The Anti-Prom

With Bliss on board, Meg is outnumbered. She barely puts up a protest at our slight diversion, and before long, we’ve pulled up just around the corner from my target. It’s another exclusive development, with wide streets that back onto the golf course and white picket fences at every turn. Suburban bliss.

“Wait here,” I tell them, easing out of the car. “I won’t be long.”

“But —”

“Relax.” I give Meg a careless grin. “It’s my dad’s place. I’m just picking something up.”

She relaxes, as if that’s all the reassurance she needs. It shouldn’t be.

I’ve only been to the house once before, but I remember everything. It was a baby shower for the twins a few years back, full of women with shiny hair and tailored silk dresses who widened their eyes every time I sullenly introduced myself as his other child. The Blonde held court, beaming in the middle of the room with a fat belly, while Dad fussed with caterer’s platters, making sure everything looked just right.

I left after twenty minutes. I couldn’t take the perfection anymore.

Tonight, the house is gleaming with a fresh coat of paint, the lawn trim and lush despite the early summer heat. I slip around the wide, two-car garage out back and find wrought-iron garden furniture arranged on the immaculate paved patio and a blue-tiled pool nestled behind a child-proof gate.

He always did land on his feet.

The tree is by the far end of the house, gnarled and easy to climb, with branches stretching all the way to the first-floor bathroom window. I clamber up in a flash, the bark scraping my bare legs, but I barely notice the pain. I reach an arm through the open window, find the catch, release it, and just like that, I’m inside.

We only found out last month, when the first tuition demand came through. You’d think I would have seen it coming by now, after all the other times he’s let me down, but no — this one thing, I actually believed he’d deliver. Stupid. He was too much of a coward to even tell me to my face; he had to call to explain that the college fund he’d been waving around for years like some get-out-of-alimony-free card didn’t exist anymore. The markets took a tumble. His business expansion needed funds. He’s got his own family to support these days, and can I not be so angry, please; I’ll be eighteen soon, and he has no legal obligation to support me anymore.

Not that he ever did.

I hop down from the window seat and land in a crouch, low to the floor. For a moment, I wait for any footsteps or voices from the stairs. But there are none. If I know that babysitter, she’ll be too busy taking advantage of the surround-sound entertainment system, the stocked fridge, and her boyfriend to come check on the kids until a half hour before they’re due home.

I’m already barefoot, so I don’t make a sound as I creep out onto the landing. Light from downstairs soaks me in a dim glow, and I pause a moment, absorbing the plush surroundings. It’s like Kaitlin’s house all over again, another world of thick carpeting and gilt-edged picture frames on heavy wallpaper. The staircase is centered and the hallway wraps around, overlooking the foyer below. Marble floor, polished banisters.

Even though I swore I would be all business, quick in and out, I catch sight of a family portrait on the wall and feel my heart clench. It’s taken on a spotless beach somewhere, and he’s grinning, a kid in one arm and the other wrapped around the Blonde, looking perky and perfect with the other child on her hip. They’re wearing matching sun visors and his-and-hers pastel polo shirts, and everything about them screams preppy rich bliss.

When he was my dad, he wore stretched-out Knicks shirts and wasted twenty bucks a week on lottery tickets. Vacations were swimming at the community pool, and sweaty road trips to the lake to fend off mosquitoes and splash around in the crowded water. Popsicles were a treat; diner key lime pie the ultimate indulgence. I took it all for granted as a kid, but when you get older you see behind the cracks: the revolving wad of credit cards, my mom’s military policing of the grocery store cart, the hushed fights and tense look on her face every time the mail came. See, being poor isn’t just about the stuff you can’t have; it’s a low note of insecurity that echoes in the background of everything you ever do, that sick fear that there won’t be enough, that you’ll never have enough.

I blink at the photos, paralyzed, until some morbid curiosity in me twists, and I find myself padding silently down the hall to the door with rainbows and fluffy clouds painted in bright brushstrokes.

The twins.

Carefully, I push the door ajar, step into the room, and pull the door closed behind me. My eyes adjust to the dimness. The curtains are drawn, but there’s the pale glow of a night-light in the corner, with some kind of revolving case that casts star shapes up onto the ceiling above the matching miniature twin beds.

