The Promposal (The Ugly Stepsister Series Book 2)

by Sariah Wilson

  Ella shrugged. “I don’t know. Be related to you?”

  Technically, Ella was my stepsister. A point I used to bring up all the time. But since our relationship had changed and so dramatically improved, we both basically forgot the fact that we weren’t actually sisters. Because it felt like we were.

  The bell rang, and we headed out into the hallway, toward the cafeteria. “Does it seem like Mercedes has been acting strangely?” At my raised eyebrows, she went on, “I mean, more than usual?”

  “I guess she hasn’t been the same since that house fell on her sister. Or maybe it’s the daylight weakening her.”

  Ella frowned slightly. “Even her fight with you felt . . . weird.”

  “That wasn’t a fight. More of a personality conflict. Which I win by default, since she doesn’t have one. “

  She laughed. “I’m going to run by the office to see if my phone’s turned up. Save me a seat?”

  “Yep.” I nodded and she left. I guessed that she would probably ask Dad for a new one soon as she was going into withdrawals without her cell. She kept grasping at air in our classes, like she was reaching for her phone only to be surprised each time that it wasn’t there.

  I tried to go down the main hallway, but it was blocked off by a tired and oh-so-predictable flash mob dancing to what was presumably the couple’s favorite song. I wanted to cut through the gym, but the school was hosting a career day for the juniors. Which I totally didn’t get since in ten years most of the current student body would be spending their days drinking and blowing through their trust funds at an alarming rate.

  It forced me to turn and go down a hall I didn’t normally use. It was quiet, practically deserted as everyone else was watching the dancing. I stopped short when I saw Trent sitting in an alcove, reading. His black hair stuck up in short spikes down the middle of his shaved scalp. He wore more eyeliner than Mercedes and had on a black T-shirt and black jeans, which reminded me why we’d become friends in the first place. Because on the surface we had seemed so similar.

  Part of me wanted to just walk by him, to give him the same silent treatment he’d been giving the rest of us.

  But he needed to be hit in the head with a clue-by-four and brought back to reality. The one where he had the world’s most perfect girlfriend that he totally didn’t deserve.

  As I got closer, I saw the title of the book he was holding. “The Sound and the Fury? Aren’t we reading the CliffsNotes for that in English?”

  “Some of us prefer to read the actual book.”

  Same snark, same kinds of jokes, but they felt flat. Devoid of any warmth or friendliness. Like . . . he didn’t want to talk to me and hoped I would go away. Things had been this way between us since he had announced that his father was leaving his mother for some twenty-two-year-old.

  Awkward and uncomfortable.

  “So . . . what have you been up to?” I was this close to asking for his opinion on the weather.

  “Well, I have that fantasy football league, and it’s eating up most of my time.”

  He was being sarcastic, and it might have even been a jab at Jake. Because Jake actually participated in a fantasy football league. Which I kept trying to convince him wasn’t a real thing and just something invented by men to waste time and allow them to talk about sports past the designated season.

  I decided to give Trent the benefit of the doubt. “So . . . prom.”

  Not my most graceful of transitions.

  “The ultimate four-letter word,” Trent agreed, not even looking up from his book.

  Might as well cut to the chase. “Do you have a promposal? For Ella?”

  That finally got me his full attention. He blinked at me several times, as if I were some figment of his imagination.

  It made me feel dumb. I pointed toward the main hallway, where I could still hear the flash mob’s music. “You know, like what everybody around you is doing? Asking their girlfriends to the dance?”

  “How very peer-pressurey of you,” he said, closing his book and standing up. “No, I’m not going to prom.”

  Panic clawed at my throat. This was wrong. All wrong. Had I done this? Messed it up somehow? “Does Ella know?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and looked like he couldn’t care less that he’d just lobbed a weapon of prom destruction straight at me. “You can tell her.”

  Without another word, he walked off, leaving me to stare after him, my mouth hanging open, my palms sweaty.

  Was he serious?

