by Marni Bates
But nobody had objected to having the school’s attention focused on a bunch of juniors. The only explanation I could come up with to explain the absence of Notable seniors was that Chelsea had managed to scare them into silence during her reign at Smith High School. And then the older students had failed to fill the power vacuum in Chelsea’s absence as quickly as Fake and Bake.
I didn’t want to discuss any of that with my friends, though.
Not who they thought would get the crown, not what they should wear—none of it. I didn’t even want to speculate on whether we were all setting ourselves up for disappointment by creating unrealistic expectations. All of that conversation required an emotional energy that I just didn’t have to spare.
So I set my cell phone on silent before tossing it onto a pile of homework on my desk. And just to be sure I didn’t obsess over who was calling—or more importantly, who was not calling—I cranked up my music and spent some quality time staring at my ceiling.
If you can’t handle the rock star lifestyle . . .
Telling the Mackenzie in my head to shut up was even less effective than saying it to the actual girl. I could picture her glaring at me hotly before ordering me to figure out my problem and get over it.
I tried to find a solution, but every time I even considered breaking up with Tim, it felt like I couldn’t breathe. I was suffocating right there on the bed. It hurt. This wasn’t a sting or a pang—it was a bone-deep ache that I couldn’t push away. And believe me, I tried. I rehashed every time I’d been stuck waiting for him to finish greeting a swarm of fans. Every time we were interrupted during a meal, a walk . . . a kiss. Every time I saw my face plastered in a magazine with the caption Rock Star Relationship on the Rocks? and wondered if there was something they knew that I didn’t.
I replayed in slow, excruciating detail how I had felt when our relationship was first leaked to the press and Tim had denied the whole thing.
How he had thrown me under the bus.
And the stupid part was that it still didn’t hurt enough to make me walk away.
Not when I also remembered the rough desperation in his apology, the audible catch in his throat when he said that he’d understand if it was too much to forgive. That he missed me. That he wanted me back. That he was crazy about me and would happily shout it from the nearest Hollywood mansion, if I would please, please, give him a second chance.
I rubbed my jaw and imagined staking my claim somewhere on his gorgeous body. Maybe a love bite right above his heart. I grinned as I pictured the slightly stunned expression I wanted on his face as I kissed my way down his neck . . . if we were ever to get a moment of privacy.
Making out with my boyfriend wouldn’t be nearly as much fun with Darryl stationed at the door.
Groaning in self-disgust, I gave in to the temptation to check my phone for missed calls.
I had two text messages waiting for me.
HEY, COREY, I AM STUCK IN MEETINGS WITH THE GUYS. I WILL CALL YOU LATER.
It never failed to amuse me the level of care and attention Tim put into even the shortest text messages. He never abbreviated words, even when he was in a hurry to get somewhere. I’d even seen him squint at his screen while being mobbed by fans, because he felt the need to make sure every apostrophe was in the right place.
The second text was more to the point.
I LOVE YOU.
My stomach sank with guilt. I couldn’t bring myself to type the words back to him. Not when Mackenzie’s voice still resounded far too clearly in my head.
If you can’t handle the rock star lifestyle . . . it doesn’t mean you don’t love him.
I wasn’t entirely sure I believed her.
So instead I wrote, I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU AT PROM! and hoped that the exclamation point would sell the enthusiasm that I hadn’t been able to muster. But that would change. As soon as I put on my suit, I would definitely get into the spirit of things.
Of course, I would.
Except it didn’t happen.
Not even when I received a series of frantic texts from Mackenzie, although I grinned as the tone of the messages swiftly changed from pleading to threatening.
GET OVER HERE, COREY. NOW.
JUST BECAUSE I’VE NEVER KILLED A MAN
DOESN’T MEAN I CAN’T!
It felt good to be needed. Too bad I instantly regretted agreeing to give my help when Mackenzie flung open her door, took one look at me, and said, “Oh, thank God,” before she dragged me inside. I tried to stall in the hallway.
“Um . . . what’s going on here?”
