The Anti-Prom

Helpless. She calls me helpless, and then I can’t even remember where we’re going. Way to go, Bliss — striking a blow for popular-girl stereotypes everywhere.

I follow the others across campus, trying to ignore my flush of embarrassment. It’s not that I’m so bad with directions — fine, maybe just a little — but the truth is, Jolene’s right. I never once stopped to notice where Jason’s dorm is, or how to get there. I was always with Kaitlin or one of the other girls, and they just called ahead and had one of the guys meet us by the main gates. I never saw the point in wandering aimlessly around when there were tons of cute boys willing to point the way. But what’s so wrong about that? Not everyone needs to possess every ounce of human knowledge to survive. I mean, that’s what Google is for.

“Where are we going, anyway?” I ask, walking faster to catch up. Meg is scurrying ahead of me, her head down and the fabric of her dress bunched up in her hands to keep it from sweeping the ground. I feel a pang for that outfit — bombshell black satin, and she’s skulking down the path as if she’s draped in a garbage bag. Some people don’t deserve high fashion.

“The library.” She nods to the concrete-and-glass building looming up ahead.

“Right.” I sigh. “Figures.” Girls like Meg are always programmed to detect the nearest gathering of nerds and bookworms.

I look around. It’s warm out, and the campus is busy with students already in the weekend spirit as they head out for the night, joking around on the lawns and yelling to each other about plans for a pajama party or karaoke session at the bar. Even though I shouldn’t be impressed by college kids anymore, I can’t help but soak it all in. I always love how these older girls look so at ease with themselves, as if they have everything figured out. Jolene’s that way as well — she’s got this mysterious air of self-possession, like she genuinely doesn’t care what anyone thinks of her. Maybe I’ll get that way, too: just wake up on my eighteenth birthday with all the answers, and not even blink if Courtney “helpfully” points out that my mascara’s smudged, or that she and Nikki have tickets to Jared Jameson’s next show and — pause — I can come along, if I want.

I can dream.

For a moment, I wish I could just take it all back and go get a glass of punch instead of looking for that useless lipstick. Maybe now I would be giggling happily with Kaitlin, or sneaking kisses with Cameron in the shadows of the paper streamers and balloons, oblivious. I’d be stupid and naive, sure, but at least I’d be happy. Ignorance is Bliss, right?

“We’ve got to do something about these dresses,” Jolene mutters, climbing the front steps. She’s been bitching about her ruffles all night so I barely register the comment, but then a group of gothy-looking girls gives us a long stare, and I realize that she might have a point. If someone in white face powder, a corset, and a floor-length Victoriana skirt can look at us like we’re the weird ones, clearly, a change in outfits is required.

“Later,” I agree reluctantly, “but stop tugging it. It makes you look even more awkward.” She glares at me, but stops twitching as we file into the atrium.

It’s a huge, modern building, with information desks and security barriers along the front, and then at least three vast floors of shelving, work tables, and computer stations. Even though it’s Friday night, the place is packed with students clutching note pads, their eyes full of a glazed panic that can mean only one thing: finals.

“I don’t know.” Meg hedges. “You need to register for a reader’s pass, and they’re pretty strict about —”

“Come on,” Jolene interrupts, tugging me quickly to the barrier farthest from the bored security guy. He’s staring off into space, and the librarians all seem busy with a long line of students, so she plucks Meg’s access card from her hand and swipes it through, squeezing us together past the entry in a single knot of bodies. “See? Simple.” She steers us to a safe row of shelving and then raises an eyebrow at me. “Well? You said you had this next part under control.”

I need to win back some credit, and fast, so I give them a superior grin. “Leave it to the expert. Just watch and learn. . . .”

Spinning on my heel, I sashay toward the stairs, quickly thinking up my plan. Up on the first floor, it’s quieter — home to only hard core study nerds, I can tell. The individual study booths are set back between the shelves, and everyone looks settled in for the night, giving off this air of total desperation.

The other girls trail behind me as I walk the length of the room, mentally crossing off the prospects as I go.

“Are we just taking a stroll for the hell of it?” Jolene mutters, dragging her shoes on the dull gray carpeting. “Or are you lost — again?”

“Shh!” I glare.

And then I spot him: the blond boy in the corner, with square black glasses and a robot printed on his gray shirt. He’s squinting at his laptop, surrounded by loose-leaf papers, and has a smudge of highlighter on his chin. Perfect.

“Hi.” I make my approach with a big smile, not waiting for the others to follow.