  Because there was no way I was telling my sister that she’d lost her phone and her prom date all in the same day.

  And that I might possibly be to blame for half of it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Kenyetta and I met at the library at her elementary school. She was in the sixth grade and was about to turn twelve years old (a fact she brought up constantly). We’d been working together for about five months, and I suspected during that time period she’d become better at math than I was.

  Today we were supposed to be working on science, but Kenyetta was especially uncooperative. She leaned back in her chair and brushed a dreadlock out of her eyes. “I’m going to be a professional dancer. When am I going to need science once I’m grown?”

  “I’m probably supposed to say a lot. Which I don’t think is true. But you will definitely need it for school.”

  She picked up one of the note cards we’d created for her test next week. “In high school I need to know that protons have mass?”

  “Who knew protons were Catholic?” I joked. At her disdainful expression, I added, “You do need to know that. Until you graduate from college. Then I give you permission to forget everything. Except if you become like a scientist or a doctor. Then don’t forget it.” I didn’t want to be responsible for a malpractice lawsuit or a nuclear meltdown.

  “My dad said last night that I’m more of a visual person. Like in ballet, I need to see a step done before I can do it.” As if to prove her point, she stood up and executed a perfect turn on her tiptoes with some kind of foot thingy at the end.

  I pointed at her chair. “Visualize yourself as the only twenty-five-year old seventh-grader. Come on. Your dad will be here soon.”

  Kenyetta’s dad worked harder than anyone I’d ever met. Her mom had died when she was three, just as her father had been finishing his residency to become an oncologist. He was very good at what he did, which meant he was highly in demand. One of Kenyetta’s aunts had moved in with them for a few years to help out Craig, Kenyetta’s dad. But now that Kenyetta was older, her aunt had moved back to Georgia. I knew Kenyetta missed her terribly.

  This poor little girl had lost her mother and the only mother figure she’d ever known. When I thought about her situation, I felt stupid for being such a Prom-a Queen.

  Did a promposal really matter all that much?

  Yes, yes, it does, some awful part of me whispered. I told it to shut up.

  Kenyetta pulled out a textbook from her backpack. “How about we work on some math?”

  Oh Buddha.

  “We’re working on multiplying and dividing fractions. My teacher’s not very good at explaining it. Like I’m one hundred and fifty percent sure he doesn’t know what he’s doing,” she told me, turning to the correct page in her book. It didn’t help, showing me the pages. I tried to read ahead quickly, to see if something sparked some recognition.

  This was why the universe had given us calculators. So we didn’t have to do math by hand. I didn’t remember how to do any of this. Which meant I’d have to go online and watch some tutorial about it. That always made me feel guilty. I was supposed to be the one tutoring Kenyetta. Not YouTube.

  “Okay. I think to multiply you just go across. But to divide you have to switch the bottom number and the top number, which is the . . .” I skimmed the text. What was that top number called? The ruminator? The kilometer? “Is this all you’re working on right now?”

  She smirked, as if she heard the desperation
in my voice. “We’ve been doing word problems, but I don’t think words should count as math.”

  “You and me both.” Words should stick to English class, numbers to math. “But with word problems you just have to listen and find the math parts. The numbers and the action. Like, say you have ten chocolate cupcakes.” I wrote down the number ten on our scratch sheet. “See? I said a number so that’s the part you pay attention to.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then somebody asks you for two of your cupcakes. I told you an action and a number. What number should I write down?”

  Giving me a withering look for creating such a simplistic problem, she wrote down the number two.

  “Right. So, considering you gave away two, how many cupcakes do you have left?”

  “Ten.”

  “What? No.”

  “Uh-huh,” she protested. “I’m not giving anybody two of my cupcakes. I still have ten.”

  I was the worst tutor ever. “Let’s say somebody forcibly took your two cupcakes. How many chocolate cupcakes would you have then?”

  “Still ten. And a cupcake thief with two busted up hands.”