“See for yourself.” Mackenzie grimaced. “And then please work your magic and make it stop.”
She didn’t release her grip on my suit jacket until I had passed the threshold to her bedroom.
It looked like her closet had exploded. There were dresses and skirts dangling off nearly every surface, and in the midst of the wreckage sat Isobel Peters, looking completely unruffled in a pair of dingy Converse sneakers. The only other person in the room who looked equally calm was Dylan, and I suspected that was because he cared even less about prom than I did.
“I’m not going to let you do this, Izzie,” Melanie said, as she rifled through another one of Mackenzie’s drawers. “You are not wearing sneakers and jeans to prom.”
“Corey said I should do it.”
Melanie shot me a withering glare. “Well, that shows what he knows!”
“Hey,” I said defensively. “Let’s keep me out of this, okay?”
Dylan mouthed, “Welcome to hell,” at me, but the cat that ate the canary smile on his face betrayed that he was loving every second of this. It wasn’t exactly hard to pinpoint that the source of his amusement was the same freshman girl who looked ready to bite my head off.
“You are going to have a great time, Izzie,” Melanie said fiercely. “You are going to have the best prom ever documented in the history of proms!”
I glanced over at Mackenzie. “You’re the history geek. Is there a written account of every prom stored somewhere? This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
Mackenzie grinned. “Oh yeah, the History of Prom goes waaay back. Legend has it that the best one occurred in 1968 in No Name, Colorado.”
“You’re both hilarious.” Melanie kept rifling through the few items still hanging in Mackenzie’s closet. “We have less than an hour before Logan and Spencer show up. So, will you please help me help her?”
“I’m fine going like this, Mel. I promise.”
Melanie crossed her arms. “I do not want you feeling out of place while you watch from the sidelines.”
Isobel laughed. “Um . . . Mel? Story of my life.”
“You deserve the very best of everything.” The ferocity in Melanie’s voice made it clear she had no intention of backing down. It might have taken her months to work up the courage to date Dylan, but her aggressive side had no trouble taking center stage around Isobel.
“Right now, I want to enjoy the very best in comfortable footwear,” Isobel said dryly. “Why don’t you help Mackenzie instead? Or maybe Corey needs . . . something?”
Melanie snorted. “Corey looks like he jumped off the pages of GQ in that suit.”
Which was the whole reason I had bought it in the first place. Tim had invited me to a red carpet event in L.A., so I had gone out and made sure the suit fit me perfectly. I wasn’t going to give anyone an excuse to toss me onto a Worst Dressed list. Not that it had mattered. There had been some kind of scheduling conflict or something—I hadn’t listened too closely after Tim said, ‘I’m so sorry, Corey. There’s no way I can make it . . .’ ”
“And Mackenzie will get a double take from Logan in that blue dress,” Melanie continued. “So you can’t distract me with them, Izzie!”
Isobel sighed. “I’ll make you a deal, Mel. If at any point I find myself wishing I had taken your advice, you can pick my outfit next year. I’ll even let you take me dress shopping.”
“Deal!”
Mackenzie grabbed a handful of blouses off the floor and shoved them in Melanie’s arms. “Agree to her terms, Melanie.”
“Fine, Izzie. But that includes footwear!”
“No heels higher than two inches.”
Melanie blew out an exasperated huff but nodded in agreement.
“Good,” Mackenzie said with heartfelt relief. “Maybe while we’re gone you could”—she gestured at her room—“make it look less like my room was tossed in a drug bust?”
There was no response from Melanie, probably because she’d been distracted the second Dylan moved to the closet and snagged a handful of hangers.
“Melanie?”
“Uh-huh . . .” she mumbled. “Drug bust. Sure. No problem.”
Mackenzie grinned, probably fighting the urge to pull her little brother and his girlfriend into a big group hug. So I distracted her by checking my phone.
“The guys should be here soon, right?”