The boy looks up. Up close, I can see that he’s actually kind of cute, not gawky like I first thought. His hair is cut messy and short, and he’s got some of those sideburns, like he should be playing in an indie rock band. Automatically, I flip my hair and jut out one hip. “Can I ask a teeny, tiny favor?”

He gives me a vague smile. “Sorry, but I’m kind of busy. . . .” Instead of offering to help, the boy just looks back at his laptop like I’m already dismissed.

“Oh.” I hide a frown and widen my smile instead. “It won’t even take a minute!” I chirp. “Well, we won’t.” I gesture at Meg and Jolene so he doesn’t think I’m trying to stalk him or anything.

The boy glances past me.

“See, we’re trying to track down a friend of ours, but I’ve completely forgotten what dorm he’s in. Could you maybe look him up for us? Jason Gilbert. He’s a sophomore,” I add, but the boy isn’t listening. “Umm, hello?”

He looks back quickly, recovering. “Uh . . . sure.” A pause. “What do you need again?”

“His dorm address,” I explain slowly, trying not to sigh. He must be really zoned out from studying. “I think you can look it up online. . . .”

Meg is gazing idly at a shelf of books behind me, so I beckon her over. “Meg, come here and tell . . . ?” I wait for him to introduce himself.

He seems to snap back to life. “Scott. I’m Scott.” He smiles at us. Finally.

“Tell Scott what we need,” I finish, giving him another big smile. I push Meg into the chair next to him. “I’m just going to go make some copies, OK? Do you know where the nearest machine is?”

“Uh, just around the corner.” He’s back to looking blank and dopey, but at least I get an answer this time.

“Thanks!” I leave them to it, hoping Meg can manage to get something useful out of him. When in doubt, delegate.

Sure enough, there’s a Xerox machine waiting in the empty hallway beneath a notice board crammed with neon flyers and ads for the Students Against Unethical Vending Machines group. College kids. I fumble in my purse for quarters, but aside from gum, lip gloss, and mascara, I come up empty-handed.

“Here, I’ve got some.” Jolene appears beside me and fetches a handful of change from her ugly backpack.

“Thanks.” I flip through the diary, trying to find the pages with the most dirt to copy. “I figured it would be good to have a backup. Insurance, you know?”

She nods. “Good thinking.”

“What was that?” I joke, setting it to copy. “A compliment?”

She snorts. “Yeah, well, you’ve lowered the bar so far, I have to applaud any rational thought at all.”

I decide to rise above her digs and focus on the task at hand. The machine spits out the first few pages, so I turn to another section and set it to copy again.

“Anything good?” Jolene hops up on the table next to me, kicking her feet back and forth. I shrug.

“I didn’t have time to read it all. Most of it’s just petty bitching, anyway, but she talks about hooking up with Cameron, and this other guy too.”

“So tonight wasn’t the first time? Classy.” Jolene snorts.

I give her a grim smile. Luckily, I’m still too numb from that limo lap dance to get worked up over this new revelation. So much for a single stupid mistake: Kaitlin’s been planning it forever, and as for Cameron . . . It doesn’t read like he’s put up much of a fight.

I turn back to the diary and copy a new page. The more dirt, the better. Then my gaze drifts farther down the hall and my heart stops.

“Hide me,” I whisper, but there’s nowhere to escape, so I dive beneath the table. Jolene doesn’t move. “Hide me!” I yelp, louder this time, and reach out to yank her legs, pulling her in front of me.

“What are you doing?” She sighs, but I just scoot farther back against the copier, deeper into the dust and grime and God knows what else. I shudder as my hands hit something sticky, but there’s no time to complain.

“Be quiet — act like I’m not here,” I whisper, watching them come closer. Five pairs of legs are approaching from the other end of the hallway: an assortment of skin-tight jeans and miniskirts stretching down to sky-high heels and ultra-fashionable boots. From under the table, I can only see the lower half of their bodies, but that’s enough to know what they are.

Phi Kappas.

As they get closer, Jolene finally takes the hint and dangles her backpack in front of me, blocking whatever view they might have of my hunched, dusty body. Slowly, slowly they saunter past, while I make a mental note to take three showers when I get home.

“You can come out now.” Jolene sounds amused. She doesn’t help me up, just stands back and watches as I crawl out and haul myself to my feet in an undignified scramble.

“Thanks.” I try to dust myself down. It doesn’t look as if there’s too much damage, just a suspicious smear on one leg and, yes, the remainder of some chewing gum squished against my left palm. I screw up my face and wipe it frantically with a wad of scrap paper.

