was curled into soft waves that framed her face, and the deep red corsage Brett had given her was strapped to her wrist, clashing brilliantly with her strawberry-colored hair.
“Okay, you can open your eyes,” I said when I had the collage out in front of her.
She blinked down at it slowly. “Oh. Wow. Is this—? Did you make this? Like a craft project?”
“Um, yeah. It’s for you. I make collages sometimes. Here, turn it over.”
She turned it over. Her eyes widened, and she flipped it back again without looking up at me. “Um, thanks…but I can’t take this home. I don’t have any way to get it out of here.” She held up her own tiny clutch.
I felt stupid for not thinking of that before. “Oh. Uh, well, I taped it to my skirt to get it in here. I guess you could do that, too?”
She glanced down at her lace dress. “It won’t work. They’d see.”
“Okay, well…” I felt stupider with every passing second. “I guess I’ll take it back home.”
“You can’t. It’s a miracle no one noticed you had it already. We have to get rid of it.”
“What do you mean? Get rid of it…how?”
“Yeah, I guess it’s not as if we could put it in the trash. Anyone could see.” She glanced around us. “You don’t have any matches, do you?”
“Matches? No, I…why?”
“Never mind. We’ll put it in my locker. It’s closer than yours. Then next week we can take it out in one of our school bags.”
So that’s what we did. I poked my head out the door to make sure no one was in the hallway, and we crept silently away and stashed the collage in Carolyn’s locker, shutting it carefully so it wouldn’t clang.
There was no time left for kissing. We’d already been gone too long, so we left, the same way we always did—me first, with Carolyn following after I’d turned the corner.
When I got back to the gym, Tim was there, standing by the punch table in his burgundy tuxedo with the ruffled shirt and bow tie. He asked me to dance. My aunt was looking right at us, so I didn’t have much choice. The band was playing “Stayin’ Alive” and Tim was doing a ridiculous John Travolta strut, with his top button undone and his collar spread open, and I had to hobble along behind him as if this was the most fun I’d ever had in my life.
A few songs later I told him I had to get some air, thinking he’d want to stay inside and show off more dance moves (though thankfully one of the chaperones had made him fasten his top button by then). Instead, he followed me out. But this time, when he tried to grope me, I slugged him in the chest.
He staggered backward, even though I couldn’t have hit him that hard. For a second he just stared at me, his eyes red and his mouth gaping open like a fish.
“Bitch,” he grunted. Then he turned around and shuffled back into the gym.
I’m not going to lie, Sharon. I didn’t feel bad. Even when we were in the limo on the way home and Tim was sitting as far away from me as he could get, huffing in my direction every couple of minutes, I didn’t regret a single thing.
I did worry he might hold a grudge, though. When I saw him at school yesterday, I half expected him to swear at me again, but he only sneered, the same way my dad sneers at the TV when Notre Dame is losing. I only wished I had a reason to punch him all over again.
But tomorrow’s the last day of school, and our youth group usually takes a break in the summers. I might be able to get away with not seeing him much until September. Punching him again isn’t worth it.
Carolyn didn’t say anything more about the collage, but I hope she liked it. She must’ve taken it home by now. We haven’t had a chance to talk since prom, anyway. She had to stay after