by Liz Czukas
“Classy with a K, maybe.” Kim snorted.
A poke in the back made me turn around to see Schroeder. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked, eyes crinkled with concern.
“Yeah, fine.” I gave him a confused look. “My feet are a little worse for wear, I guess.” Pulling one foot up, I inspected the black stains left by the blacktop and found a few grains of gravel to flick off. “Eww.” I bet Audrey Hepburn never had to put up with this sort of thing.
“Guess you ended up No Drama after all.” He smirked at me, and, in a dazzling display of maturity, I stuck my tongue out.
“I’m sorry, Heart.” Ryan’s voice brought my attention back to my own row of seating.
I dismissed him with a tossed hand. “It’s fine. I just feel bad that we had to abandon your car.”
He shrugged. “At least we weren’t actually kidnapped by a serial killer.”
“That’s the sort of thing that could brighten up any day, isn’t it?”
“We should get T-shirts made.”
I laughed. “Man, how much would it suck to get kidnapped by a serial killer while you were wearing your ‘At least I wasn’t kidnapped by a serial killer’ T-shirt?”
He burst into a loud, deep laugh. “So, as long as we don’t end the night stuffed into a trunk somewhere, this is the best prom ever?”
“Absolutely.”
Ryan patted me on the knee. “I knew you were the right girl to ask to the dance.”
“Aww!” I leaned my head on his shoulder. “I really am the best, aren’t I?”
Another poke in the shoulder had me turning back to Schroeder. “What’s up, Pokey Pokerson?”
He drew back like I’d threatened him. “Sorry. I just thought you might want these.” He held out a pack of baby wipes. “I found them in the back of the van.”
I must have given him the are-you-crazy face, because he rolled his eyes. “For your feet?”
“Did your aunt give you a care package, too?” Ryan asked, and I giggled.
“What?” Schroeder looked utterly confused.
Blushing, I took the crinkly package of wipes from him. “My aunt gave me a little care package for tonight.”
“It’s full of lots of goodies.” Ryan held up the cellophane bag, which I’d left in my lap after the girls handed me my stuff. The condoms were clearly visible against the side of the bag.
Schroeder sat back suddenly, looking out the window. He crossed his arms, and I could hear the thump-thump-thump of his heel on the van’s floor.
I snatched the bag from Ryan. “Would you stop with the prophylactics?”
Ryan snickered. “You sound like a little old lady.”
“Bite me.” I pulled a baby wipe from the pack and swiped the end of his nose with it, before hauling a foot up to do my best to scrub off the street dirt. Because every girl wants to spend the first part of prom cleaning her feet. This evening was definitely klassy with a K.
10 In which I am aquatically assaulted and suffer a fashion disaster worse than the tiger-themed corsage from Troy
HEADS
The ballroom at the community center was a lot nicer than I’d expected it to be. Not that it would be hard to surpass a person’s expectations of a community center. I’d envisioned dirty concrete floors and the smell of old gym socks. Instead, it had carpet and everything. The ballroom even had chandeliers—go figure. I guess it was worth the thirty-minute drive down to the smaller but much more affluent town to our south.
Despite the feelings of anxiety I’d had on the sidewalk, checking in for our table assignments went smoothly, although seeing my No Drama friends’ names on the list gave me a little pang. Especially once I saw Ryan’s name with their table number next to it. I’d given him my ticket when I’d turned him down.
At least the chaperones at the check-in table either hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care, that I was accompanied by a limo-ful of intoxicated seniors.
Tara did a decent job of including me in the conversation as we moved through the banquet room to find Table 20, our assigned spot. And Troy seemed a little more sober in the air-conditioning. Maybe I’d underestimated him. Maybe he was just plain hot in his formal wear. A sudden giggle bubbled up in my throat when I realized he was exactly the reason tuxes were called monkey suits. He did kind of resemble a gorilla in a suit.
I am a terrible person, and I am definitely going to hell.
I pressed my lips together and vowed to be more charitable.
