I wait for another bitchy remark, some of that famous condescending sarcasm. Instead, Bliss sinks onto the edge of Jason’s unmade bed, her shoulders slumped and an utterly miserable expression on her face.
Oh, boy.
“You’re better off without him,” I advise lightly, hoping we can skate over this part without some epic confessional session. “Anyway, you’re done with him now, remember? You don’t have to put up with that bullshit anymore.”
“But, it’s done,” Bliss says quietly, tearing strips from the label of her beer bottle.
“What do you —? Oh.” I stop, realizing what she means. “That.”
“That,” she echoes, looking very young. When she’s all dolled up with makeup and that hair, I forget she’s only what, sixteen?
I sigh. Anger can only fuel you for so long. Sooner or later, the grief is going to bleed through. Now, clearly, Bliss is succumbing to the wretched, heartbroken part of her betrayal. Great.
Crossing the room, I settle on the bed beside her and try not to think when Jason last got around to changing his graying sheets. “Are you OK?” I venture. Bliss isn’t exactly high on my list of deep and meaningful confidantes, and judging by the pained look on her face, I don’t figure on hers, either.
“I’m fine.” She tries to brush it off with one of those fake smiles, but neither of us is convinced. “I guess,” she amends, “I will be.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the noise from the party drifting in through the gap in the door. The impossibilities just keep mounting, but I can’t help feeling a flicker of sympathy. Jesus, what’s next: me and Meg painting each other’s toenails and lip-synching to Lady Gaga?
“I lost my virginity to this guy from down the street,” I offer awkwardly. Girl talk isn’t exactly my thing, but I need something to snap her out of this slump. “He had a goatee, a sharks’ tooth necklace, and was way too old to be scamming on high-school chicks.”
“Ewww.” She gives a faint smile.
“Mmhmm,” I agree. “And then he dumped me because I talked trash about the Dave Matthews Band. He really loved those guys.”
Bliss manages a giggle. There.
“It’ll get easier, I guess.” She sighs, hair falling in her eyes. “I mean, I won’t have such big expectations next time. It won’t matter so much. That’s what Kaitlin said, anyway,” she adds darkly. “And she would know.”
I shake my head. “It always matters. It should.”
She gives me a sideways look. “JD McGraw mattered?”
“I don’t sleep with everyone I date, you know.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Bliss at least looks a little guilty.
“It’s OK.” I shrug. “I thought I was supposed to, in the beginning.” I shift to get more comfortable. “You know, like when you’ve been with a guy a while, and he starts pushing, like it’s obligated.”
She nods. “I thought it would bring us closer together. . . .” She trails off. “Prove he really did care about me.” Bliss gives a tight little shrug.
“Asshole.” I roll my eyes. This is why I don’t date high-school guys. Not that my exes are that great, either. “Well, they’re going to get what they deserve now,” I tell her brightly. “You’ve seen to that.”
Bliss nods, unconvinced. “I guess . . .”
“Are you kidding me? Once that stuff gets out, they’ll be ruined. I’ve seen how your group works.”
She brightens, clearly spurred by their warped view of social justice. “You’re right. It’s over.” With a reassuring look at the journal — balanced precariously on Jason’s nightstand beside a mold-filled mug and a suspiciously scrunched-up T-shirt — she bounces up. Picking up the mirror from where Jason discarded it, she fluffs out her hair and adjusts her PJ outfit, as if reminding herself who she is.
“You’ve got my dress?” she asks, without looking up. “I need to change before we head back. And you have no idea how much it cost.”
Yup. The great Bliss Merino is back.
“Right here.” I pat my bulging backpack, a little relieved. Enough with the bonding.
“Then what are you waiting for?” Stalking past me, Bliss heads back out into the hallway. “Meg is probably, like, having a breakdown by now. I still can’t believe you dragged her along. If anyone sees me with you both, my status will be totally wrecked.”
Maybe tearful, vulnerable Bliss wasn’t so bad after all. . . .
