I’m done with the centerpieces, and I start to load them in a box, ignoring the fact that Petra still hasn’t moved. She’s quiet as I finish, stacking the boxes one on top on the other and then sliding them in her direction. As president, she has to deliver them to the venue on prom day.
But I catch sight of the look on her face, contemplative but also maybe a little … devious? “What?”
She looks down at the tickets and smiles. “You know, I haven’t gotten mine yet.”
I reach down and pick up the tickets. “Then take mine. You can pay me back or whatever.” Like I care.
She reaches out for the tickets but then keeps one and extends the other in my direction. “Or we could go together.”
I raise an eyebrow at her, not taking the extended ticket. “What are you talking about?”
She shrugs and the ticket that’s still held out to me waves gently. “I’m talking about the fact that I’m not letting you skip prom because of this valedictorian thing. Either you’re going to make it or I am, and either way, it shouldn’t keep you from every experience senior year has to offer. You only get one prom, and you only get one prom date. So, what do you say? Be my date?”
I reach out slowly and take the corner of the ticket between my fingers. “Why would you want to go with me?” I know Petra has friends, girls that she sits with at lunch and goes out with on the weekends. I’ve seen them together in the halls and at the mall sometimes.
Petra rolls her eyes. “Because we’re friends, you idiot. Meet me outside the doors at eight.” She reaches down, grabs the boxes of centerpieces, and walks out the door.
AMY
IT’S THREE DAYS until prom, and I’m in a department store, searching for a dress I can afford. Since Carlos got a job, I’ve been shoving my paychecks into a shoebox in my closet to save for Stanford—California living isn’t cheap—but I scraped out a little money to pay for a dress, and now I’m wandering around a department store with Mama, Gabi, and Mari. Well, I suppose more accurately, I’m wandering around the store while my sisters run between the racks, yanking on tulle skirts and silk sashes that hang to the ground while Mama chases after them.
“Girls!” she shouts, taking off down a row, and I take the opportunity to duck into the fitting room alone. I have three dresses, one that’s pink, one that’s lavender, and one that’s black and white, and I hang them all on the hook beside me.
I decide to go for the lavender one first. It takes me a second to struggle into it, but when I’m finally zipped in, I stare at myself in the mirror.
The dress is perfect.
But I feel wrong.
I’m supposed to be excited.
But I’m not excited. I’m exhausted. I can’t sleep, and I don’t have any energy, and every time I close my eyes, I see the devastated twist of Oliver’s mouth when he asked if he was only a distraction.
The song on the speakers in the store changes, and my heart ramps up in my ears. I recognize the song immediately, feel the way my body responds to it within seconds of the opening notes playing. It’s the Ed Sheeran song that Oli and I kissed to all those weeks ago, sitting on top of the counter, pressed together like there was no tomorrow.
I should have known then. I should have known this would happen. I could feel the dread of it in my stomach the morning after, when I woke in my bed and realized that Oliver might feel something real for me. I should have listened to my gut. I should have let Oliver go on in peace.
But instead, I ripped him apart.
Now, I’m in a puddle on the dressing room floor crying, and Mama is banging on the door. “Amy!” she shouts. “Baby, let me in!”
But I can’t move. I wrap my arms around myself and press my head to the plastic partition that separates me from the changing room beside me. I can’t hear Mama anymore, but I hear the jangling of keys and then the door flies open.
Mama crouches on the floor beside me, pulling me into her arms, and here in the safety of them, I cry harder.
OLIVER
“A BITE TO eat then?” Dad asks as he climbs into my truck. Ever since that first meeting that I went to with him, he hasn’t asked me to come to another one, but I’ve insisted on driving him to them when I get the chance, just so I know he’s going to them. Maybe it’s not right of me to assume that he’ll cannonball off the wagon if I’m not there to keep him in line, but I don’t feel like I can completely trust him yet, and he must not trust himself too much either because he never protests.
