by Liz Czukas
“Ooh, there’s gum in there!” Randi snatched it off the floor before I could reach it. “I forgot to bring mine.” She opened the twist tie and spilled the contents onto the short, fluffy skirt of her tangerine-colored dress.
“Whoa! What’s this?” Phil’s asshole friend Doug pinched something from the tangle on Randi’s lap and held it up for everyone to see. A strip of three condoms. “Damn, Phil, your sister’s a bad girl!” He cackled.
I am a hard person to embarrass. I mean, sure, my ears heat up if I trip in front of a group of people, but never for more than a second. It comes from years of being in plays, I think. When you have to take your clothes off as fast as possible with a group of other people for a quick costume change, there is no time for modesty. Plus, if you really think about it, being in a play is essentially playing pretend in front of an audience. You gotta have some guts to make that not humiliating, right?
But when Doug started waving the short strip of condoms like a victory flag, I pretty much wanted to die. This was the exact opposite of the reputation I’d worked so hard to cultivate over the last three years. Now I was not only the girl who was available at the last minute to be Troy’s date, I was the girl who obviously intended to sleep with Troy. Three times.
This moment of abject humiliation brought to you by Aunt Colleen. Aunt Colleen, when your average embarrassment just won’t do.
“Those aren’t mine,” I croaked, but no one really heard me over the laughter and hooting.
“God! Are you, like, twelve?” Randi grabbed the condoms from Doug’s hand. “Don’t be so immature.”
“What?” Doug protested.
Randi rolled her eyes and held the condoms out to me. “Here, Heart, put these away so you don’t offend the children.”
“Thank you,” I said softly, shoving them into my tiny clutch purse. I didn’t want the damn things, but I couldn’t think of a better way to get them out of sight.
I tried to catch Phil’s eye across the limo, but he was too busy laughing at something someone else had said. The flask had made its way around to him again, and he tipped it back, then made a face as nothing came out. He made a show of turning it upside down over the floor, letting only a single droplet of clear liquid fall.
“Next!” Troy announced. He reached inside his tuxedo jacket and emerged with a small glass bottle of brown liquid. After taking the first drink, he offered it to me. “Here you go.”
I did another of my fake sips before handing it off to Randi, who still had the rest of Aunt Colleen’s care package spilled on her lap. Trying not to look obvious, I skimmed my eyes over the remaining stuff. Randi had taken the gum, leaving a cherry lip gloss, a quarter and a dime—did she seriously think I’d be using a pay phone tonight?—a small roll of Rolaids, a hair holder and some bobby pins, a book of matches, and three bandages. Grudgingly, I had to admit that some of it seemed potentially useful. Though what she thought I was going to do with matches eluded me—was there some kind of campfire tradition I wasn’t aware of? I tapped Randi on the shoulder and pointed to her lap. She made a go-ahead gesture, and I started tucking everything into my clutch. By the time I’d squirreled it all away, the clasp would barely close, and the whole thing looked like an overcooked sausage.
Suddenly, the limo banked toward the curb, and I realized we were at Tara’s house. A bunch of adults were out on the lawn, cameras snapping away as the limo rolled to a stop, and a second later, Tara herself emerged from the house.
She looked gorgeous, as my brother’s girlfriend was prone to do. Tara was everything high school girls are told we should want to be: just the right height, slim, blond, white-toothed, and blue-eyed. It was like she was built in a factory. Tonight, her hair was a perfect tumble of waves, and her dress was somewhere between silver and white. It was impossible to tell by the way it sparkled in the evening sunlight.
Phil looked suddenly more handsome when he hopped out to greet her. She accepted the white-and-silver, and noticeably tiger-free, wrist corsage he’d been holding since we left the house, and a kiss on the cheek. Then her parents were waving everyone out of the limo for the obligatory prom photographs. I realized the adults on the lawn were the parents of some of the other kids from the limo when they started calling to their children and asking for individual portraits and so on. Biting my lip, I looked at Phil. Were we supposed to tell Dad to come over? Was he the only parent not here playing amateur paparazzi? Why did everyone seem to know prom secrets that I’d somehow missed?