When I look up, Jolene is still staring at me. “Let me guess: you stole one of their boyfriends?”

“Is my name Kaitlin?” I retort.

“Right.” She grins. “I forgot, you’re the virtuous one. So, what was it? I haven’t seen anyone hit the ground so fast since a car backfired outside the Jay-Z show last year.”

I pause. “My cousin,” I explain reluctantly, reaching for my purse and applying a fresh coat of lip gloss to calm myself down. “Well, her sorority sisters, anyway, but I thought she was with them.” They all look alike, those girls, with their manicures and blowouts and five-hundred-dollar purses. The Kappa gloss, Kaitlin and I always joke, even though we’ll pledge in a heartbeat when our turn comes around.

Jolene frowns. “Wait, your cousin goes here? Why didn’t we just ask her for help?”

I shake my head so fast, hair whips against my cheeks. “No way. She cannot know I’m here. She’ll tell her mom, and then Aunt Estrella will call my mom, and I’ll be in a world of trouble.” I shudder again, this time at the prospect of Selena smugly reporting back my every misdemeanor. It’s bad enough that my mom and her sister are trapped in some cycle of constant competition, but they can’t help dragging me and Selena into it, too: holding up our achievements like they’re gold stars on a scoreboard. And no matter what I do, Selena always comes out on top.

“So what’s the deal, you’ll get in trouble for sneaking onto campus?” Jolene looks a tiny bit sympathetic.

“For starters, sure,” I reply. “And then my mom will want to know everything about why I’m here, and not at prom, and what I’m doing with you . . .” I trail off, exhausted by the thought of all her questions.

“Right,” Jolene drawls slowly, “because hanging with me is way worse than the stealing and gossiping.”

I tense. “You should talk — your mom posted spies to keep watch on you, remember?”

“Vividly.” Jolene sinks back against the wall as I resume copying duties. “God, what makes them think it’s such wholesome teenage fun we’re having at that thing? I bet kids were getting drunk and giving illicit blow-jobs back in their day, too.”

“Beats me. My mom is way too involved in my social life as it is.”

“Reliving her former glories?”

“More like protecting my precious reputation.” I grimace. “Because we all know it’s the most valuable thing a girl can have.”

“Guess I’m screwed then.”

I fall silent as the copier hums, reproducing every scandalous page until I think it’s all covered. I fold the pages into a wedge. “This is everything, I think. Except the endless angsting and weight-loss charts, I mean.”

“Cool.” Jolene stuffs them in her backpack as we head back toward the study area. “We’re making good time, shouldn’t be much longer.” She looks around with a tight expression, like she can’t wait to be gone.

Meg and the Scott boy are deep in discussion as we approach, tucked away in their fort of books and folders.

“Firefly is great, but you should try Dollhouse.”

“I did!” Meg protests. “It was nothing but male fantasy crap. I gave up after five episodes.”

Sci-fi shows? They really are geeks. “Did you get the address?” I interrupt hopefully. Meg looks up.

“Oh, yes, Westville dorm.” She holds up a printout with Jason’s photo and scribbled directions.

“Just turn right when you exit the library,” Scott adds. “It’s straight across the way. You can’t miss it.”

“Awesome!” I grin. “Thanks so much.”

Scott nods. “Do you need any other —”

“We’ve got to run.” I cut him off, ushering Meg out of the chair. “But you’ve been a lifesaver, you really have!”

I don’t waste any more time; hustling the others ahead of me, I head back toward the exit.

“He was nice,” Meg says, faintly wistful. “He’s read all of Neil Gaiman.”

“We won’t hold it against him.” I skip lightly down the staircase, clutching Jason’s address. I glance around when we hit the main floor, but there’s no sign of Selena or her Kappa girls; what they were even doing in the library on a Friday night, I’m not sure, but with my all-clear assured, I sashay toward the exit. Soon, the diary will be in Jason’s hands, Kaitlin and Cam will be public enemies number one and two, and I can get back to the country club to salvage what’s left of my perfect prom.

“Mission accomplished.”





“Not so fast.” I shut Bliss down before she can get carried away on that tide of self-congratulation. “We’ve still got to sneak in the dorms and deliver it to him.”

She laughs, giving me this know-it-all grin, as if I’ve just questioned her ability to apply eyeliner or calculate the optimal flesh-to-dress ratio. “Trust me”— she smirks —“getting three girls into that dorm on a Friday night will be, like, the easiest thing we’ve ever done.”