Surprisingly, Dad reaches out through the open window and waves at a few guys standing against the curb, talking while they smoke. I didn’t know he had friends. I’ve never known my dad to have friends other than bartenders.
“Sure,” I say, pulling out of the space I’ve been sitting in for almost half an hour and turning the car toward the lot exit. “But not Charlie’s. If I have to eat there again, I’ll be sick.”
Dad sighs. “Why’d you have to go get a job at my favorite place, huh? There’s about a million cafés in Kansas City.”
He’s shaking his head and hanging his arm out the open window, but I’m still sitting in the parking lot, the truck still in reverse, and my headlights pointed toward the parking lot of the mall. There’s a tiny curving road that loops around the mall, and we’re sitting on the other side of it, my taillights pointed toward Grand Boulevard, where traffic is building up.
And I’m frozen because there she is. Amy. The mall is crowded, the parking lot teeming with people, and she’s walking down a line of cars with her mother and her two little sisters, carrying a plastic-wrapped dress, long and flowing and a shimmering blue color.
A prom dress.
Amy is going to prom.
Does she have a date? Is she going with Jackson? Does she even remember that I’m alive, or has she already forgotten all about me in favor of all the things in her life that aren’t getting in the way of her future?
“Oli?” Dad’s voice catches my attention, and I clear my throat before putting the truck into gear and driving out of the parking lot. But we get stopped at the light leading out to Grand Boulevard, and I can see Amy in the rearview mirror. I clutch the steering wheel when I see Amy’s mother put her arm around her and say something in her ear. Amy’s head is down, and there’s something off about her, something strange in the way she’s standing.
“It’s a green, Oli.”
I push my foot to the gas before I’ve even looked at the light. My hand slips on the gearshift, and we stall. I restart the car amidst the noise of the cars honking behind me and pull onto the road like nothing happened.
Part of me hoped my dad would just let it go, the way he’s always let it go, never really asking me about myself beyond the basics, but he says, “I knew something was off about you lately, but I didn’t think it had to do with a girl.”
I grip the steering wheel and refuse to look at him. “Don’t worry about it.”
Dad snorts. “Don’t worry about it? At this rate, you’re going to break that other arm all on your own.” I don’t look at him still, and he lapses into silence for a long time before saying, “Want to talk about it?”
It’s my first instinct to say no, to refuse my father any information about my personal life. I don’t like opening up to people, and even Brooke, my best friend, doesn’t know absolutely everything about what happened between Amy and me. Nobody knows how I really felt about her, how much it hurts now that she’s out of my life. And I intended to keep it that way.
But things have changed; my dad has changed.
So instead, I tell him everything as we drive home.
AMY
I AGREE TO let Carlos drop me off at prom. Jackson wanted to do the whole limo thing, but seeing as how he’s not my date anymore and Petra wanted to meet at the hotel, I don’t bother with anything so fancy.
So that’s how I end up pulling up in front of prom in my parents’ minivan. I’m surprised by the nerves that flutter through my stomach when everyone who’
s outside, waiting for dates or getting fresh air, look over at me as I climb out.
I got used to being ignored. When I was with Jackson, people were always trying to make an effort, always trying to pretend like they liked me even though it was dreadfully obvious that they didn’t. And when we broke up, I became a ghost, floating through the halls of the school like I wasn’t even there.
And now here I am again, with all eyes on me because I’m walking up to Petra by the door. There’s a bit of whispering as Petra smiles at me and then laces her arm through mine.
“Well, Amy, don’t you look dashing?”
I laugh because, honestly, it’s nice to be with Petra and not be talking about grades or class rank, and I realize, with a kind of clarity that’s almost tragic, that I don’t even really know anything about Petra. I don’t know what she likes to eat or what kind of movies she watches. I don’t know her middle name or where she went to elementary school before the two of us merged in the same middle school. I only know that she’s class president, president of the student council, number one in our class, and most likely going to Yale. I don’t even know if she got in. Because I’ve never asked.
