The Anti-Prom - By Abby McDonald Page 0,29

the lower hem. “It’s mine!” The girl’s glossed lips drop open. “What the hell?” Whipping around, she yells down the hall to a cluster of gleaming-haired, golden-skinned doppelgängers. “I was right; it’s mine!”

They begin to advance.

“Wait a second.” Scott moves in front of me, forcing the girl to back off, just a little. “How can you even tell? You probably both just bought it from the same store. Look at all your friends!”

She crosses her arms and glares at us. “Sure, you can get the shirt anywhere, but Cory had it custom designed for my birthday!”

On some level I register disbelief that anyone could choose to have snuggly emblazoned across her chest, let alone as a special gift. But that thought is quickly dwarfed by fear as her friends line up behind her in solidarity. A silk-clad firing squad, armed with bare skin and kohl-lined stares.

I gulp.

“Look, I’m sure we can sort this out.” Scott is still trying to reason with them, his tall body and soothing voice the only thing standing between me and . . . what, I’m not exactly sure. Death by mascara?

“Meg!” Someone yanks my arm from behind me, and I turn to find Bliss and Jolene coming from the other direction. “Where have you been? You were supposed to stay out front!”

“I know, but . . .” I swivel back and forth between them and the ranks of angry college girls. “I ran into Scott, and then —”

“She’s wearing my jersey! The one Eric gave me!” A blond backup girl suddenly gasps, pointing at Bliss, who is, sure enough, wearing the jersey with E LAWTON on the front.

“And those are so my giraffe shorts,” another adds. “I just put them in the laundry tonight.”

“See, I told you!” the original accuser crows triumphantly. “Who are they, anyway?” She narrows her eyes at us. “Do you even go here?”

“What do we do?” I ask Jolene, who is surveying the area with a practiced eye. Scott is still blocking their way, but I’m not sure how long the girls will stay back — especially now that there is even more evidence against us.

“Plan B,” Jolene announces.

“Which is?” I barely have time to ask before she grabs my hand and takes off, racing back toward the stairwell with Bliss following us close behind.

“But —” My protest is lost as we dash through the crowd. As I look back, I catch a glimpse of six very angry party girls in hot pursuit; behind them, Scott is left by the vending machine, clutching the can of Dr Pepper with a confused look on his face. I want to tell him I’m sorry, but there isn’t time.

Then the door slams shut behind us, and we’re gone.

I can’t believe I told her that.

By the time we stop for gas about ten miles out of town, I’ve thought up at least a dozen ways Jolene could ruin my life — starting with a casual comment to anyone at school, and ending with anonymous blog entries all over the East Midlands network sites, telling the world that, yes, I slept with Cameron, but it wasn’t good enough to stop him from cheating. I climb out of the backseat, shaken. What was I thinking? Like it’s not already dangerous enough with her knowing about Kaitlin and Cameron and this whole diary thing, now I have to go and spill the biggest secret I have.

Double standards, right? Everyone assumes you’re doing it, but the moment anyone says so, it’s the biggest scandal. Gossip like this — my mom always reminds me — you don’t live down.

Jolene is already smoking a cigarette, mooching a safe distance from the gas pumps while Meg fills up the car. I remember her awkward sympathy back in the dorm room and feel a fresh wave of embarrassment. She must think I’m pathetic, breaking down like that, but I can’t help it. She was talking like Cameron had only been a shiny new accessory to me, as if I hadn’t cared at all. But I did.

I do.

“You need to get anything?” Jolene wanders over, already toying with another cigarette. “When I have a bad breakup, I reach for the ice cream. And candy.” She gives a wry grin. “Once you eat yourself into a sugar coma, things don’t seem so bad.”

I shake my head slowly. “No. Thanks.”

She gives me a sympathetic kind of smile. “C’mon, what’s a few calories when your asshole ex-boyfriend is fooling around?”

I stiffen. “I said no. But can I