The Anti-Prom

I stuff the heels in my backpack and walk barefoot over the golf course lawn, Dante’s words stuck in a terrible feedback loop in my mind. For months now, I’ve managed to forget him, and now his voice is the only thing I can hear — telling me, over and over, all the ways I’m ruining my life. But he’s wrong. I’m not the one who wrecked my only shot to get out of this town. I’m not the one breaking promises and being so cavalier with somebody else’s future. I didn’t choose this. I don’t want any part of it. But with each new step, I still hear that note in his voice. Disappointed. Giving up on me, like everyone else.

Screw him.

I stomp onward. It’s pitch-black and silent out here, but I’ve never been scared of the dark. Leave that to girls with faint hearts and weak wills. I know there’s nothing out there in the shadows to hurt me. No — the things that cause real pain come with smiles and affection, lulling you into thinking they actually give a damn before they turn so easily and leave.

Screw them all.

I grip the roll of canvas tighter. I’m digging finger-marks into the fabric, but I don’t care. He will, though. He cared enough to mount it in that heavy frame, put it in a place of pride behind his desk. I cut it out with my army knife. Not perfect, but good enough. The jagged edges will be waiting come Monday morning, along with that shower of broken glass and the contents of his in-box I couldn’t help sweeping to the floor. The plan was invisibility, but plans change. All that sneaking was the wrong idea; I see it now. Why should I be the one to creep around, keeping to my part of town, folding myself into tiny pieces to keep my life away from his? Why should he get to ignore me so easily — just carry on with his perfect job and perfect new family without any inconvenient reminders of everything he’s left behind?

He’ll have to see me now.

I reach the other side of the fairway too soon, skirting those white picket fences and peaceful backyards until I reach the end of that familiar cul-de-sac and veer off into the road. Lights from every house are bright here, spilling out onto the tree-lined street. So warm and safe, so far away from the rest of my life.

I reach his front yard — neat, flower-trimmed — and stop. My feet won’t carry me a single step farther. The hollow ache in my chest is suddenly unbearable.

I breathe in, quick, but it doesn’t ease. The rage that’s carried me through tonight, through the last few weeks, is twisting back into that same wordless grief that always wells around him when it matters. Ever since I was a kid, he’s been my weak spot, and as much as I hate myself for being so pathetic, that bone-deep instinct is betraying me all over again. Sure, I can tell the entirety of East Midlands High exactly what I think of them, but when it comes to my own father? The right words won’t make it through my lips. All the reason and logic and heartfelt pleas in the world stay lodged in my throat. Instead, I’m stuck with nothing but the same old screaming and sharp curse-words that let him retreat back into that shell of denial and self-righteousness, as if I’m the one at fault.

I sit down cross-legged on the edge of the damp lawn, staring at the house. It’s a pretty lie he’s got built for himself in there, and not just the matching dining-room set. I don’t think he’s once acknowledged — even to himself — that anything he’s ever done has caused me pain. No, it was all, “Jolene is acting out. She needs guidance.” Guidance. As in, my mom should have just told me to shut the hell up and act nice for those all-too-rare weekend visits where we sat silently in movie theaters and fast-food restaurants, until the allocated hours were up and he left me again. I tried to write him a letter once, when I was sixteen. He slipped a hundred-dollar bill into my birthday card that year and then turned around and threw a huge party for the twins with specially printed invitations on thick card-stock and tiny clowns embossed on every corner. Mom had been laid off as part of the downsizing at her office and was working night shifts at the drugstore to cover the gap; the birthday money went to paying utilities and buying groceries that month.

My RSVP was no.

So I wrote the letter. I didn’t ask for more outright — I couldn’t bring myself to do that back then. No, I just tried to explain how when he threw money around for them on vacations and a fancy new car, and then didn’t even think about how I was getting by, it said he didn’t care as much. Care enough. I spent hours getting the words right, trying to show that it wasn’t about whatever legal loopholes he’d managed to fix, it was about the fact he was hurting me. They woke up with him every morning, and had dinner with him every night, and if all he could offer me as a parent anymore was money, then he should manage that much, at least.

He called up after and swore at me on the phone, furious as all hell. It wasn’t his money — it was hers, too, and he was doing what he could. Stand-up guy, I know. His kid pours her heart out, telling him how much he’s hurting her, and all he can do is rant about how I had no right to say those things and be so ungrateful, when he was working so hard to scrape together my college fund. . . .

