by Isobel Irons
Although, to be honest, Mr. Dodge actually looks more taken aback by my gesture than Becca does. After he finishes taking attendance, he casually strolls over to the table where Grant and I sit, pushing up his glasses in classic nerd disbelief as he takes in my drastic change in appearance. After a few seconds, he makes that ‘trout mouth’ expression—you know, the universal ‘meh, not bad’ face?—and nods.
“Can’t say I miss the shoes,” he says.
I smile at him, wider than I ever have before. “Don’t worry, I still have them.”
Once Mr. Dodge goes back to his desk, things in our corner of the classroom become a lot more awkward. At least in physics, when I was awkwardly flirting with Grant, he was in the desk behind me. I couldn’t really look into his eyes, or fall into his stare, the way I’m in danger of doing now that he’s right next to me. Sharing the same leg space and everything.
Cheese-less crust, even just the thought of accidentally brushing knees with him again sends goose bumps running up and down my bare legs. Keely was right, it’s still too damn cold—I should’ve worn tights. But I wasn’t in the mood to struggle into them and possibly fall down in the process, so I skipped them.
As Carrie, the student body president, gets up to give us all a lecture about how prom court nominations are going to work, I try to pay attention. I know that getting nominated won’t be easy, but it’s integral to my plan. Yet, I find myself spacing out every couple of seconds, distracted by my attempts to regulate my own breathing as I carefully uncross my legs under the table. I can feel the warmth of Grant’s leg on my right side, and if I can just switch my left leg to the top of the cross without him noticing, I might be able to accidentally brush against him, all subtle-like….
Just breathe Tash, you can do this. It’s not that ha—and I just kicked him. Wonderful. Fucking great.
“Sorry,” I whisper, feeling my face burn. I chance a look at him, and he’s biting his lower lip, trying not to laugh. My brain stalls. I don’t think I’ve ever been jealous of a lip before.
Meanwhile, Carrie prattles on at the front of the class about anonymous nominations—try saying that five times fast, why don’t you—and some tallying system that’s based on the electoral college or some bullshit.
But all I can do is stare at Grant’s mouth. I have the strongest urge to run my tongue across my bottom lip, but I’m pretty sure that would not be subtle, so I restrain myself. I tear my eyes away and chuckle quietly, shaking my head at how seriously out of my depth I am.
I’ve never tried anything remotely like this before. Which is hilarious, when you consider the fact that half the school thinks I’m some kind of foul seductress. But in reality, I don’t have the first idea of how to get a guy to ask me out.
Manhandle me in the parking lot, sure, says Jiminy Fucking Cricket. But not ask me out.
I’m beginning to think that smarmy, six-legged douche bag is more like the voice of my self-hatred than my conscience. The school counselor would probably have plenty to say about that. Undoubtedly, she’d also have something to say about my attitude, and how life is what you make of it, or some such liberal arts bullshit.
Well, right now I’m trying to make life a living hell for Becca Foster. I really don’t think it’s too much to ask, everything considered. If Mr. Hamburg is right, and there’s an equal and opposite reaction for every action, then really it’s simple physics—the bitch has it coming. So help me out here universe, will you? Help me, help you. Help me, help you.
“What’s so funny?”
I cover my mouth with one hand, hiding my smile so Grant can’t see what a spaz I am. I can’t tell him I was just imagining Margot doing her best Jerry McGuire impression, because he’ll feel sorry for me all over again, and that might make me cry like I did the other day, in front of his dad. Oh, Sweet Honeydew Melons, I’d forgotten about that. I hope he didn’t tell Grant that part.
“It’s stupid,” I tell him, shaking my head.
He slides his arm forward on the table, leaning into it until his face is level with mine. He never has bad breath, ever. It’s not natural.
Why, why does he have to smell like sunshine and minty snow?
His smile is like a secret, just for me. “Now I really want to know what it is.”
I glance toward the front of the class, to see Carrie holding up a prom ballot. Becca is sitting sideways, pretending not to watch us, but I know she is. Somehow, that gives me the strength to flirt with Grant Blue—for real.