I almost want us to run into trouble, just to prove her wrong, but when we make it back across the ugly campus to Jason’s dorm building, the front door is propped open with a stack of textbooks, and the pimple-faced security guard doesn’t even look up from his handheld game as we walk in.

“Told you so!” Bliss sings, flouncing ahead.

I take in the gray walls and vending machines and feel a swell of disappointment. God, I hate this place. After everything, I still can’t believe I’m cursed to spend my college years here: a freshman in the crowd of thousands mooching between classes at an institution that doesn’t make any rankings except the lower reaches of the annual “party schools” list. Too close to home, too close to everyone I wanted to leave behind.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The dorms at Williams are gray stone, set back from the quad and surrounded by trees and leafy pathways, like something from another time. I loved it right away. Sure, we couldn’t afford the trip, but online I saw students strolling happily in the sun, broadening their minds with classes and debate, thousands of miles away from East Midlands and all the bullshit that happens in this town. It was a long shot, even the guidance counselor warned me, but I drilled SAT prep during the quiet shifts at work and polished my essays until they were clearly kick-ass, and even drove out to the city to meet alumni for coffee and talk about how college was a fresh start for me, and that my past mistakes had made me learn and grow as a person. I believed it, too, rereading that precious acceptance letter every night like it was my ticket out, to something better.

And then my failure of a father decides to break the only promise he ever made to me and suddenly it’s good-bye Williams, farewell freedom. Now I’m looking at nothing but four more years commuting to this dump every day from home, working nights and weekends just to scrape tuition, like I was never worth anything more. Like I never will be.

I shake off the flash of anger and disappointment. There’s no time for it now — all that will come soon enough.

“Look.” Meg points to a scribbled sign taped by the elevator with a bunch of SAFE SEX stickers. PARTY — 3RD FLOOR!!!! “Jason’s in room 318,” she adds, clutching the downloaded details.

“See?” Bliss beams. A group of girls hustles past, gossiping about last night’s episode of 5th Avenue, but even though they hold the elevator for us, Bliss takes off in the other direction, toward the stairs.

“More of your sorority girls?” I smirk. She doesn’t reply, pushing the door open and heading downstairs toward the basement.

Stairs? As the late, great Kirsty MacColl would say: not in these shoes. I stand firm. “I get that you want to stay out of their way, but hiding out down there . . . That’s kind of extreme, don’t you think?” Watching her freak out in the library was fun, sure, but avoiding every shiny-haired rich girl in this college might take us a while.

Bliss shakes her head. “Didn’t you notice what they were wearing?”

I blink. “Uh, basic college party ho attire?”

“It’s a pajama party.” Bliss looks at me. “Duh! And you were the one who said we needed to get out of these dresses. Ergo . . .” She points at the sign on the wall pointing down.

LAUNDRY.

Oh.

“Ergo?” I follow her down the concrete stairwell. I don’t check to see if Meg is coming, too — she always does.

“Therefore,” Bliss shoots back. “What, you think just because I have a manicure, I have to be brain-dead too?”

“You’d be the only one of your clique who isn’t,” I reply sweetly, pushing past her into the laundry room.

Bliss — showing her usual entitlement and lack of respect for other people’s property — rummages in the dryers for clean laundry, outfitting us in an array of shorty shorts and tank tops before we hit the party. It’s easy to find the right floor: music is pounding through the walls and an, ahem, amorous couple has spilled out into the stairwell, making out against the door in an enthusiastic tangle of hands and tongue.

“Move it,” I bark. They shift out of our way, not missing a beat as they slam back against the wall instead, his hands gripping her ass tightly and both of them emitting a symphony of moans and grunts.

Meg is wide-eyed as we pass, and her expression doesn’t change once we emerge into the main party. It’s the usual college scene, the hallways packed with kids clutching beers and plastic cups — dancing, chatting, hurling themselves around with inflatable pool toys — but from the look on her face, we could have wandered into the middle of an orgy. I quickly scope out the place. Most of the bedroom doors are open and, unsurprisingly, there’s no flannel or long johns in sight, just plenty of bare-chested boys in boxers, and girls wearing shrunken T-shirts, tiny shorts, and — in a few extra-slutty cases — silky nightgowns as they bounce around to the music.

“Someone better stay here and keep watch.” I tug at my shorts. They’re printed with tiny giraffes galloping across my butt. “In case security comes to break things up.”