Oh yeah, the famous college fund.

But I didn’t know how all of that would play out, so I bit back the hurt and carried on; tolerated the occasional phone calls and awkward lunch dates. What else was I going to do? For every bright neon sign screaming that he would never give me what I need, I couldn’t shake that stupid, tragic ache of hope that he would come through for me. Just once. Finally. It’s a fairy tale worse than any of that Disney crap, but it was mine — that one day, he’d own up to what a weak, selfish man he’d been, and try to do better by me.

But here I am. Still waiting.

I’ve been sitting here five, maybe ten minutes, when the porch light flips on. I stiffen, bracing myself to get this started, but he’s not the one to come out. Instead, it’s the Blonde who pulls a pretty blue robe tighter and walks down the front steps toward me.

“Jolene,” she says, her expression surprisingly calm for someone who’s got their hellcat stepdaughter camped out in the front yard at two in the morning. “Is everything OK?”

I set my jaw. “Is he in there?”

She pauses, a few paces away from me. “It’s late. Why don’t we talk about this in the morning?”

“I’m here now.” I sit, determined. She looks older than I remember, or maybe that’s just the bare face and tired eyes. Usually, there’s makeup and lipstick and perfect newscaster hair, all polished and dripping money and false enthusiasm. Tonight, she looks like a regular woman, worn out.

But I don’t care about her. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

The Blonde gives me a faint kind of smile. “You should get home, honey. Your mom will be worried.”

“And he isn’t?”

There’s silence. She glances back at the house. “We can talk about this another time, I promise. Come for dinner tomorrow,” she suggests. “You can see Stephan and Camilla, and he’ll be . . . he’ll be there. I’ll make sure of it.”

I watch her. She doesn’t seem angry or impatient, or anything else I’d expect. Instead, she looks almost sad, her arms wrapped around herself, looking everywhere except at me.

“I came to see him.” I hold my ground, that last piece of anger. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She’s quiet for a minute, then she exhales in a low whoosh. “He won’t come out.”

The words are simple, but there’s a strange note to her voice. I stare at her, confused, until she looks me in the eye and I see it there.

She’s ashamed of him.

The truth hits me with a painful twist. This isn’t about her — lurking in the background, sniping about his time and money.

This is all on him.

I can’t speak for a second. “He knows I’m here?” I manage at last.

She nods, sad.

“And he’s up there, hiding from me.” I give a flat laugh. My father, the hero.

“I’ll talk to him,” she promises me, awkward. “We’ll figure something out, about college . . .”

But for once, the money isn’t the point. He’s never going to be the man I need him to be.

I feel everything drain away. So many years, hoping, and this is how it ends. Out in the front yard of a home he doesn’t want me to be a part of.

“OK,” I murmur, exhausted. “I . . . whatever.”

It’s not my usual snipe of a word, full of sarcasm, but the truth. Whatever. I can’t find it in me to even muster a thought, a plan. “I . . . should go.”

I pull myself to my feet, staring blankly around. I don’t belong here; I always knew that, but instead of being a vengeful invader, I feel detached. Foreign. There’s a language here, I don’t understand. He’s playing out his life by some code I can’t grasp, and there’s no turning it back.

“Thanks,” I tell her, still dazed. “I’m sorry, I got you up —”

“It’s fine.” She hugs me swiftly, moving back straight after as if that was a step too far. As if it wasn’t allowed. “So I’ll call? About dinner?”

I shrug uselessly. “I don’t know. I’m . . . not sure if I can see him.” I swallow, already feeling the sting of tears. Something is dead here on the lawn, some last hope, and all I can do is feel the ache of it ringing through me.

“Then maybe lunch, next week. Just us,” she adds, hopeful. “I could bring the twins. You should spend some time with them.”

“I . . . maybe.” I give her a helpless look. I can’t make decisions now; I can barely keep breathing. “I have to go.”

I turn, but she stops me. “Wait — your things.”

The painting is still rolled up on the ground beside my bag. I grab them both, stumble backward. She gives me another weak smile, and then I go, racing faster back down that perfect street and onto the next, not slowing up for a second until the suburban blocks blur together, and my legs ache, and my chest burns almost enough to make me forget how much my heart is hurting right now.

I collapse on the empty sidewalk and start to cry.

