Awkwardly Ever After (24 page)

So instead I wrote,
I CAN'T WAIT TO SEE YOU AT PROM
! and hoped that the exclamation point would sell the enthusiasm that I hadn't been able to muster. But that would change. As soon as I put on my suit, I would definitely get into the spirit of things.

Of course,
I would.

Except it didn't happen.

Not even when I received a series of frantic texts from Mackenzie, although I grinned as the tone of the messages swiftly changed from pleading to threatening.

It felt good to be needed. Too bad I instantly regretted agreeing to give my help when Mackenzie flung open her door, took one look at me, and said, “Oh, thank God,” before she dragged me inside. I tried to stall in the hallway.

“Um . . . what's going on here?”

“See for yourself.” Mackenzie grimaced. “And then please work your magic and make it stop.”

She didn't release her grip on my suit jacket until I had passed the threshold to her bedroom.

It looked like her closet had exploded. There were dresses and skirts dangling off nearly every surface, and in the midst of the wreckage sat Isobel Peters, looking completely unruffled in a pair of dingy Converse sneakers. The only other person in the room who looked equally calm was Dylan, and I suspected that was because he cared even less about prom than I did.

“I'm not going to let you do this, Izzie,” Melanie said, as she rifled through another one of Mackenzie's drawers. “You are
not
wearing sneakers and jeans to prom.”

“Corey said I should do it.”

Melanie shot me a withering glare. “Well, that shows what he knows!”

“Hey,” I said defensively. “Let's keep me out of this, okay?”

Dylan mouthed,
“Welcome to hell,”
at me, but the cat that ate the canary smile on his face betrayed that he was loving every second of this. It wasn't exactly hard to pinpoint that the source of his amusement was the same freshman girl who looked ready to bite my head off.

“You are going to have a great time, Izzie,” Melanie said fiercely. “You are going to have the best prom ever documented in the
history
of proms!”

I glanced over at Mackenzie. “You're the history geek. Is there a written account of every prom stored somewhere? This is the first I've heard of it.”

Mackenzie grinned. “Oh yeah, the History of Prom goes
waaay
back. Legend has it that the best one occurred in 1968 in No Name, Colorado.”

“You're both hilarious.” Melanie kept rifling through the few items still hanging in Mackenzie's closet. “We have less than an hour before Logan and Spencer show up. So, will you
please
help me help her?”

“I'm fine going like this, Mel. I promise.”

Melanie crossed her arms. “I do
not
want you feeling out of place while you watch from the sidelines.”

Isobel laughed. “Um . . . Mel? Story of my life.”

“You deserve the very best of everything.” The ferocity in Melanie's voice made it clear she had no intention of backing down. It might have taken her months to work up the courage to date Dylan, but her aggressive side had no trouble taking center stage around Isobel.

“Right now, I want to enjoy the very best in comfortable footwear,” Isobel said dryly. “Why don't you help Mackenzie instead? Or maybe Corey needs . . . something?”

Melanie snorted. “Corey looks like he jumped off the pages of
GQ
in that suit.”

Which was the whole reason I had bought it in the first place. Tim had invited me to a red carpet event in L.A., so I had gone out and made sure the suit fit me
perfectly
. I wasn't going to give anyone an excuse to toss me onto a Worst Dressed list. Not that it had mattered. There had been some kind of scheduling conflict or something—I hadn't listened too closely after Tim said, ‘I'm so sorry, Corey. There's no way I can make it . . .' ”

“And Mackenzie will get a double take from Logan in that blue dress,” Melanie continued. “So you can't distract me with them, Izzie!”

Isobel sighed. “I'll make you a deal, Mel. If at any point I find myself wishing I had taken your advice, you can pick my outfit next year. I'll even let you take me dress shopping.”

“Deal!” Mackenzie grabbed a handful of blouses off the floor and shoved them in Melanie's arms. “Agree to her terms, Melanie.”

“Fine, Izzie. But that
includes
footwear!”

“No heels higher than two inches.”

Melanie blew out an exasperated huff but nodded in agreement.

“Good,” Mackenzie said with heartfelt relief. “Maybe while we're gone you could”—she gestured at her room—“make it look less like my room was tossed in a drug bust?”

