Promiscuous (19 page)

After she’s better. But until then, I need to find a way to distract her.

I can only think of one thing that will definitely work.

I let out a deep breath, like
this
is the big secret I’ve been holding in. “This is going to sound crazy. And honestly, I have no idea how it happened, but…. There’s a slight chance…that I might…kind of, be going to prom with Grant Blue.”

Margot’s reaction to my announcement is ear-splitting. If we weren’t already sitting in a psych ward, I’m pretty sure people would’ve come running. But spontaneous, blood-curdling screams are probably par for the course here.

“Oh my God! Oh. My. God!
Ohmygod
!” She flails her arms, scattering collage pieces to the floor like glossy, overly-Photoshopped leaves. “How did this happen? How in the hell did this happen? Was it magical? How did he ask you? Or, did you ask him? Oh, my God, you have to tell me everything. Like, yesterday!”

I don’t even need to look at the clock to know I’m going to be very, very late for my shift at BR. But I can’t help grinning, because this is the first time in as long as I can remember that she doesn’t seem to be thinking about her weight, or worrying about Becca Foster’s latest attempt to crush her soul. In this moment, we’re just two excited teenage girls, sitting in a psych ward and talking about boys. In this moment, I can deny her nothing.

For the first time, she’s the one living vicariously through
me
.

So I tell her what happened with Grant, starting with the part where he saw me talking to Trent in the parking lot—but once again, I leave out the really gruesome stuff—and skipping over just a few details in the middle, like why I was suddenly so motivated to flirt with a guy who, just a couple of hours ago, was so out of my league that I couldn’t fathom him wanting to sit with me at lunch—let alone kiss me.

Actually, scratch that. Grant Blue is still ridiculously out of my league, and I’m still spinning over why in all seven circles of hell he would even look at me, but that’s why I leave the ugly parts out. Because Margot deserves the fairy tale version. Especially since I have a feeling she’s going to be obsessing over every little detail, using my supposedly miraculous turnaround to distract herself over the next few weeks until she gets released from this place.

So I let her believe I’ve somehow solved the impossible equation—that I’m walking, breathing, lipstick-wearing proof that people’s shitty lives really
can
change overnight, like magic. I let her gush over Keely’s wardrobe suggestions, like they’re somehow new and brilliant, even though deep down, we both know that becoming popular shouldn’t be as simple as putting on a new outfit.

Because that’s not how the world works, and it’s definitely not how high school works. Sure, you might be able to fool people for a while. They might even pretend to like you, or say they misjudged you before, and that’s why they said all those horrible things. If you’re a little bit naïve, like Margot, you might even start to let yourself feel accepted, safe. You might even let your guard down, so they can break you all over again.

But that’s where we’ll always be different, I hope. My damage has taught me caution. People like Margot might make the world a more beautiful place, but it’s hard for them to survive. They need people like me to keep them from getting rolled over, to question everything and trust nothing. Otherwise, the assholes of the world, the ones who survive and deal with their issues by preying on the weaknesses of others—people like Becca Foster, Trent Gibson and Gretchen Fucking Cader—they would probably win.

“Stars on the Red Carpet is a horrible theme,” Margot nods, agreeing with my latest smoke screen. “But hey, at least Becca’s hideous pink dress will clash with the decorations. I’ll bet she hasn’t thought of that.”

I laugh, feeling proud of her for uttering Becca’s name without her usual terrified reverence. “Yeah, she’s probably too busy making big, sparkly pink posters that say ‘Vote 4 Becca, the
Shimmering Glowing Star in the Cinema Firmament
.’” I do that last part in my best Lena Lamont impression, but it’s not as good as Margot’s. She laughs anyway, and I add, “What do you want to bet she spells her own name wrong on at least one poster?”

“Ugh, who cares?” Margot waves a hand dismissively, and my chest swells with pride. “You’re actually going to our senior prom. With Grant Freaking Blue. What I want to know is, what are
you
going to wear?”

Right, of course. The dress. It wouldn’t really be a fairy tale without a dress, would it?