“Don’t tell anyone this, but…” I lean in, shielding my face like we’re having a conspiracy. “Is it weird that I’m actually starting to get excited about this whole prom thing?”
I try to look embarrassed, shy even. I flick my eyes down, then up again, looking at him through my mascara-fortified eyelashes. “Guess I’ve been drinking the Kool-Aid, after all.”
He laughs, a quiet puff of wintery fresh air. “Don't tell me you're actually thinking of going now.”
“I might be.” I pause, forcing myself to count to three. My stomach is in my throat. I lick my lips, forgetting about my lipstick. “What about you?”
Grant looks suddenly uncomfortable again, and I kick myself.
Shit, that was too much. I went for it too soon. Shit!
“Oh, I don't know. I mean, I think the president and vice president have to be there anyway, to sit at the table and sell tickets for the first hour.”
I'm alarmed. I can’t think of anything else to say, so I just start asking stupid questions.
“Oh, they let people buy tickets at the door?”
He gives me this look, like that should’ve been obvious. “Yep.”
How the hell should I know? I've never been to a dance before. All I know of prom is what I've seen in movies. And we all know how much those Hollywood bastards lie.
I smile, trying desperately to salvage the moment. Can I get any more desperate right now? I submit that I cannot.
“Well, let me know if you want some company. I probably won't have a date.”
God, Tash. Be more obvious. Why not tell him you’re willing to trade sexual favors for an invitation?
Grant quirks his eyebrows. “What about that guy from this morning?”
I’m so taken aback, I can’t even begin to control the look of sheer horror that crosses my face. For a moment, my agreeable, pleasant new persona slips.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I glare at him, incredulous. “You seriously haven't heard about what happened in Mr. Bogart’s class?”
He shrugs, keeping his eyes on the front of the room. Cool as a cucumber. Cooler and more collected than I will ever be.
“I heard there was a thing, but I didn't know any details. After this morning, though...I thought maybe,” he shrugs again. “Lovers’ quarrel?”
The way he says those last two words, almost exactly the way Margot would...it alternately makes me want to strangle him and break down crying. Maybe even try to strangle him, then break down crying and try to hug him instead, I don’t know. But I do none of those things. Because I have a plan, goddamn it.
I clear my throat—as daintily as possible—and lower my voice, keeping my eyes demurely locked on the table in front of me.
“Would you care if it was?”
Suddenly, the room falls quiet. I realize that Carrie is finished talking. I hold my breath until I’m afraid I might pass out. Then Mr. Dodge stands up and starts talking about proper delegation. I exhale, and then inhale, as quietly as possible.
Grant doesn't move. He doesn't answer me for so long that I'm sure he's trying to plot an escape route. Mr. Dodge is next to the door though, so he'd have to go through the window. Or maybe he could just—
“I care,” he says, finally. My heart drops into my feet. “Probably more than I should. I know you're not interested in being friends. But...you just...you seem like you deserve…better.”
Better.
The word drums in my ears, over and over again. I can't look at
him. The tone of his voice is so sincere. Not pitying, just matter of fact, like he genuinely believes it.
That I am deserving...of better.
No one in my life has ever said that to me before. Not my mom, not Ms. McKibbon, not the police officer with the moustache, not even Margot.
Loser…skank…white trash…stubborn brat…troublemaker…delinquent….
SLUT.
The words multiply in my head until I can't stand it anymore. I need to get out of there, before I do something that will blow the entire plan. Like laugh hysterically in Grant's face, or Christ forbid, cry in front of Becca Foster and the entire student council.
I stand up quickly, and Mr. Dodge cuts off in mid-sentence, watching me in confusion as I head for the door. I mouth the word ‘bathroom’ in his direction, hoping he won't press the issue. Sky spaghetti monster love him, he doesn't. I make my escape, clean as it isn't.
Kitten heels clacking on the ancient orange tile, I beeline for the door at the end of the hallway, bursting out into the empty quad just as the first sob escapes my lips.
I seem like I deserve better.