I grip her a little tighter, and we take a picture inside the door, below a string of balloons that spell out CLASS OF 2021 that I helped put up this morning. Petra presses her cheek to mine, and I can feel her grin as the flash goes off.
The room is full of people, dark, with lights shining in patterns on the walls and the dance floor, which takes up half the room. The other half of the room is full of round tables with white tablecloths, the little plastic candles in their holders in the center—the ones I made last week.
Petra and I go straight for the dance floor. I’m not much of a dancer, but when we join her friends on the floor, it doesn’t seem to matter. Petra grabs one of my hands and a girl I only know from glances in Petra’s direction in the hall grabs my other hand, and I’m suddenly dancing with a group of four other girls to a rap song I don’t know, and it feels amazing. We dance through a few songs, until a slow song starts, and then the girls, all of us sweaty, our perfectly styled hair a little worse for wear, scatter in different directions.
“Hungry?” Petra asks, nodding toward the refreshments table.
“Uh, sure. I’m just going to run to the restroom.”
She nods and wanders off, and I find the bathroom, alone. Inside, there are girls everywhere, but very few of them are actually using the restroom. Most of them are fixing their makeup or lamenting torn dresses, and one girl is crying into her cell phone while two girls drape themselves over her in sympathy.
I do my best to squeeze into a stall and then find an unoccupied sink at which to wash my hands before holding my dress up off the floor so that nobody in the tiny space accidentally steps on it.
I push out into the hallway, feeling like I can breathe again, until I get back to the room where the lights are pulsing in time with the music, and see Jackson. Word on the street is Jackson also came to prom alone. I know this only because two girls were talking very loudly in nutrition and food science last week about Jackson’s very public break up, and from the fact that Jackson is currently leaning against a wall and acting as a spectator all by himself, I would say the word on the street is sound. Even still, Jackson looks like a groom on his wedding day. He’s wearing a tux that looks absolutely perfect on him, his hands tucked into his pockets, looking so handsome it’s a little unreal.
I’m still standing there, outside the bathroom, when Jackson’s eyes travel over the room and find me. The music is loud, but just for a second, it seems too quiet, and I look away quick. Over by the refreshment table, Petra has two clear plastic cups full of punch, and she’s talking to one of the girls who was dancing with us. My eyes wander back to Jackson and find that he’s still watching me.
“Excuse me.” A girl in a knee-length silver dress nudges past me, and I move out of the way to let her pass.
I look around for an open table. That’s the thing about not having friends: You never have a place to sit. Every table is occupied, and even though there are empty seats here and there, they’re sandwiched between people I don’t know, people I would never sit with outside this room. I finally find a spot, on the other side of the room from where Jackson was leaning against the wall, but when I take a seat and look back over, he’s gone.
I sit and wait for Petra, watching people go crazy on the dance floor and scrolling through my phone for lack of something better to do. As I scroll through Instagram, my eyes catch on my own face, and I stop. On the screen, Oliver is singing karaoke in front of a group of people, and I’m watching him with a giddy look on my face.
I’m fairly certain I actually hear my heart rip in two. That was the night I knew I liked Oliver, as more than just a friend, even though I didn’t want to admit it to myself. I watched him go up on that stage and sing the Cure in front of all those people, and I felt butterflies in my stomach.
The caption reads: #tbt to when our very own ex-assistant manager sang the Cure for karaoke night. Karaoke night was a huge success! If you want another one, let us know in the comments. 20% off for anyone who sings!
My brain gets caught on one word: ex-assistant. Where did Oliver go?
“Dance with me, Ames.”
I spin around in my seat and find Jackson’s hand stretched out toward me. For a second, I just stare. Behind Jackson, I can see Petra, still standing by the refreshments table, her eyes on us. She looks disapproving. It’s one dance, I want to tell her. One dance can’t hurt. I hope she can hear my thoughts as I look from her to Jackson, to the face I know so well, and slip my hand into his.
