#scandal (2 page)

When he looks up again it’s gone, and I’m suddenly naked, a transparent idiot full of impossible fantasies. There was never anything in his eyes, and here I am still pretending, stunt-doubling like some Goth Cinderella who can’t accept the fact that everything turns to dust at midnight.

People are looking at us now, whispering and curious as news of Ellie’s predicament makes the rounds, but it’s hardly a scandal. By Monday morning she’ll be back in Cole’s arms, the dress replaced on its hanger like the whole dark fairy tale never happened.

I take a steadying breath, a CTRL+ALT+DELETE on the pity party. Maybe it was crazy to say yes when Ellie asked, but I
did
say yes. I made a promise, and it’s Cole’s prom too—he deserves to have fun.

I won’t let either of them down.

11

“Totally sure.” With a fresh smile, I rise from the bleachers and grab Cole’s hand, shaking off my reservations. It’s just a dance. A few hours, a few pictures, then I’m back in zombie-slaying heaven. “Rent-a-Princess at your service.” As soon as Ellie’s better, I’m totally putting her in the hospital.

The gym is stacked to the rafters with the fanged, the furred, and the feyed, everyone sparkling and fabulous in a strobe-light haze but me, who decided becoming Ellie for the night was mythical enough, and Cole, who didn’t want me to feel left out.

After I snap a few decor shots for Ellie, Cole navigates us through a sea of fist-bumping vampires—
Where’s Ellie,
bro? What’s up with you and Lucy, bro? If you’re done with Ellie,
bro, can I hit it?—
and spins me onto the dance floor.

Good timing. I have a superlow bro-speak threshold.

Cole mimics my scowl, holding the pose until I laugh.

“I know you’d rather be shooting zombies,” he says, “but we’re not leaving until you have eight consecutive minutes of fun. I’m timing you.”

I poke my auburn Texas-style updo—when Mom heard I’d be promming it up tonight, her inner debutante could not be leashed—and secure a loose bobby pin. “I’m having fun.”

12

“Great,” Cole says. “Now I have to bust out my
Riverdance
moves.”

“You can’t
Riverdance
to rap mash-ups,
bro
.”

“This isn’t just any mash-up. It’s ‘Reckoner’s Encore.’” Cole’s a drummer in a band called Vanitas—my suggestion, after their inaugural gig in Cole’s garage last year—and now he mimes the beat with invisible drumsticks. “I
rock
this shit.”

“Take it away, Irish.”

“Ye of little faith!” Cole folds his arms over his chest, jumps up, kicks his heels together, and lands without falling.

“Um . . . did you really just . . . ?”

“I’m really just getting started.” His grin is wide and genuine, and when another baseline thumps through the speakers, he doesn’t miss a step.

Three, four, five songs pass, and Cole’s moves get crazier and more daring, like he has this whole reserve inside, waiting for a chance to make me laugh. He twists and bobs, sings made-up lyrics in my ear, taps beats on my hips, and for an entire hour I ignore the camera flashes around us, the endless buzz of Ellie’s texts from the phone inside my sash. Following Cole’s lead, I dance and twirl and laugh as if this feeling will last forever, as if it’s always been mine to hold.

13

Then the dance tracks fade into ballads, slow and full of longing, and I picture Ellie, curled up with a bowl of soup and her stuffed companion Hedwig, her voice a watery echo.

I want you guys to have so much fun for me. . . .

“I’ll be back.” I slip out of Cole’s embrace and weave through the battlefield, avoiding Griff and Paul’s grindfest, dodging packs of drunk vampires and duck-faced, selfie-snapping fairies until I’m out of sight.

Most horses would revolt, or at least poop on the floor, but Prince Freckles is a pacifist—probably how he got saddled with this crap gig in the first place. While the rest of the Lav-Oaks horse fleet is undoubtedly prepping for tonight’s jousting tournament, my equine-American bestie is alone in the pen, unsupervised, bearing his shame without complaint.

“Brought you a treat.” I hold out an apple pilfered from a cheesy
Twilight
display by the punch bowl. The fruit disappears in a single bite, and across his gray-speckled rump, I catch sight of Olivia Barnes.

The cute but mousy girl from my advanced art class is constantly asking about Cole and Ellie—how long they’ve been in love and is it the capital-ll kind or just lowercase?

With Ellie down for the count, the little Jezebel finds the 14

courage to ask Cole for a dance, and they’re off, swaying and bobbing like a boat in the smoke machine fog.

My stomach goes all pretzely, and I force my attention back to Prince Freckles.

We’re no longer alone.

