Fall Out Girl (22 page)

“That’s your college money.”

“I got a few partial scholarships lined up. But I’m waiting to figure the best choice. I talked to my social worker, there are plenty of opportunities out there. At worst, I can apply for federal grants for community college. I have everything figured out, Jake. Just trust me.”

“You’re always trying to fix things, aren’t you?”

“No, Jake. You’re my family. The only one I have. That’s what families do; they have each other’s backs.”

“Yeah, look who’s the sappy one today. At least I have the excuse of being baked when I say cheesy things. You don’t have the same defense, now, do you?”

“I love you, you moron. If that makes me sappy, so be it.”

“No one can deliver a love line like you, Luna.”

“Oh, shut up. You know words and opinions, everyone has them. Actions are what we need to change the world.”

“Wow, some deep philosophical shit, huh.”

“No, that’s a quote from Angelina Jolie I read in
People Magazine
.” I grinned.

I heard a rap on the front door.

“Looks like your date’s here,” Jake said. He flashed his smile at me, but a strange melancholy clouded his glazed and bloodshot eyes.

At that moment, I felt a tight knot forming in my chest. Call it sixth sense, premonition, or whatever. But the feeling I had in the pit of my gut was bad. I attributed it to the dark conversation we’d just had. “Are you okay, Jake? Listen, I don’t have to go to the prom. Hey, how about we go out for pizza? My treat, of course. Business at the Creamery is picking up, and I’m getting good tips.”

“No, absolutely not. You’re not gonna use me as a reason to avoid prom. Go. I’ll be okay. I might just hit the sack.”

I laughed. “Can’t blame me for trying.” But with a sobering expression, I restated, “For real, Jake, I can stay so we can hang out.”

“No, maybe tomorrow,” he said, pushing off the bed. “Have fun and be safe.” He wiggled his brows.

“Ew, so not happening with Andrew.”

“Speaking of him, go before he thinks you’re ditching him.”

I gathered my jacket and waved goodbye to Jake. In my heart of hearts, I still felt that going to prom was the wrong choice.

ANDREW ARRIVED PROMPTLY. One of the positive sides of presenting oneself as badass—people listened to your demands.

“You look…” He glanced at my shoes, but if he disapproved, he concealed it well. “Gorgeous,” he added with a grin.

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” I said and kissed his cheek.

“Here, this is for you.” He placed a corsage with pink flowers and white and blue ribbons on my wrist, and his fingers lingered on my pulse point.

I bit my lip. My skin crawled, and queasiness unfurled in my stomach. I brushed off the feeling, justifying my nervousness to the fact that I was going to prom.

I will skip any description of the gym’s decorations. It’s not my intention to make you hurl. Yeah, I admit I’m biased, and I saw the world through cynical lenses.

If I must plead my case, I’ll say this: the décor was a night in Paris. Cardboard standees of the Eiffel Tower were everywhere. I rest my case.

Andrew was all smiles and chivalry. I confess being a little crude as the recipient of gallantries. Besides, Andrew was overdoing it and creeping me out.

He politely poured punch in a red cup and handed it to me.

Without much thought, I took one long gulp, and the liquid blazed through my throat dropping to my empty stomach like a cohesive acid. My eyes became watery and I coughed, spewing the drink through my mouth and nose and ruining the damn dress.

“Fuck, Luna. You okay?” He patted my back and took the cup from me.

“Is the punch spiked?” A violent twist churned my stomach. I swept my fingers under my tearing eyes. Great. To top everything off, I would look like a raccoon.

“Sorry, I mean, everyone knows there’s booze in the punch.” He gathered napkins from a table and started to mop my chest.

“Apparently no one sent me a memo.” I snatched the napkins from his hand and patted the dress. It was useless. It had already soaked through the satin, and I would reek of liquor for the remainder of the night.

“Feeling better?” he asked, worried.

“I’ll survive.” My voice dropped to a softer note.

“Phew. I’ll grab you another one.”