  My phone rang then, and I was so grateful for the chance to regroup that I didn’t even check the caller ID. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Ti . . . um, hi.”

  It was Jake. And why hadn’t he said my name? According to pop music, that was like an indication that he was with some other girl. I was about to go all Beyoncé and demand he say my name when Kenyetta interrupted me.

  “Is that Jaaake?” She drew out the a in his name into one long sound, fluttering her ridiculously long eyelashes. Then she let out a dreamy sigh and was back on her feet, dancing out her crush. I remembered what Jake Kingston did to me when I was almost twelve years old, so I totally got it.

  Although the librarian might not appreciate her artistic expression.

  Kenyetta was the reason why I didn’t ask about the name thing. I didn’t want to crush her innocent dreams by telling her that men could be total douchebags sometimes.

  “What’s up?” I asked, watching as Kenyetta did her jumps and turns. I should probably make her stop.

  “I just . . .” I could hear him take in a big breath before letting it out slowly. “I really need to get out of the house tonight. I was thinking we could go grab something to eat?”

  That could be a good idea. It might finally give us a chance to talk. Really talk. About all this weirdness.

  “Sounds good. I’m just finishing up with Kenyetta, and then I’ll be home.”

  “I’ll swing by to pick you up at seven.”

  He hadn’t said what kind of dining establishment he wanted to go to. “What should I wear?”

  “Clothing’s optional.”

  “Jake!” I hissed into the phone, my gaze darting over to Kenyetta, who sported an amused smile.

  He laughed. “I’ll see you later. And tell my favorite ballerina she still owes me a dance.”

  Given her reaction, Jake was loud enough that she could hear him. Kenyetta squealed and did a flying leap that made her smack into the table.

  Oh crap. “I gotta go. See you later.” I hung up and hurried over to her. “Are you okay?” I checked her leg. She’d let Jake distract her, and now she was injured. How was I going to explain this to Dr. Drummond?

  “I’m fine,” she said in that still dreamy voice.

  “You are going to bruise,” I told her. And somebody was going to call the Department of Child Protective Services on me.

  “Totally worth it.” She sighed.

  Had I been this boy crazy when I was twelve?

  “Do you think he really likes my dancing?” Kenyetta asked.

  I frowned. “He’s my boyfriend, remember?”

  “For now,” she replied with way too much self-assurance.

  The librarian finally appeared, shushing us and telling Kenyetta to stop dancing. We sat back down at the table, and I pulled out my phone, needing to learn the correct way to do this fraction stuff.

  Something she’d said earlier struck me, making it difficult for me to concentrate on the online tutorial. Jake was totally worth it. So was our relationship. Even if we were off right now, it didn’t mean we would be for forever.

  We just needed to talk. And I was determined to make sure it happened tonight.

  I got ready for my date with Ella’s help. With no direction from Jake, I decided on dressy casual. Ella lent me an olive-green top, and I wore some black jeans. I rooted around in my closet, looking for shoes. I pulled out my favorite hot-pink Converse high-tops.

  “What about these?” I asked.

  “Uh . . .”

  “What?”

  “Awful.”

  I looked at the shoes. “Really?”

  “Hello?”

  “Okay,” I mumbled, selecting a black pair instead, which got me an enthusiastic two thumbs-up from Ella.

  The doorbell rang, and I was strangely nervous, as if this was my first date with Jake.

  “I’ll get it!” Ella leaped off my bed and ran for the front door. Probably partially from excitement, but also to head off my father before he started one of those awkward dad conversations with my boyfriend.

  Which was why Ella was the best sister in the world.

  I tugged my shoes on, tied the laces, and went out to the front door. Jake and Ella both turned to look at me at the same time. Butterflies on steroids flapped in my stomach when I saw him. It was like sometimes I would forget how gorgeous he was, and then I’d suddenly get reminded.

  “Darn,” Jake said with an exaggerated sigh, coming over to hug me. “You wore clothes.”

