Spontaneous (25 page)

W
ho was my ride? Obviously, no limo companies would agree to chauffeur us, and even though the police offered shuttles, it was hardly the arrangement anyone wanted for their prom. Luckily, when word got out, Google dispatched a fleet of those self-driving Priuses decorated with sparkly lights on the inside. It was clearly a promotional stunt to prove that these technical marvels were safe even when kids were exploding inside of them. We didn't care. All that mattered was that we could arrive in some semblance of style. Nerdy style, but style nevertheless.

Like I said, there was a lot of money to spend, but the idea was to keep things authentic and simple. There was talk of periscoping the proceedings, but the kids who did the planning decided on the opposite. If anyone so much as raised a phone, it would be confiscated. This would be an exclusive event. Seniors only. Music would be provided by Tick, Tick, Tick . . . , a band consisting entirely of members of our class. Dougie O'Shea—under the
ridiculous moniker of ShamRockz—would DJ, but only when the band was taking a break. There would be a fully stocked bar and plenty of Covington Kitchen–cooked appetizers to go along with a mountain of Oinkers. No chaperones. No rules other than “have a kick-ass time
.
” It was basically the prom all high school students wish they could have. Except, well, for the strong possibility of blood, blood, and more blood.

When I arrived, my classmates were already hopping, spinning, and acting like fabulous fools under paper streamers and stars made from aluminum foil. Tick, Tick, Tick . . . was not a particularly good band, but they were enthusiastic, and that counts for a lot. The drummer, Rosie Drew, was kicking the shit out of the bass drum, which was shaking the hell out of the place.

I walked across the quaking dance floor and over to the bar, where I poured soda into a champagne flute. Skye was standing there and she clinked my glass with hers, which was full of the real stuff.

“That outfit,” I said. “Damn. Supercute.”

She was wearing patent leather heels and a silver-sequined mini, which was a bit short for my taste, but what the hell, right? It seemed like the sort of thing you could easily wipe blood from, and Skye was so pretty that most people would ignore the obvious Christmasiness of it.

“Thanks,” Skye told me. “You're wearing the hell out of that dress too.”

Truth is, she'd hardly given me a glance; her eyes were locked on some sweaty dude on the dance floor—Jackson, Jayson, something like that. Still, I said, “Very nice of you to notice.”

She sipped her drink and replied, “I wish Katelyn had lived to see this. She loved it when everyone got together.”

“No doubt,” I said. “Thanks for setting it all up. This is really nice. The perfect way for things to come to a close.”

“Fully catered rites of passage. It's what we Sanchezes do best.”

I nodded, motioned to our dancing classmates, and asked, “So, what do you think they'll do?”

“Get drunk, dance, hook up. Standard stuff.”

“No. I mean, after graduation.”

Skye sipped her drink and said, “College, I hope. Did you hear? I got a scholarship to Smith.”

“Really? Hell yeah for you. How'd you manage that?”

“ACLU is putting the pressure on. Deadlines are being extended. Exceptions are being made. Maybe the world is coming around to us freaks.”

“And maybe the powers-that-be will finally let us freaks run free?” I asked with my eyebrows at full mast.

Skye clinked my flute again and gulped down the rest of her champagne. “Supreme Court will never let this situation stand. Might as well get on with things. Like you so elegantly once said, ‘Let's fucking live again,' right? You should apply to Harvard, you know? You're smart. Creative. Harvard could use a badass feminist like you.”

“I don't know. After tonight, I doubt I'll be considered Harvard material.”

“Plan on making a scene, are you?” Skye said with a wink.

“Something like that.”

“Have fun with it. All my parents ask is that you keep any
monkey business out of the lobby,” she said, then tossed her flute over her shoulder.

I flinched, but the flute didn't break when it hit the floor.

“Plastic,” she told me with a wink. “Nice plastic, but still plastic. Come on. This isn't our first rodeo.” Then she sauntered onto the dance floor, waving her arms above her head as she went.

