by Isobel Irons
Realizing it’ll probably be at least another hour before Margot gets over the shock, I reach for the door handle. That’s when she explodes.
“Three weeks!”
I turn back suddenly, surprised by the volume of her voice, and the anger in her cherubic little face. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her screech that loud before, not even when she was doing her Meryl Streep in Mamma Mia impression.
“Whoa.”
“You waited three whole weeks, to tell me that Trent Gibson—who is basically a pathological date-rapist, from what I’ve heard—tried to strangle you in the parking lot?” She’s so upset, she’s almost hyperventilating. “And then you skip class to avoid him, for three entire weeks, without telling me. Or inviting me to go along? Damn it, the least you could have done was let me slash Trent’s tires or something, so I could get into detention with you. What, in the actual hell, Tash?”
Well, that was unexpected. “Wait. So you’re not mad that I got myself into deep shit without telling you?” I struggle not to crack a smile, because I know that will only make her more upset. “You’re mad because, I got into such deep shit…without you?”
Margot narrows her eyes at me. “Hello, have you met me? Since when have I ever been cool with being left out of someone else’s drama?”
I can’t help it. My face splits open in a grin, then I laugh out loud. “You are the best fucking friend in the entire world.”
Then I lean over and hug her. Because, even though I am so not a hugger by nature, she’s earned it. In fact, by the time I pull back, I’m fighting off tears again—which is super lame sauce, I realize that, but I’m just so grateful to know that she’s not going to abandon me, after all. For better or worse, we’re still in this together. And no matter what happens over the next couple of months, at least I won’t have to deal with it alone.
“Come on,” she says, smiling evilly. “I can’t wait to see Becca’s face when she finds out you’re moving in on her turf.”
As we walk toward the gym, I listen to Margot spout off all these hilarious and elaborate ideas of how I can use my new ‘double agent’ status to sabotage every school event for the rest of the term and make Becca’s life a living hell. But I don’t say much. Even though I’m relieved to see Margot handling it all so well, I’m still a little nervous about the potential backlash.
But hey, I decide, as we arrive in the now empty locker room—and for once, Margot changes into her gym clothes right out in the open, alongside me—we’ll cross that bridge can we come to it. Becca’s an idiot after all, and compared to Trent Gibson, she doesn’t seem so scary anymore. Aside from running me over with her Escalade or whatever, how bad can she really hurt me?
###
By the time the bell rings at the end of second period, I’ve managed to convince myself that this whole Leadership thing isn’t that big of a deal. In fact, I don’t know what I got all riled up about before, it’s just another class, like physics but with hopefully a lot less science. Just another hour I’ll have to sit several rows behind Becca Foster and her stupid friends, either trying to ignore her or mocking her silently and creatively in my head.
I get up to follow Margot out of the room, and when we get into the hallway she turns to say something—probably some movie quote along the lines of ‘Go with God, my daughter’ or ‘just close your eyes and think of England’—but then she stops, and her eyes go wide, mouth slamming shut. That’s when I notice that Grant Blue has fallen into step beside me. Oh, right. That. I still haven’t told her about the best part—and also the worst part—of Mr. Dodge’s little deal, have I?
“Hey Grant,” I stop in my tracks, trying to think of a way to explain to Margot why he’s acknowledging my existence, without having to launch into the whole story right in front of him. “So…how about that inertia?”
He smiles without hesitation, like he’s getting used to my awkward commentary. Like we know each other. “I heard it’s pretty much at a standstill.”
A surprised laugh threatens to bubble up into my throat. I catch it in my chest and stomp it back down. So Grant Blue is a little bit clever, on top of being staggeringly handsome and economically blessed. Of course he is. That only makes him more likely to turn out fictional, or evil. Or both.
I still remember in elementary school, when Grant Blue used to stand in front of me in the lunch line. (Back then, most lines were assigned and alphabetical, so they always went Grant Blue, then Natasha Bohner. Then Carrie Burkhart, who is now the senior class vice president. Hey, now that I think about it, maybe I’m not really such a total burnout, after all. Maybe I’ve just been standing next to all the wrong people my entire life. He was always polite to me then, too. Sometimes, he’d even ask me what kind of milk I was having. And I’d be like, ‘Chocolate, dip wad. What other kind of milk is there?’
