Promiscuous (25 page)

“Where do you want me?”

“Uh...” He rips his eyes away, letting them flit around the room—settling on
anything
but me. I feel a little thrill go through me, as I realize how much trouble he could get in for flirting with me.

Well, well. Maybe there's power in embracing the dark side.

Finally, he cries uncle. “Why don't you go see if Carrie needs help with anything?”

“Sure, Mr. Dodge. Let me know if you change your mind, and you think of something I can
help
you with.” I wink at him, then I walk away slowly, making sure to put a swing in my step. He’s watching me go, I can feel it.

But I stop cold in my tracks when someone steps into my path.

Grant looks at me like he's afraid I'm going to attack him again. He looks excruciatingly good in a tux, and definitely attack-worthy, but he can keep dreaming. I cross my arms, making sure to give him a nice look at what he's missing.

I won't give him the satisfaction of thinking that he's better than me. Of knowing how close he came to breaking my heart. Not tonight.

“Aren't you supposed to be by the door,
counting
something?”

He doesn’t rise to my bait, but then again, he never did. “I asked Carrie to take over for a minute. I heard you were here. I went by your house, but no one was there.”

My ‘I don't give a fuck’ face wilts, just slightly. That was an outcome I hadn't considered, Grant actually trying to contact me again. Thank God my mom wasn't home.

Not that I really care what she thinks of me, either. Not that I ever did.

“And?”

“And,” He steps toward me, lowering his voice. “I was hoping to talk to you, before the dance. I don't know, I guess I thought you were too mad at me to show up.” He pauses, and a shadow of doubt passes through his moss-colored eyes. “Unless... Did you come with someone else?”

I make a move to flip my hair, but then I remember that it's up.

Damn it! Ugh, put your hand back down. No big deal, just keep acting like you’re over him.

“Why would I come with someone else?” I say, in my sluttiest, bitchiest tone. “This way, I can leave with whoever I want. And there are
so
many options. I've heard half the football team is going stag tonight.”

I say this to make him feel like a dick.

But instead of giving me his ‘why did you just kill my puppy’ face, he actually gets angry. Which is surprising, and a little bit hot.

“Damn it, Tash! When are you going to stop letting other people tell you who you are?”

I don't have an answer for that. So I just keep on faking. I sigh, and roll my eyes at him, like any good stuck up bitch would.

“Seriously Grant, the lectures are getting a little old.”

He looks at me with thinly-veiled disgust.
There it is. That's the response I've been waiting for.

For a second, I think he's going to turn and leave, and never look back. A part of me hopes he does.
It’ll be easier that way. No looking back for either of us
.

But at the last second, Grant stops and comes toward me again. He speaks to me softly, but his jaw is clenched so tight, I can see a muscle twitching. My eyes are glued to that spot, fascinated.

“Did it ever occur to you that I might have started falling for you, Tash?” He says, in an angry whisper. “That maybe the reason I didn't sleep with you, is because you were the kind of girl I could see myself going ‘all the way’ with? Not just physically, but everything else, too. Maybe I was scared of wanting more than you were willing to give me.”

My eyes widen, then snap to meet his. That’s when I realize, he’s dead serious. But he’s not trying to convince me of anything, because it’s too late now. He’s telling me what I missed.

I feel like someone has siphoned my fuel tank, draining me of the anger that’s kept me going for the past twenty-four hours. My lips move, but nothing comes out. I try to process what he said, and find a way to respond to it, but it's like he’s speaking a language I’ve never heard before. Or maybe it’s just that the translation process from fairy tale to real life takes too damn long.

Before I can figure out what to say, he shakes his head, turns, and leaves.

That was it, I realize.

That was my last chance to prove I could be better.

###

I stand still for a long time, just watching my would-be Prince Charming walk away from me.

Then, I watch as the room starts to fill up with couples. Chaperoning parents reliving their glory days, happy teenagers, just being teenagers.