“Are you out of your mind? I’m not drinking that poison.”

He shrugged and flashed a malicious smile. “That’s okay, babe. I have chilled champagne waiting for us.”

Holy shit. He planned exactly what I thought he would. A hotel room. Which entailed, you know what. I wasn’t ready to be intimate with anyone else.

He chugged the entire contents of his red cup. I suspect he already had a buzz going when he picked me up. At this rate, he’d be drunk before we had the first dance of the night.

My eyes scanned the room. In my mind, I justified to myself that I was memorizing everything to have ammunition for self-torture later in life. But the truth was, I was searching for Caleb.

Well, I didn’t have to search very long. Caleb with Megan on one side and Jessica on the other were posing for the hired photographers. With a gigantic Eiffel Tower as part of the backdrop, Caleb had his arms around their waists, and their tits pressing against him. Were they a threesome? The earlier queasiness returned with a vengeance.

The sound of drums and an electric guitar rumbled through the gym. Andrew snaked his arms around my waist and twirled me to the makeshift dance floor. Thank God for small favors, it was a fast-paced song.

I made the decision to enjoy myself. Andrew was a good dancer, and despite the fact that he constantly clasped a cup in his hand, we had fun.

After countless songs and cups of punch, Andrew said in my ear, “I need to use the bathroom. Be right back.”

“Sure. I’ll be here.”

The band played
Summertime Sadness
by Lana Del Rey. Prom wasn’t so bad, after all. My body felt flushed and sweaty. With my arms up and my heart pounding to the beat of the song, I closed my eyes and danced to the tempo of the music.

Familiar hands gripped my hips, and a taut body pressed against my back. The heady scent I had come to adore permeated my senses. My knees grew weak, and a thousand butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I leaned my head back. Warm lips brushed against my ear. A taunting breath whispered on my skin.

It was Caleb… It felt like returning home.

My body moved against his and it felt like swaying on a wave of delirium and pleasure.

Lights, other couples, spiked punch, mean girls in pretty dresses, tacky décor—it all blurred in my mind. There was no ceiling, no floor, just his body enveloping mine. With my eyelids closed, I saw a trail of stars burning bright.

The song ended, and the band played a Labyrinth song about “how beneath you’re beautiful.” My heart contracted, recoiling like a cornered animal. The lyrics and melody took me back to when we made love under the willow tree. After our bodies had experienced nirvana, we lay with tangled limbs, skin on skin, watching the twinkling lights. Caleb had put the song on repeat and fed me strawberries and grapes.

“God, love. I missed your smell,” Caleb grunted in my ear. His teeth scraped my earlobe. His voice sounded pained and haunted. His desire pressed on my ass.

I swirled to face him. My hands landed on his chest, in a familiar way. Our bodies, in perfect synchrony, swayed unhurriedly to the pace of the music.

A slew of emotions flashed across his face, including a profound sadness. It dissipated quickly. But for a brief duration, I had my Caleb back. I was his ‘love.’

Without words, his body told me he was willing to give me one dance. Nothing else.

I threw self-preservation, dignity, self-respect, and reasoning through the window and molded to his body, accepting whatever morsel he offered. I knew at the end of the song, I would lose him again, and my heart already mourned the loss.

With our eyes fixed on each other, we dived into a twilight where there were only the stars, the moon, and us. Woven souls and entwined hearts. Our very own universe.

An overwhelming pain mingled with sheer anger slammed into me like a mudslide. I wanted to slap his face. To push him away. To kick and bite him. To call him a bastard. To cry. To beg him to take me back. To kiss his lips. To fuse our bodies together. To say those damn three words. To…

Instead I pressed my cheek to his chest, and we danced.

The fleeting alternate universe ended before the song. With a tap on Caleb’s shoulder, Andrew brought us back to the gymnasium with the floor beneath our feet, the tacky décor, and glittering dresses.

“I’ll take it from here,” Andrew said—slurred. He was obviously drunk. He outstretched his hand toward me, a protruding vein pounding in his temple.

