Promiscuous (26 page)

I glance toward the locker room doors, just in time to see Becca's gigantic pink skirt squeeze back through, followed by the rest of her. She hurries to the front of the stage. The crowd around me thickens, and I realize that finding Grant will be impossible, at least until after this whole ridiculous prom court charade is over.

Now, more than ever, I want to kick myself for ever caring about something so meaningless. So vapid. Labels, that's all they are. Bragging rights. What in the hell was I ever going to do with those, anyway?

Although, I won't lie. The two grand really would've been kind of nice.

The longer I stand in the center of the crowd, watching Carrie juggle the envelopes as she takes them from Mr. Dodge, the more I don't want to be there. So I turn away and head for the front entrance. Maybe I'll just find Grant's car and wait for him there.

I'm halfway across the room when I hear Carrie call his name.

I can't help myself. I stop, turn. Stretch my neck out to see the look on his face. Unlike Becca, he really does deserve it. But if I have to stand around and watch them dance together, I swear to God I really will want to kill myself.

So alright, I'll leave after the court is crowned. That doesn't mean I care. It just means that I'm curious.

Slowly, casually, I inch toward the door, so no one will be looking at me as I make my escape.

Grant climbs the podium, looking really very amazing in his tuxedo. I can't help but replay what he said earlier, about me being the kind of girl he could go ‘all the way’ with. Never in my life have those three words seemed so romantic.

In spite of myself, I smile as Carrie takes the big plastic Burger King crown and puts it on his head. He stands still, but the expression on his face is less than thrilled. Is it possible that he's truly not excited about this?

Great. Now I have to add modest to his ever-growing list of good qualities.

I still don’t know if I’ll ever be able to buy the fact that someone like him could actually be interested in me. But hey, there are all kinds of inexplicable scientific and mathematical phenomenon out there, right? Outrageous as it is, the thought makes me smile. Even blush a little. I glance down at the floor.

My dress is pretty awesome, though. My boobs look amazing in it. That's one serious point in my favor.

I'm still looking down when Carrie announces prom queen. I'm trying to figure out what I'm going to say to Grant, something that will help him realize that I've finally figured out how to be a normal, well-adjusted human being. Then maybe he'll want to kiss me again. And if he doesn’t, maybe he’ll let me kiss him. Then maybe I’ll try something totally new, and apologize. And mean it.

Someone touches my shoulder.

It's Ms. Tailor. I didn't even recognize her, standing right next to me, because she's wearing a dress. And makeup. Lots and lots of makeup.

“Honey, it's you.”

“What?”

Ms. Tailor smiles gently, then points to the podium. “They just called your name, Ms. Bohner.”

No. Fucking. Way.

My eyes bounce wildly around the room. Everyone else is looking around too, scanning the area. A few people near me are looking at me, smiling. Up on the stage, Grant is smiling.

Becca Foster is nowhere to be seen. I walk slowly toward the podium, even as I'm thinking, ‘This is it. This must be the real evil end to Becca's plan. This has to be a joke. Any minute, she's going to jump out and cover me in pig's blood. Or dog food. Or some other really cliché teen movie shtick.’

But somehow, I make it to the stage, relatively unscathed.

Carrie actually hugs me. Like, literally. She fucking hugs me. Then she puts the plastic Disney Princess crown on my head, and all I can do is look at Mr. Dodge over her shoulder, like ‘What the fuck is happening right now?’

I shuffle to stand next to Grant, and everyone is still clapping. I realize they've been clapping for a while, and that probably explains the ringing in my ears. For some twisted reason, I find myself searching the crowd of faces, looking for Margot. Is she proud of me? Is she freaking out on the outside, like I am on the inside? But no, of course, she isn’t here. She can’t be here.

Finally, I muster up the courage to look at Grant. He's still smiling at me, but there's an awkward tightness to his lips. He's not a hundred percent sure he wants to be up here, I think.

And you know what? Neither am I.