My body shakes with sobs so harsh they leave me gasping, but it doesn’t take long for the tears to be done. People think I act so tough because I can’t bear to break down, but the truth is, it’s not the collapse that scares me so much as what comes after. Like now. My eyes sting red, and my head aches with a dull throb, and there’s nothing but a numb emptiness where all my fury used to be.

It’s over.

I sag back, the cold concrete biting into my palms. Dante was right, about this at least. I can’t keep holding on. In an awful flash, I see the next years spinning out ahead of me. The same old story, the same damn routine. Every time I think I drag my expectations down to meet him, he finds a way to fall short and break my heart just a little bit more.

I can’t do this anymore.

I take a breath, feeling the air slip through my system in a slow wash of calm. I can just let him go.

That’s what Dante said, didn’t he? Like I have that power. Like I can choose it for myself. I’m not naive enough to think it could ever be that easy, but when has anything in my life come that way? This is how it starts: you make the decision, and the rest comes after.

So I decide. No more.

From now on, he doesn’t owe me a single thing. I’ll work my way through college, like I would without him. I’ll go to State, try for a transfer next year, take on more loans if that’s what it takes. I’ll get by because I want to; I’ll make it out of this damn town on my own — no more fooling around, no more trying to make him care.

But if he doesn’t owe me anything, then I don’t owe him a damn thing either.

He’s not my father anymore. He hasn’t earned the right.

I struggle to my feet and stretch, feeling the stiff ache in every limb. I’m so tired I could curl up and sleep right here on the ground, but instead, I take my things and start to walk. Steady, this time.

A car turns onto the block behind me. It slows, drawing level. I tense.

“Jolene!” It’s barely stopped before Bliss leaps out and limps over. “Thank God, we’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

I blink. “I thought . . . you were going home. Or to that party . . .” I shake my head, still foggy from tears and tiredness.

“We were, until I figured out what you were going to do.” Bliss’s eyes are wide with concern. She looks around quickly. “You haven’t been there already, have you? ’Cause we swung by your dad’s house, but everything looked fine, so . . .” She pauses, reaching a hand to my shoulder. “Hey. Are you OK?”

I give another awkward shrug, but I don’t shake her off. I don’t know why people ask that. What do they expect — for you to spill your soul out right there for them to see? I look past her instead, to where Meg is looking anxiously out from the driver’s side, like she actually cares.

They came back for me.

The thought is strangely comforting. I manage a weak smile. “What is this, an intervention?”

“More like a rescue,” Bliss answers, taking my bag and pushing me gently toward the car. I don’t argue. This time, I’m the one to collapse in the backseat, grateful for the soft seats and warm air. Bliss climbs in up front and twists around. “So you didn’t do anything crazy? I was expecting to find, like, every window smashed in, or the pool house burned down or something.”

I shake my head.

“But you went there, right?” She frowns.

I nod.

“And you’ve still got the painting?”

I don’t even realize until she says it, but the roll is still clutched in my hand. How stupid. As if a scrap of canvas could ever make a difference, or the smallest dent in his denial.

“I . . . I need to get rid of it,” I say at last. We’re driving slowly, Meg taking us back through the development and up along the dirt road at the edge of the golf course. “It won’t make a difference.” I try to think clearly. “She’s seen me with it, and there’s all that mess back at the office. But if they can’t find it on me . . .”

Bliss bites her lip. “Is there anywhere we can stash it for now?”

I shake my head, harder this time. “No, I don’t want it back. I need it gone.”

There’s silence.

“We could burn it,” Bliss says cheerfully. “Except we don’t have fuel or anything.”

“Check my bag,” I tell her, slumping back in the corner of the backseat. A moment later, she comes up with the small bottle of lighter fluid I keep stashed in the side pocket. She gives me a careful look.

“Sure, because you should always throw some butane in with your sweater and tampons.”

There’s a pause, and then all three of us crack a grin at the same time. Mine is weak, sure, but it’s something.

“How would you explain that?” Meg asks, laughing. “Oh, no, officer, it’s just in case I need to do some spontaneous barbecuing?”

“It’s nail-polish remover, honest!”

I don’t laugh along, but their giggles soften the harsh ache around my chest. Make me feel less alone.

“Right. Burning it is, then.” Bliss still sounds way too breezy, as if this is a trip to the mall we’re talking about here. I wait for Meg’s objections, but instead, she pulls up on the side of the road. We’re on the ridge I trekked up earlier, above the dark valley of the fairway and woods.