It’s just too fucking much to wrap my brain around, so I just let it rattle around in there, unwrapped, as I silently laugh and cry at the same time.
The truth is, I'm not even sure I can imagine what better would look like. And even if I could, I'd have to be some kind of idiot to hope for it. Especially now. Especially when my dreams of escaping this town, of becoming someone different, of fixing Margot, are slipping away from me.
The door opens behind me. I brace myself, expecting a stern reprimand for being out of class.
"Tash?"
I turn, and Grant is standing there, looking like someone just ran over his dog.
Ugh. “Why can’t you just stay in class, like the well-behaved little valedictorian you are?” I swear to God, if I have to look at his goddamn wonderful face for one more second….
"I did it again, didn't I?”
He takes a step toward me. I’m going to haul off and hit him. I know it.
“Somehow, I always seem to say the wrong thing around you. I really didn't mean to upset you, I just wanted you to know that I...like you, I guess."
He likes me? My brain is like a broken record player. He likes me. He likes me, he likes me. Grant Blue likes me….
My breath is stuck in my chest. I feel like I'm going to explode. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I'm too upset to form actual words. Even curse words.
He sighs, puts his hands in his pockets, and shrugs. It’s so fucking adorable, I can’t even stand it.
"And now, you're probably going to tell me to ‘fuck off,’ right?"
The F-word sounds so strange coming from his perfect vocal cords, I let out a short puff of air. Not a laugh, but a puff. I look down at my stupid new shoes, cross my arms tightly over my stomach, close my eyes, even bite my lips together to keep my feelings in check.
But he's not done. "Because you ‘don't need to hear how great you are from some stupid goody-goody,’ and I ‘don’t know anything about you,’ and I ‘have no idea how big a mistake I’m making’…."
Oh, fuck it.
Without planning it, I start moving in his direction. Grant trails off, and I can see him visibly bracing himself for some kind of attack. He doesn't raise his hands, though. Just sets his shoulders and prepares himself to take whatever I'm willing to dish out.
When I'm one step away, I reach up and grasp his way too perfect face between my hands. I want to throttle him, or maybe bounce his head against the wall. But I don't.
Instead, I kiss him. Hard.
I've never kissed a boy before this moment, not really. I'm not even sure I'm doing it right. If I told anyone, they'd probably laugh and call me a liar. Or a lying slut, probably.
But Grant Blue just stands still and lets me kiss him, clumsily and awkwardly, for about five seconds. Then, he slowly raises his hands, gently puts them on my shoulders, and pulls back.
The panic rises again, as I prepare for him to push me away. To reject me. To tell me that I'm nothing to him. That I'm a slut for throwing myself at him. That I'm dirty. That he doesn't want me.
But instead, he backs up a couple of inches and just...looks at me. For what seems like forever.
And then, his hand comes up and brushes my face. Gently. So gently, I'm not even sure if it's really happening.
“Tash,” he says. “Do you want to go to prom with me?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
At exactly 4:45 PM, I pull up to the hospital and jump out of the car. There’s only fifteen minutes until my shift starts at Baskin Robbins, and I’m probably going to be late, but I can’t help it. I have to show Margot. I have to tell her what I’ve done.
It won’t seem real until I see the look on her face. Until I hear it from her mouth, the one person in my life who has never lied to me, that I’ve actually changed. That this is really happening.
Visiting hours don’t start until five, but I use my new clean-cut and polite persona to sweet talk my way past the old lady at the desk. Then again, old ladies have always kind of loved me. At least the raunchy ones do, like Nana and Dottie—probably because I remind them of themselves back during their promiscuous days.
When I burst into Margot’s room, she’s sitting on her bed making a collage from a bunch of magazines.
“Hey there’s this thing called privacy, you kno—holy shit!” When she looks up and realizes it’s me, her eyes go wide and she drops her little plastic safety scissors. “Holy shit! Tash, what happened to you?”
Smiling nervously, I pose in the doorway. “Surprise!”
I even do like these half-assed jazz hands, because I want her to laugh, and stop looking at me like I’m a total stranger. Instead, she bursts into tears, covering her face with her tiny, skeletal hands.
