Promiscuous (11 page)

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 up 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.

But they don’t.

In fact, I feel like I have more energy to do more things, for some reason. It’s very weird. Unnatural, even. Especially when you consider the fact that I used to go to bed at like midnight and wake up at the last possible second, after hitting the ‘snooze’ button at least three times. And even then, my ass would always feel like it was dragging by 5:00 PM.

Lately, I’ve been doing this thing where I go to bed at ten-ish and wake up at like 7:00 AM for no good reason, and then I just lie there daydreaming for a few minutes before hopping in the shower. Yesterday, I caught myself singing while shampooing. Probably would’ve scared the shit out of my mom if she’d been home to hear it, if she hadn’t been shacked up overnight at her new boyfriend’s house.

Against all odds, Margot seems to be thriving, too. She’s even started putting on a little weight, and her legs don’t remind me of flamingo legs quite as much. As we drive to school, she catches me up on her sewing class, and how Ms. Greenwich keeps complimenting her on her style and sewing skills, begging her to consider fashion school—or, at least a double-major in fashion design and acting at UCLA.

I tell her she should do it, smiling my encouragement even as I feel my stomach pinch with guilt over missing out on so many important moments of my best friend’s senior year. Then again, I remind myself, we’ll have all kinds of shared experiences after we move to LA. Fuck high school—college is where the real magic happens, or so I’ve read.

When we get to aerobics, I try not to act surprised when Margot plunks her stuff down next to mine on the bench in the main locker room, and starts changing right there. It’s the third time she’s done that in the last week, and I’m feeling super proud of her. Of course, she still does it Houdini-style, pulling on one baggy shirt over the other, and then pulling the one underneath out through a neck or arm hole—Ta-dah!  So there’s never much skin—or in her case, skin and bones—showing.

The downside of this method is that it takes fucking
forever
.

So today, while standing guard at the end of the row of lockers and waiting for Margot to finish, I find myself accidentally eavesdropping on someone else’s conversation.

“Do you know what color dress you’re going to wear yet?” a semi-familiar voice asks.

“No, I have to wait for Becca to decide.” That voice is definitely Brittany Rice, Becca Foster’s best friend. “We all really liked this frilly one from a bridal store online, and it comes in like, six different colors. So we’re all going to pick a different color and match. I really hope Becca doesn’t choose pink, though. Because my mom got me the cutest little crown with these pink rhinestones in it. And a matching garter and flask.”

“Cute!”

Wow, a flask
. I lean back against the lockers, shaking my head. If I brought something like that to prom, they’d be all over me. But when it’s Becca and her friends, it’s apparently adorable.

“By the way,” Brittany continues, “did you hear about Becca’s dad?”

“No, what?”

“He told Becca yesterday that his dealership is going to sponsor prom court this year.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that whoever wins Prom King and Queen will get a scholarship of like, two-thousand dollars or something.”

“Wow, two grand?”

“I know, right?” Brittany drops her voice even lower. “She told me the only reason he’s doing it is because it’s tax deductible. And he’s so sure that Becca’s going to win, he’ll just be giving half the money to her, anyway.”

“But what if Becca doesn’t win?”

Brittany laughs, but it sounds strained. “Don’t let her hear you say that. Not that I wouldn’t love to have two grand to spend on new clothes for college. Or drinks.”

On the other side of the locker room, a door slams. Brittany and whoever she was talking to fall immediately silent. I can hear the sound of footsteps approaching, and I glance behind me to see if Margot is finished changing yet. She’s still tying her shoes, so I stay where I am—creating a human force field between her and Becca.

“Hey Becca,” the first girl says, and I sneak a glance around the corner. Oh, right, it’s that redhead girl. Stacey…something. Or Sarah. The turnover rate in Becca’s bitch brigade is so high, it’s hard to keep track. And judging from the look of annoyance Becca is giving her, What’s Her Face doesn’t have long before she’s cut from the roster.

“We were just talking about prom dresses,” the redhead says, in a voice that’s so high-pitched and fake, it’s obvious she’s guilty of something. “So, what color dress are you going to wear?”

“Pink.”

I stifle a laugh as I imagine Brittany trying not to let Becca see how crushed she is. Looks like her mom is going to have to return that flask. What a shame.

“Okay, I’m ready!” Margot bounces up behind me with a happy trill in her voice. I turn toward her, just as Becca looks up to see me standing behind the lockers a few feet away. Her eyes narrow, and she looks me up and down. I cross my arms, daring her to say something.

But instead of taking a shot at me, Becca’s eyes flit to Margot—as usual, seeking out the weakest target, because she’s too much of a goddamn coward to take on someone who’s every bit as strong as she is, at least in an emotional sense.

“Hey Marge,” Becca says, pointing back the way she came. “I just came out of the bathroom, and that last stall is free if you want to use it.”

Without breaking eye contact with Margot, she doubles over and pretends like she’s barfing—with retching sounds and everything.

A familiar burn starts in my gut, and I take a step toward her. There’s nothing I would like more in the world than to smash her face into a locker, over and over, until she learns some damn human compassion. But then Margot is behind me, tugging on my shirt.

“Come on Tash,” she says, and her voice sounds stronger than usual. “She’s not worth it, let’s go.”

Wow
. I look back to see my friend standing tall, her chin set. Either Margot is getting to be a seriously amazing actress, or somehow she’s found a way to muscle through her submissive tendencies when it comes to dealing with high school villains. Good for Margot. And bad news for Becca. Looks like she’s going to have to find someone else to torture now. Unfortunately, I’m not naïve enough to believe such a small victory will make her give up her sadistic ways altogether.

After we leave the locker room, Ms. Tailor divides us up into teams and we play volleyball. Becca ends up on the other side of the gym, where she can’t bother us. Nevertheless, I find myself looking over at her whenever it’s not my turn to serve.

It makes me sick to my stomach. I just keep asking myself, what did Becca Foster ever do to deserve being popular? Since the third grade, all she ever does is talk shit and make people feel bad. She's not pretty. She's not nice. People just follow her around, for some unfathomable reason. I'd be willing to bet she doesn't even know what the word unfathomable means. Because she's certifiably stupid, on top of being mean. With all that ugly piled on top of ugly, it’s amazing to me that karma hasn’t knocked her down a peg or two by now.

When the bell rings, I follow Margot back into the locker room to change. But I keep catching snippets of conversation from Becca and her friends, talking about prom, giggling about which of the popular group of guys is going to ask them.