This time, Phil actually felt me staring at him. I nodded toward the other parents and made a face I hoped said, “Did we screw up?” Phil just rolled his eyes. But I still felt guilty. Dad probably would have liked to be here.
Someone grabbed my elbow and dragged me toward the line of girls arranged on the lawn. There were only four of us, but I was clearly the odd one out. Sparkly Tara, poufy tangerine-colored Randi, and Olivia in sequined, pageant-ready teal. Then there was me, in my vintage lavender. Not to mention the fact that I was the shortest, and the only one who appeared to eat on a regular basis.
I swallowed hard, wishing there had been a decent way to get out of this pity date without hurting Troy and disappointing my brother. If I were with my friends, I wouldn’t be the only one not dressed in the latest Nordstrom’s prom offerings. I knew for a fact that Cassidy was wearing sparkly pink Chuck Taylors, for example.
“Come by me, Heart!” Tara beckoned me with an outstretched hand. She meant well, I knew, but I felt like such the afterthought little sister as I took her hand and let her pull me between herself and Olivia.
The moms bossed us around for a while into a series of poses with and without the boys. Then it was individual couples’ photos, and I found myself standing with Troy’s hot hand on my waist. It was a gorgeous evening, in the seventies and clear, but in his tuxedo, Troy was baking. He already had a sheen of sweat on his forehead, which was probably just as well since it helped disguise the blush of alcohol in his cheeks and nose.
Eventually, we were released, and we all climbed back into the limo. It was crowded in there now, and I ended up with part of my skirt under Troy’s leg, making it impossible to move. More bottles of alcohol were produced, going around and around the group. I don’t know where they’d been hiding it all, or how they’d gotten their hands on so much. It was baffling. The speed of drinking increased as the landmarks indicated we were approaching the dance. Despite my efforts to only fake sipping, a few bumps in the road sent a couple of swigs into my mouth, and I tried not to choke on the taste of pure alcohol. It wasn’t that I’d never had a drink before, but I’d never taken shots straight from the bottle. And definitely never from bottles that had been secured against warm bodies. Vodka burns so much harder when it’s a cozy 98.6 degrees.
Then, at last, our limo made it to the drop-off point, and we climbed down onto the sidewalk.
“Let’s prom it up!” Doug shouted, raising a fist in victory.
“Thanks again for coming with me,” Troy said, giving me a sappy look. He used his sleeve to blot sweat away from his hairline, but his sleeve wasn’t going to do anything for his boozy breath.
“Sure! It’ll be fun!” I said, because apparently I’m insane.
9 Wherein Ryan’s trusty steed proves completely untrustworthy, and I am almost kidnapped by a psychotic serial killer
TAILS
My dad is surprisingly technology-savvy, considering he sells and installs carpet for a living. That does not, however, mean he has any skill as a photographer, despite owning a decent digital camera. So pictures with Ryan took longer than I expected. He kept checking the LCD screen for how the shots turned out, and he was never satisfied. By the end, I had a cramp in my lower back from standing in the same pose for so long.
It was a relief to sink into the passenger seat of Ryan’s old Jeep.
“What’s in the package?” Ryan asked, indicating the cellophane treat bag my dad had handed me at the last minute.
�
��Something from my crazy aunt Colleen,” I sighed.
“Crazy, like, there’s going to be a lock of human hair in that bag?”
I burst into laughter. “No, not that kind of crazy. More like she wants to be my surrogate mom. Unfortunately, she wants to be one of those ‘cool’ moms who says I can talk to her about anything.”
Ryan grinned. “So what’s in the bag?”
“Let’s find out.”
Ryan lifted the gearshift back into park and turned to watch me open it with interest.
I named each thing as I pulled it out. “Rolaids . . . gum . . . bobby pins . . . ,” then choked as I pulled out a strip of three condoms. Laughing, I waved them at Ryan. “Oh, baby, we’ll be putting these to some good use later!”