“I have matches in my trunk,” Meg says, to my surprise. She seems more relaxed somehow, as if the thought of committing felonies doesn’t fill her with terror anymore. But just when I’m wondering what happened to make her so reckless, she can’t help adding, “And a fire extinguisher in my emergency pack. Just in case.”

That’s our girl.

We walk down the hill with our supplies and a blanket Bliss insisted on taking from Meg’s trunk. “You’ll get it dirty,” Meg points out, scooping her sandals up in one hand to walk barefoot like me.

“That’s the whole point,” Bliss replies, unsteady on her bandaged ankle. “It’s machine washable, but my dress isn’t.”

“And that’s the most important thing?”

I let them bicker, walking silently alongside. Soon, the ground levels out and we reach the nearest hole; the flag ripped from the ground and discarded from my first trip through. I carefully pick it up and ease it back into place.

“So. Arson for beginners.” Bliss spreads the blanket and sits herself down. “Should this be all ceremonial or something?”

“Light as a feather, stiff as a board,” Meg quips, and then looks embarrassed when Bliss laughs. “What?” she says. “The Craft is a classic.”

“Old school,” Bliss agrees.

Their buzz and energy dances around me, just out of range. I’m still wrapped in sadness, too tired to care. I lay the painting out on the ground and douse it with fluid, looking down at the bold brushstrokes that I went through so much drama to get. I thought it held some kind of meaning, but it’s just a sheet of canvas and paint.

I light the match, watching as the whole thing flares up and burns, brilliant in the night.

The other girls fall silent, staring at the flames.

This is it; I feel it. This is the end.





When the painting is nothing but embers and a scorch-mark on the ground, Bliss yawns. “Now that’s done, I think it’s Meg’s turn.”

“What do you mean, my turn?” I tilt my head to the side and find her watching me with an unnerving concentration.

“Relax.” She smiles, a flash of white teeth in the dark. “I just mean, we’ve spent the whole night running around for everyone else. It’s time we do something for you.”

“Like what?” My arms are still spread wide, the grass damp against my skin as I lie, just watching the stars. It’s so peaceful here, with the open sky above us and the distant hum of traffic kept at bay by the neat lawn and careful tree line. I take another deep breath, feeling a strange warmth roll through me; not sleepy, but content. Jolene is sprawled, silent, on my other side, but her withdrawal doesn’t matter; the wordless companionship is more comforting than they could ever know.

“Anything you want,” Bliss says. She flips back onto her stomach and begins to play with the fringe on the edge of the blanket. “I did the diary thing, and Jolene wanted that painting. So, what do you want?”

“Cheeseburgers,” I suggest, only half-joking. “I’m hungry.”

She throws a handful of grass at me. “I’m serious! What’s the one thing you want, more than anything in the world?”

I pause. The one lone wish I do have, these girls could never fulfill, but it touches me that she would even ask. “I don’t know . . .” I stare up at the blackness and those tiny pinpricks of light, so far away. “I wanted the perfect prom. Or, at least, the way it’s supposed to be. The dress, the guy, dancing . . .” I trail off, remembering that excited drive to the country club, and all my naive hope. It feels like a lifetime ago, so much has happened since. “It’s stupid, I know,” I add softly. “But I wanted to be . . . normal, just for one night.”

“It’s not stupid,” Bliss insists quickly. “I wanted the exact same thing. I mean, for it all to be perfect,” she adds, a teasing note in her voice. “Not normal. Why settle for normal?”

I laugh.

“But it’s too late now.” I prop my head up on one hand, twisting to look at her. In the distance, a car winds its way along the road on the edge of the golf course, its lights glaring through the dark until it turns back out onto the main street. “Prom’s finished. The party’s over.”

“Not all of them,” Bliss muses slowly. “Brianna’s after-party goes all night. Her parents went into the city for the weekend and left her older sister to chaperone,” she explains. “Why don’t you come with me?”

“Right,” I say wryly. “And in what universe am I actually invited to that party?”

Bliss sighs. It’s too dark to see, but I’m pretty sure she rolls her eyes as well. “What was that just there?” she asks in response. “Do you want like, a gold-leaf card or something?”