Perhaps I was wrong, and being invisible has its advantages too. Because for five whole minutes, I’m left blissfully alone in the alcove by the stairs, unnoticed as the party shrieks and thumps around me in a riot of Victoria’s Secret nightwear and trashy dance music. I watch it all with a curious mix of fascination and fear. I’ve never been to a college party before. To tell the truth, I’ve barely been to high-school parties, either — at least, not the kind where kids drink and flirt and fall against walls making out with each other as if there’s nobody else around. No, back when I still had an approximation of a social life, my experiences were always on the safe, sedate side: juvenile slumber parties, or birthday gatherings where we would all go bowling or to the movies or something, like we did when we were in fifth grade. I suppose I’m all grown-up now, because here, the Jell-O comes in shot glasses, and the only punch I’ve seen is the one being guzzled from red plastic cups by enthusiastic frat boys.
Something tells me it’s not plain old lemonade.
“Hey!” A stocky guy in neon boxers suddenly catches sight of me, lurching closer with a beer in his hand. He must be nineteen or twenty and looms over me. “You’re that chick from my chem lab!”
“No.” I try to edge backward, but I’m already against the wall. I give him a polite smile. “I think you’re confused.”
“No way.” He shakes his head vigorously, sloshing sticky liquid over my bare legs. “You sit in the back, remember? And one time, you lent me your notes. That was cool of you.” He grins, taking in my outfit.
“Really,” I say again, painfully aware of his eyes zeroing in on my chest, barely covered by a tiny pink tank top with SNUGGLY emblazoned across the chest in sparkly gemstones. “It’s not me.”
“How’d you do on the final?” he asks, unconcerned with the fact that we’ve never actually met before. “Killer, right? I studied so hard, but I still blew it.”
“Mmhmm.” I make a noncommittal noise, looking around for an escape. What’s taking Jolene and Bliss so long? “Killer. Sure. Can I just . . . ?” I gesture to get past him, but the boy doesn’t move; he just sort of leans against the wall, blocking me in.
“Peterson is such a dick,” he sneers. “I was ten minutes late handing in this paper one time, and he gave me an F.” He pauses, distracted by a passing group of girls in silky negligees. I take my chance and quickly duck under his arm.
“See you in class!” I back quickly into the crowd.
It’s hot and noisy in the hallway, and I push my way through the riot of bodies, trying to avoid any more spilled drinks or leering guys. There’s a bathroom just ahead, so I duck into the gray-tiled room, jostling for space by the long row of sinks as I do my best to dab the beer off my legs.
“You saw Elliot, right? In the onesie? That guy is totally ridiculous.”
Beside me, two girls are reapplying lip gloss, dressed in matching athletic T-shirts and men’s boxers. Their drinks are perched on the narrow ledge by the mirror, next to tiny purses overflowing with makeup and keys.
Her friend giggles, ruffling her bangs. “Ridiculously cute, you mean.”
“Ewww! Seriously?” The girl snorts. “You’d have to, like, unbutton it, like a baby!”
They fall into hysterics as I finish cleaning myself up. It’s not too bad, at least: if I were wearing normal pajamas, they’d be soaked through by now, but as it is, I’m just left with sticky skin and the waft of beer around me. Score one for the indecent short-shorts, I decide. Not that I’ll be rushing out to buy myself a pair any time soon.
“Excuse me.” The
re’s a quiet voice behind me, and I turn to find a petite girl clutching a shower bucket waiting patiently for the sinks.
“Oh, sorry.” I back away, letting her through. She sets out her toothbrush and mouthwash on the ledge and begins to cleanse and tone her face in methodical swipes with a cotton ball. Her pajamas are, I realize, real: flannel printed with tiny musical notes, with fuzzy pink slippers.
“Or he could keep it on!” The party girls are still falling over themselves, clutching each other at the idea of Elliot and his hilarious outfit. “And just undo the crotch! It, like, pops open!”
The other girl’s eyes meet mine in the mirror, and for a moment we share a look of sheer exasperation as the pair collects their things and stumbles out, back to the party. The girl reaches for her floss.
“How will you get any sleep?” I venture, curious.
“Earplugs,” she replies, her voice resigned.
“Oh.”
