The Anti-Prom - By Abby McDonald Page 0,28

of a party, surrounded by other people. For a moment, I’d forgotten.

“Sure.” I hop down from the couch and follow him into the crowd.

“There’s beer, if you want. . . .” He falls back, resting a hand lightly on my back as he guides me through the mess of people and noise.

“Oh. No, I’m driving. And even if I wasn’t . . . I mean, I don’t ever drink . . .” I trail off, feeling like a child all over again. I can’t help it; most of the kids here are clearly underage, but I’ve had my dad quoting statistics about alcohol poisoning and drunk drivers ever since I was in junior high.

“Then I guess we’ll give the punch a miss.” He nods at where two jock guys are ladling peach liquid from a huge plastic bowl. Empty bottles of juice and vodka are abandoned nearby, and the whole corner is giving off a potent smell.

I laugh. “Yeah, maybe not.”

We keep going, meandering past open bedroom doors and clusters of partygoers. “So what are you, like, straight-edge?” Scott asks, ducking to avoid a giant inflatable crocodile being tossed around the hall.

“No, just sensible,” I joke, but it comes out flat. I cough. “Are you?”

He shakes his head. “I tried it out for a while; some of my friends were into that scene, back in high school, but — I don’t know, I wasn’t really into the rules side of it. Having such a fixed ideology, you know? I prefer just to do my own thing.” We come to a split in the corridor and he stops, deciding between the two hallways in front of us. “What do you think?” He grins, teasing. “Should we leave some string to find our way back?”

I smile. “I saw a girl with some floss back there. . . . It’s your call.”

“Hmmm . . . eeeny, meeny, miny, go.” He points to the left, and we set off, deeper into the complex. I wonder if Jolene and Bliss are around here somewhere. They can’t have bailed altogether yet; I’m the one with the keys.

“Ah, here we go.” Scott finds a vending machine and digs in his pocket for change.

“Here.” I begin to unzip my purse, but he’s already feeding the coins in.

“No, I’ve got this.” He grins. “So, are you a Coke girl, or a Sprite?”

“Dr Pepper, actually,” I decide.

“Really?” He draws the word out, still almost teasing. “See, you never can tell from a first impression.”

The machine hums and rattles for a moment, but with no result. Scott fakes looking around, furtive, before thumping the side with his fist. A can rolls into the dispenser; he presents it to me with a little bow.

“Thanks.” I’m overcome with a moment of déjà vu, remembering Tristan making his own little bow to the girls back at prom. The prom I’m missing completely.

“So what happened with the dress?” Scott asks, as if reading my mind. He takes his own drink and pops the cap, leaning against the vending machine as he waits for my reply.

“It’s a costume party.” I shrug, as if that’s explanation enough, but — painfully aware of the pink sparkles adorning my body — I can’t help adding, “Bliss insisted.”

“The bossy one?”

I nod, even though to me, she and Jolene are equally determined.

“Shame.” Scott gives me a slow sort of grin. “I thought it looked great. I mean, you did.”

I freeze, feeling a low blush begin to spread across my face. “Umm, thanks,” I manage, staring at the floor. “It’s . . . prom. At least, it was.”

“Oh, that’s right,” Scott nods, still utterly at ease. “My sister doesn’t shut up about it. She can’t wait for hers — she’s only fourteen,” he explains with an affectionate kind of grin.

“Oh,” I murmur, not wanting to admit that I’m only sixteen. No wonder he’s being so sweet — I clearly bring out the big brother in him.

Suddenly, a shrill voice ricochets down the hallway: “Where did you get that shirt?”

A girl with long, dark hair is approaching, wearing one of those almost-indecent black negligee outfits. Her expression is grim, and I take a step back in fear as she gets closer.

“You heard me,” she demands, raking her eyes over me. “Where did you get that shirt? And those socks!”

“Umm,” I stutter, thrown by the fearsome combination of gleaming hair and tiny, tanned thighs. “I don’t, I mean . . .”

She lunges forward and snatches at the tank top, inspecting the label sewn by