I shake my head. “Come on, Bliss. It’s nice of you to ask, but can you imagine if I actually went? Nobody wants me there.” I try to picture the look on Brianna’s face if she saw me mingling with the high-school elite. Would she even deign to ask me to leave, or just sit, making bitchy comments with her friends and laughing at me until I slunk off myself?

“So? Make them want you.” Bliss bounces up, excited. “Ooh! We could do a makeover!”

There’s a snort of disdain from Jolene’s general direction, but Bliss ignores her. “I’m serious. If we get you in the right outfit, some makeup, a cute hairstyle . . . You’ll fit in, no problem.”

“Really?” I’m not convinced. Hollywood may like to think that all it takes is for the girl to put on some mascara and wear a new pair of jeans, and suddenly the world bends to her every whim, but real life doesn’t work that way. At least, mine doesn’t.

“Totally,” Bliss insists. “Nobody cares, as long as you look the part. And the guys are so shallow, they’ll lap it up.”

I pause. It’s impossible, of course. Even the new, vaguely badass Meg Rose Zuckerman has no place at Brianna’s exclusive after-party. Facing down the security guard at the office pales in comparison to the challenge of the East Midlands social scene.

Still, I can’t help but casually ask, “Which boys are there, do you know?”

“The usual crowd, I guess.” Bliss shrugs. “Kellan, Nico, Tristan . . .” I must have brightened without realizing, because she stops. “Tristan Carmichael? You have a crush on him?”

“No!” I protest, my cheeks hot. “And I was serious about the cheeseburgers. Let’s go find something to eat.”

I scramble to my feet, glad it’s dark enough to conceal my embarrassment. Jolene lifts her head slowly and speaks for the first time. “The diner on Fifth Street is open twenty-four hours. They do great chili fries.”

“There,” I say brightly. “We have a plan.”

The other girls haul themselves to their feet, pulling on shoes and yanking up the blanket. I walk ahead, barefoot, toward the car, but Bliss catches up with me.

“He is single. . . .” she says, her voice thoughtful.

“Who is?” I pretend I don’t know exactly who she’s talking about, down to his class schedule and locker location.

Bliss ignores me. “I don’t think he’s dated anyone since his breakup with Lily over Christmas,” she continues, “and he’s smart, too. You know, you guys might work.”

Just the idea is enough to make me laugh, self-conscious. “You don’t have to humor me, Bliss.” We reach the car, pulled off the side of the gravel road at the top of the ridge. “I know he’s way out of my league.”

“Whatever.” Bliss is clearly unimpressed by the idea of leagues and hierarchy, but then, she would be. Those at the top don’t understand just how rigid the rules really are for those of us not blessed with the sparkling glitter of access or privilege. “If he’s what you want, we’ll make it happen. Won’t we, Jolene?”

She whirls on Jolene, who’s slouching along behind us. Jolene makes a noncommittal noise.

“See?” Bliss beams at me. “What do you say?”

I don’t believe her. I open the car door instead, flooding us with light. It can’t be so easy, to just say she’ll deliver the boy of my dreams with a bow on top, as if she’s a fairy godmother in designer clothing.

My doubts must show, because Bliss flips her hair impatiently. “Trust me,” she insists, and despite everything, I can’t help but feel a tiny spark of hope at the confidence in her tone. She wouldn’t be doing this to make a fool of me, not after everything.

“OK.” My voice comes out hesitant, but I clear my throat and say it louder. Like I know what I’m doing. Perhaps she’s crazy, but if there’s even the smallest chance Bliss could come through with this . . . “Tristan. That’s what I want. Who, I mean.”

“Awesome!” Bliss beams. “Let’s do this.”

And then she takes off her dress.

“It still doesn’t fit,” I say, twisting uncomfortably. We’re parked by the knot of SUVs and gleaming cars outside Brianna’s, making last-minute adjustments to my new look. The sound of the party is still filtering down the long driveway, every light in the house ablaze.

“That’s because you’re slouching. You’ve got to stick your shoulders back.” Bliss reaches over and reties the halter neck. I switched into her dress back at the golf course, under the instruction that mine was way too classy — given that it covered most of my available limbs. Now I’m swathed in her white silk designer outfit, while she’s happily selected the best of our assorted pajama party heist: striped knee socks to cover her bandage, the giraffe shorts, and, yes, that snuggly top.

But Bliss’s questionable fashion choices are the last thing on my mind right now. “You can practically see my nipples!” I object, looking down at the folds of white silk draped precariously over my braless chest.