“So,” Margot says, drawing out the ‘O’ for maximum awkwardness. I realize I’ve been doing that thing again, where I just dumbly stand there looking at Grant Blue, but he’s too polite to say anything so he just stands there waiting for a response until we both eventually die of old age. “I should probably go to class.”
“Right,” I shake myself. “See you.”
“Okay…bye now.”
After she passes Grant Blue, Margot turns to make a face at me behind his back. Her eyes, saucer huge, send a message of emphatic clarity: ‘You are going to tell me all about this later, every detail, or I will kill you.’ I nod slightly to let her know I understand.
“You ready?”
“For what?” Now that Margot is gone, I feel the need to put up an extra layer of emotional barbed wire, just in case. “My initiation into Hitler’s Juveniles?”
“Come on, we’re not that bad.” Grant Blue smiles, tilting his head for me to follow him down the hall to the Leadership classroom. I do, but I keep expecting him to walk faster, so it doesn’t look like we’re together—not together, together, but just like…ah, fuck it, you know what I’m trying to say. He doesn’t, though. Walk faster, I mean. And he doesn’t seem bothered by the curious stares of the other students we pass. Then again, with a reputation like his, maybe he just figures he’s immune. Kind of like how Jesus Christ was such a stand-up guy, he could hang out with gamblers and whores without trashing his public image.
Or, maybe it’s exactly like that. The jury is still out on whether or not Grant Blue is only being nice to me out of some weird religious obligation. I find myself glancing sideways at him while we walk, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even bring up tutoring, which I would do if I was him, that way no one who passed us could make any assumptions about why he’s allowing me to breathe the same air as him—even temporarily.
We’re passing Mr. Dodge’s office when I finally snap. “So, um, when are we doing that whole math thing again?”
“Whenever you want,” he says. “Let’s talk about it after we sit down. That way I can put everything in my phone.”
He reaches around me to open the door to the Leadership classroom, gesturing for me to go in first. I consider refusing, but knowing him, he’d just keep waiting. So, rolling my eyes, I follow his cue.
When I walk into the room, I immediately feel at least half a dozen pairs of eyes on me. Against my will, my eyes zing around in search of the one person I least want to see. Becca sits frozen in mid-sentence, glaring at me over her friend Brittany’s shoulder. The murderous hatred in her eyes warms me from the outside in, and not in a good way. Everyone else just looks like they think I might pull a gun on them.
Here they are, I think to myself. The college-bound, future white collar bosses of America, who will probably never know the meaning of minimum wage. Or food stamps, or shitty government health insurance. This is the future of the country, right here. No wonder our political system is so lopsided.
And on a more personal note, I’ve never felt more like white trash. I mean, it’s not like I’ve ever really felt comfortable anywhere, except maybe at Margot’s ho
use. And I’d never be so bold as to say I ‘fit in’ with anyone else my age, once again, with the exception of Margot. But in that moment, I catch myself wishing I’d held onto that damn fluffy pink sweater from my birthday. At least then, maybe they’d have something to stare at besides the fading pink streaks in my hair, or my battered and obscenity-covered shoes.
“Tash,” I jump, realizing that Grant Blue has walked around me to take a seat at the nearest table. He pulls out the seat next to him. Like, right next to him. Which wouldn’t have seemed all that important, I guess, except that each table only has two chairs. And if I thought it looked like we were together before, just walking down the hall, I honestly don’t even know what the fuck they’re going to call this malarkey.
With Becca Foster’s toxic glare sizzling across my skin, I take a seat. What the hell else am I supposed to do? The situation has gone from awkward, to bizarre, to bordering on obscene.
When I’m sitting, Grant Blue leans over to hand me his cell phone. It’s one of those new smart phones, with all the bells and whistles. I’m not even sure I know how to use it. I look up at him, questioning.