Tick, Tick, Tick . . . was still giving it their best even though their best was a bit off-tempo and off-key. The room was full, the crowd alert. Now was the moment. Now was my chance. I needed to act while I still had the courage and conviction. The booze was curling a finger at me, promising even more courage, but I knew if I started to sip, I'd eventually gulp and I'd lose that essential conviction and join the dancing throng.

So I stepped away from the bar and climbed onstage. The singer, Benji Goldsmith, thought I was looking to duet, so he was happy to slide over and make room at the microphone. But rather than belt out the chorus to “Firework” I hollered, “Cut the music!”

They may not have been talented, but they were obedient. The musicians hit it and quit it. Except, that is, for Rosie, who, head down, kept assaulting the drums. It was like gunfire and it drew every eye to the stage. When she finally looked up, she realized that now was not the time for a bitchin' solo and she set her sticks in her lap.

“Thank you,” I told her with a little bow, and then I turned to the crowd. “Apologies for the interruption.”

My classmates seemed peeved, but not particularly hostile. Some asshat did shout, “Show us your tits!” but I couldn't waste any anger (or nipples) on him. Because I could see myself getting
worked into a frenzy and wishing people dead and pushing bodies to their breaking points, then—
splat, splat, splat
—the dance floor might end up like act 5 of
Hamlet
. When, really, the only person who deserved my anger was myself.

“I have something to say, something to confess,” I announced. “Then I'll be out of your hair. Or in your hair, possibly.”

Puzzled looks confronted me. There was no patience for cryptic shit.

My voice slipped into a whisper. “
What I'm trying to tell you is . . .”

Then I froze, because goddamnit if Tess wasn't at the entrance of the ballroom. Now I'm not exaggerating when I tell you she was stinkin' gorgeous standing there in a red satin mermaid dress. Not that she usually dressed like a bag lady, but this was by far the most elegant I'd ever seen her. She was downright sexy, far hotter than Skye. She pushed back her bangs and smiled at me.

“I . . . I . . . I . . .”

Up until that moment, my intention was to lay it out there, to prove to my classmates that I was the cause of all this horror, and then await sentencing. Maybe they'd descend upon me like jackals and tear me apart. Maybe they'd grab my hair and plunge my head in the punch bowl and make me literally drown in booze. Or maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't have to do anything at all. Maybe my confession would be the final straw, the last bit of self-hate that would turn my own powers against me. Maybe I'd blow up right then and there and provide a warm and splashy end to the shitshow.

Spoiler alert: None of those things happened.

The sight of Tess in the ballroom delivered an existential jolt to my body. I hadn't spoken to her since that afternoon in the sand. I was fortunate enough to have a moment with my parents before I left for prom, to tell them I loved them and assure them they were innocent. But what was the last thing I'd said to Tess? Basically, “Screw you for believing in me.”

The shock of seeing her now—she wasn't supposed to be here!—combined with what I was about to do was so overwhelming that I didn't realize it when someone wrenched the microphone from my hand.

“Worst. Confession. Ever!” boomed from the amplifiers.

W
hat the, what the . . . ?
” I whispered to myself as I turned to find a wobbly Claire Hanlon standing next to me, all but gnawing the microphone like a turkey drumstick.

“I'm sorry, Mara,” she slurred as she rubbed the felt against her cheek. “Confessions gotta have some oomph to 'em.”

Oh, Claire. The debauchery had taken an especially firm grip on that girl. Like me, she had spent the last month or so in a drunken stupor. Only this way of life was new to her and she hadn't quite gotten the hang of controlling her impulses.

“
I wasn't finished
,” I whispered to her.

“Oh, you're finished all right,” she bellowed, and then she turned to everyone. “All of you are
soooo
finished. Just think of standing in my way and you're done. Capital D-O-N-E done. Know why? Because I say so!”

There was silence, for probably only a second or two, but enough to send the appropriate chill through the room.

“That's right,” Claire went on, pointing a thumb at her own chest, “
I
am the Covington Curse. Everyone who died, died because of me. Me! Because I deserve to be valedictorian. And these losers and their bloated GPAs stood in my way. I've got a spreadsheet, ya know? Paid that Pressman kid to hack the system and get all your grades.”

