by Isobel Irons
Because that’s not how the world works, and it’s definitely not how high school works. Sure, you might be able to fool people for a while. They might even pretend to like you, or say they misjudged you before, and that’s why they said all those horrible things. If you’re a little bit naïve, like Margot, you might even start to let yourself feel accepted, safe. You might even let your guard down, so they can break you all over again.
But that’s where we’ll always be different, I hope. My damage has taught me caution. People like Margot might make the world a more beautiful place, but it’s hard for them to survive. They need people like me to keep them from getting rolled over, to question everything and trust nothing. Otherwise, the assholes of the world, the ones who survive and deal with their issues by preying on the weaknesses of others—people like Becca Foster, Trent Gibson and Gretchen Fucking Cader—they would probably win.
“Stars on the Red Carpet is a horrible theme,” Margot nods, agreeing with my latest smoke screen. “But hey, at least Becca’s hideous pink dress will clash with the decorations. I’ll bet she hasn’t thought of that.”
I laugh, feeling proud of her for uttering Becca’s name without her usual terrified reverence. “Yeah, she’s probably too busy making big, sparkly pink posters that say ‘Vote 4 Becca, the Shimmering Glowing Star in the Cinema Firmament.’” I do that last part in my best Lena Lamont impression, but it’s not as good as Margot’s. She laughs anyway, and I add, “What do you want to bet she spells her own name wrong on at least one poster?”
“Ugh, who cares?” Margot waves a hand dismissively, and my chest swells with pride. “You’re actually going to our senior prom. With Grant Freaking Blue. What I want to know is, what are you going to wear?”
Right, of course. The dress. It wouldn’t really be a fairy tale without a dress, would it?
“I stopped at home to grab my work clothes on the way over,” I tell her. “I told my mom I was going to prom, and I actually had a date, and she went into hyper Jackie O mode. She says she’s going to ask Mrs. Jimenez to sew me a dress.”
That part admittedly sounds made up, even to me. But it isn’t. Shockingly.
Margot looks surprised, but also impressed. “Mrs. Jimenez—isn’t she the lady in 13B who runs a sweat shop out of her trailer?”
“Yep. My mom thinks she can get her to do it for cheap, but either way, she said she’d pay for it.”
I meet Margot’s ‘WTF face’ with one of my own. “I know, it’s bizarre. I think she’s finally realizing that after June, she’s probably never going to see me again.”
Margot looks sad for a moment. “About that…I don’t know what’s going to happen with UCLA. Dr. Thorn, my psychologist, said she’d write me a letter—she’s really nice like that—but I don’t…I’m not really sure how I feel about the whole acting thing, now.”
Probably because of the picture, I realize. She probably thinks she’s going to be typecast in anorexia documentaries and horror movies. I hit her on the knee, dismissing the fears she won’t say out loud.
“Screw acting, then. You can go into fashion design, like Ms. Greenwich said. You’ll be great.”
“Yeah, but my scholarship was for performance arts.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her, even though I worry about it pretty much constantly these days. “We’ll figure something out. If nothing else, you can work as a bartender at my strip club, or something.”
She smiles at that. “Or, we could do like a sister act.” Putting her fist up to her mouth like a microphone, she intones in a deep, creepy man voice, “Introducing, Skinny and the Bitch. Get those singles ready, gentlemen!”
I laugh at the mental image that invokes, disgusting as it is. I think that was kind of her intention. But it’s also kind of depressing, because I know she thinks I’m joking, but stripping is looking more and more like a serious career option, at least for me.
I don’t want to talk about that right now, though, because it’s still fairy tale time. And there’s one more thing I’ve realized I need to do, before I go. One last present to help my best friend forget she’s still living in teenage hell.
“So.” I clear my throat. “Since Mrs. Jimenez can make pretty much anything, as long as it’s dress shaped…I was wondering. Could you maybe design something for me?”