I took a swift step away from Caleb and accepted Andrew’s hand. “You’re back.” I smiled and stated the obvious in an attempt to defuse the tension on his face.

They exchanged a deadly stare. Caleb’s nose flared. His hands closed in tight fists. It was confusing. Caleb didn’t want me. He’d made it clear with words and actions. For a moment, I feared the pissing contest would turn into a fight. But Caleb did an almost imperceptible motion with his head, as if surrendering and walked away.

Andrew slid his arms around me, pulling me into a possessive embrace. With automatic movements, I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my warm cheek against his chest. He smelled of liquor and perfume. His body was strong and tense. His hand pressed too hard on my hips, his fingers digging into my skin. It was obviously a gesture of ownership. He was putting a claim on me. A message for Caleb to stay away.

During that dance, (so different from Caleb’s embrace) I made a decision. It wasn’t fair to Andrew or myself to do this. I would never feel anything for Andrew. I needed to end whatever it was we had happening between us. That night.

After we had danced a few songs, I said, “I’m going to the bathroom.”

I needed to recalibrate my distraught soul before talking to Andrew.

“Sure,” he said and pointed to the punch table. “I’ll wait for you right there.”

My lips forced an artificial smile.

From inside the safety of a bathroom stall, I allowed a solitary tear to escape.

Why had Caleb danced with me, and looked at me full of passion and regret? With one whisper, he awakened my numbing heart to pain and despair. I sat on the toilet seat and put my head between my legs.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, time for the truth, only the truth, so help me God.

By putting up with my feeble attempts to fool you, you have earned the right to sit and judge me. So I present exhibit number one: Luna, a sad and pathetic hoax. The one and only piece of evidence for this trial. Yours truly!

Do you see the heap of sadness plopped on the toilet? Not so badass, huh. At this point, I assume you have figured me out, haven’t you? The lies, the sarcastic snarls, even the scowl I wore on my face—all part of my grand scheme.

In my defense, my intentions were pure. I just wanted to survive and didn’t know how.

But here I am, bared for you to see.

I wasn’t brave, or strong, or badass. And all those quirky lines I fed you? A foolish attempt at sounding strong.

The truth is: I was just a lost girl. Someone who was clueless on how to get out of the hole she’d dug for herself.

I didn’t want to be the way I was. I wanted to be normal. I wanted to be that unmemorable face in the yearbook.

I wanted that in the future when someone fingered the pages of the yearbook, she would look at my picture, scrunch her face, and ask, “Who is this?” An old school mate would reply, “Oh, that’s Luna. Kept to herself. I had some classes with her. Nothing remarkable about her.”

But I knew when my classmates gathered and talked about their golden years, I would be mentioned. They would remember details of what they read in the article of how I killed Uncle Bob.

They would use words such as murderer, a pusher, a whore.

The guys would talk about how they fucked me. And it bothered me that they said things like that about me. It bothered me that they thought I was a whore, when I wasn’t. I lied when I said it didn’t bother me. I lied.

In my defense, ladies and gentlemen. Pay attention to exhibit one. I believed I had become my mask. I might not have fooled you, but I fooled myself into believing I didn’t care. I know what you’re thinking; psychoanalysts would have a field day with the evidence. Me.

Throughout the years when sadness and loneliness clasped my heart at night, I cried myself to sleep. Every drug delivery, every drug I sold was a stab to my heart. First, because I was destroying dreams, devastating futures, triggering tears in the eyes of a mother who gave a shit about her child.

I was the villain, and the awareness of it killed me a little every day. Because I cared. I cared that I hurt and destroyed. I cared that Dad would be ashamed of me. I cared that I didn’t have friends. I cared. Even though I denied it to myself fervently, I did care.

The façade is gone. The defendant pleads guilty. I’m guilty of the listed crimes. I’m guilty of attempting to fool you into thinking I was badass. I wasn’t badass.