“I stopped at home to grab my work clothes on the way over,” I tell her. “I told my mom I was going to prom, and I actually had a date, and she went into hyper Jackie O mode. She says she’s going to ask Mrs. Jimenez to sew me a dress.”

That part admittedly sounds made up, even to me. But it isn’t.
Shockingly.

Margot looks surprised, but also impressed. “Mrs. Jimenez—isn’t she the lady in 13B who runs a sweat shop out of her trailer?”

“Yep. My mom thinks she can get her to do it for cheap, but either way, she said she’d pay for it.”

I meet Margot’s ‘WTF face’ with one of my own. “I know, it’s bizarre. I think she’s finally realizing that after June, she’s probably never going to see me again.”

Margot looks sad for a moment. “About that…I don’t know what’s going to happen with UCLA. Dr. Thorn, my psychologist, said she’d write me a letter—she’s really nice like that—but I don’t…I’m not really sure how I feel about the whole acting thing, now.”

Probably because of the picture, I realize. She probably thinks she’s going to be typecast in anorexia documentaries and horror movies. I hit her on the knee, dismissing the fears she won’t say out loud.

“Screw acting, then. You can go into fashion design, like Ms. Greenwich said. You’ll be great.”

“Yeah, but my scholarship was for performance arts.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her, even though I worry about it pretty much constantly these days. “We’ll figure something out. If nothing else, you can work as a bartender at my strip club, or something.”

She smiles at that. “Or, we could do like a sister act.” Putting her fist up to her mouth like a microphone, she intones in a deep, creepy man voice, “
Introducing, Skinny and the Bitch. Get those singles ready, gentlemen
!”

I laugh at the mental image that invokes, disgusting as it is. I think that was kind of her intention. But it’s also kind of depressing, because I know she thinks I’m joking, but stripping is looking more and more like a serious career option, at least for me.

I don’t want to talk about that right now, though, because it’s still fairy tale time. And there’s one more thing I’ve realized I need to do, before I go. One last present to help my best friend forget she’s still living in teenage hell.

“So.” I clear my throat. “Since Mrs. Jimenez can make pretty much anything, as long as it’s dress shaped…I was wondering. Could you maybe design something for me?”

Margot’s eyes light up.
Pretty in Pink
has always been one of her favorite movies, and she especially loves the part where Andie defies convention by sewing her own totally kick ass prom dress. Now that I think about it, that movie is probably why Margot started taking a sewing class in the first place.

“Get me some paper,” she says, and I scramble to run to the nurse’s desk to beg for a few sheets of copy paper and one of those little, stab-proof golf pencils.

For the next half hour or so, we sit on her bed and giggle like the teenagers we actually are, while Margot makes a bunch of eighties movie references and I pretend to be annoyed by them. Like the old days, but better. Because this time, we’re actually planning for something real. Something we didn’t make up to distract ourselves from the harsh reality of being seventeen—or eighteen now, in my case—and carrying secrets that would make most forty-year-olds shudder.

In that moment, even as I realize I’ve pretty much blatantly skipped work, my mind starts spinning a new lie. This lie, though, this is one I’m creating only for myself. I start to wonder if, maybe Grant was right about me. Maybe I do deserve to be happy—or at least less afraid all the time.

Maybe I really can imagine a world where things are actually kind of…
better
.

###

The next few days pass in an uncharacteristically happy blur.

I’m so busy planning for prom, running across the street for dress fittings, sneaking to the hospital to visit Margot every morning and afternoon, and studying Pre-Calculus with Grant that I barely have time to sneak my fake, ‘electoral college style’ nomination forms into the ballot box in Mr. Dodge’s office, after the rest of the student body has cast their nominations. I put just enough of them in to ensure I at least make the final prom court ballot, but not so many that it will raise any red flags when Mr. Dodge counts them.

Fixing the final voting—which will take place at prom—is going to be a little more difficult, but I’m confident that sometime before next Saturday, I’ll figure out a way.

In the meantime, I’m doing my best to spend as much time with Grant as possible. Unfortunately, most of our quality time happens at the library, or in class, and since my detention is now officially over, there’s less of that time to go around. I keep hinting that we should hang out more often—or at all—outside of school, but I don’t have the balls to straight up come out and say it.