“Lucy?” Kiara Chen saunters toward us in a silver floor-length dress, face painted with teal swirls, her glossy black hair studded with starfish. “Can you take my picture with the unicorn? Like, superfast? And then I’ll send it to my mom?” She’s way too jittery for such a beautiful mermaid, but I—equal-opportunity ally to creatures both land and sea—slip the phone from my sash and comply.

“My parents wanted pictures,” she explains when I hand her the phone. At lightning speed, she taps in a number and sends the files. “My club is strict about . . . you know. Cameras and texting and stuff.”

Her eyes are darting around like there’s a spy on her fishtail, and now I get it. Kiara is vice president of (e)VIL, this whackadoo conspiracy-theory club that wants to rid the world of technology or Facebook or something. I’m betting if her crew caught her posing for digital pics
and
sending them through cyberspace, they’d execute her. In a super old-school way, like a guillotine.

Kiara returns my phone. The instant it touches my hand, it’s buzzing, the number unfamiliar.

15

“Must be your mom.” I read the text out loud. “‘Adorbs!

Instagramming it for Nana. See you after the dance, sweetie! DVRd
DLD
for you!’”

Kiara goes the color of Bella Swan’s apple. “
DLD
? Um .

. . I mean, I’ve never seen it. Mom’s the Jayla Heart fan in our house. That’s her name, right?”

“That is, in fact, her name.” I give her a teasing smirk.

Jayla Heart, class of 2007, bounced to Hollywood right after grad, eventually scoring the lead on
Danger’s Little
Darling
and becoming the pride and joy and tabloid scandal–magnet of Lavender Oaks. “If you’re gonna cheat, there are
much
better shows.”

“I’m not—”

“Your secret’s safe with me.” I pat the horse’s rump.

“And Prince Freckles is a vault.”

She thanks me, smiling and relieved, but before we start braiding each other’s hair and making sleepover plans, Cole shows up, and Kiara disappears.

“Making new friends?” His hair flops into his eyes, doing nothing to hide his adorable grin, which is all,
If you
love me and you know it clap your hands!

“Everywhere I go.”
Clap-clap.

“Mermaids and unicorns can’t save you,” he says.

Prince Freckles and I look up simultaneously, and Cole pats his jacket pockets. “Since I’m carrying your lipstick, your 16

eyeliner, your license, and your house keys, I’m thinking you at least owe me a slow dance.”

“‘Nothing Compares 2 U?’” I fumble with the sash, smooth-ing nonexistent wrinkles. “Way to rock a breakup anthem at prom, Lav-Oaks.”

“Don’t get any ideas. You can’t break up with me until midnight. Your contract is specific.” Cole untangles my hands, and for all his earlier jokes, suddenly there isn’t a funny thing left on earth.

I rest my head on his chest. Just as my ear finds his heartbeat, his breath catches, his fingers trailing lightly down my neck.

An electric shiver races to my toes, and
wow
, mystery solved.
This
is why I sent two previous boyfriends packing after a month of lackluster make-out sessions, why every one of Griffin’s football practice oglefests and Ellie’s attempts at fixing me up with Cole’s friends are epic fails.

All along I’ve been holding out for
this
, the airy buzz spinning through my body as Cole presses closer.
Butterflies
.

No matter how fleeting, the darkest part of me knows it’s worth it. Knows I’ll hold on to this for the rest of always, and as long as the song keeps playing, I don’t have to let go. . . .

“Lucy.” Cole’s breath is hot in my ear, and I wonder if 17

he feels it too, this current between us, charged and impossible. “I think—”

“Excuse me to interrupt.” There’s a nudge at my elbow, and I turn to see Marceau, our pant-worthy foreign-exchange student. Devil horns crown his shoulder-length brown hair. “May I borrow this dance?”

Cole hesitates, fingers pressing ever so slightly into my back, but with Marceau looking on, the spell between me and Cole is already broken, and later he’ll call Ellie and murmur her name into the phone, whispering that prom was just a dance without her, that Rent-a-Princess was no substitute for the real thing.

“Sure, I’d love to dance.” The lie is thick on my tongue as I take Marceau’s hand and follow him into the crowd, far away from Cole and the dangerous things coiled inside me.

Marceau is a familiar face in the halls of Lav-Oaks, but we don’t have any classes together. I know he’s from a far-off land where they say football instead of soccer, which he plays here as goalie, and Griff mentioned last week that he recently broke up with this spazzy sophomore due to irreconcilable differences over their Facebook relationship status.

