The Anti-Prom - By Abby McDonald Page 0,10

with a bulky backpack. It’s cheap black nylon and clashes badly with her outfit. “I know, you’ve been telling me all week.”

“I wore a pretty blue dress, cut right to here.” Denise passes me the soda with a wistful look. I open my purse, but she shakes her head. “Oh no, any friend of Jolene’s . . .”

“Thanks, Denise.” Jolene quickly drags me toward a booth in the far corner, throwing herself down like she doesn’t care that she’s going to leave creases in her dress. I carefully slide in after her.

“She seems nice,” I offer, peeling the paper wrapping from a straw.

“What do you care?” Jolene raises an eyebrow at me, but I don’t shrink away in fear. I’m back in control now, and she may be badass, but it’s not like she’s going to cut me with the plastic utensils or anything.

“Wow. You really are touchy.” I slurp my drink.

“No, just amazed that you noticed the help,” Jolene drawls, sarcastic. “I figured we were all invisible to you.”

I’m about to ask how she manages to even walk with that massive chip on her shoulder, when the door swings open and a group of teenagers strolls in. I freeze.

“What?” Jolene notices my expression, following my gaze to the door. “Friends of yours?”

“Sure.” I ease back so I’m hidden from view by a fake plastic plant. “Because my friends really wear generic denim and ugly-ass Ts.”

Still, I can’t be too careful. Brianna and the gang would flip if they knew I was even talking to Jolene, let alone plotting . . . something.

Jolene shakes her head. “I know you’re ashamed to be seen with me and all, but you could at least try to pretend. You know, to be polite.”

I sigh, still peering through the leaves. “Like your reputation wouldn’t suffer if people saw you with me, looking like that.”

But Jolene just shrugs. “I am who I am.”

Enough with the small talk. Clearly, I’m not going to get her to loosen up any time soon, so I just switch straight to business. “What are we going to do about Cam and Kaitlin?”

“Kaitlin Carter?” Meg chooses that moment to slide into the booth. She’s cleaned up her face, but her eyes are still a little red — and full of that forlorn expression from before. Digging into a cup of plain soft-serve with rainbow sprinkles, she looks back and forth between us. “What’s she done?”

“Nothing, it’s just . . . a thing.” I take another sip of soda, impatient.

“She screwed Bliss’s precious boyfriend,” Jolene announces. “And now Bliss wants payback.”

I choke on my drink. “Hey!”

“What?” Jolene shrugs, unconcerned. “Although, I don’t know why you can’t just walk up and bitch-slap her. Him, too.” She reaches over and scoops some of Meg’s ice cream with her fingertip.

“You know, there is something called discretion,” I hiss. “I asked you for help because I figured you wouldn’t want to get caught!”

“And?” Jolene glances over at Meg. “You won’t rat us out, right?”

She blinks. “Umm, I don’t know what —”

“See?” Jolene turns back to me. “No big deal.”

“It’s the principle!” I protest. “I can’t believe you’re just spilling all my secrets to some random reject. No offense,” I add to Meg, because she’s just the kind to take it. “Seriously,” I keep complaining to Jolene, “it was bad enough telling you. More strangers knowing the intimate details of my betrayal is so not what I signed up for.”

“She’s not exactly part of your rich-bitch clique,” Jolene points out, eating more of Meg’s ice cream. Meg just sits there.

“No, but she’ll probably go running to her parents the minute we do anything bad,” I argue. And in this town, it would only be a matter of time before everyone knew — including my mom and dad.

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“Umm, I’m right here.” Meg tries to interrupt, but Jolene talks over her.

“I know it’s not your forte, Bliss, but think. We need a ride for this revenge scenario to work.”

“So we get her to drop us at my place,” I reply, bristling at her tone. “My car is in the garage.”

“Right,” she says with a sigh. “Your red convertible. Your inconspicuous, untraceable red convertible with the East Midlands bumper stickers.”

I bite my lip. She does have a point.

I look back at Meg again: waiting silently now, swirling ice cream around her cup like we aren’t talking about her right to her face. I sigh. It’s clear she has nothing better to do, and she’s not