We haven’t kissed again, either. Not since I attacked him in the quad last Monday.

Grant, being subtle, keeps dropping these hints. Like ‘I like being able to take things slow with someone,’ and ‘I’m glad you know my secret. It makes things so much easier.’ But really, I don’t have the slightest fucking clue what that’s supposed to mean. All I know is, I would really like for him to kiss me again. I would gladly subject myself to an eternity of Pre-Calculus, if he would just
please
kiss me again.

You’re probably thinking that’s super ironic, right? After everything I’ve been through, and considering the fact that he’s the closest I’ve ever come to having anything
remotely
like a boyfriend… you’d think I’d be content to take things painfully, excruciatingly slowly in the physical department. But I’m not content. I’m dying of impatience, and I want more.

I never thought I’d be this hard up for a guy to look at me, let alone touch me. The other day, we had a freak cold front and my car wouldn’t start. So Grant picked me up from school and then dropped me off after studying. As I went to get out of the car, I very optimistically leaned in, and he kissed me
on the forehead
.

When I went inside, I had to run straight to the bathroom mirror to check my face, because I was convinced there would be a burn mark.

That is just a random example of how hot I am for Grant Blue.

And it just keeps getting worse. The more I find out about him, the more I like him. His dad is an emergency physician, and he wants Grant to go to med school and become a surgeon. But Grant’s already been accepted to go to Stanford, and he wants to declare pre-law and focus on becoming a human rights lawyer—or maybe a legislator, he's not sure yet. He believes in helping people, just like his dad. But he says it's just as important to talk through issues as it is to cut out tumors.

Yesterday, I asked him why he doesn't want to be a therapist or something, and he shrugged and said, "Talking about problems is only the first step. I think it’s important to focus on finding solutions. Like math, but for more people-centered issues."

 The more time I spend around Grant, the more I realize how directionless I am in my own life. With the exception of getting revenge on Becca Foster, of course. Which, Grant still knows nothing about. And if I play my cards right, he never will.

Lately, I've started to get pretty intimate with some strange new emotions—and the strangest and least familiar to me is
hope
.

Hope that maybe I can get out of this hell hole and make something of myself. Something
better
. Hope that maybe, by some crazy twist of fate, I really
can
have it all—Grant, the title of Prom Queen and the coveted Kent Foster Ford Dealership Scholarship that comes with it, even my ‘fresh start,’ trailer-park-free life with Margot in California.

Last night, in a rare moment of fancy, I even googled the distance between Stanford and Los Angeles. They really aren’t
that
far away from each other. Who knows what could happen over the summer between me and Grant, before he goes off to school? I sure as hell don't.

All I know is that I'm done being angry all the time, just for the sake of being angry. I figure it's time to try being happy for a while. See where that gets me.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

One week until prom….

I’ve been smiling so hard over the past week, my face hurts. Learning people’s names. Trying to be approachable and nice, like Grant. It’s easier when he’s standing next to me, holding my hand, almost like he’s surrounding me in his popular, likeable glow. It must be like a superpower he has or something, because by Friday, people were starting to say ‘Hi’ to me, even when I wasn’t standing next to him. Some even smiled and knew my name. My real name, instead of ‘Tasha’ or ‘Skangly.’

And Trent, thank God, finally seems to be keeping his distance.

It’s kind of unbelievable how quickly I’ve managed to pull this off. Now, maybe it won’t be such a shock when my name is announced on Monday, along with the other prom court nominees. Then, we’ll have a week to campaign or whatever, before Saturday. ‘P Day.’ The grand finale of my plan: Prom.

On Saturday morning, I have my final dress fitting. Mrs. Jimenez says the dress will be done by Wednesday at the latest, in case we have to fix anything. It’s red, of course. I can’t wait to show it to Margot. Then, the other day, I had this idea that I should probably show it to Ms. Greenwich, the Home Economics Hag. I’ll tell her Margot designed it, and maybe that will help her get a better grade in sewing.