I edge closer.

Asleep, they’re angelic — even I can admit that. Two years old now, with blond ringlets, adorable cotton pajamas, pudgy little hands clutching the luxury plushy animals our father now imports. One has sailboats on the bedding and the other, tiny cowboys.

I got an invite to their last birthday party — the Blonde saw to that — but I couldn’t do it. I went to the Polaroid Kids show instead, drank too much whiskey, and made out with a third-rate drummer in the parking lot with their names echoing in my head. Camilla and Stephan. Classy names, both of them. Her doing, again I’m sure, but why shouldn’t they be? These kids are set for a life of prep schools and privilege, birthday cars and whatever college they damn well choose. And if Daddy screws it up and fails all over again, as I know without a single doubt that he will, then her trust fund will prop them up all the same. They’ll never know the bitterness of my life, and as much as I get that they’re innocent — that they didn’t choose this for me — I can’t help but feel a hot wave of resentment as I stand over their sleeping bodies.

I hate them.

It’s pure, and sharp, and the intensity of it scares me, but my hatred fills the room, spinning out like those little stars until I can barely breathe. I don’t exist to him anymore, not now that there’s this new life for him to enjoy. Up here, with his shiny golden family, he can pretend like he wasn’t a deadbeat failure, like he didn’t let us down and screw around, and then finally just cut loose and bail.

I don’t matter to him, not enough.

Backing out of the room, I close the door behind me and head for the master suite. More family portraits line the room, perfect in their gilded frames, and I have to stop myself from looking — from getting sucked into their glossy little world. I check every room in turn — faster, more frantic — but I still don’t find what I’m looking for. It’s not downstairs either, I know that much, but he couldn’t have sold it, not after the petty, selfish effort he went through to keep it in the divorce.

Even now, I can’t believe he cared so much. Visitation access? He didn’t ask, but when it came to that painting, he spared no effort: hitting us with threatening letters and lawyer fees until Mom just gave in to get him off our backs. It’s not even valuable yet; that’s the crazy part — just a swirled abstract thing he got suckered into buying from some gallery in the city instead of replacing the boiler that year. But he swore that one day, this guy would be the next Rothko, and we’d all be set, like that counted as a solid investment plan.

Now, I’m almost glad he fought so hard for it. See, hurting someone is simple in the end. Find what they love, and take it from them.

If I can find the damn thing.

I stand in the study, my breath coming fast. I need that thing as focus, to keep me from thinking of all the other damage I could do, the ways I could hurt him. But now I’m left shaking in the shadows of this life he’s built — three miles and a world away from the existence my mom and I scraped out of thrift-store clothes and late shifts and coupons. My hands are clenched, pressing fierce half-moon prints into my palm, and it takes every bit of self-restraint I have not to hurl every bookcase from the wall, to smash the picture frames into shrapnel, to burn his f*cking house down.

I take a breath.

Think, Jolene. Where would he keep it?

And then my eyes find the keys and folders left on his heavy antique desk and I realize: there is one more place.

Moving quickly, I sweep the heavy key ring into my bag and flip through the thick leather journal. It’s stuffed with dates and meetings, notes about shipping data and new marketing teams. My new, improved father. God, I bet he loves it: the respected, productive life of an entrepreneur. But I know not everything can have changed; he was always bad with numbers, and sure enough, there’s a page at the back with a neat list of scribbled codes. Card PIN, Penny — cell, and then, finally, Alarm — office.

Jackpot.

It feels like I’ve been up here a lifetime, but the same R and B seduction song is still playing from downstairs when I hoist myself out the window and scramble down the tree. Under five minutes, and I’m out clean. I guess hanging around all those bad influences taught me some things, at least.

“Oh, thank God!” Meg is looking severely panicked when I slide into the passenger seat. “What were you doing in there? You said it was your dad’s place!”

“It is.” I shrug, slamming the door closed behind me. After creeping around so carefully, the sound jolts right through me.

Meg stares, wide-eyed. “But you didn’t ring the bell.”

“I went around back,” I snap. “Now, do you want to get moving?”