“You really think three’s enough?” He looked thoughtful. “We can swing by Walgreens and pick up a jumbo pack.”
Giggling, I turned over the condoms to read the packaging. “‘Pleasure shaped’! What the heck does that mean?”
“You’re asking me?” Ryan shifted the car into drive and headed into the street.
“Colleen is so clueless.” I shook my head.
“I don’t know. It could be worse.”
“How?”
“She could have stuffed a chastity belt in there.”
I grinned. “Maybe just a statuette of Jesus and some pamphlets about abstinence.”
Ryan snorted. “That’s more like what my aunt would give me.”
“Yikes.”
“Yeah,” he drawled. “You can imagine I’m not real excited about coming out to the extended family.”
I looked down at my lap, uncomfortable suddenly. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like knowing someone in your family might hate you for who you are. “What about your parents?”
“My mom will be fine. My dad . . . I don’t know. I think he’ll be kind of shocked, but we should be okay.”
“Hmm.” I honestly didn’t know what to say to that. Is there sage advice to be given to people who could be risking disownership from their families? It made me sick to think that was even a possibility. I looked down at the orange tiger lily in the corsage Ryan had brought me, and fiddled with the yellow ribbon tied below it. Somehow, he’d managed to find a corsage that didn’t come with a wrist strap. It was the old-fashioned kind that had to be pinned onto my dress, so it was kind of hanging off my boob. I felt like a dork for even thinking about that after what Ryan had just been saying.
I sighed and looked straight ahead. “So, I think I’ve done a smash-up job of making the conversation about as heavy as possible right at the beginning of the night, eh?”
Ryan chuckled. “I don’t know, maybe we should talk about famine in Africa or something.”
I did a face-palm and sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”
“Don’t worry about it.” He looked away from the road long enough to give me a small smile. “To tell you the truth, it’s kind of nice to be able to talk to someone about it.”
A single question had been burning in my brain since Ryan had come out to me two weeks ago, and I had officially reached the point where it could no longer be contained. “So, have you ever kissed a guy?”
Ryan made a startled, gagging sound. “Jeez, Heart, don’t beat around the bush or anything.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve been dying to ask!” I balled up my hands into fists and pressed them both into his shoulder. “So, have you?”
“Have you?” he shot back.
“A guy? Yeah.” Not in a while, but I didn’t suppose that’s what he was asking. “A girl? No. So, have you?”
“Kissed a girl? Yeah, in ninth grade.”
Suddenly the Jeep made a sputtering sound and began to jerk while the engine roared up and down.
“What’s going on?” I gripped the sides of my seat.
“I don’t know.” Ryan tried giving it a little more gas, but the Jeep was not amused. Abruptly, it went silent, and then all we could hear was the sound of traffic around us.
“Um . . . ,” Ryan said.
“Does this happen a lot?” I asked.
He made a dismissive sound and tried to turn the engine over a few times. The Jeep probably would have laughed if it had actually been running.
“Now what?” Twisting around, I saw the angry face of the driver behind us. “You should probably put the hazards on.”
Ryan poked the button, and thankfully, rhythmic clicking began. So at least the emergency systems were working. “We should get out of traffic,” he said. “Can you come around and steer?”
“Sure.” A bubble of laughter welled up in my throat, but I managed to turn it into a smile as I got out to run to the driver’s side. To the left of the Jeep, cars were swinging wide to avoid the open door and revving their engines as they passed.
“Yes, we sense your distaste!” Ryan called to one car as it passed. “Thank you for your input!”
“Isn’t it nice how everyone is pulling over to help us?” I asked as I got behind the wheel and shucked my silver strappy heels.
“I’m overwhelmed by the generous spirit of this town,” Ryan agreed. He slipped off his tux jacket and the checkered vest underneath before pushing up his sleeves.
At first he tried to get the Jeep rolling alone, but it was obvious that wasn’t going to work very well, so I called for him to stop and hopped out to lend my support, leaning on the open door frame and trying to keep the wheel straight with one hand. The whole thing should have been a disaster, but I kept wanting to laugh.