So, when Troy asked if he could drink my ice water, I handed it over most willingly. A little dehydration was a fair price to pay not to be escorted by a fall-down drunk who was at least twice my size.
After the student council president delivered a blessedly short welcome speech, the salads were brought to the table. Our school administrators labored under the misapprehension that providing dinner in the same location as the dance would cut down on underage drinking. In fairness, there was almost zero drinking going on while the food was on the table—except in the bathrooms. But the number of people who showed up already sporting a blood alcohol level that would prevent them from legally driving was astonishing. I think that’s what they call winning the battle but losing the war.
Dinner itself wasn’t half bad, though, and Troy seemed too hungry to keep up his buzz at the ad-hoc bar in the bathroom. It was kind of pleasant, actually. I would have sooner died than say it out loud to my table companions, but I felt strangely grown-up being served by bow-tied waiters without my dad sitting next to me and some relative in a wedding dress at the head of the room.
Then, Olivia and Randi excused themselves to the bathroom, and once they were out of sight, Doug started scrounging in his pocket for something.
“Check this out,” he snickered, clearly delighted with himself. I squinted as he slipped something small onto Olivia’s dinner plate.
“What’s—?” Austin leaned over for a closer look and guffawed. “Oh, that’s fantastic.”
Tara clicked her tongue. “What did you assholes do?” She stood up slightly to get a look of her own and squealed. “Eww! Is that real?”
“No!” Doug cackled.
“What is it?” I asked.
“A fake roach,” Tara said, making Troy and Phil roar with laughter. “You guys are idiots!” she snapped. “Get it out of there.”
“No way, you gotta leave it!” Austin said, putting a hand out to still her.
“Don’t be stupid.” Tara tried to reach again, but Phil caught her wrist.
“Come on, T, take it easy. It’ll be funny.”
Tara pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at him.
I couldn’t for the life of me decide who was wrong here. On the one hand, it was kind of funny, but on the other hand, Olivia never struck me as the kind of girl who would appreciate a good fake roach joke. I looked at Phil, but he was obviously enjoying the idea. Sometimes, my brother is a bit of a disappointment to the LaCoeur gene pool.
“Heart, tell ’em they’re immature idiots,” Tara commanded.
“Um . . .” Before I could declare myself, Doug was shushing all of us.
“They’re coming!” he hissed.
Tara sat slowly, glaring at him, but she let the roach stay.
Olivia and Randi were too busy talking as they came back to their seats to notice what was lying in wait on Olivia’s plate.
Despite my brother’s insistent yanking on her elbow, Tara tried one last time. “Olivia, don’t freak out—”
But the words were a total waste of breath. Olivia’s blue eyes went wide with terror just as she picked up her fork and she screamed.
Not a squeak, or even a squeal.
It was one of those pure, gut-wrenching screams that horror movie directors probably dream of. A full-bodied scream that made her flail all her limbs simultaneously in what should have been a completely random fashion, but instead was somehow concentrated on the plate in front of her. She shoved it—and the whole table—with the kind of strength you hear abo
ut when a mother lifts a car off her child.
I, of course, was seated directly across from her. Through some complicated physics that I could never explain even with diagrams, the dinner plates all slid away from me as the table slammed directly into my abdomen. Air rushed out of my lungs, and I doubled over. Since my body was the handy blunt object that stopped the table’s momentum, however, the water glasses, and the water-filled centerpiece on the table, all sloshed toward me, and a miniature tsunami of ice water poured across the table and into my lap, soaking the entire bodice of my dress and even sending a few ice cubes down my cleavage.
Through it all, Olivia’s shrieks continued, completely drowning out Doug’s efforts to explain that it was fake, even when he picked the stupid roach up and waggled it at her, shouting, “Fake! See?!”
I sucked in a breath, only to cough it out again as my crushed belly protested. Phil was the one who finally had the presence of mind to shove the table back again, sending Olivia skittering backward with a fresh scream, but I so didn’t care about her at that moment. In fact, if I’d been able to breathe, I probably would have given the table a shove of my own, hopefully trapping Olivia under it, and then I would have put the rubber roach in her hair. Instead, I just gasped as my diaphragm did its thing, and pushed away from the table to swipe all the ice cubes off my lap.