Margot’s eyes light up. Pretty in Pink has always been one of her favorite movies, and she especially loves the part where Andie defies convention by sewing her own totally kick ass prom dress. Now that I think about it, that movie is probably why Margot started taking a sewing class in the first place.
“Get me some paper,” she says, and I scramble to run to the nurse’s desk to beg for a few sheets of copy paper and one of those little, stab-proof golf pencils.
For the next half hour or so, we sit on her bed and giggle like the teenagers we actually are, while Margot makes a bunch of eighties movie references and I pretend to be annoyed by them. Like the old days, but better. Because this time, we’re actually planning for something real. Something we didn’t make up to distract ourselves from the harsh reality of being seventeen—or eighteen now, in my case—and carrying secrets that would make most forty-year-olds shudder.
In that moment, even as I realize I’ve pretty much blatantly skipped work, my mind starts spinning a new lie. This lie, though, this is one I’m creating only for myself. I start to wonder if, maybe Grant was right about me. Maybe I do deserve to be happy—or at least less afraid all the time.
Maybe I really can imagine a world where things are actually kind of…better.
###
The next few days pass in an uncharacteristically happy blur.
I’m so busy planning for prom, running across the street for dress fittings, sneaking to the hospital to visit Margot every morning and afternoon, and studying Pre-Calculus with Grant that I barely have time to sneak my fake, ‘electoral college style’ nomination forms into the ballot box in Mr. Dodge’s office, after the rest of the student body has cast their nominations. I put just enough of them in to ensure I at least make the final prom court ballot, but not so many that it will raise any red flags when Mr. Dodge counts them.
Fixing the final voting—which will take place at prom—is going to be a little more difficult, but I’m confident that sometime before next Saturday, I’ll figure out a way.
In the meantime, I’m doing my best to spend as much time with Grant as possible. Unfortunately, most of our quality time happens at the library, or in class, and since my detention is now officially over, there’s less of that time to go around. I keep hinting that we should hang out more often—or at all—outside of school, but I don’t have the balls to straight up come out and say it.
We haven’t kissed again, either. Not since I attacked him in the quad last Monday.
Grant, being subtle, keeps dropping these hints. Like ‘I like being able to take things slow with someone,’ and ‘I’m glad you know my secret. It makes things so much easier.’ But really, I don’t have the slightest fucking clue what that’s supposed to mean. All I know is, I would really like for him to kiss me again. I would gladly subject myself to an eternity of Pre-Calculus, if he would just please kiss me again.
You’re probably thinking that’s super ironic, right? After everything I’ve been through, and considering the fact that he’s the closest I’ve ever come to having anything remotely like a boyfriend… you’d think I’d be content to take things painfully, excruciatingly slowly in the physical department. But I’m not content. I’m dying of impatience, and I want more.
I never thought I’d be this hard up for a guy to look at me, let alone touch me. The other day, we had a freak cold front and my car wouldn’t start. So Grant picked me up from school and then dropped me off after studying. As I went to get out of the car, I very optimistically leaned in, and he kissed me on the forehead.
When I went inside, I had to run straight to the bathroom mirror to check my face, because I was convinced
there would be a burn mark.
That is just a random example of how hot I am for Grant Blue.
And it just keeps getting worse. The more I find out about him, the more I like him. His dad is an emergency physician, and he wants Grant to go to med school and become a surgeon. But Grant’s already been accepted to go to Stanford, and he wants to declare pre-law and focus on becoming a human rights lawyer—or maybe a legislator, he's not sure yet. He believes in helping people, just like his dad. But he says it's just as important to talk through issues as it is to cut out tumors.
Yesterday, I asked him why he doesn't want to be a therapist or something, and he shrugged and said, "Talking about problems is only the first step. I think it’s important to focus on finding solutions. Like math, but for more people-centered issues."
The more time I spend around Grant, the more I realize how directionless I am in my own life. With the exception of getting revenge on Becca Foster, of course. Which, Grant still knows nothing about. And if I play my cards right, he never will.