Isobel nodded. “Spencer talked Logan into ditching the limo idea. I guess he wanted more freedom in case the two of us, uh, decide to leave early.” She blushed slightly. “He said they’d be here around seven. Although he also mentioned something about going out for dinner, so I’m not sure when we’ll actually get to the dance. What about you?” She twisted toward the door with a sudden jolt of excitement. “Wait. Is Timothy Goff going to meet you here?”
“No, he couldn’t get out of a meeting. So . . . I’ll just see him there!” I tried to keep my voice upbeat, but I knew I wasn’t fooling Mackenzie. I wasn’t fooling myself either.
There had been a small part of me that had hoped we could walk into the dance together. That we’d be able to enter the rented-out ballroom space like every other high school couple.
But once again, I’d been sidelined.
And now I didn’t even have the consolation prize of a limo ride with my friends.
The doorbell rang, so I pasted on a big smile and went to open the door.
Then I stepped aside so I could watch the reactions of the guys at the door to two of the smartest, nicest . . . geekiest girls I’d ever met.
Chapter 9
It should go without saying, but there is definitely a right and wrong way to dress for prom.
For girls: Dresses. Long, short, slinky, sophisticated . . . just make sure it covers all the essentials, please. And wear heels.
For boys: No jeans. No sneakers. No sweatpants.
Let’s all try to exceed expectations, shall we?
—from “Dressed to Impress,”
by Lisa Anne Montgomery
Published by The Smithsonian Online Edition
Logan looked like he’d been Tasered.
He was momentarily slack-jawed as he stared at Mackenzie, who for once didn’t trip over her own feet. “You look . . . um . . .”
Mackenzie grinned up at him cheekily and then adjusted the bodice of the dress, which really didn’t need any straightening. “That good, huh?”
Logan pulled her up against him. “Definitely.”
Whatever Mackenzie was going to say was cut off as Isobel emerged from the bedroom and locked eyes on Spencer. After the whole va-va-voom moment Mackenzie had had with Logan, I wasn’t sure what to expect. For half a second I was worried Spencer would ruin the whole night by saying something like, “Um . . . I can wait for you to change,” but then I realized his smile hadn’t wavered an inch.
“Hey, Belle.”
“Hey, hotshot. Nice corsage.”
Spencer glanced down at his wrist as if he had completely forgotten the flowers. “Well, since you did the inviting, I thought it was only fair that I get to keep the flowers.”
“Oh, absolutely.” Isobel took hold of his hand and began tugging him toward the exit. “Well, it’s been fun, everyone, but I think Spencer owes me a slice of pizza.”
“Extra anchovies, if anyone is interested.” Spencer dodged a playful mock punch. “No takers? Excellent. See you later.”
Pausing only for a brief wave good-bye, Isobel and Spencer raced toward his car and the last I heard was her chortling, “I beat you! I won fair and square, hotshot!” before they climbed inside and drove away.
“I guess the sneakers were a good call, then.” Melanie shook her head as if that would help her process what she had just witnessed. “Looks like you were right, Corey.”
“That shouldn’t come as a surprise,” I said haughtily, knowing that it would get a laugh out of Mackenzie.
“And on that note . . . we’re off too.”
“Hold up, Mackenzie.” Dylan pulled out a camera. “Mom’s working a late shift tonight, so she made me promise. Get into formation.”
“Why don’t we leave the photography to Scott? I’m sure he’ll be taking photos at prom. . . .”
“Not good enough. Say cheese, Mackenzie.”
She managed a pretty frozen-looking smile, but that changed when Logan gripped her waist and dipped her into a dramatic kiss.
Dylan snapped a few photos before he started to get uncomfortable. “Could you hold off on making out with my sister? Please. This is . . . just . . . no.”
Logan straightened, but still kept Mackenzie pressed flush against him. Dylan might have had a problem with it, but Mackenzie certainly didn’t. She was absolutely glowing, and it had nothing to do with her outfit.
“Okay, so now we’re leaving,” Logan said smoothly as he held open the door for Mackenzie. I wasn’t sure if she was weak-kneed from that kiss or if the heels just brought out her clumsy side, but she took one step and nearly fell on her face.