I’m edgy, wired in my seat. I need to get away from this house, from the gleaming perfection of it all. I need to make him pay.

Meg gives me another anxious look, but she doesn’t press. Starting the ignition, she carefully drives away.

“So are we done yet?” Bliss speaks up. She’s still lounging in the backseat, clearly bored. “Because it’s midnight already. I’m going to miss the party too if we don’t get back soon.”

“Patience, grasshopper.” I force myself to sound casual, trying to pull it all back under control. “But I do need your phone for a sec.”

“What for?” I can hear the reluctance in her voice. Phones are practically an extension of those girls — it’s like I asked to borrow her arm.

“Does it matter?”

There’s a sigh, and then she passes it forward. It’s small, but equipped with a Web browser and a bunch of useless apps — and covered with diamanté gem stickers in silver and pink. Classy. With a few clicks, I find a map program and use my hastily scribbled address to figure out the way to his office. Just having something to do helps calm the itch in my veins, gives me some direction.

“OK, you need to take a right up ahead and get on Pinewood Avenue,” I tell Meg, glancing up from the tiny screen.

“But Brianna’s house is this way.”

“I know.” I shrug, still aiming for nonchalance. “I just need to make another stop first.”

“Noooo!” Bliss wails. “No more stops. Or just, drop me off first. I’m done.”

I whip my head around. “You’re done when I say you are. You owe me, remember? Or do you want me to call Kaitlin and let her know what we’ve been up to?” I hold up her phone and start scrolling through the contacts list. “Jared, Jenny, Joel, Kait —”

“OK, OK!” She gives me a murderous look. “I’ll wait. But can Meg maybe drive any faster? At this rate, we’ll be stuck out here all night.”

I turn back to Meg. “She does have a point. . . .”

Meg takes a breath. “This is the limit,” she says firmly, “and besides, I don’t even know where we’re going.”

“Elmwood Business Park,” I reply, casual. “Now can we go faster?”

“What’s there?” She frowns instead.

I sigh. “Just something I need to pick up. It wasn’t at the house, so . . .”

“But it’s the middle of the night; everything’s closed,” Meg argues.

“That’s kind of the point.”

“You’re going to break in?”

Meg slams on the brakes and we lurch to a halt on the dark, residential street. Sure, it’s only from about twenty miles an hour, but I’m still thrown forward against my seat belt.

“Ouch!” Bliss yelps from the back. “Meg!”

I peel the strap from my chest. That precious control is slipping fast. “Are we seriously going to go through this every time I tell you what to do?” I demand. “Because your innocent thing is getting old.”

“It’s not innocent to want to stay out of jail!” Meg cries.

Bliss leans forward. “Yeah, I kind of have to agree.”

I grit my teeth. “Can you both just relax a minute? Nobody said anything about jail.” I retrieve the key ring from my bag and dangle it in front of them. “See. I’m not breaking anything. And I have the alarm code, too. Nothing to worry about.”

Meg just purses her lips disapprovingly. “Right, nothing. Except motion sensors, and CCTV, and security patrols . . .”

“Don’t be such a baby,” I argue, but her words ring alarmingly true. Sure, the keys and code will get me in without any problems, but she’s right: a complex like that will have security cameras all over the place. I may have skills, but invisibility isn’t one of them.

I think hard. There’s no way I’m quitting yet, not after everything. So there’s surveillance? That just means I need something extra.

“What would you do?” I ask Meg.

“What?”

“You’re smart, right? Straight As, I bet. So how would you get around CCTV? I’m serious,” I add. “Finesse has never been my thing.”

Bliss snorts from the backseat. “You don’t say.”

I quell her with a look. “Come on, Meg, think.”

“You’re not supposed to get around security — that’s the point.” She sounds offended that I’d even ask her to consider breaking the rules.

“Bliss?” I turn. This is what it’s come to: asking Bambi for criminal input. But desperate times . . .

She rolls her eyes. “Uh, no. Unless you’ve got some magic wand to wave around, you’re screwed. And I’m still missing my party.” Bliss folds her arms, sulking, but something in her words triggers a spark. An old memory of late night, and hushed laughter, and the pair of us playing tag out on the damp fifty-yard line, the stadium rising, empty around us, as Dante crushed me into the ground.