A man comes forward and takes the microphone from Carrie. He hands each of us an envelope, and tells us congratulations. I realize this must be Becca's dad, Ken Foster, of Ken Foster Ford. He doesn't look mad that his daughter isn't standing in my place. In fact, he actually looks kind of happy for me. Or maybe, unlike Becca, he's just a really good liar.

Who gives a shit, really? The man just handed me a check for two grand. I like him.

After Mr. Foster is done speaking, he hands the microphone back to Carrie. Because this is the real world, and in the real world the prom court isn't allowed to give speeches. She announces that Grant and I are going to have a dance, and anyone can join in if they want, after the first few seconds. Make sure to let the yearbook photographer get a picture first, she says.

I blink as a camera flashes, then Grant is leading me off the stage.

His movements are formal, even kind of stiff. Apparently, he's decided to play this off like it's just a normal thing. Like it's not totally freakish that I won. Like we're meant to be...I don't know,
winners.

Either this is the punch line of an eighteen year long cosmic joke, or the universe is really trying to tell me something.

“Wait.”

I stop, just as we're passing Carrie. I reach for the microphone.

Her eyes go wide, and I can actually see the anal-retentive ‘student body president flight-or-fight response’ kicking in.

“What are you doing?”

“There's something I need to say.” I soften my voice, imploring her with my eyes. “Please.”

Her eyes dart to Mr. Dodge, but then she relents. “Okay, but don't get me in trouble.”

“Thank you.”

I let go of Grant's arm and step back into the center of the stage, and the noise level drops. But not enough. So I clear my throat.

“Excuse me, you guys?” Some people turn, looking confused. “Hey, guys, seriously shut up for a second!”

Finally, most of the room is looking at me. Which is what I wanted, right? So why does it feel like I'm about to hurl?

I clear my throat again.

“I'm sorry... I know this is really... not how this is supposed to work. But there's something you guys need to know.”

Shit. SHIT. What am I doing?

I promised myself I was going to let it go, didn’t I? I was supposed to walk away and take a shot at finding some kind of happily ever after. But I can’t. Or maybe deep down, I just don’t want to. Maybe people like me aren’t supposed to get happy endings.

Hell, it’s too late to back out now, anyway. Everyone is staring. Waiting.

“I'm still not sure if this whole thing was meant as a joke or not,” I tell them. “But even if it was... I pretty much only went after this to get back at Becca Foster, for making my best friend's life a living hell.”

A slight titter goes up from the crowd, but I plow on.

“Her name is Margot, and she probably wouldn't want you to know this, but a few weeks ago, she tried to kill herself.”

A gasp goes up from some of the girls, but I ignore them, knowing their reaction is mostly for show. 

“But you should know what happened. Because if Becca Foster was the only one who ever made fun of her or called her names, Margot probably would have just shrugged it off.”

I glance at Grant, lick my lips, then continue before anyone can stop me. For the time being, everyone seems too shocked to act.

“Unlike me, she's forgiving like that. Unlike me, she's a genuinely good person. And she didn't deserve your cruelty. Actually, for that matter, nobody does.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Principal Shoemaker moving toward the stage, but casually. Calmly. He doesn't want to create a mob situation. Which is great, because neither do I. I just need a few more seconds of air time.

“I used to think that people deserved what they got, that they had it coming, but now I'm not so sure. Now, I think we all just walk around with different kinds of pain, and we try to spread it around so we don't feel so alone. But the more we share it, the worse it gets. And in high school—let's face it—there's too much pain and awkwardness already. It sucks huge amounts of ass. Nobody gets to be the person they really want to be in high school. But in the end, it's only four years. If you do the math,”—again, I can't help glancing at Grant—“even if we only live until we're forty, these four years make up just ten percent of our lives. That's nothing. But the way some of us have been acting, you'd think it was the end of the world. You'd think it was worth fighting over, even dying for.”

Principal Shoemaker's hand reaches out to grab the microphone from me, but I'm taller than he is, so I hold it out of his grasp.

“Get off the stage, Ms. Bohner,” he hisses at me, angrily, while trying to maintain a smile. “You're done.”

But I have one last thing to say, and if I'm going to get expelled for it, I'm damn well going to say it.