“Or Phi Kappa shows,” Bliss adds. Taking an abandoned cup from the floor, she pushes it into my hand, finds an almost-empty beer bottle for herself, and then steals a sleep mask from somebody’s door handle to arrange on the top of Meg’s head. In an instant, she’s transformed us from three underage girls in dumb nightwear into a trio of partygoers, perfectly blending into the crowd. I hate to admit, I’m impressed.

“I guess that means you’re up,” I tell Meg. I’d rather a vaguely functional Bliss as my buddy than her.

“But —” Her protest is drowned out by a pack of frattish guys whooping past, naked save a collection of Disney boxers and shaving-cream bow ties. They pile into the room next to us, only to emerge a moment later with one of the lingerie girls slung between them. She squeals and laughs but doesn’t put up a fight.

“We’re on our cells,” I add, already backing away. “Call if you spot Jason!”

We’re quickly swallowed up by the crowd, rowdy from the mix of cheap drinks and skin. Awesome. I can’t shake my bitterness, just imagining how I’m going to deal with this twenty-four seven when school starts in the fall.

“You think she’ll be OK?” Bliss glances back, but Meg is already out of sight. “These parties can get kind of wild.”

I roll my eyes. “Relax. She’s probably got 911 on speed dial. Or her daddy. Now, 318 . . .” I start checking door numbers.

“It’s down here.” Bliss points the way, past a gaggle of girls in matching black lace nightgowns. I guess the pajama dress code is kind of like Halloween: just an excuse to look like a Playboy refugee for the night.

“You’re sure you know where you’re going?” I can’t help but tease. She scowls.

“I haven’t got total amnesia, you know.”

I laugh at her petulant expression. “I’m just kidding. Jesus, now who’s the touchy one?”

She exhales, as if forcing herself not to snap back. “Jason’s the last room on the right,” she says instead, adjusting her football jersey shirt so it reveals one bare shoulder. “You’d better check it out first, in case he’s still there.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I mock-salute, leaving her camouflaged in the line for someone’s keg while I do a casual stroll-by. The door’s lodged half-open, and through the gap I can see a blond boy giving his hair a careful ruffle, peering at his reflection in a handheld mirror. He’s wearing Simpsons boxers and nothing else, and when he’s done mussing the perfect Pattinson look, he flexes a few muscles, just to reassure himself of his own hotness.

“Yo, Jason!” Another guy pushes me out of the way, slamming the door wide open. “Get out here! Eric’s got a bet going we can’t down ten in ten!”

Jason tosses the mirror aside. “Like hell, we can’t! Those suckers can eat it.”

They charge out, off to defend the honor and beer-chugging reputation of the brotherhood. I beckon Bliss over. “All clear,” I tell her. “And he should be gone awhile.” Or however long it takes to drink himself to the emergency room.

We slip into the room. It’s messy, with dirty laundry and books littering the floor. Bliss looks around.

“Well?” I ask, impatient. “Don’t you want to make the drop? Unleash destruction?”

“Uh-huh.” She bites her lip. The journal is in her hands, but she doesn’t make a move.

“What are you waiting for?” I frown. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

“It is,” Bliss says slowly. “I just . . . It’s a big step, you know? I’d be destroying everything.”

“I think they did that already,” I remind her, surprised that she’s wavering now, when all the hard work is already done.

Then again, maybe this is why she asked me along, to show some steel when she’s set to wimp out. “Are you forgetting the whole limo thing?” I remind her meaningfully. “Think of this as karma. Making sure she gets what she deserves.”

It seems to do the job. Bliss suddenly crosses the room and deposits the journal on the nightstand. “Karma,” she says, steely.

“Payback’s a bitch,” I agree. “Although, I’ve got to ask: what do you even see in these guys?”

Bliss just gives me a look.

“No, really,” I insist, picking up a porn magazine between my thumb and forefinger and dangling it like evidence. “I want to know. Is it their conversational skills? Personal hygiene maybe? I’m just trying to figure this out.”

“Maybe it’s none of your business,” Bliss snaps.

“Except you made it my business when you came looking for me,” I point out. “So what’s the deal — did you really care about him, or are you just mad Kaitlin stole your trophy?”

She doesn’t respond, turning away to rifle through some of the papers on his desk.

“You shouldn’t waste yourself on these morons.” I sigh. It’s beyond me how Cameron and his jock crew are even considered hot, let alone worth all this energy. “There are some decent guys around, you know. They might not have the money and the car and be, like, sooo cool, but at least they won’t treat you like crap.”

“What, like JD?” Bliss spins back to me, her lips set in a thin line. “And that kid who got busted for pot — what was his name, Marcus?”