Don’t worry about security, he’d told me. Eli had fixed it.

I groan.

“What now?” Bliss whines.

“New stop,” I tell them, already resigning myself to the indignities ahead. Sure, Eli Graff may be the undisputed geek criminal — and inadvertent YouTube hit — of East Midlands, but that doesn’t mean he won’t make me beg. “We need to go to the Loft, on Second Street.”

“Are you going to break in there, too?” Meg asks, still petulant.

“No.” I sigh. “I need to see a guy about a thing.”

“How specific.”

“The longer you argue, the longer you’re stuck with me.” I give her a look that could melt steel, and sure enough, she puts the car back in drive.

As we drive away, I rest my forehead against the cool glass. It’s another detour, but I don’t care. All this will be worth it in the end, when I get that painting, when my father knows what it’s like to lose even a fraction of what he’s taken from me.





I don’t complain when Jolene changes our destination yet again and orders me back toward downtown; I can only pray that whatever new task is sending us there distracts her from the most definitely illegal activities she’s planning. Revenge stunts are one thing, but I can tell from her tense expression that we’re veering into darker territory.

“I think this is it.” I pull over, peering through the windshield at the old warehouse. It’s lit up inside, with cars parked all around and people hanging outside in groups. I recognize some from school: the pierced goth kids and alternative crowds who wouldn’t be seen dead at prom.

“Ew,” Bliss says, scrunching up her face at the view. “I’m staying in the car.”

“Fine with me.” Jolene pauses to try and pat the ruffles into submission, but they won’t be denied. She makes a face and reaches for the door regardless. “But you’d better not bail.”

I watch her stride across the parking lot, her dress bright among the ripped denim and dark leather around. She’s halfway to the stairs when a guy breaks away from his friends and saunters to intercept. She stops dead.

“Who’s that?” Bliss asks, bobbing forward for a better look.

“I don’t know.” As I look harder, I realize that it’s the guy from outside prom, the one who asked me for a light. But the white tux is gone, and he’s dressed in a beat-up leather jacket now, his slicked-back hair disheveled.

Jolene plants her hands on her hips and shifts into a defensive stance.

“She doesn’t look happy to see him,” Bliss notes before bouncing out of the car. “Come on. This is going to be good — I can tell.”

I pause, uncertain, but then she hurries after Jolene and I’m left alone in the car on the side of the dark street. Quickly, I lock up and follow.

“What are you doing here?” Jolene is sizing the guy up as we approach. “College doesn’t finish for weeks.”

Bliss puts out a hand, stopping me from going any closer. “What do you think, is he an ex?” she whispers, loitering just within earshot. I shrug.

The guy gives her a crooked smile, his eyes drifting from head to toe. “Nice dress.”

Jolene folds her arms. “It’s prom, remember? Someone said it would be fun.”

“So what are you doing out here, then?”

I watch him, curious. He’s younger than I thought, maybe only eighteen or nineteen, but there’s a casual self-possession in the way he stands that makes me think he can handle Jolene. He glances past, to where we’re standing. “Hey.” His eyes widen a little in recognition when he sees me. “I’m Dante.”

“Hey,” Bliss coos back, fluttering him a little wave, while I blush, embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping. Jolene fixes us with a fierce glare, but clearly, we’re the least of her problems. She turns back to him.

“It’s none of your business what I’m doing. At least, is hasn’t been for the last year.” Jolene is trying to sound glib, but I hear something shake in her voice, just a faint quaver, but it says everything her glare and angry body language won’t.

Dante must have heard it, too, because his grin slips.

“You thought we could just slide on by that little fact?” Jolene adds, “No Hey Jolene, how have you been? or, What’s going on with you? or even, Happy Birthday, by the way.” Those last words, she practically spits at him, furious.

Bliss turns her head back and forth. “We should have brought popcorn.”

“Shhh!” I murmur as they face off, neither moving out of the other’s way. All night, Jolene has struck me as utterly invincible, but now, I can finally see someone real underneath all the swagger. Someone like me.