We finally got the Jeep rolling enough to get it to the side of the road. Unfortunately, that landed us in a crosswalk.
I burst into giggles at last, propping my now sweating forehead on my upraised arm. “At least if we leave it here, it’ll get towed.”
Ryan grinned. “Problem solved!”
We both laughed for a bit, leaning against the Jeep. A car honked at us, but still no one stopped.
“This is ridiculous!” I said. “Do they think this is performance art or something?”
“Do some dance moves,” Ryan suggested. “Maybe someone will stop long enough to throw change.”
And then, because sometimes the universe is kind but only when it can also be perverse, a van pulled toward the side of the road right behind us. The setting sun made a perfect glare off the windshield, so we couldn’t see who was inside, but I could tell from the front that it was one of those big, cargo-style vans.
I clapped twice. “Oh great! Finally someone wants to help us, and it’s a serial killer!”
“Well, it is prom night.” Ryan was joking, but there was a faint note of nervousness in his tone.
The van finally rolled to a complete stop, and my heart squeezed in my chest. Thank you, made-for-TV-movies, for making me terrified of unmarked vans. I couldn’t stand there waiting for my imminent death without at least trying to do something. Scrambling into the driver’s seat again, I reached across for my purse. If the police were going to find my body later, I figured I should probably at least have 9-1 dialed into the phone.
“What the hell is going on over here?” a voice—a familiar voice—shouted from the van.
My pulse crescendoed and collapsed into my chest with relief. The voice belonged to Pat, which meant the Serial Killer Mobile was filled with the No Drama Prom-a Crew.
“Oh my God!” I jumped back to the street.
“Is that—?” was all Ryan managed to say before the doors opened and the whole No Drama group spilled out.
“What happened?” Cassidy demanded. “Heart, you look amazing! Hi, Ryan! What happened to your shoes? What is happening here? Why aren’t you guys at prom?”
“Whoa!” Pat held up a hand. “How ’bout we stick to one question at a time, Cass?”
“The engine just . . . died.” Ryan shrugged.
“Here?” Pat asked.
I pointed to the spot about fifteen feet away where we’d started shoving the Jeep out of traffic. “There.”
Schroeder appeared at my left shoulder with his eyebrow raised. He looked . . . classically handsome in a tux, like an old movie star. I never would have guessed. “So you thought this was the perfect parking spot?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty sweet, right?” I propped my hands on my hips and surveyed the area. “Should be easy to find later.”
He ignored that, glancing down. “Don’t your feet hurt?”
“Not as much as they would have trying to push a car in heels.” I wiggled my bare toes.
He made a face but turned his attention to Ryan. “Should we get her out of the intersection?”
I made an indignant sound. “Hel-lo? I am perfectly capable of getting myself out of the intersection!”
“Down, Lung. I was talking about the Jeep.”
I rolled my eyes. What is with guys and calling cars “she”? I swear, if the state ever legalizes man-car marriage, there are going to be millions of confused women getting served with divorce papers.
But Schroeder, Ryan, and the rest of the guys were already braced around the Jeep, and I couldn’t effectively scowl at any of them. The girls surrounded me, and the questions came fast and furious—mostly from Cassidy and her nuclear-powered vocal cords. I explained what I knew, which was approximately diddly-squat, and let them take over retrieving my stuff from the car.
In a matter of minutes, the Jeep was safely out of traffic and we were all climbing into the serial killer van. Turns out, it was a transport van for a day care. Tot University to be exact. It had seating for fifteen, three car seats across the last bench, and plenty of Cheerio dust in the crevices.
“Is this ride classy or what?” Ally asked.
“Whose van is this?” I asked.
“My mom is the director of this day care.” Pat thumped the dashboard affectionately. “She is our official transportation sponsor for the No Drama Prom-a.”
“Wow. This night just keeps getting classier and classier.” I reached for one of the many seat belts, not completely sure I had the right one, considering there were approximately seven hundred ninety of them in the Tot University van.