My heart shatters all over again.
I run to her side, plopping down on the bed to wrap my arms around her. “No, Margot, don’t cry. Please, please don’t cry.”
“I knew it,” she sobs through her fingers. “I was holding you back.”
Holding me back? “Margot, what the hell are you talking about?”
“Look at you!” She drops her hands, gesturing to me dramatically. “You’re so pretty! You look so…so…c-c-cool.”
Halfway through the word ‘cool,’ Margot’s face crumples and she starts to bawl, blubbering incoherent accusations at me, or maybe at herself.
“All this time, trying to get you to dress better, but you wouldn’t listen. Now that I’m not around…you don’t have to take care of me anymore. And you have more time to wash your hair and put on makeup, and get cool clothes. Instead of wasting your money trying to cheer me up all the time.”
“Margot, you’re wrong.” I shake my head, then I reach out and shake her. I’m so sick of listening to her talk about herself like she’s a human stain.
“You’ve always been the smart one, the funny one. The fashionable one. I didn’t want to be a poser and try to copy you.” My eyes burn as I try to explain it in a way that doesn’t sound like I’m just blowing smoke up her ass. “Don’t ever say you were holding me back, Margot. You’re the only reason I’ve survived as long as I have. I mean it. You’re the only reason I’m doing any of this.”
Her eyes narrow, and she sniffles to clear her nose. “Wait, doing any of what?”
Busted. Of course Margot would pick up on the one thing I’m trying not to tell her. But she can’t know about The Plan. Not until after I’ve gotten away with it. Then, I’ll tell her everything. And her eyes will sparkle with mischievous, vengeful glee, and we’ll laugh and laugh until we can’t sit up anymore.
After she’s better. But until then, I need to find a way to distract her.
I can only think of one thing that will definitely work.
I let out a deep breath, like this is the big secret I’ve been holding in. “This is going to sound crazy. And honestly, I have no idea how
it happened, but…. There’s a slight chance…that I might…kind of, be going to prom with Grant Blue.”
Margot’s reaction to my announcement is ear-splitting. If we weren’t already sitting in a psych ward, I’m pretty sure people would’ve come running. But spontaneous, blood-curdling screams are probably par for the course here.
“Oh my God! Oh. My. God! Ohmygod!” She flails her arms, scattering collage pieces to the floor like glossy, overly-Photoshopped leaves. “How did this happen? How in the hell did this happen? Was it magical? How did he ask you? Or, did you ask him? Oh, my God, you have to tell me everything. Like, yesterday!”
I don’t even need to look at the clock to know I’m going to be very, very late for my shift at BR. But I can’t help grinning, because this is the first time in as long as I can remember that she doesn’t seem to be thinking about her weight, or worrying about Becca Foster’s latest attempt to crush her soul. In this moment, we’re just two excited teenage girls, sitting in a psych ward and talking about boys. In this moment, I can deny her nothing.
For the first time, she’s the one living vicariously through me.
So I tell her what happened with Grant, starting with the part where he saw me talking to Trent in the parking lot—but once again, I leave out the really gruesome stuff—and skipping over just a few details in the middle, like why I was suddenly so motivated to flirt with a guy who, just a couple of hours ago, was so out of my league that I couldn’t fathom him wanting to sit with me at lunch—let alone kiss me.
Actually, scratch that. Grant Blue is still ridiculously out of my league, and I’m still spinning over why in all seven circles of hell he would even look at me, but that’s why I leave the ugly parts out. Because Margot deserves the fairy tale version. Especially since I have a feeling she’s going to be obsessing over every little detail, using my supposedly miraculous turnaround to distract herself over the next few weeks until she gets released from this place.
So I let her believe I’ve somehow solved the impossible equation—that I’m walking, breathing, lipstick-wearing proof that people’s shitty lives really can change overnight, like magic. I let her gush over Keely’s wardrobe suggestions, like they’re somehow new and brilliant, even though deep down, we both know that becoming popular shouldn’t be as simple as putting on a new outfit.
