I can tell they’re both thinking what an idiot I am; even Meg is looking at me like I should have seen this coming. But this is why I didn’t tell anyone, back at prom. They would have all swooped in with their fake sympathy — and then bitched behind my back about how I must have done something wrong, how Kaitlin must be better than me. No, keeping quiet was the right thing to do. I just need to act like I’m not hurting and make sure that when news gets out, Kaitlin and Cam are so humiliated, nobody thinks to gossip about me, too.

“You know, I bet we could get something from her room,” I suggest, thinking hard. “Kaitlin texts like, twenty-four seven. And with e-mail, video chat, it would be easy to send around.” I brighten. “Like what happened to that freak Eli, you know, with that whole Gaga clip.”

“I saw that.” Meg finally speaks.

“Everyone saw it.” I giggle. “We copied the entire school. I think it even made Perez Hilton.”

Jolene raises an eyebrow. “That was your clique? Gee, how nice.”

“Whatever.” I roll my eyes. “Seriously — if you’re going to goth up and do some crazy death-metal dance routine, maybe you don’t want to film the whole thing. Anyway, if we can break into Kaitlin’s computer, there’s bound to be something scandalous to spread around.”

“Break in?” Meg stops. Her brown eyes get wider, like she’s just realizing what we’re planning. “Nobody said we’d be doing anything illegal!”

“It’s hardly even against the law,” I reassure her, impatient. “I know the security for the alarm and everything.”

Still, she shakes her head. “No, I can’t.” Reaching for her tiny beaded purse, she picks up her skirts and tries to leave, but Jolene slides around so we’re sitting on either side of her in the booth. We don’t move.

“You won’t have to get out of the car.” Jolene sighs. “Just wait for us down the block.”

“Nobody would ever know you were involved. Promise.” I add a beam of encouragement.

But Meg shakes her head again, determined. “Can you please move?”

Jolene slips out to let her past, and I shoot her an annoyed look.

“Relax,” she mouths back, following Meg toward the exit. I gulp a final mouthful of soda and start to bolt after them. Then I remember Denise, and how tired she looked, stuck working the late shift on a Friday night. I pause to quickly clear our trash away.

When I get outside, they’re standing next to Meg’s car in the middle of the empty parking lot, the neon glow from the fast-food signs shining against the pale sky.

“Do you really want to say no to me?” Jolene is saying, arms folded. “I mean, I’m not asking much, but if you can’t even help me out with this . . .” She trails off, badass once more. Pink ruffles or not, her threat is clear.

Meg tremors. “I’m sorry, but . . . no.”

Wow. Turning down Jolene? Maybe she does have some guts after all.

“I get it.” I walk closer. Time for the good cop. “You’re what, a junior?” I give her a friendly smile. Meg nods. “Exactly. We’ve got college applications coming up; you don’t want to risk everything for someone like Kaitlin.” I pause. “I mean, she’s never done anything to you, has she?”

It’s not much of a long shot. Kaitlin’s done something to everyone.

Sure enough, Meg’s expression hardens, just a little. “Actually —”

I don’t let her finish. “I told you.” I talk over her to Jolene. “I said she’s not the type. She’s a good girl. I bet she’s never done anything crazy like this.”

Jolene tries not to smile. “You’re right.” She sighs. “I don’t know, I just thought she would want . . . never mind.” She shrugs, sending a ripple of pink tulle across her chest. “We’ll find someone else.”

“Someone with some nerve,” I agree. Turning back to Meg, I give her a perky grin. “Don’t worry — we’re good. You can get home now.”

“Right,” Jolene says, hoisting her backpack over her shoulder. “We don’t want you missing curfew.” She starts to walk away, toward the busy highway. I follow, calling back to Meg.

“Thanks for the ride. Enjoy the rest of your night!”

I catch up with Jolene. She’s already counting under her breath. “One, two, three . . .”

“What if she doesn’t go for it?” I whisper, panicked. “These shoes are so not made for walking.”

“Oh, she’ll do it.” Jolene flashes me a grin. “Four, five, six —”

“Wait!”

We turn around. Meg is standing there, keys in hand and a surprised look on her face, almost like she can’t believe what she’s saying. “I’m in.”

She clears her throat and says it again, louder. Determined. “I’m in. For your plan. Tonight. I’m in.”