Lately, I've started to get pretty intimate with some strange new emotions—and the strangest and least familiar to me is hope.
Hope that maybe I can get out of this hell hole and make something of myself. Something better. Hope that maybe, by some crazy twist of fate, I really can have it all—Grant, the title of Prom Queen and the coveted Kent Foster Ford Dealership Scholarship that comes with it, even my ‘fresh start,’ trailer-park-free life with Margot in California.
Last night, in a rare moment of fancy, I even googled the distance between Stanford and Los Angeles. They really aren’t that far away from each other. Who knows what could happen over the summer between me and Grant, before he goes off to school? I sure as hell don't.
All I know is that I'm done being angry all the time, just for the sake of being angry. I figure it's time to try being happy for a while. See where that gets me.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
One week until prom….
I’ve been smiling so hard over the past week, my face hurts. Learning people’s names. Trying to be approachable and nice, like Grant. It’s easier when he’s standing next to me, holding my hand, almost like he’s surrounding me in his popular, likeable glow. It must be like a superpower he has or something, because by Friday, people were starting to say ‘Hi’ to me, even when I wasn’t standing next to him. Some even smiled and knew my name. My real name, instead of ‘Tasha’ or ‘Skangly.’
And Trent, thank God, finally seems to be keeping his distance.
It’s kind of unbelievable how quickly I’ve managed to pull this off. Now, maybe it won’t be such a shock when my name is announced on Monday, along with the other prom court nominees. Then, we’ll have a week to campaign or whatever, before Saturday. ‘P Day.’ The grand finale of my plan: Prom.
On Saturday morning, I have my final dress fitting. Mrs. Jimenez says the dress will be done by Wednesday at the latest, in case we have to fix anything. It’s red, of course. I can’t wait to show it to Margot. Then, the other day, I had this idea that I should probably show it to Ms. Greenwich, the Home Economics Hag. I’ll tell her Margot designed it, and maybe that will help her get a better grade in sewing.
Even though Margot’s psychiatrist told Nana she’s doing much better, I still worry about whether or not she’s going to be able to finish school on time. Though, now that I think about it, summer school wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Not with Grant sticking around to intern for the mayor’s office, and the recent ceasefire between me and my mom. And hey, if sticking around town for a few more months gives me and Margot the opportunity to bask in Becca’s failure and humiliation, I think we could survive that.
I’ve been bringing Margot her homework, and the other day Grant offered to tutor her in Trigonometry if she needs it. I almost kissed him right then and there, except I’ve made a promise to myself that the next time we kiss, I won’t be the one to initiate it. It’s bad enough that he has more money, a nicer car, and better grades than me. If I have to keep throwing myself at him just to get a little bit of action, people will probably start spreading rumors about me again.
Then again, if my efforts to seduce Grant Blue proved to be successful, I can’t help feeling like it might be worth it.
On Saturday afternoon, I decide to swing by his house on my way to work, just to say hi. Maybe invite him to come visit me and grab an ice cream cone. Maybe a little make-out session in the freezer. Who knows? It’s been getting warmer lately, and business has started to pick up again at the ice cream shop. It might be nice to break up the monotony of scooping and blending with a little bit of attempted seduction.
But before I can get both feet out the door, my mom yells at me from her bedroom.
“Natty!”
Ugh, there’s that name again. I roll my eyes. She’s been staying out late again, and sleeping in until early in the afternoon on weekends. If I didn’t already know about her new boyfriend, I’d probably suspect her of being a drug dealer.
“What, Mom?” I hold the screen door open with my foot, teetering on one kitten heel as I lean back inside. I’m really getting good at this whole balance thing. “I’m going to be late for work!”
“I need you to swing by and pay the electric bill! I forgot to deposit my check, so I need you to take them cash before they close. I’d do it, but I need to get some sleep before my thing tonight.”