  I elbowed him and told Ella I’d see her later. We headed outside, Jake’s arm around my waist. He opened the car door for me and then ran around to get in the driver’s seat. “Have I mentioned that you’re hot enough to be your own evil twin?”

  That made me start to blush, and I put a hand against my cheek, as if I could stop it. “Back at you.”

  Jake smiled at me then, and I noticed that it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Instead he looked . . . worn out. “So is your mom still texting you to say she loves you?”

  “More like she told the whole world that she didn’t have a daughter.” At least now I could say it without getting choked up.

  “What?” he demanded, and I told him the whole story. He was awesome and sympathetic, telling me how sorry he was that it had happened. That I deserved to be treated better. He took my hand and brought it up to his lips. He kissed it softly and then held my hand against his heart.

  It was such a sweet gesture that my whole body melted.

  We arrived at a steak house restaurant, and I was relieved to see it wasn’t too swanky so I didn’t have to feel nervous about accidentally flipping a fork across the room, catching my linen napkin on fire, or dumping my water all over the bread basket.

  Not that I’d ever done any of those things.

  The smell of batter-dipped onions and steak hit me as we walked inside. Delicious. Jake gave the hostess his name, and she said it would be a few minutes and they’d call us when our table was ready. Jake pulled me in close, wrapping his arms around me as we waited.

  Even more delicious.

  I had only a couple of minutes to enjoy it before my tranquil happiness got shattered.

  “Hey, the Dothraki birthday clown is here,” he said. He and Trent had never really gotten along, and Jake had a list of colorful euphemisms for him. But why would Trent be here?

  I followed his gaze to see Trent seated at a table, scrolling through his phone. This didn’t seem like it would be his kind of place. Especially since, like Ella, he was a vegetarian.

  Wondering if we should say hi, especially given the amount of damage that had occurred the last time we spoke, I decided to just ignore him.

  Right up until the moment when he was joined by a girl.

  A girl who was not Ella.

  She sat down on the bench across from Trent in their bo
oth. I recognized her as the pseudo-hipster formerly known as Alice. She’d been a year ahead of us at Malibu Prep and had decided her senior year to change her name to Bronte. (And I was so concerned my English teacher, Mrs. Aprils, would find out and change her name to Mrs. Twain since she was so obsessed with Mark Twain, and I would not be able to call her Mrs. Twain with a straight face and would probably spend the entire year in detention. Thankfully, none of that happened.) I thought the whole name change thing was pretentious and that Bronte was trying too hard to be cool. Like now. I took in her fake nose ring, her topknot, and the fanny pack slung diagonally across a white shirt that looked like a painter’s smock my dad might wear. As if she’d copied the “What to Wear” section of Hipsters’ Monthly.

  “Why is Trent here with Bronte?” I asked, not able to keep the suspicious tone out of my voice. Was he stupid enough and/or self-destructive enough to actually be cheating on my sister? And if so, was I going to get arrested after I killed him, or would I be able to convince Jake to drive me to Mexico?

  Jake rubbed my back, making small circles with his hands. “Don’t jump to any conclusions. Maybe she’s giving him tips on the best way to apply eyeliner or how to avoid looking like a hypocrite when you condemn the rich while sponging off your wealthy parents.”

  “I’m not jumping. My feet are firmly planted.” Even though I’d already jumped to a million different conclusions, all of them bad.

  Then the worst thing imaginable happened.

  Bronte leaned across the table and kissed Trent.

  On the mouth.

  For a long time.

  “Okay,” Jake said, sounding just as shocked as I felt. “I think you can jump now.”

  Oh, I was going to jump, all right. I was going to jump down that skank’s throat.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I made my way over to their booth. I came to a stop, breathing hard, angry lava percolating through my veins. I expected them to notice me or to say something, but Bronte just kept kissing Trent. I considered grabbing the soda on the table and pouring it over her head.

  Jake stood just behind me, his hand on my shoulder. I think he meant to reassure me, but all his support did was give me strength.