There was no response from Melanie, probably because she'd been distracted the second Dylan moved to the closet and snagged a handful of hangers.

“Melanie?”

“Uh-huh . . .” she mumbled. “Drug bust. Sure. No problem.”

Mackenzie grinned, probably fighting the urge to pull her little brother and his girlfriend into a big group hug. So I distracted her by checking my phone.

“The guys should be here soon, right?”

Isobel nodded. “Spencer talked Logan into ditching the limo idea. I guess he wanted more freedom in case the two of us, uh, decide to leave early.” She blushed slightly. “He said they'd be here around seven. Although he also mentioned something about going out for dinner, so I'm not sure when we'll actually get to the dance. What about you?” She twisted toward the door with a sudden jolt of excitement. “Wait. Is Timothy Goff going to meet you
here?
”

“No, he couldn't get out of a meeting. So . . . I'll just see him there!” I tried to keep my voice upbeat, but I knew I wasn't fooling Mackenzie. I wasn't fooling myself either.

There had been a small part of me that had hoped we could walk into the dance together. That we'd be able to enter the rented-out ballroom space like every other high school couple.

But once again, I'd been sidelined.

And now I didn't even have the consolation prize of a limo ride with my friends.

The doorbell rang, so I pasted on a big smile and went to open the door.

Then I stepped aside so I could watch the reactions of the guys at the door to two of the smartest, nicest . . . geekiest girls I'd ever met.

L
ogan looked like he'd been Tasered.

He was momentarily slack-jawed as he stared at Mackenzie, who for once didn't trip over her own feet. “You look . . . um . . .”

Mackenzie grinned up at him cheekily and then adjusted the bodice of the dress, which really didn't need any straightening. “That good, huh?”

Logan pulled her up against him. “Definitely.”

Whatever Mackenzie was going to say was cut off as Isobel emerged from the bedroom and locked eyes on Spencer. After the whole va-va-voom moment Mackenzie had had with Logan, I wasn't sure what to expect. For half a second I was worried Spencer would ruin the whole night by saying something like, “Um . . . I can wait for you to change,” but then I realized his smile hadn't wavered an inch.

“Hey, Belle.”

“Hey, hotshot. Nice corsage.”

Spencer glanced down at his wrist as if he had completely forgotten the flowers. “Well, since you did the inviting, I thought it was only fair that I get to keep the flowers.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Isobel took hold of his hand and began tugging him toward the exit. “Well, it's been fun, everyone, but I think Spencer owes me a slice of pizza.”

“Extra anchovies, if anyone is interested.” Spencer dodged a playful mock punch. “No takers? Excellent. See you later.”

Pausing only for a brief wave good-bye, Isobel and Spencer raced toward his car and the last I heard was her chortling, “I beat you! I won fair and square, hotshot!” before they climbed inside and drove away.

“I guess the sneakers were a good call, then.” Melanie shook her head as if that would help her process what she had just witnessed. “Looks like you were right, Corey.”

“That shouldn't come as a surprise,” I said haughtily, knowing that it would get a laugh out of Mackenzie.

“And on that note . . . we're off too.”

“Hold up, Mackenzie.” Dylan pulled out a camera. “Mom's working a late shift tonight, so she made me promise. Get into formation.”

“Why don't we leave the photography to Scott? I'm sure he'll be taking photos at prom. . . .”

“Not good enough. Say cheese, Mackenzie.”

She managed a pretty frozen-looking smile, but that changed when Logan gripped her waist and dipped her into a dramatic kiss.

Dylan snapped a few photos before he started to get uncomfortable. “Could you hold off on making out with my sister? Please. This is . . . just . . . no.”

Logan straightened, but still kept Mackenzie pressed flush against him. Dylan might have had a problem with it, but Mackenzie certainly didn't. She was absolutely glowing, and it had nothing to do with her outfit.

“Okay, so
now
we're leaving,” Logan said smoothly as he held open the door for Mackenzie. I wasn't sure if she was weak-kneed from that kiss or if the heels just brought out her clumsy side, but she took one step and nearly fell on her face.

