her face lit up in this hopeful expression, and I can feel my prospects of peace and solitude disappear right out that window with the last of my cigarette smoke.
So much for staying under the radar. A half hour more was all I was going to give this thing, and I figured I could avoid the hyper, squealing drama that long at least. But I can already hear, “You look so cute!” “No, YOU look so cute!” drifting in, and guitar from that stupid, soft-rock slow jam echoing from the ballroom.
“Help with what?” I finally ask when I get over the fact that she’s actually looking me in the eye, let alone asking for a favor. “Wait, don’t tell me . . .” I wouldn’t have figured this one for a raver, but hey, I’d need to be out of my mind to tolerate her friends and their in-depth debate over the merits of Sparkle Sheen versus Juicy Glow lip gloss. “I’m not holding. Try Miles Parsons,” I suggest, icy. “I saw him with some pills out on the back terrace.”
“What?” Bliss looks confused. “No, that’s no it!”
“Then what?” I smush out the cigarette, wondering how much of my lung capacity I’ve just killed. It’s a crappy habit, I know, but it calms me down, and God knows I need calming in this getup. Every time I glance down, there they are: enough ruffles to smother a small child, erupting from my chest like a foul wave of pink taffeta, out to drown every ounce of credibility I’ve got.
“I . . .” Bliss takes a breath. “I want to destroy Kaitlin Carter.”
“Rebellion in the social ranks, how thrilling.” I roll my eyes. “So, don’t sit with her at lunch. I’m sure it’ll be like, OMG, the biggest scandal!”
“That’s not what I mean.” She shakes her pretty little head. “I’m serious. I want to tear her life apart.”
I pause. It is, after all, either this or braving the main ballroom again to watch the dry-humping Olympics. Raising an eyebrow, I ask, “What happened — did she wear the same color eye shadow as you?”
Bliss folds her arms. “Nope, she’s actually fooling around with my boyfriend in the back of our limo right about now.”
I let out a snort of laughter. Bliss, of course, looks wounded.
“Come on.” I hop down from the shelf, my feet bare on the dusty floor. “Weren’t you dating that football frat dude? I weep for your loss.”
“Cameron,” Bliss replies, her voice thin. “And he needs to pay as well.”
“OK, so she’s a bitch and he’s a slut.” I shrug. “Tell me something I don’t know.” I begin to strap myself back in those heels, trying not to wince at the pain. I thought about coming in my boots, but our deal was all or nothing: him in a cummerbund and flashy suit, me with the full Seventeen prom extravaganza. We laughed at the time, like it would be the biggest joke to crash their party, but I guess the joke’s on me. I haven’t heard from Dante in months, but I still trussed myself up like an idiot, hoping he’d come.
I make to leave, but to my surprise, Bliss blocks the door.
I glare.
“Look, I get it,” she protests hurriedly, backing off. “You don’t like me. And that’s just fine. But I want revenge, and I can make it worth your while.”
My jaw drops.
“You have got to be kidding me.” Just when I think these girls couldn’t get any more entitled. “What’s next — paying someone to wipe your ass?”
“Stop, Jolene —”
“I’m not one of your little groupies.” I fix her with a deathly stare. “Get one of them to do your grunt work.”
I head down the hallway as fast as these perilous heels will take me. Groups of glitzy students litter every room, but I cut through the crowds, fuming at Bliss’s nerve. She and the rest of that clique are all the same. I see them every day; we all do — fawning over each other’s preppy designer clothes in the cafeteria, strutting down the halls like they own them. Sometimes, they even swing by the Dairy Queen, so I can serve them milkshakes and clean up the mess they always leave behind.
I used to let it slide, like everyone else. Petty social games — they’re a high-school fact of life, right? That’s what everyone thinks, anyway, but it’s a lie. You can quit, it’s simple. You just walk away. Let mindless dolls like Bliss Merino