More girls bustle into the bathroom, brimming over with laughter and gossip, but she ignores them all, curiously detached from the chaos. I watch, my sympathy fading into something else, a new kind of chill. For a moment I wonder if this will be me in two years’ time: still on the outskirts of everything, still alone, while the party whirls on around me. I’ve been thinking of college like it’s my own green light on the horizon, but watching this girl now, it strikes me for the first time that it may never end; that the location may change, but my life could remain exactly the same.
Something I read once pops into my mind like a warning. You never grow out of high school.
I shiver.
When I get back to the lounge, the party is even louder. I perch on the edge of a couch in the common room area to wait. All eyes are fixed on a group of girls grinding in the middle of the room, but I keep a careful watch on the exits, cell phone in my hand, poised to make the call to Jolene and Bliss if I catch sight of Jason or — worse still — security. I can’t even imagine what my dad would say if I was dragged home at midnight from a college party wearing . . . this.
“Meg?”
It takes me a second to realize someone’s saying my name, but still, I don’t look over. Who here would even know who I am?
“Uh, Meg? It’s me, Scott. From the library?”
I whip my head around so quickly, I almost tumble right off the couch.
“Whoa.” Scott laughs, putting out a hand to steady me. “You OK there?”
“Yes, fine,” I say breathlessly. He’s dressed in the same outfit from before: the graphic print T-shirt and a pair of black skinny cords, but in the midst of all the ridiculous costumes, he suddenly looks like a beacon of sanity. “Hi.” I try to recover, hoisting myself back up on the couch arm. “How’s it going?”
“Stressed, hectic.” He gives a rueful grin, straightening his hipster glasses. “Figured I’d take a break from the all-nighter, try to relax for an hour or so.”
“Good plan,” I agree. “Although, I don’t know how relaxing you’ll find it here. . . .” I pause, wondering if I sound like a loser, but he laughs.
“Yeah, maybe not.” Scott glances around, but unlike the other guys in the room, he turns his back on the floor show and looks down at me with what I can almost convince myself is genuine interest. “So, how about you — did you find that guy you were looking for?”
“Jason? Not yet. That’s where the others are. Looking for him, I mean.” I cross my arms over my chest, trying to cover the low-cut neckline. I thought I felt self-conscious in my prom dress, but this much, much worse. Does he think these clothes are mine? And that I’m wearing them by choice?
“Cool.” Scott nods slowly. There’s a pause as he studies me. “You know, I was thinking, after you left — it’s weird that I haven’t seen you around. It’s a big campus, but you usually run into everyone at least once. What are you, a freshman?”
I feel a pulse of embarrassment. “I, umm, I don’t actually go here. I’m in high school,” I admit, my voice small.
“Really?” He doesn’t seem fazed by the news, but I’m sure he’s just humoring me. “So what brings you all out here?”
“It’s a long story.” I don’t want to bore him with the immature details, so I give a vague shrug instead. “It’s mainly their thing; I’m just the designated driver for the night.”
Scott chuckles. “I know that one. My sister’s always calling me up, begging for a ride. Last week I wound up with a car full of fourteen-year-olds, driving to the city for some mall tour autograph signing.” He gives a rueful grin. “I’m counting the days until she gets her license.”
I exhale, starting to relax. “So you’re from around here?”
“Over in Adamstown,” he says, naming a town another hour away. I nod. “It’s kind of nice, being so close to home. But that probably sounds lame.” Scott sticks his hands in his pockets, as if he’s the embarrassed one now.
“Oh, no.” I shake my head vigorously. “I understand. I’m trying to figure out where to apply now, but the schools I want are all so far away. Part of me likes the idea,” I add shyly, “of just starting over somewhere on the other side of the country. But, then reality sets in . . .” I remember the girl from the bathroom, and her careful isolation.
“I know what you mean.” Scott grins. “Even starting here was overwhelming, at first, but I think you adapt to it. Like you grow to fit the space.”
“I hope so.” It’s a nice thought, but I’ve been drifting around in a school of hundreds for years now, with no sign that I’ll blossom to meet the environment. Perhaps my evolutionary instincts are faulty, despite the fact that I score perfect As in all my science classes.
“Hey, can I get you a drink?” Scott asks suddenly, and I remember that we’re in the middle of a party, surrounded by other people. For a moment, I’d forgotten.