“Also, I'm not a slut, or a skank, or even slightly promiscuous. And I never have been. Enjoy the prom, fuckers.”

I hand the microphone back to Principal Shoemaker, kiss him on the cheek, and brush past him on my way toward the door. And it turns out that this isn’t at all like a teen movie, because no one tries to stop me. No one claps. They just kind of...quietly, awkwardly watch me go.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

When I get out to the student parking lot, the cloud of honesty-induced euphoria that has been carrying me finally evaporates. I’m halfway across campus before I realize that I left my car in the back lot, behind the gym. It's such a simple mistake, and yet it seems so stupid after everything that's happened.

Especially when I turn to walk back across campus, in the other direction, and I find Trent standing in front of me. He's wearing a collared shirt with stripes on it, and a loose-fitting jacket. Unlike Grant, he does not wear a suit well.

“Good speech.”

I try not to let the fear get to me, but it does. It crawls up my spine like a set of icy fingers, reaching through my lungs to wrap around my throat.

“I thought you were suspended.”

“I was.” He takes a step toward me, then another, taking his time. “But I didn't want to miss out on my second prom. It's so much better the second time. Trust me.”

My skin crawls, and I know he's not talking about a dance. He's talking about this. It's the second time he's caught me alone in the dark.

I take a step back, looking around for anyone that might help me. Because even though I just pretty much single-handedly ruined prom, this isn't a trailer park. And if there's one thing high school kids
don't
do, it's mind their own business.

But the lot is dark. Deserted. Not even a single couple making out in a shadowed corner, as far as the eye can see.

Trent smiles, and starts moving forward. I keep moving back. Maybe if I can kick off my heels fast enough, I can run. But then I remember that these damn shoes have ankle straps. The moment I bend down to take them off, he'll attack me. I remember what it felt like to have his weight on me, and I cringe. Then I move backward a little faster.

“Damn, you look hot tonight,” he taunts. “You know, I really should thank Blue for getting you to make an effort. All this”—he gestures at my chest—“has been there the whole time, and I didn't even realize it.”

My back hits brick, the side of the shop building, and I realize there's nowhere else to go. On one side, there’s a dumpster. On the other, someone’s car has been parked in the middle of the pathway—probably some teacher or chaperone who was running late. But then I see the license plate, which reads ‘Ken Foster Ford.’
Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

I hold out my hand, and it feels like the world's most ineffective barrier. Trent comes toward me until his chest is pressing into my hand, like he’s getting off on forcing me to touch him. His body odor hits me in the face, so strong that it somehow manages to overpower the dumpster’s reek. Or, maybe it’s just me. Maybe there’s a special part of my brain that can detect asshole pheromones, like a superpower.

“Trent, I’m only going to say this one more time. Stay the fuck away from me, or I will make sure you end up spending your third senior year in jail, getting pounded by huge gang members.” The look on his face tells me he thinks I’m joking, so I take a breath, and force myself to spell it out for him in a calm, mature voice. “If you touch me, I will go to the cops. And I will tell them everything.”

Trent just leans closer and laughs into my face. On top of the sour tobacco smell, there’s an unmistakable fog of alcohol fumes.
Shit, he’s been drinking. A lot, by the smell of it.

“I mean it,” I say, putting steel into every word.

A scared, pessimistic part of me whispers that I shouldn’t hit him. Shouldn’t try to stab him with my shoes. If I leave so much as a single mark on him, he’ll tell everyone I attacked him. And they’ll believe him.

“Step away from me, Trent. Right now.”

“Or what? You'll give me a lecture on how high school is lame?” He laughs. “News flash: I've been here for five years. I know it sucks ass. But it has its perks, too. Like sexy little high school girls with daddy issues.”

Trent reaches out to rake his hand over the front of my dress, breathing his foulness into my ear.

“Such a hot dress….” His hand reaches down to where the front of the dress is slit open. “Thanks for the easy access. I knew you secretly wanted it.”

“Fuck off!” I yell, pushing back against him as hard as I can. He barely moves, but I keep shoving. “What I wear has nothing to do with you, or any asshole like you! What I wear does not make it okay!”