“Not unless it’s cold out,” Bliss replies, unconcerned. She pulls several thin strips of what looks like tape from her purse and proceeds to stick the dress to my skin, tugging and folding at the fabric until it looks as if it were made to fit me — a miraculous feat, given the fact that I’m three inches shorter than her and at least fifteen pounds heavier, in all the wrong places.

“Voilà!” she declares. “Hot. Very hot. And don’t forget the purse to match.”

“Very illegal, you mean.” I take the beaded clutch she thrusts at me and check myself in the tiny strip of mirror again, my contacts already itching from the amount of mascara and eyeliner Bliss has slicked on my eyelids. I look about two years older and ten times as glamorous as I have in my entire life.

“Do you want Tristan to fall at your feet or not?” she challenges, brandishing a lip-gloss wand at me.

“There.” Admiring her handiwork, Bliss secures another strand of hair in the messy ponytail, pulling a few more to frame my face with tiny ringlets. “I am officially a genius. What do you think, Jolene?”

Jolene rises from where she’s been laying comatose on the backseat. “You look like a stray p-ssycat Doll.”

“See?” Bliss grins. “Perfect.”

The moment we step past the front door, I’m hit by a wave of music thundering with a bass I can feel vibrate clear through my chest. It’s loud and hot, packed with bodies and a whirl of laughter and hollering from every cream-papered room. I pause in the marble-trimmed hallway, hesitant, but Bliss plunges ahead into the crowd. I don’t see Jolene, but since Bliss is gripping my wrist in a vicelike hold, I have no choice but to follow.

“None of that sneaking around,” Bliss yells in my ear, yanking me through a knot of girls dancing in the living room. Some of them are balanced up on the couch, yelling along to the music as they bounce, barefoot on the brocade cushions. “Remember what I said; you have to look confident, like you belong!”

I nod, wordless. After the college party, I thought I’d be a little more immune to scenes of teen debauchery, but now that I’m here, I realize how different this is: I know these kids. That’s gangly Jenny Phillips raising her eyebrows at me as we pass, and Mike Tucker from my Chem lab dropping his mouth open as he does a quick double take. Despite all my grand plans, I begin to retreat into myself, wilting under their gaze.

“I mean it,” Bliss scolds me, coming to a stop in the back hallway. Outside, the sound of splashes and squealing filters through the French doors, and I see a tangle of boys hurl themselves into the pool, still in dress shirts and tuxedo pants. “I can only change all this.” She gestures from head to toe. “It’s up to you to do the rest.”

“But —”

“Enough with the freaking buts! You’re doing this.” Bliss gives me a sharp push, and I find myself propelled out onto the back patio, struggling not to fall flat on my newly made-up face.

“Hiya!” I hear Bliss’s synthetic squeal ring out even through the noise. I watch as she sashays ahead, greeting kids with bright air-kisses and yells. “No way, I’ve been here for ages!” she insists, flipping her hair and reaching to take a swig of another girl’s drink.

I follow, awkwardly hovering on the edge of the crowd. It’s quieter out here, at least; less soul-shaking music, and more laughter and gossiping. The paved patio area is full of tables bearing crisp cloths and platters of elaborate hors d’oeuvres, with a stone staircase curving down to the pool area and the lawn stretching beyond.

“And then she caught AJ in the foyer with his belt still undone. I mean, can you say cheater?” Nikki is telling her, face flushed. Bliss laughs.

“Like anyone’s surprised about that.”

“I know!” Courtney interrupts, eager. Like Nikki, she’s traded her formal dress for jeans and a tight, belly-skimming shirt. “So what about you, have you been hiding off with Cameron?”

Bliss giggles. “Maaaybe.” She winks as if she hasn’t spent the last five hours cursing his name. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

I shift, uncomfortable. Bliss has yet to even look in my direction. It’s as if I’m suddenly invisible to her again.

“See?” Nikki nudges Courtney, too hard. “Told you. Kaitlin said you must have gone home, but I knew there’s no way you’d bail on us.”

“Where is Kaitlin, anyway?” Bliss sounds casual, but I see a slight flicker in her smile.

Nikki shrugs, gesturing drunkenly. “Around. Anyway, come say hi to Brianna; she was looking for you and —”

The girls head down the stone staircase to the pool area, out of earshot. Soon Bliss is swallowed into the crowd, and I’m left, stranded on the balcony, alone.