“See you at the dance, Corey,” she managed to say as if she had planned to trip all along.

And then it was just me—standing in the hallway of Mackenzie's house—playing the role of third wheel for a couple who definitely wanted me gone.

“Good seeing you, Corey.” Dylan clapped me on the back as he escorted me to the porch. “Have a great night.”

Melanie's eyes were lit with excitement and I couldn't hide a smile of my own. “You too.”

Dylan shut the door in my face, but I could still hear Melanie protest, “
Dylan!
You can't just throw him—”

The sudden silence left no question in my mind that they wouldn't be discussing me for the rest of the night. They were so freaking cute together that I smiled as I climbed into my car, although the grin faded as I drove aimlessly around Forest Grove. The dance wouldn't begin for another hour, but I couldn't bring myself to go out to eat. I didn't want to sit alone in my well-tailored suit and pretend that I enjoyed the isolation.

Table for one, please. Oh yes, I do have a date. He just can't be seen in public with me at the event.

So I killed some time winding around the residential areas and glancing in the rearview mirror to check that I didn't have anyone tailing the car. I assumed the press was too busy following Tim to spare much attention for me, but I had been wrong on that count before. Which was why I drove into Portland and passed the Leftbank Annex without even trying to find a parking space. Sure enough, there was a crowd of paparazzi staking out the entrance and they didn't appear to be enjoying their conversation with the bouncer on duty. Or maybe it was Darryl, it was kind of hard for me to tell for sure.

One thing was clear, I'd be safe once I got inside—or at least as safe as I could be in a place where jerks like Alex Thompson planned on making an appearance. So I drove into the attached parking lot and braced myself for the inevitable.

“Over here, Corey!”

“Are you meeting Timothy Goff?”

“What designer are you wearing, Corey?”

I ducked my head and tried to push past them, but it was a whole lot harder to maneuver than it looks in magazines. Never again would I mock the whole
maybe if I put my hand in front of my face you'll just go away
approach. Because I was seconds away from barreling straight ahead, and damn the consequences.

The security guard was swearing a blue streak, the paparazzi were muscling their way toward me, and just when I began to seriously consider making a hasty retreat—texting Tim to say,
Hey, I think this is one high school ritual I'd rather sit out. Have fun for me!
—I saw a flash of sparkly hot pink and a hand reached out of nowhere, grabbed onto my suit, and yanked me forward.

I blinked, desperately trying to adjust to the dim lighting despite the Technicolor circles that danced before me from the camera flashes.

It was Sam.

She was wearing an enormous poofy ballgown that stopped abruptly around her calf, highlighting a seriously kickass pair of combat boots and a sash with lettering I couldn't quite read. Sam's eyelids were coated with so much glittering gold eye shadow that for a second I wasn't entirely sure if my eyes were still playing tricks on me or if her lips were really stained a dark vermillion hue.

Nobody else at Smith High School could ever have pulled off that look.

“CHARGE!”
Sam hollered, probably fulfilling a lifelong dream of hers in the process as the two of us forced our way to the door. The bouncer opened the doors and practically shoved us inside.

Not that I could blame him. There was no way he was being paid enough to make up for the inconvenience of keeping a horde of paparazzi at bay. And to the best of my knowledge, the screaming ReadySet fans had yet to make an appearance. They were hard to ignore, screeching at decibels that made everyone within a fifty-foot radius—dogs included—want to turn tail and run.

My knees locked up of their own accord about five feet from the door and I leaned against the wall while I tried to reclaim my sense of equilibrium. The dancing spots were still messing up my vision, and as they cleared I realized that my entrance hadn't gone unobserved.

All the upperclassman at Smith High School were staring at me in disbelief.

Yeah, when I pictured making a splash at my first prom, it was never as the kid who couldn't stop shaking, sweating, or gasping for air after a ten-minute altercation with some celebrity gossip hunters.

Although having Sam standing right next to me definitely helped. Half of the people who snickered as they glanced at me shut the hell up when they looked at her.

I made a quick mental note never to underestimate the power of combat boots.

“Thanks, Sam. I really appreciate your—” I interrupted myself when I caught a good look at her sash. “Does that say
Condom Queen
?”