“I thought that’s what you wanted.” When it comes, Dante’s reply is quiet. “You said you never wanted to see me again.”

Jolene shakes her head. “You took me by surprise. I needed to process it all!”

“Process?” Dante repeats, his voice rising with disbelief. “You threw me out of a moving vehicle!”

“It was going five miles an hour,” Jolene counters. “And what did you expect? Just changing everything on me. I didn’t see it coming, I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“You knew,” Dante answers flatly. “And you made it real clear that you didn’t feel the same.”

“So what?” Jolene gives an angry shrug. “You head off to college and don’t speak to me again? I figured our friendship was more than you just wanting to screw me, but hey, guess I was wrong about that.”

I see him wince, but before he can reply, Jolene holds her hands up. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. It’s done.” She exhales, giving a sharp little shrug. “And now I’ve got things to take care of, so you just do . . . whatever the hell you want. I don’t care.”

She turns on her heel and stalks toward the building. Dante looks over at us.

“She hasn’t changed a bit.” He gives a wry smile, but there’s something wistful in his voice. “Anyway, I’d better . . .” He nods toward the building and then goes to follow Jolene, his pace casual but full of purpose.

“Wow.” Bliss waits until they’re both inside before turning to me gleefully. “Drama! What do you think went down?”

“I don’t know. . . .” Now that they’re gone, it feels wrong to be picking over their relationship in the dark of the parking lot, like we’re nothing but vultures swooping for gossip. “It’s not really any of our business.”

Bliss sighs, clearly disappointed. “You saw that look in her eyes though, right? He’s dead to her.”

I’m not convinced, but I don’t want to get drawn into an argument about the nuances of Jolene’s private life, not when we’re surrounded by a crowd of pierced, tattooed kids. I nod instead, heading back to the car to wait.

“What’s taking her so long?” Bliss asks impatiently not even three minutes later. She’s laid claim to the front seat in Jolene’s absence, propping her bare feet on the dashboard and wriggling her French-manicured toes. “I bet they’re making out in there. Or worse.”

“I don’t know what she’s doing, and I really don’t want to,” I reply, trying not to feel anxious. “Plausible deniability, remember?”

Bliss looks at me. “Relax; she’s a big girl. She can take care of herself. And if she doesn’t, I’m sure Dante will.” She gives a salacious grin. “He’s hot, you have to admit.”

I give another vague shrug. “Sure. Hot. If you like that kind of thing.”

“Tall, brooding, handsome — who wouldn’t?”

To be entirely honest, I don’t. Dante seems nice enough, but there’s an edge about him, as if he could do anything; some girls would say that’s exciting, but I’ve never been one to pine over bad boys. No, that honor has always gone to guys so far out of my league, they can barely even see me. Like Tristan. Or . . . Scott.

I catch myself midthought, blushing in the dark. At the party, I was too busy feeling awkward and self-conscious to even focus on him, but now that things have slowed, I can’t help but remember how sweet he was, trying to defend me against the raging sorority girls. And how I just bailed, without even saying good-bye. Not that he even cares, I remind myself. He was probably just relieved that his charity project for the night made such a swift exit.

“I’m hungry.” Bliss sighs beside me. “Brianna better have catering. Like the mini-puffs she did for her New Year’s party — they were amazing.” She looks ravenous at the thought of it.

There’s nothing I can say to that. I remember the party, though — or at least, the furious gossip that dominated the next week at East Midlands. Two new reigning power couples were formed, another split up, and Nikki Hopington did a dance routine to Rihanna that got mass e-mailed to every student in school. Just your typical, average teenage party. With catering, illicit alcohol, and a professional band.

Bliss flicks the radio on, impatiently switching stations. “What’s your deal, anyway?” She asks it almost like an accusation. “You’ve barely said a word all night.”

“I haven’t needed to,” I reply quietly.

She stops. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” I pause before venturing, “Just, you haven’t really said a thing to me, either.”

I shouldn’t have said that. I drum my fingertips lightly on the steering wheel, keeping my eyes fixed on the stairs for Jolene, but I can feel Bliss watching me.