He pulls me straight to the dance floor, and I’m in his arms so quick, and it’s like this is the way it’s supposed to be. I’m supposed to be here with Jackson, we’re supposed to be together, and it feels so natural as we sway to a slow song. I smile into his neck, loving his long, strong arms around me, despite everything. I missed them, I missed him. I press in closer to him, smelling the cologne that clings to his shirt.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he says, his voice so low and hot against my ear that I think maybe I misheard him.
I pull away from him. I always thought Jackson was tall, but I’ve spent so long looking up at Oliver that it’s strange to have to look a little lower, into Jackson’s pale green eyes. “What?”
“Amy.” When he says my name, my eyes drift down to his mouth, his perfect lips, the tiny cleft in his chin. “I’m still in love with you.”
My hands drop to my sides. “Jackson—”
“I know you’re with that guy, but this is killing me.” He takes a step back and scrubs his hands down his face. He looks beautiful doing it. I hate that he looks so beautiful.
I squeeze my hands into fists. I lose my train of thought when his eyes focus on me again. He’s standing too close to me, and I have to remember how to get words from my brain to my mouth. “We broke up. You broke up with me.”
He throws his hands up and they fall to his sides again with a smack against the fabric of his tuxedo pants. “I fucked up. I know that. I get that. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was just feeling … I don’t know … wrong. But this feels right. I want you back, Amy.”
He’s there in my space, and I don’t know how to do anything but look at him and remember everything, the way he held me when I was freaking out about applying to Stanford, the way he would bring me my favorite ice cream when he knew I was studying, the way he’d kiss me so gently, just a flutter against my lips.
“Amy,” he breathes. “We keep coming back to each other. It was always supposed to be us. I know you know that.” His eyes drop down to my mouth, and I see it coming, but I let it happen anyway. He leans in and kisses me.
My relationship with Jackson was never perfect. He may not have always said the right things, and he may not have been there for me every time I needed someone, but when Jackson kissed me, the world always disappeared.
So even though it makes my chest hurt, I kiss him back. Because it’s Jackson.
“Amy,” he breathes again, this time against my mouth, and it’s enough to pull me back to reality. We’re at prom, and Jackson is kissing me, and even though it feels good, and even though I miss everything Jackson and I had, I don’t want to kiss Jackson anymore. I don’t want to be Jackson’s girlfriend.
“No,” I say, pushing against him. He pulls away, his eyes confused, and I wipe at my mouth. “I don’t want to get back together, Jackson.” If I got back together with him now, I would always know it was because I didn’t want to be alone. But it’s not Jackson I want.
Jackson’s face shifts, going from confused to disbelieving in seconds. “Why not? We belong together.”
I take a step back from him and sigh. “We don’t belong together, Jackson. I don’t … I don’t love you anymore.” It takes everything in me to finally make myself say it, but as soon as I do, I know it’s the truth. I haven’t loved Jackson in a long time.
People are starting to look at us, probably because we’re dissecting our relationship in the middle of the dance floor, but I don’t care, and it doesn’t seem like Jackson does, either.
“You weren’t happy with me,” I say. “And nothing is going to change. If we get back together, you’ll still wish we hung out more, and I still won’t be able to give you as much time as you want, and then we’ll just break up again. And—”
I can’t bring myself to say it, but I don’t have to. Jackson knows.
“And you’re in love with him.”
I shrug, looking down at my feet. At his shiny shoes and my silver heels. “It’s not really about him.” This is only partially a lie. Maybe if I had never met Oliver, if I’d never kissed him and had sex with him and fallen in love with him, then getting back together with Jackson would seem like the right thing to do, even if it wasn’t. But now that I know what it’s like to feel what I feel when I’m with Oliver, I can never go back.
All Our Worst Ideas Page 23