I groan, but because I lied about being late for work, and because I know I won’t be able to take hot showers or curl my hair without electricity, I cave.
“Fine!” So much for stopping by to see Grant.
I sulk into my mom’s darkened bedroom to grab a wad of cash from on top of her dresser, then sulk my way back out through the house and get in my car.
By the time I’ve finished paying the electric bill and putting gas in my car, it really is time for me to go to work. I sigh, thinking of all the effort I put into wearing my cute shoes and doing my hair and makeup, and now Grant won’t even see it. Plus, I’m probably going to get ice cream all over my nice black skinny pants.
When I pull into the parking lot at work, though, I have an idea. I text Grant from my car, something along the lines of:
Hey, I’m working 5-9 at the Baskin Robbins on 3rd. Show this text message at the cashier for a FREE double scoop cone with an extra side of Tash.
I giggle at my rather clever boldness, and hit ‘send’ before I have a chance to talk myself out of it.
Then, chewing my lip and glancing at the clock, I have another, even bolder idea.
Or, if you don’t feel like ice cream, you can always swing by my house after work. My mom will be out until late with some guy. We could study….
I consider putting quotes around the word ‘study,’ but then I decide that’s probably overkill. Send.
It doesn’t hit me until I’m washing my hands, that I may have just made a huge mistake.
Shit, am I coming on too strong again?
I was going for casual, non-committal even, but once I’ve re-played the one-sided text conversation in my head about three-hundred times, I’m pretty sure Grant thinks I’m a desperate stalker. He’s going to politely ignore me all weekend, then at school on Monday, he’ll say something along the lines of, ‘Hey, so…about this whole prom thing? A few months ago, I asked someone else to go with me and I totally forgot about it.’ Then, I’ll freak out and punch him in the balls, and my shiny new life will officially be over.
Shit, I realize. Things are about to go all Pretty in Pink, fast. What do I do? How can I fix this? Shit!
I rack my brains, but I can’t think of anything to say that won’t make it worse.
An hour into my shift, I get a text message from Grant: I’ll try to make it.
Okay. I calm down a little bit. But then another flare-up of girl craziness hits. Make it where? Is he coming to visit me at work? Is he going to come to my house later? And if the answer to either one of those questions is yes, what time
will he be coming? I’m going to need time to primp and prepare, damn it! I’m not used to being good looking on a full-time basis.
God, having a boyfriend is a lot of work. If he’s even my boyfriend. I don’t know if you can call someone you’ve only kissed once your boyfriend.
I try to focus on being calm for the rest of the shift, on smiling, on only sneaking to the bathroom to touch up my lipstick once. …Every half hour, or so. Finally, at around 8:30 PM, the door jingles, and I hear Ramona loudly clear her throat—which is the top-secret signal we agreed upon if any high school age guys happen to walk in while I’m decorating cakes in the back.
The horde of horny little butterflies in my stomach work themselves into a frenzy as I skid toward the door that leads into the main ice cream shop, pausing at the smudged mirror above the employee sink just long enough to make sure my lipstick is okay and adjust my BR baseball cap so it’s not too low over my eyes.
But when I step out behind the counter, grinning like the lovesick idiot I am, my stomach hits the floor.
It’s not Grant standing there, smiling back at me.
It’s Trent.
He's with his dumb friend, Alan. The one from Pre-Calculus, who laughed at his joke about duct tape and lube.
“So, this is where you work,” Trent says, gesturing around to the grubby floors and empty tables. They were full of people, earlier, but we’re closing soon. I try to let that fact comfort me. “Sweet.”
Alan laughs, and Ramona just looks confused.
“Ramona,” I say, trying to communicate with my eyes how terribly disappointed I am in her ability to tell a ‘drop-dead gorgeous Captain America type’ from the skuzzy, funk-breathing dickhead that is Trent. “Could you finish decorating that Harry Potter cake for me?”