“You okay?” Troy asked, patting me on the back.
I just groaned, because seriously, what did he think I was going to say?
“Oh crap,” he said suddenly, looking behind me.
“What?”
“Your dress is all . . .”
“Wet?” I grunted.
“No. Like, ripped or something.”
“What?” I went wide-eyed and tried to reach around back. Right away, I knew what had happened. The zipper on my beautiful vintage dress had separated. The slider was still secured at the top, but it was already unraveling below, starting at my waist. “Oh! Oh no!”
I stood up from the table, awkwardly grabbing my dress in the back with one hand to cover the gap, and made a beeline for the bathroom. Stars twinkled in front of my eyes as my lungs stridently protested that they were still running on backup power. I pushed through the dizziness, determined to get out of sight before I put on an unwilling topless show.
In the bathroom, I could finally slow enough to let my diaphragm catch up and managed my first full breath since taking the table in the gut. The stars winked out, and I sagged over to lean on the counter in relief. The move put more pressure on my ailing zipper, and I felt the fabric give a little more. I straightened and twisted to peer over my shoulder in the mirror, moaning when I saw the damage. It was the all-too-familiar zipper disease. Being a veteran vintage clothing shopper, I was well versed in the dangers of pre-owned clothes, and zipper disease was always a risk. Over time, the teeth become worn down and don’t weave together quite as tightly. A little too much pressure in the right spot, and zoop, you’re baring yourself to the world.
“Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!” I muttered, and let my shoulders droop. Big mistake. It was only good posture that was keeping the rest of the zipper from falling slack. As I watched, the teeth separated all the way up to the slider, which I knew from experience was now very likely stuck at the top.
A toilet flushed, and Ally emerged, looking totally prom-worthy in her short black-and-white dress.
“Oh my God, Heart. What happened?”
In my obsession with the zipper, I’d almost managed to forget the soaked front of my dress. “You don’t wanna know,” I said miserably as chilly water dripped off my hemline to puddle on the floor. Somewhere in the vicinity of my navel, an ice chip was melting inside against my skin.
“How can I help?” Ally was already at the paper towel dispenser, yanking brown rectangle after brown rectangle of the stiff, barely absorbent towels for me. “Here.” She held out a handful and set to work with a wad of her own, blotting at the dripping hem of my dress.
“I’m more worried about the back.” I pointed over my shoulder. When Ally circled behind me, she gasped. “Yeah,” I agreed. “Can you see if you can get the zipper down and try again?”
Several minutes of struggle ensued before Ally left to recruit some more help. I waited in the bathroom, wondering vaguely if Olivia was still screaming. Stupid Doug. I hated that guy.
While I waited for Ally to bring backup, a few girls I didn’t know very well came in and crowded into the handicapped stall together. I couldn’t decide if they hadn’t seen me or just didn’t care that I was there, but they did nothing to keep their conversation quiet as they passed around whatever it was they were drinking.
“Did you see the way Olivia went off? God, that girl would do anything for attention.”
“I know, she’s so pathetic.”
“I can’t believe she even got nominated for prom court.”
“It’s just because she’s going out with Austin.”
“Seriously.”
I wasn’t exactly buddy-buddy with Olivia, but my ears got hot with embarrassment and anger listening to them dissect her.
“What about Tara Jansen’s dress? Um, hello, you’re not nominated for an Oscar!”
“No kidding.”
“She thinks she’s so great.”
“Nala said she was in here before and she totally heard someone puking, and then Tara came out of a stall and rinsed her mouth out. Total bulimic.”
“Ugh, that’s so disgusting.”
“She’s not bulimic.” The words were out of my mouth before I knew I was going to speak.
The girls crowded into the stall went silent. Then I heard some shuffling, and the lock clicked open. Two went for the door, but one looked straight at me with a sour expression. “We were having a private conversation.”