“Sure.” I hop down from the couch and follow him into the crowd.
“There’s beer, if you want. . . .” He falls back, resting a hand lightly on my back as he guides me through the mess of people and noise.
“Oh. No, I’m driving. And even if I wasn’t . . . I mean, I don’t ever drink . . .” I trail off, feeling like a child all over again. I can’t help it; most of the kids here are clearly underage, but I’ve had my dad quoting statistics about alcohol poisoning and drunk drivers ever since I was in junior high.
“Then I guess we’ll give the punch a miss.” He nods at where two jock guys are ladling peach liquid from a huge plastic bowl. Empty bottles of juice and vodka are abandoned nearby, and the whole corner is giving off a potent smell.
I laugh. “Yeah, maybe not.”
We keep going, meandering past open bedroom doors and clusters of partygoers. “So what are you, like, straight-edge?” Scott asks, ducking to avoid a giant inflatable crocodile being tossed around the hall.
“No, just sensible,” I joke, but it comes out flat. I cough. “Are you?”
He shakes his head. “I tried it out for a while; some of my friends were into that scene, back in high school, but — I don’t know, I wasn’t really into the rules side of it. Having such a fixed ideology, you know? I prefer just to do my own thing.” We come to a split in the corridor and he stops, deciding between the two hallways in front of us. “What do you think?” He grins, teasing. “Should we leave some string to find our way back?”
I smile. “I saw a girl with some floss back there. . . . It’s your call.”
“Hmmm . . . eeeny, meeny, miny, go.” He points to the left, and we set off, deeper into the complex. I wonder if Jolene and Bliss are around here somewhere. They can’t have bailed altogether yet; I’m the one with the keys.
“Ah, here we go.” Scott finds a vending machine and digs in his pocket for change.
“Here.” I begin to unzip my purse, but he’s already feeding the coins in.
“No, I’ve got this.” He grins. “So, are you a Coke girl, or a Sprite?”
“Dr Pepper, actually,” I decide.
“Really?” He draws
the word out, still almost teasing. “See, you never can tell from a first impression.”
The machine hums and rattles for a moment, but with no result. Scott fakes looking around, furtive, before thumping the side with his fist. A can rolls into the dispenser; he presents it to me with a little bow.
“Thanks.” I’m overcome with a moment of déjà vu, remembering Tristan making his own little bow to the girls back at prom. The prom I’m missing completely.
“So what happened with the dress?” Scott asks, as if reading my mind. He takes his own drink and pops the cap, leaning against the vending machine as he waits for my reply.
“It’s a costume party.” I shrug, as if that’s explanation enough, but — painfully aware of the pink sparkles adorning my body — I can’t help adding, “Bliss insisted.”
“The bossy one?”
I nod, even though to me, she and Jolene are equally determined.
“Shame.” Scott gives me a slow sort of grin. “I thought it looked great. I mean, you did.”
I freeze, feeling a low blush begin to spread across my face. “Umm, thanks,” I manage, staring at the floor. “It’s . . . prom. At least, it was.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Scott nods, still utterly at ease. “My sister doesn’t shut up about it. She can’t wait for hers — she’s only fourteen,” he explains with an affectionate kind of grin.
“Oh,” I murmur, not wanting to admit that I’m only sixteen. No wonder he’s being so sweet — I clearly bring out the big brother in him.
Suddenly, a shrill voice ricochets down the hallway: “Where did you get that shirt?”
A girl with long, dark hair is approaching, wearing one of those almost-indecent black negligee outfits. Her expression is grim, and I take a step back in fear as she gets closer.
“You heard me,” she demands, raking her eyes over me. “Where did you get that shirt? And those socks!”
“Umm,” I stutter, thrown by the fearsome combination of gleaming hair and tiny, tanned thighs. “I don’t, I mean . . .”
She lunges forward and snatches at the tank top, inspecting the label sewn by the lower hem. “It’s mine!” The girl’s glossed lips drop open. “What the hell?” Whipping around, she yells down the hall to a cluster of gleaming-haired, golden-skinned doppelgängers. “I was right; it’s mine!”
The Anti-Prom Page 7