“I’m Lucy,” I say, in case he doesn’t know me with the same level of Wikipediac detail. “Last name Vacarro.”
Last name Vacarro? Apparently we’re on a cop show now.

“Tell me something, Lucy last name Vacarro.” Marceau’s 18

lips are full and soft, his voice like hot chocolate. I should probably take the devil horns as a warning, but I just smile, like,
Keep saying your words to me, beautiful boy with gourmet
accent!

“Why do they call us Swordfish?” he asks. “I have inquired. No one can say.”

“It’s our mascot,” I say. “Like the Denver Broncos?

We’re the Lavender Oaks Swordfish.”

Marceau frowns, revealing a small dimple in his chin.

“Yes, but in the mountains, where is a fish?”

“We have mermaids,” I say, remembering Kiara. “And fish sticks in the cafeteria sometimes. Does that count?”

“I do not know this fish stick. It frightens the soul.” He gives a mock shiver and spins me out, yanking me back just before I crash into Cole’s best friend, John, Vanitas’s singer and guitarist. He’s here with his on-again-off-again girlfriend, Clarice, president of Students Against Substance Abuse. She’s had it out for me ever since I discovered the gateway drug of black nail polish in seventh grade, and beneath her chunky black bangs she eyes up my boots with her typical glare.

“Diggin’ the boots, Vacarro,” John says. He’s wearing fairy wings over his tux, and a smudge of glittery guyliner stands out against his dark brown skin. Clarice has the same costume, but it looks better on him. “Hot!” 19

Clarice makes a clucking sound and yanks him into a crowd of yard gnomes. Or possibly Snow White’s dwarves.

Hard to tell with all the fog and strobe light action.

Marceau is quick and confident on his feet, but after our third turn around the gym, my boots revolt. Marceau escorts me to the refreshment table—legit
escorts
me—and kisses me goodbye on the cheek, his amber eyes sparkling.

Me to Ellie:
danced 3 songs w/ marceau. le yum. 2 late 2

join french club?

Ellie:
!! eff french. try mile high club w/ that hottie, u vixen!

rawr!

“
Someone’s
got a crush,” Cole teases. I didn’t even see him walk up.

“What?” I shove the phone behind my sash so fast I get, like, sash-burn. “I don’t have a crush. Ellie and I were just—”

“I was taking about
him
.” Cole nods across the gym toward Marceau, who’s joined up with the gnomes and a leprechaun couple in matching green tuxes. They’ve all got their phones in the air, filming the outrageousness from above. “He’s been checking you out all night. Asked me earlier if we were together.”

“What did you tell him?”

Cole’s eyebrows shoot up, and I rush to explain. “I mean, you didn’t tell him I liked him, right? Because—” 20

“
Do
you?” Cole’s eyes are fierce and fiery, the smile gone from his lips.

Is he . . . jealous?

High above, a glitter cannon explodes, and a huge canvas banner of Jayla Heart flutters beneath the basketball scoreboard, vomiting sparkles on our heads.

“I don’t,” I whisper. “Like him, I mean.” It takes a second for the world to start spinning again, and then it’s like,
Welcome back, Cole’s smile! Oh, how we’ve missed you!

“You’re off-limits, anyway.” Cole brushes glitter from my shoulder. “I told him you’re my favorite groupie.”

“You wish! Drummers don’t get groupies; singers do.

Ask John.”

“Drummers get
all
the groupies. And for your 411, I’m an excellent singer.” His green eyes lock on mine, and right as I’m about to pass out from lack of oxygen to the brain, Cole nudges my arm. “I’m ready to blow this disco inferno.

You’re crashing at the cabin tonight, right? Ellie told you about the party?”

Party?

“I’m . . . I can’t. I have to go home.” Faking it through dinner and dancing was hard enough. Besides, Ellie
didn’t
mention it. Apparently the Rent-a-Princess list of duties stops just short of “attend intimate all-nighter at my boyfriend’s secluded mountain cabin.”

21

“Your parents don’t trust me?” Cole says. “I’m totally trustworthy.” He holds up his fingers, Scout’s honor, but he knows my parents adore him—always have. When he and Ellie hooked up, Mom was all sad-faced and, “Huh. I always thought
you
two would get together, sugarplum. I didn’t even know Ellie liked him.”

“There’s an
Undead Shred
tournament,” I explain. “My crew’s counting on me. You have to stay together or you die. Or get incapped. That’s slang for incapacitated, which you get when you don’t . . . stay together.” I shut my eyes, wondering if that useless fairy godmother is around. After five seconds I’m still standing here mortified, so . . . nope.