I shook my head. “You really weren’t.”
“You should mind your own business.”
“Seriously?” My wet, damaged dress had shortened my tolerance for stupidity. “I’m not the one gossiping in a handicapped stall about people I don’t even know.”
She glared at me, then turned to follow her friends out the door, nearly running into Ally and her backup as they finally returned.
“Whoa!” Ally jumped back.
“Excuse you,” Little Miss Nasty Attitude snarled.
Ally looked at me as the door closed behind the cloud of snark. “What did I do?”
“Nothing.” I rolled my eyes. “I think she put her thong on backward.” It wasn’t worth my time or theirs to rehash what I’d overheard. I wasn’t even going to tell Olivia or Tara. I had a feeling they’d both heard plenty of gossip about themselves over the last four years. You don’t get to be a senior looking like custom-ordered perfection without earning a little jealousy along the way.
Besides, I had way bigger problems of my own to deal with. Like my naked back.
Ally had found a junior named Becca who worked on the costume crew. My heart and eyebrows lifted in mutual hope. If anyone would be able to fix me, it was Becca. Becca was capable of wardrobe miracles. Last year, when Len Greenwich told her she had to outfit the entire cast of A Chorus Line on two hundred and fifty dollars, she not only succeeded, she gave him change. Thirty-seven cents, as I recall.
Cassidy came in while the other girls were still doing battle with my dress. So far, the only thing we’d managed to accomplish was making Becca’s and Ally’s fingers sore and getting me smacked in the back of the head a few times when their fingers slipped off the stubborn zipper.
“Can we just pin it?” Cassidy asked.
“With what?” Becca asked. “I didn’t think to bring any safety pins, did you?”
I thought longingly of my stupid care package from Aunt Colleen. The woman had given me matches, for heaven’s sake, but not a single safety pin was in the little pouch of humiliation. I’d seen Becca do some creative stuff to repair damaged costumes midshow, but I didn’t think bobby pins and lip gloss were going to be enough.
Ally
left to hunt up some pins, and she was gone for so long, I was starting to think she’d forgotten about me. Becca eventually returned to her dinner with a promise to come back if pins showed up. Thankfully, Cassidy stuck it out.
“So, how’s your date with Troy going?” she asked.
“Believe me, this is so not a date.” I rolled my eyes.
“Not that you’d know a date if one came up and humped your leg.” Cass hoisted herself onto the vanity counter and let her sparkly pink Chuck Taylors swing like a little girl.
“He was drunk when he showed up in the limo.” I sighed. “Since then, I’ve been assaulted by a table, gotten a lap full of water and ice in my bra, and ripped my dress. Is that a date?”
She grinned. “Sounds like some of the dates I’ve been on.”
I propped my elbows on the vanity next to Cassidy. “Which is exactly why I don’t date.”
She just rolled her eyes.
Suddenly, there was a timid knock on the door. “Heart? Are you in there?”
Cass and I exchanged glances. It was a male voice. Definitely not Troy. “Yeah?” I called.
“Can you come out? We’re going to fix you up.”
After a moment of fussing, I emerged from the bathroom with Cassidy holding my dress closed from behind. It was one of the stage crew guys, Tim, who’d spoken. He wasn’t alone. In fact, he was with Ryan. Guilt sent my stomach swooping toward my feet. Even though Ryan had been understanding about me accepting Troy’s invitation, I’d felt awful about turning him down. And now, here he was, to see me in my exposed, damp glory. Fantastic.
“You found safety pins?” Cassidy asked.
“Nope. Better.” Tim held up a roll of duct tape, extending the tail with a resounding rrrrrriiiiippp.
“Duct tape?”
“It holds the universe together,” Tim intoned.
“I don’t want duct tape all over the back of my dress!” This was so not a Brigitte Bardot moment. This wasn’t even a Lucille Ball moment. It was just plain sad.
“Don’t worry, we have a plan,” Ryan said. “Trust me.”
“Let ’em try, Heart. You can’t spend all night in the bathroom,” Cassidy said.