I watch her go, confused.

That’s it? She dolls me up in this outfit, smears on some lip gloss, and then disappears, back to her real friends and their exclusive fun? The confusion shifts to betrayal as I watch her limp over to the crowd and laugh, carefree. The promise to give me Tristan really was nothing more than a shallow, fleeting whim, I realize; some way to make her feel generous and all-powerful. Too quickly, she’s back exactly where she started the night, and so am I.

Some fairy godmother.

I wander to the edge of the patio and gaze down at the scene. The A-list has laid claim to the Moroccan-style furniture near the pool house, while the guys joke around, trying to entertain them. None of the girls are braving the water, I note, keeping their careful hairstyles well away from the chlorine. As I watch, Bliss dances over to Brianna and pulls her into an affectionate hug. They tumble back onto a lounger, gossiping happily.

I turn away.

“I heard they tried to book that band, G-link, but it fell through last-minute.”

Two girls begin to fill their plates nearby, gossiping about various prom dramas. I feel their eyes on me, acutely self-conscious. This is why I’ve never tried crashing these parties before. It’s one thing getting in, but then what?

“Wait, wasn’t Bliss Merino in that exact same outfit?”

I look up. The girls are shooting me glances, whispering loudly. They’re dressed in vintage-style dresses, with armfuls of bangles and red lipstick, and while they may not be part of Brianna’s clique, they’re still seniors, far above me in every way.

I start to blush, but then remember Bliss’s rehearsal in the car. Fake everything.

Forcing what I hope is a bored expression, I look over. “She was,” I say loudly. They stop whispering. I keep going. “She came in the same thing as me, so she changed.”

They pause. “Oh,” one says, but there’s something new in her voice. “It’s a great dress.”

“Really great,” her friend agrees. They look at me with something like respect in their eyes, as if Bliss submitting to my will suddenly marks me out as somebody significant.

“Thanks,” I say, blinking. “I . . . like yours too.”

“Oh my God, you have to try this cake!” The first one is distracted by the food. She takes another bite, licking frosting from her fingers. “Seriously!” They turn to the spread, my supposed fashion showdown forgotten.

But I wonder . . .

Turning, I make my way back inside to where the party thumps in every room. I stroll slowly through the rooms, aware of eyes on me, but this time, I pay more attention to the looks — the girls who graze my body in a quick head-to-toe glance as I pass, the boys whose eyes seem to zoom straight to my chest. I was too self- conscious to notice properly before, assuming that they were the same dismissive glares I’m so used to, but now, I can see I was wrong. These looks are different: tinted with envy, or lust, or admiration.

Nobody thinks I don’t belong.

I stand a little taller, reveling in the attention, when suddenly the music changes, and the room is fuller, packed with people yelling the lyrics as they jump. I slip into the kitchen to escape, knocking into somebody on the way out. “Sorry,” I say quickly, stepping aside.

“No problem.” The guy laughs. “It’s crazy out there!”

I look up and promptly stop breathing.

Tristan.

“Right, crazy,” I echo, my mind blank. I’m close enough to feel the heat of his body, to brush against the bare skin of his arm.

“But hey, it’s the last big party of the year. Might as well go all-out.” He grins down at me, eyes bright and blue. He’s still dressed in his button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up around his elbows, his tie askew. One lock of his hair falls, out of place but perfect.

I exhale in a tiny shiver.

“It’s Megan, right?”

I can’t speak. I’ve been gazing at him for three hours every week all year, ever since he walked into AP Calc and collapsed gracefully into a chair directly in my eyeline. He’s good with algebra, but shaky on statistical convergence problems. He uses beat-up ball-point pens fished from the depths of a North Face backpack, and prefers those black and red spiral-bound notebooks. I tried using them for a while, in the vain hope that I could strike up a conversation about stationery sometime, but the lines were ruled too wide for my liking, and aside from the same warm smile he gives everyone from lunch ladies to the swooning freshman girls, he’s never so much as spoken to me.

Until now.

“Sure, it’s a great party,” I manage to say, smiling at him. His gaze drifts to my cleavage, for just a split-second, and when he glances back up again, his grin is wider.

Thank you, Bliss.

“Hey, I saw some beers out by the food tables. You want to come hunt them down?”

I nod, and then — to my utter disbelief — he presses a hand against my back and begins to guide me carefully through the room.

My heart sings, and I follow.