“ ‘Condom Fairy Godmother' wouldn't fit,” Sam told me by way of explanation. When she didn't see even the smallest spark of understanding in my eyes, she pulled out a wand and waved it at me. “Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo! Safe, consensual sex for you!”

She opened the clasp on a rather large handbag and flourished a long string of condoms. With one easy motion, she ripped two of them off and tucked them into my suit pocket.

“You're welcome.”

“Um . . . are you for real with this?”

“As real as an unplanned pregnancy.” Sam's face twisted. “Okay, so that's not something you need to worry about. But that doesn't mean there aren't STDs and—”

“Oh, will you look at that.” I took a hurried step back and glanced around at the students milling around. “People. Other people who are not discussing this. I think I should go say hello to them.”

“Real as . . . oh, hello, Principal Taylor. Good to see you. I assume you didn't storm over here just to admire my sash.”

Had it been anyone else, I would've doubled back to provide some moral support. But there was no doubt in my mind that Principal Taylor would be the one walking away with a killer headache.

“Your sash violates the school dress code, Samantha.”

“Interesting. You know who else is in violation? Ashley McGrady and Steffani Larson. They are
definitely
showing more cleavage than the school dress code allows. So I will stand here and wait while you discuss it with them.”

Shaking my head with a mixture of disbelief and pure admiration, I moved past the photobooth and the ridiculously long line of eager-looking couples and headed straight for my boyfriend. I couldn't see him, but I knew exactly where he was standing.

Tim was never all that difficult to locate; I simply had to look for the biggest, loudest . . . shrillest group of girls in the room.

“Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!”

“I love you, Tim!”

“I listened to your song, “To Get Her/Together” about a
thousand
times when I was breaking up with my boyfriend. I don't know how I would have gotten through it without you.”

“Can you sign my back?”

I pushed my way through the flock of his female admirers until there was nothing between us. Well, nothing except the full attention of a room full of high school students and faculty members . . . not to mention the fact that we were one Instagram photo away from the eyes of the nation.

“Hey, handsome.” Tim's eyes gleamed and for one moment everything was absolutely perfect. All those hours I had spent agonizing over our relationship now seemed unbelievably stupid—downright pathetic, even—because Tim? Yeah, he was amazing.

“Hey, yourself.” I couldn't resist reaching out and brushing some imaginary lint off his shoulder. “Fancy seeing you here. You sure you wouldn't rather crash a rapper's party or something?”

“Yeah . . . I debated with myself for a while. It was either this or a poker night with Jay-Z, but he's busy with Blue Ivy so . . . no dice.”

I laughed. “I'm glad you chose me.”

Tim didn't so much as blink. “Always.”

“Well, if it isn't our second favorite Oregonian,” ReadySet drummer, Dominic Wyatt, called out. “It's been too long, Corey. Hey, have you seen Mackenzie?”

“Not since she left for the dance. Why?”

Nick's smile looked more than a little devilish. “We were thinking she could—”

“Say hello,” Tim finished for him. “Chris mentioned something about getting girl advice.”

That was the first I'd heard of their bass guitarist needing any kind of help with girls. The guy had way too many interested fans trying to catch his eye already. Unless there was something else going on that I hadn't heard about yet . . .

“I love you, Chris!”

I spun around, curious to see if I could recognize his not-secret admirer or if she would be lost in a sea of dresses. It was a game I sometimes played. I would imagine what kind of girl—or guy, on occasion—would do the
I love you
screech. But either my Spidey senses had gone offline or the universe was having way too much fun playing a joke on me because the last person I expected to find wheedling attention from a rock star was Lisa Anne Montgomery.

That didn't seem to fit with her Ivy League aspirations and her disdainful articles for
The Smithsonian.

But just because she was capable of geeking out around a celebrity didn't mean I had to like her now.

“Well, later for you, Corey. We've got a crowd to appease.” Chris tapped the mic and grinned when even that little gesture was met with a shriek from four dozen girls. “Hey, Portland! It's good to see you again. I know this is a very special night, so we thought we'd start you off with this little number.”

As they launched into one of their first chart-topping hits . . . Tim never took his eyes off me.

Which suited me just fine.