“I haven’t seen you in school,” she says eventually. “When did you move to town?”

“About fifteen years ago.” My voice has a note of sarcasm in it; I can’t help myself. “We were in History together, ninth grade,” I explain shortly. “And study hall, all last year. And for the past eight months, we’ve had Miss Bowers for Wednesday afternoon PE classes. I was on your volleyball team.”

“Oh.”

There’s silence.

“You spilled grape juice on me in the cafeteria line last month,” I add softly. “Kaitlin said it looked like I had my period. You all laughed.”

“What are you, like, keeping track?” Bliss sounds defensive.

“No. I just pay attention to the people around me.”

She stiffens. “And I don’t?”

I’m on dangerous ground here. I backtrack. “I never said that.”

“No,” Bliss says quietly. “You don’t say much of anything. You just skulk around, keeping out of the way and pretending like you’re above us all. ‘No, we can’t take Kaitlin’s diary,’” she mimics, “‘We can’t go to a college party. That would be wrong.’”

I don’t respond. What’s the use? She’s back in her superior clique mode, as if she owns the place. Never mind that any sane person would think twice about getting tangled up in trouble; no, when I say so, it’s because I’m pathetic.

“See?” she says, sounding amused. “I bet you’re doing it right now, thinking how mean I’m being, and how much better you are than me.”

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, tired. “Start crying? Insult you right back?” I shrug. “What’s the point, anyway?”

“The point is, you need to start sticking up for yourself.” Bliss begins to twist her hair around one finger. “You’ll never get anywhere like this.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need your advice,” I reply, fighting to stay calm. I hate that I get emotional so easily — already, I can feel the telltale heat of tears welling up in the back of my throat, my skin flushed and prickling. “I’m fine.”

“Fine?” Bliss snorts. “Sure, being a total outcast is fine.”

I break. “Why do you have to be such a bitch?”

There’s silence, and then she looks at me with a curious smile on her freshly glossed lips. “That’s better.”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

Bliss sighs, clearly exasperated. “I mean, fight back, for once in your life. God, don’t you get sick of it? Always doing whatever you’re told. No wonder I don’t remember you; it’s like I’m looking at a black hole or something — you just suck all the fun and energy out of a room!”

“I . . .” I start to reply, but my survival instincts are screaming the same as usual. Retreat. Hide. Wait for this all to go away. “At least I’m not shallow and self-absorbed like you,” I manage, still holding back tears.

“There you go again.” Bliss shakes her head, sending ringlets bouncing around her face. “Little Miss Perfect. Did it ever strike you that maybe the reason you don’t have any friends isn’t that we’re all bitches, but that you’re just . . . boring?”

I look away, but that doesn’t seem to matter to her.

“I mean, sure, I might not talk to you in school, but give me one good reason why I should,” Bliss continues, sounding self-righteous. “I didn’t just wake up one morning with friends and plans every weekend. I worked for it. You’ve got to make an effort, Meg. No one will just hand you everything for free.”

I pray for her to finish, but it seems like she’s just warming up.

“It’s not that you’re even weird.” Bliss gives me a critical look. “I mean, you’re kind of nerdy, but look at Callie Stephans, or that Tom guy who keeps scoring perfect 800s on all the SAT prep — they manage to have functioning social lives, so why can’t you?” She sighs, as if I’m exhausting her with my uselessness. “You could be fine, if you’d just stand up and try.”

That gets me. I feel the tears again, hot in my throat.

“Just join a few clubs,” she suggests, as if I’ve never thought of that before. “Or try out for teams. Well, maybe not sports.” She corrects herself. “But you’ve got to be good at something, and —”

“Shut up.” I can hear my voice break and hate myself for it, but not as much as I hate her right now. “This is my car, and I get to make the rules, so you just shut the hell up!”

Bliss just gives me this pitying look. “OK.” She shrugs. “Fine. I’ll go find Jolene.”

I wait until she’s inside before I let myself cry. She sounded as if she was almost trying to help me in her own twisted way, but to me, it’s so much worse than a sneer. Bitching, I can ignore; I just tell myself that it’s all a stupid lie. This sincerity is something worse.

Something true.