Carrie comes back from the front and sits down at the prom court table, next to the stage. She pulls out the ballot box and sets it in front of her. It's wrapped in gold, but on the inside I know it's really just made of cardboard. Soon, it will be filled with little squares of meaningless red paper.

Suddenly feeling like I’m going to be sick, I turn and flee back into the locker room. I go into the handicapped stall—Margot's stall—and shut the door. There are some girls in there, chatting away, but they don't seem to notice me. I stare at the back of the door until their voices fade away completely.

The words that started all of this have been scrubbed clean with some kind of heavy duty cleaner, but if you squint really hard, you can still see them.

LARGE MARGE, YOU CAN HURL ALL YOU WANT, BUT YOU'LL STILL BE A HIEFER.

I stare at those angry, slanting letters for so long, they start to wiggle and change shape.

YOU CAN SCRUB AWAY AT YOURSELF ALL YOU WANT, BUT YOU'LL ALWAYS BE DIRTY.

Dirty. Nasty. Slutty.

At worst, infamous. At best, a cautionary tale. Frowned upon, and eventually dismissed.

When are you going to stop letting other people tell you who you are?

Grant’s question is a good one, but mine is better.

When will I finally be able to stop proving what I’m not, and start figuring out what I AM?

All my life, I’ve been saying ‘no’ to the wrong people, at the wrong time. All my life, I’ve been focusing on what makes me broken, thinking that’s what makes me different from everyone else. That it’s what makes it impossible for me to be happy.

But what if I was always this way? What if Gretchen Cader had nothing to do with it? What if Mom lied, and I was never a ‘delightful, well-behaved’ child? What if the parts I hate about myself, the pinup girl and the stubborn brat and the fighter who has a tendency to swear like a trucker—like my dad used to…what if those were already there? What if I had been strong enough to own who I was, and tell myself that I wasn’t just enough, but somehow…inexplicably…
better
this way?

Preferably,
before
high school.

Tears streaming down my face, I unchain the little purse from around my wrist and open it. I reach inside and pull out the thick stack of little red paper squares. They look almost identical to the real prom court ballots, or at least close enough that no one would notice until it was too late.

But there's one important difference: instead of names, every candidate has a title. Becca's is ‘Bitch.’ Mine is ‘Slut.’ Darren Hillcrest’s is ‘Jock.’ Grant's is ‘Mr. Perfect.’ The others are ‘Follower,’ ‘Nerd’ and ‘Token Asian Kid.’ Every ballot is randomly checked, so it's impossible to tell who is who. Unless you listen to the gossip, that is.

I planned on switching them out with the real ballots, right before the count. The teachers would've tried to keep it quiet, but I'd make sure to leave a few ballots accidentally lying around, so everyone would know that something was wrong. And if they still managed to come up with a winner, I was going to stand up on stage and take the microphone. Say something really insensitive and possibly racist. Maybe even accuse Principal Shoemaker of having an affair with me. Or Becca. Or Becca and I at the same time.

Anything I had to, basically, to get myself expelled. Even arrested, if I was really lucky. 

Because this morning I decided, there is absolutely no future for me here. I figured that maybe, if I burned every last bridge I could think of, maybe it would force me to leave once and for all. Regardless of my doubts. Regardless of whether or not I have what it takes to survive anywhere else.

I'd be left without a choice in the matter. Like Cinderella, I’d run. Or else turn into a pumpkin, swathed in penitentiary orange.

But now, sitting here in this stall, looking at those words...I realize that wouldn't be any better than killing myself. All this time, I've been secretly mad at Margot for being selfish enough to leave me in this hell hole alone. For being so weak, so uncreative that she couldn't help me come up with another way out.

So what if
my
suicide attempt was going to be social and academic instead of physical. I still would've only been hurting one person.
Me.

My makeup is probably ruined by now, but I don't bother to stop the tears. I'm alone in my little sanctuary, and I've finally realized what this is: Rock Bottom.