“See you at the dance, Corey,” she managed to say as if she had planned to trip all along.
And then it was just me—standing in the hallway of Mackenzie’s house—playing the role of third wheel for a couple who definitely wanted me gone.
“Good seeing you, Corey.” Dylan clapped me on the back as he escorted me to the porch. “Have a great night.”
Melanie’s eyes were lit with excitement and I couldn’t hide a smile of my own. “You too.”
Dylan shut the door in my face, but I could still hear Melanie protest, “Dylan! You can’t just throw him—”
The sudden silence left no question in my mind that they wouldn’t be discussing me for the rest of the night. They were so freaking cute together that I smiled as I climbed into my car, although the grin faded as I drove aimlessly around Forest Grove. The dance wouldn’t begin for another hour, but I couldn’t bring myself to go out to eat. I didn’t want to sit alone in my well-tailored suit and pretend that I enjoyed the isolation.
Table for one, please. Oh yes, I do have a date. He just can’t be seen in public with me at the event.
So I killed some time winding around the residential areas and glancing in the rearview mirror to check that I didn’t have anyone tailing the car. I assumed the press was too busy following Tim to spare much attention for me, but I had been wrong on that count before. Which was why I drove into Portland and passed the Leftbank Annex without even trying to find a parking space. Sure enough, there was a crowd of paparazzi staking out the entrance and they didn’t appear to be enjoying their conversation with the bouncer on duty. Or maybe it was Darryl, it was kind of hard for me to tell for sure.
One thing was clear, I’d be safe once I got inside—or at least as safe as I could be in a place where jerks like Alex Thompson planned on making an appearance. So I drove into the attached parking lot and braced myself for the inevitable.
“Over here, Corey!”
“Are you meeting Timothy Goff?”
“What designer are you wearing, Corey?”
I ducked my head and tried to push past them, but it was a whole lot harder to maneuver than it looks in magazines. Never again would I mock the whole maybe if I put my hand in front of my face you’ll just go away approach. Because I was seconds away from barreling straight ahead, and damn the consequences.
The security guard was swearing a blue streak, the paparazzi were muscling their way tow
ard me, and just when I began to seriously consider making a hasty retreat—texting Tim to say, Hey, I think this is one high school ritual I’d rather sit out. Have fun for me!—I saw a flash of sparkly hot pink and a hand reached out of nowhere, grabbed onto my suit, and yanked me forward.
I blinked, desperately trying to adjust to the dim lighting despite the Technicolor circles that danced before me from the camera flashes.
It was Sam.
She was wearing an enormous poofy ballgown that stopped abruptly around her calf, highlighting a seriously kickass pair of combat boots and a sash with lettering I couldn’t quite read. Sam’s eyelids were coated with so much glittering gold eye shadow that for a second I wasn’t entirely sure if my eyes were still playing tricks on me or if her lips were really stained a dark vermillion hue.
Nobody else at Smith High School could ever have pulled off that look.
“CHARGE!” Sam hollered, probably fulfilling a lifelong dream of hers in the process as the two of us forced our way to the door. The bouncer opened the doors and practically shoved us inside.
Not that I could blame him. There was no way he was being paid enough to make up for the inconvenience of keeping a horde of paparazzi at bay. And to the best of my knowledge, the screaming ReadySet fans had yet to make an appearance. They were hard to ignore, screeching at decibels that made everyone within a fifty-foot radius—dogs included—want to turn tail and run.
My knees locked up of their own accord about five feet from the door and I leaned against the wall while I tried to reclaim my sense of equilibrium. The dancing spots were still messing up my vision, and as they cleared I realized that my entrance hadn’t gone unobserved.
All the upperclassman at Smith High School were staring at me in disbelief.
Yeah, when I pictured making a splash at my first prom, it was never as the kid who couldn’t stop shaking, sweating, or gasping for air after a ten-minute altercation with some celebrity gossip hunters.