“Put your number and email address in there, so I can get in touch with you about tutoring. Do you have a phone? I can put my contact info in there for you, if you want.”
“Uh….” I duck my head and start scrolling through his space age phone until I find an option to punch in some numbers, trying to pretend like I know what I’m doing. But if he expects me to pull out my shitty Back to the Future phone and hand it over, he’s dreaming. “I think I left it in my car.”
“That’s okay,” he says, taking his phone back to finalize the process of saving my number—or maybe it requires some kind of fingerprint code or DNA sample to activate, who the hell knows. “I’ll just call you right now, and then you’ll have my number saved.”
The second he presses the ‘send’ button, I cringe. But it’s too late to do anything, because a shitty digitized rendition of ‘Hot Blooded’ is now blasting through my backpack. He looks down at it, then back up at me. His right eyebrow quirks.
“Whoops,” I say, lamely. “Guess I didn’t leave it in my car.”
At that moment, Mr. Dodge breezes through the door, saving the moment.
“Alright, you guys,” he says, as he makes his way to the desk at the front of the room. “Let’s talk prom.”
My skin crawls, and that scene from Carrie pops into my head again. “Ugh, seriously? Already?”
As Mr. Dodge opens up his old-school briefcase and starts passing out stacks of colorful pamphlets, Becca and her friends coo with excitement and capitalistic delight. Yay for dresses, corsages and shoes!
Yay for underage drinking sponsored by parents who conveniently schedule trips out of town that weekend, so they can pretend to be blissfully unaware of their privileged kids’ debauchery, I silently add. And yay for getting knocked up in the back of a cheap limousine when you’re seventeen, like my mom.
Let’s just say there’s more than one reason I never go to school dances. The thought of my parents boning behind the bleachers is the first. Mom likes to say her and my dad were high school sweethearts, but I’m pretty sure that version of the story got invented after the shotgun wedding.
“It actually takes a long time to plan these things.” Grant Blue seems to think my tortured moan was a serious question. “I know it’s a month away, but we have to hire a deejay, pick a theme, buy crappy cardboard decorations in bulk from China….”
Mr. Dodge smiles as he passes us a stack of brochures. “Good to see you taking an interest.”
Whether he’s talking to me about prom or Grant Blue about me, I’m not really sure. Jesus, I’m really reading way too much into his common courtesy. I distract myself by picking up a brochure and flipping through it. There’s a different vignette of blatantly adult models posing as high school students on every page, each showcasing a different potential prom theme. I chortle when I reach the page titled ‘Oriental Dreams,’ which shows a girl in one of those Japanese silk dresses, mooning over a guy with a ponytail.
“Look, this one comes with a young Jason Lee.”
Grant Blue leans in to look over my shoulder. “I think you mean Brandon Lee.”
“Pfft,” I snort. “Shows what you know.”
“Trust me,” he says. “I watched The Crow like a thousand times when I was a kid. You’re thinking of Brandon Lee.”
Am I? Shit, maybe I am. Margot’s way better with actor names than I am. But I’m too stubborn to admit that I might be wrong, so instead I just shrug.
“Either way, it’s the stupidest prom theme ever.”
“No,” Grant Blue says, totally sincerely, “’Aqua Romance’ is worse.”
I laugh, in spite of myself. “Shut up, that is not a real theme.”
Smiling, he holds up his own brochure, which—no joke—has a nauseatingly teal color scheme, and is crawling with cardboard marine life. I gasp, pointing to the model in the frothy aquamarine prom dress in Grant Blue’s picture, who just happens to be sitting next to a bunch of two-dimensional crustaceans.
“Oh no, she’s going to get crabs at the prom!”
We both laugh quietly at that, and Becca whirls in her seat to glare at us, before her rat-like face screws up in a sneer.
“Mr. Dodge?” Becca raises her hand, and Mr. Dodge turns away from the white board—where he’s been writing down a list of potential themes—to look at her.
“Yes, Becca?”