“
Seriously
,” I whispered.

Claire turned, threw me some major shade, and said, “You should shut your mouth, Mara. Main reason you're still standin' is 'cause you tanked chem sophomore year. But don't you dare test me, girl. I've taken down others for less and might still need to take down one or two more of you losers. Doesn't matter what your grades are. If you challenge me, you won't survive. So there you have it. That's a confession for ya!”

Then . . .
Pow!

It was the amplifiers again. Claire had literally dropped the mike, a punch to all of our guts. No one had been expecting this, least of all me. Claire thinks she's the curse? Getting a B in chem is considered tanking? Do people who drop microphones know how expensive those things are? I bent over to pick it up, but Clint Jessup, who was standing at the edge of the stage, beat me to the punch.

He pulled the microphone into his grasp and announced, “Actually, I'm the Curse.”

Another bout of silence and then a squeaky voice called out, “No, Clint, no!”

“It's true,” he said, gazing sympathetically across the crowd to the source of the voice, devoted football-team stat-keeper Marcy
Hand. “I've been so keyed up, so itching to get laid all the time that I think it's, like, my sexual energy. It's too much for people's bodies to handle.”

All right . . . interesting.

And there was more. Laura Riggs sidled in and snagged the microphone next.

“Sorry, Clint, you're hot, but not that hot,” she said. “It's me, actually. I'm the Curse. I've been fucking around with witchcraft for a while now. Ancient chants and things like that. I've got this class picture from eighth grade and one day I pricked my finger and dripped blood on the faces of people I don't like. That includes everyone who died. Plenty of others too. So, yeah, there's a whole lot more to look forward to. I'd like to say I'm sorry, but . . . sorry, not sorry.”

There were whispers in the crowd.

“
I thought it was me.
”

“
I was sure it was me.
”

“
I'm the Curse. I've always been the Curse. Haven't I?”

Thank you, Mr. Spiros, for the crash course in the classics, because suddenly it felt like I was being mocked by a Greek chorus. It was like I was the subject of some ancient fucking tragedy, the fool who was only now discovering how foolish I truly was, something the audience had known since the curtain had opened. I stepped offstage and put my hands over my ears.

No amount of muffling, however, could block out the sounds of Tick, Tick, Tick . . . Either in an attempt to distract us from the confessions, or in a bid to celebrate them, the band burst into another tune and Benji recaptured the microphone. It was a song
everyone in the room knew by heart, that everyone in New Jersey knows by heart. It was the song Tess and I used to sing when we rode our bikes down the shore. It was the song Dylan played in the silo on a day that felt so long ago, but wasn't even nine months ago.

Tommy used to work on the docks,

Union's been on strike, he's down on his luck . . .

It's tough, so tough

Fists began pumping and everyone was suddenly singing along and there was relief on so many faces and weight off so many shoulders, but not mine. Definitely not mine. Even in the moments following Dylan's death, I had not felt this aimless. It wasn't like I'd been waking up every morning with a plan, but I usually had a vague idea of how I would approach the day. Booze, school, booze, sleep, booze, sleep, put on a dress, and go martyr myself at prom.

Now? Well, I hardly knew how to breathe.

And I didn't breathe, at least not for a few moments. Feet stomped and the dance floor shook. Catharsis was in full effect as the singing got louder.

She says we've got to hold on to what we've got

It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not

We've got each other and that's a lot . . . for love

We'll give it a shot.

Someone placed a hand on my shoulder, to pull me into the current of the sing-along. It rebooted my lungs and I brushed off the
hand without checking to see whose hand it was. My eyes locked on the bar, I fought through the crowd, and grabbed the first bottle in reach. Vermouth. Swigging from it, I slipped out the emergency exit in the back.

T
he sun was down and it was raining. A cold rain, but one that washed the shock from my body as I trudged up a grassy hill. When I reached the top, I sat down. The hotel and its Prius-stuffed parking lot was now below me. Beyond the hotel was the Patchcong River Gorge, cloaked in a veil of drizzle. I kicked off my shoes and they shot down the hill like it was a log flume.