This is the part where, if I had a painting of my true self, I would stab it. Because in this moment, I truly hate myself. More than I've ever hated anything in the world, including Becca Fucking Foster. I hate this new Tash for being brave enough to kiss the most popular guy in school, but too scared to stand up to her own damn mother. To tell her that what happened was not my fault. That she should have been a better mother. That I shouldn't have had to keep so many dirty little secrets for so long that they started to make my insides feel that way, too.

And most importantly, I'm angry that it took me this long to realize that I came this far...and did all this...and I did it for
someone else
. When I should've been changing for
me
.

And actually, now that I think about it, I'm kind of pissed at Grant also. For wanting more for me than I've ever dared to want for myself.

You seem like you deserve better.

When are you going to stop letting other people tell you who you are?

At the thought of Grant’s words, I sit up a little straighter, and yank on some toilet paper to dab at my eyes.

In fact, I think I need to tell Grant how mad I am at him, right fucking now, for being the one person in my life that ever treated me like I was worthy of something better. Including myself.

I stand up and push against the door. The locker room is empty. With a deep breath for fortitude, I square my shoulders and stride purposefully toward the entrance to the gym.

But when I'm halfway across the room, the door opens.

Becca Foster is standing there, wearing a puffy pink dress. She looks surprised, even shocked to see me. But then her face morphs into a look of disdain. I finally see it for what it is, as cliché as it’s going to sound. Jealousy. Insecurity. And probably a little bit of self-hatred.

It takes one to know one, I guess.

“Wow,” she says, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Don't you look like a statutory rape waiting to happen.”

I smile, because you know, I've got to give it to her. That was actually kind of funny.

“Thanks, Becca. You look like a cupcake with a dog on top of it.”

Her face goes from distasteful to downright sour. “I saw you flirting with Mr. Dodge earlier. That's not surprising, considering how desperate you must be, after Grant dumped you at the last minute.”

My smile wilts.

Becca, in grand bitch form, doesn't miss a thing. She might be a moron, but she's an excellent bully.

“It's too bad Grant got cold feet,” she says. “Because it really was kind of the cherry on top of my whole plan. See, he was supposed to pretend like he liked you, and then we nominated you for prom court. After you lost, he was going to break up with you in front of everybody and tell them it was because you had like...a million STDs.”

Even though I’m smart enough to doubt her, the words still hurt.
A lot.

And not just because, if it weren't for Grant's angry but really sincere sounding tirade earlier, I would have believed every word of it. Unfortunately, I do believe her about the nomination. Because really, it's just so unoriginal—‘So 1990's teen movie,’ as Margot would've said.
No big deal, I cheated anyway, so I guess that makes us even.

I cross my arms. “Becca, who hurt you?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Seriously, you are such a freak. Now, could you get out of my way? Because unlike you, I'm going to be up on stage in a minute, and I need to check my makeup.”

An insult immediately falls into position on my tongue—something about Becca needing a trowel to smear on the amount of makeup it would take to make that face of hers spotlight ready—but for the first time in...well, probably ever...I decide to hold back.

Instead, I make myself smile at her.

“Good luck.”

With a quick glance in the mirror to make sure I don't have eyeliner streaming down my face, I head for the door.

As I enter the gym, I pause at the trash can, just long enough to drop off the stack of fake ballots when no one is looking.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

As I weave through the crowd, looking for Grant, I barely even notice the way people are looking at me. A lot of them are staring, but I now I seriously, genuinely don't care what they're thinking. In a month and a half, Margot and I will graduate, and move to California.

I never told Grant about our plan, because I never thought he really cared.

But what if he does? What if it changes things between us? What if? What if? What if? The world is suddenly full of exciting and terrifying new possibilities.

I'm so set on finding Grant, I don't even realize the music has stopped.

“Excuse me, can I have everyone's attention?” Carrie's voice booms through the gym, and everyone turns to look up at her.

“It's time to announce the winners of this year's prom court.”

Seriously? Was my pity party in the bathroom really that long?