“Wouldn’t it be better if we kept the theme of prom a secret? Like, until after we decide and it’s official?” She simpers, batting her eyelashes in the Leadership teacher’s direction. “I mean, we don’t want people getting all excited about a theme and then finding out it didn’t get picked, right?”
Yeah, right. Like that would ever happen. I lean back in my chair and mutter, “Oh God, not my oriental dreams! Take my liquid lovin’, but leave the dreams!”
Grant Blue smiles, and Carrie Burkhart—who I didn’t realize was sitting behind us, until just now—laughs. Mr. Dodge looks slightly confused. But like any good teacher, he’s used to rolling with the mood.
“Sure, I guess that’s something to consider. Thank you, Becca, for bringing that up. Let’s all agree to keep the theme a secret, okay?”
Mr. Dodge turns back to the board, but Becca’s hand stays in the air.
“Uh, Mr. Dodge?”
“Yes?”
Looking pointedly in my direction, Becca says, “Don’t you think it’s only fair that the people who got voted on to be in this class should be the ones to decide on the theme? I mean, it’s not really fair to let anyone…else help decide, not unless we’re going to let everyone in the school have a say. Right?”
Ugh, it’s ‘elected,’ you fucking moron. And yes, Becca, I’m picking up your message, loud and clear. I’m not welcome here, not in any capacity. Rodger that, Captain Butterface.
“Got it,” I say, standing up and hefting my backpack. “I’ll go study in your office, Mr. Dodge, if that’s okay with you.”
Mr. Dodge opens his mouth like he’s about to apologize, but I smile like I’m relieved, like that’s what I wanted all along—to be cast out. Thank God for Becca, otherwise I’d have to spend third period actually relating to other human beings, maybe even making some new friends. But no, my social leper status has been preserved. Bless her rotten, elitist little heart.
And okay, maybe I’m being a little sarcastic.
“If it makes any difference,” I say, to no one in particular, as I walk toward the door, “I would’ve voted for ‘Aqua Romance.’ You really can’t ever have too much teal. Or cardboard fish.”
Mr. Dodge smiles, almost like he’s proud of me, and turns around to write that on the board. I use the opportunity to flip Becca the Double Bird. She gasps indignantly, but I’m out the door before she can say anything.
I make myself comfortable in Mr. Dodge’s office, sitting in his chair and propping my feet u
p on the corner of his desk, the way he does. It’s not so bad, I decide. At least it’s quiet. I consider rummaging through his desk drawers for a moment, but that just feels way too wrong. If it was any other teacher’s office, I’d be diving through their shit in a heartbeat, searching for contraband or embarrassing photos. But Mr. Dodge is one of those rare adults I deem worthy of my respect—maybe because he showed it to me first. Or maybe it’s his totally badass, ‘nerd who doesn’t give a fuck’ fashion sense. Who knows?
At a loss for anything else to do, and because I really don’t want to start on my Pre-Calculus homework yet, I pull out a notebook and start sketching out my own little prom dioramas, complete with girls in dresses that match the décor, just like in the catalogues. My favorite Tash Original themes end up being ‘Bodily Function Fantasy’ and ‘Liquid Courage.’ I chuckle evilly to myself as I pass the time.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been in Mr. Dodge’s office before my phone beeps with a text message alert. I remember that I forgot to silence it, which then reminds me of my embarrassing attempt to keep Grant Blue from seeing my ghetto ass phone. I dig it out of the outside pocket, and flip it open.
The text message is from an unrecognized number, but I immediately know who sent it. My stomach does a little flip, and because there’s no one around to see, I let myself smile and even giggle a little as I read the text from Grant Blue aloud to myself:
“Brace yourself. The theme of this year’s prom is STARS ON THE RED CARPET.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Three weeks until prom….
It’s Monday again.
Oddly enough, school days to be passing faster lately, instead of slower. You’d think with all the detention, and the studying—which I never really did much of before, in all honesty—and the extra-curricular activities I now have to worry about, things would drag by in one long, exhausting monotony.