I sat there drinking and feeling sorry for myself. Then I sat there drinking and feeling angry at myself. Then I sat there drinking and feeling nothing, watching the rain like every pitiful person who ever thought that rain can stand in for emotions when, really, it's only weather. Stupid fucking weather.

Still, something good came out of that weather. Tess. She emerged from the downpour like a dream within a dream—an implausibility buried in implausibility. Her makeup was streaked across her temples and her dress was bunched at the back, creating a small crimson train that followed her as she marched up the hill.

“I always know where to find you,” she said when she sat down.

Cross-legged, I wedged the bottle in my lap, put my chin in my hands, and replied, “You weren't supposed to be here.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“You certainly did that,” I said, and I downed another mouthful. “Please tell me you're also here because you have it figured out.”

“I wish I could. The tracking device? Handled. I think. To deal with the rest I need to get out of this place.”

“You know I thought I had it figured out. I thought I had it all wrapped up.”

“So did everyone else, apparently,” Tess said with an empathetic sigh. “I guess it's natural to look inward.”

“Where else are we supposed to look?”

Tess didn't answer the question, but where she looked was at me. “I've been thinking about what you said. About our friendship and how it doesn't make sense.”

“I say a lot of shit,” I replied, and I took another slug from the bottle. “It doesn't make a bit of difference, obviously.”

“No, it does,” she said as she pushed her wet bangs out of her face. “It's something we have to consider.”

“What's that mean?”

“Let's say someone figures this out? Let's say we both survive this and live to be old ladies.”

“Then we get a house down the shore together and wear kimonos and smoke hookahs and do old lady shit like we've always said we would.”

She embraced herself and shook her head. Her makeup had washed off entirely and now she was this soaked and shivering girl. Scratch that. She was this soaked and shivering and gorgeous
woman
in this stunning red dress. Who was telling me to stop being naive.

“Let's enjoy what we have, while we have it,” she said.

“That's what you're supposed to say. But that's not what I want.”

“You want senior year to do over again?”

“I don't know. You wrote
We made it
in my yearbook.”

“Yeah, so? We did make it.”

“That's not what it's been about for me.”

Tess put a hand on my knee. “I realize that, but I'm so proud of you, Mara. For being who you are.”

“What if I killed him?” I asked her softly. “What if I killed them all? By being who I am.”

Tess didn't laugh or call me silly or selfish. She simply smiled and said, “You're a force of nature, Ms. Carlyle. That's the one thing I know for sure and the one thing I'd never change about you.”

I took one more gulp of vermouth, tossed the bottle to the side, and I leaned into her. I let my body slide down her body until my head was in her lap, like I'd done so many times in the past.

“I love you,” I said. “Bunches and bunches and bunches.”

“We're the same,” Tess told me.

I closed my eyes and replied, “You know that's not true. I'm a fuckup and you're . . . well, Tess. Which is the opposite.”

“That's not what I mean. I'm talking about this whole crazy situation. It hasn't changed us at all, has it?”

I battled to keep my eyelids open as I whispered, “
That's good, right? Tess and Mara. BFFFs. Best fucking friends forever.
”

“Yeah,” Tess said with another empathetic sigh. “But
things
are
changing. Even if all the terrible stuff hadn't happened, things were always going to change. There was no stopping that.”

The thumping bass drum coming from the hotel sent vibrations up the hill that made the raindrops on the grass shimmy. Inside, the party raged on, and if anyone was spontaneously combusting out on the dance floor, then no one was bothered enough by it to storm the exits. The doors remained closed, the parking lot sedate.

Even if I had a response—which in this very rare moment, I did not—I still couldn't fight off the grip of the drunk. Tess's face went blurry, so I closed my eyes to refocus. They stayed closed, and the rain, as cold as it was, worked like a lullaby. Pittering, pattering, coaxing my exhausted body to sleep.