The Anti-Prom - By Abby McDonald Page 0,17

the book shut and tosses it back. “You keep delightful company, you really do.”

I have to agree, but in the mirror, I see Bliss shrug. “Uh, who are you to judge? JD McGraw? That Eric guy?” Her voice is dubious. “Those guys are, like, walking felonies.”

Jolene stiffens. “At least when they fight, they do it to your face.”

“They would hit a girl?” Bliss’s voice rises.

“No.” I don’t look over, but I can practically hear the eye roll in Jolene’s reply. “It was a metaphor. Instead of stabbing you in the back, like your crowd does.”

Immediately, I can feel the mood shift. “So I need to take the next exit ahead?” I pipe up, before they can launch into a vicious showdown.

Bliss stops, turning to me as if she’d forgotten I was even here. “Yeah, and then it’s straight through for like, twenty miles.”

“OK.”

They fall silent as I merge onto the highway. Jolene settles back, scratching at the pink polish on her nails as she gazes out the window, while Bliss curls up in the backseat with the journal. Slowly, the stretch of used-car lots and industrial warehouses on the outskirts of town makes way for open countryside and the occasional shadow of half-built suburban developments, houses standing empty in unfinished rows. I keep a careful eye on the road and wonder yet again what strange forces brought the two of them together. Because despite Jolene’s whole explanation about revenge on Kaitlin and Cameron, something just doesn’t add up.

That’s the thing about being invisible, I suppose: they might not know who on earth I am, but I know plenty about them. Bliss and her clique don’t pause for breath during their girls’ bathroom bitch-sessions when I slip in, but the moment someone else — someone real — walks through that door, there’s nothing but “Shh!” and giggles and whispers until they leave. Jolene’s just the same. I work a few shifts in the front office for extra credit, so I see her all the time, dragged in after they catch her smoking, or fighting, or answering back. She waits, slouching in the chairs right opposite me, but has never even looked my way.

But here they are. In my car. Together.

Jolene begins searching in the glove compartment, flipping through CDs with a noisy rattle. She looks up suddenly and catches my eye, holding it as if she’s challenging me. I look away, embarrassed, but she really doesn’t care; she never has.

“You know, this stuff isn’t bad.” She’s looking at my music selection with a frown, as if she can’t believe I could possibly have any taste at all.

“Oh. Thanks.” I murmur a response, and then look up to find that she’s holding one of my dad’s classic country mixes, not any of the vaguely-cool indie music I threw in there. With a swift movement, she slams in the CD, and suddenly, the loud guitar chords make way for a gentle bluegrass twang.

“What?” Bliss protests immediately. “Come on!”

Jolene ignores her, humming happily along to the old song.

“You like that stuff?” I venture.

“It’s in my blood. Can’t you tell?” She gives a wry laugh. “Born and raised with nothing else on the radio.”

Her name, of course.

“I was lucky,” Jolene continues, adjusting the seat so she’s lounging way back — forcing Bliss to shift over to the other side. “She nearly named me Dolly. If there’s one thing I can thank my dad for, it’s convincing her otherwise. Can you imagine?”

I give a nervous laugh of agreement.

“Dolly?” Bliss lets out a sharp squeal, kicking the back of my seat in the process. “Who would even call their kid that?”

“Says the girl named after a freaking state of mind,” Jolene snaps back.

There’s silence again — the dulcet tones of Dusty or Roseanne or whoever sighing away, the momentary sharing clearly done.

I don’t mind. It’s enough for me just to focus on the road ahead, taking us farther away from town and that gleaming country club full of my own foolish dreams. I always love driving, getting out, away. If I’ve had an even worse day than usual, or I feel that loss begin to ache again, I’ll take the keys and just go. Dad’s surprisingly understanding, given his oft-quoted statistics about road safety, but perhaps it’s Stella, murmuring in his ear about giving me space; either way, at least they let me. An hour here, a two-hour trip there — it doesn’t seem like a lot, but I sometimes think it’s the only thing that keeps