I narrow my eyes. “Hey, at least I was dating those guys because I wanted to, not just because it made me look good to everyone else.”

“That’s for sure.” She gives a mean smirk. “But can you really call it dating if you just go down on them in the alley behind the Loft?”

My temper flares. “Instead of what — giving head in the backseat of his SUV?” I give a bitter laugh. “You can pretend like you’re so much better than me if you want, but I’m guessing you give it up just because he lights some candles and calls you baby.”

She flinches.

“See?” I say, smug. “At least I fool around because I want to. You’re just afraid he’ll call you frigid if you don’t.”

I wait for another bitchy remark, some of that famous condescending sarcasm. Instead, Bliss sinks onto the edge of Jason’s unmade bed, her shoulders slumped and an utterly miserable expression on her face.

Oh, boy.

“You’re better off without him,” I advise lightly, hoping we can skate over this part without some epic confessional session. “Anyway, you’re done with him now, remember? You don’t have to put up with that bullshit anymore.”

“But, it’s done,” Bliss says quietly, tearing strips from the label of her beer bottle.

“What do you —? Oh.” I stop, realizing what she means. “That.”

“That,” she echoes, looking very young. When she’s all dolled up with makeup and that hair, I forget she’s only what, sixteen?

I sigh. Anger can only fuel you for so long. Sooner or later, the grief is going to bleed through. Now, clearly, Bliss is succumbing to the wretched, heartbroken part of her betrayal. Great.

Crossing the room, I settle on the bed beside her and try not to think when Jason last got around to changing his graying sheets. “Are you OK?” I venture. Bliss isn’t exactly high on my list of deep and meaningful confidantes, and judging by the pained look on her face, I don’t figure on hers, either.

“I’m fine.” She tries to brush it off with one of those fake smiles, but neither of us is convinced. “I guess,” she amends, “I will be.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the noise from the party drifting in through the gap in the door. The impossibilities just keep mounting, but I can’t help feeling a flicker of sympathy. Jesus, what’s next: me and Meg painting each other’s toenails and lip-synching to Lady Gaga?

“I lost my virginity to this guy from down the street,” I offer awkwardly. Girl talk isn’t exactly my thing, but I need something to snap her out of this slump. “He had a goatee, a sharks’ tooth necklace, and was way too old to be scamming on high-school chicks.”

“Ewww.” She gives a faint smile.

“Mmhmm,” I agree. “And then he dumped me because I talked trash about the Dave Matthews Band. He really loved those guys.”

Bliss manages a giggle. There.

“It’ll get easier, I guess.” She sighs, hair falling in her eyes. “I mean, I won’t have such big expectations next time. It won’t matter so much. That’s what Kaitlin said, anyway,” she adds darkly. “And she would know.”

I shake my head. “It always matters. It should.”

She gives me a sideways look. “JD McGraw mattered?”

“I don’t sleep with everyone I date, you know.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Bliss at least looks a little guilty.

“It’s OK.” I shrug. “I thought I was supposed to, in the beginning.” I shift to get more comfortable. “You know, like when you’ve been with a guy a while, and he starts pushing, like it’s obligated.”

She nods. “I thought it would bring us closer together. . . .” She trails off. “Prove he really did care about me.” Bliss gives a tight little shrug.

“A*shole.” I roll my eyes. This is why I don’t date high-school guys. Not that my exes are that great, either. “Well, they’re going to get what they deserve now,” I tell her brightly. “You’ve seen to that.”

Bliss nods, unconvinced. “I guess . . .”

“Are you kidding me? Once that stuff gets out, they’ll be ruined. I’ve seen how your group works.”

She brightens, clearly spurred by their warped view of social justice. “You’re right. It’s over.” With a reassuring look at the journal — balanced precariously on Jason’s nightstand beside a mold-filled mug and a suspiciously scrunched-up T-shirt — she bounces up. Picking up the mirror from where Jason discarded it, she fluffs out her hair and adjusts her PJ outfit, as if reminding herself who she is.

“You’ve got my dress?” she asks, without looking up. “I need to change before we head back. And you have no idea how much it cost.”

Yup. The great Bliss Merino is back.

“Right here.” I pat my bulging backpack, a little relieved. Enough with the bonding.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Stalking past me, Bliss heads back out into the hallway. “Meg is probably, like, having a breakdown by now. I still can’t believe you dragged her along. If anyone sees me with you both, my status will be totally wrecked.”

Maybe tearful, vulnerable Bliss wasn’t so bad after all. . . .