The Anti-Prom - By Abby McDonald Page 0,32

you know, hurt us.

“Jolene,” I whisper, tugging at the back of her ruffles, “let’s just go.”

“Not until you get an apology.” She folds her arms.

“I don’t need one,” I protest. The guy she kicked is still rubbing his shin, looking at us with a murderous glint in his eyes. “It was just . . . a mistake, OK? We were just hanging out. No need for anyone to apologize. Right?”

To my intense relief, Jolene seems to reassess. “Fine,” she spits reluctantly. “We’re done. But you guys better keep your fucking hands to yourselves.”

I yank her away, still full of fear, but Jolene doesn’t hurry at all — she just saunters slowly outside as if we’ve been chatting about the weather or whatever, not facing down two full-grown sleazy men.

“Thanks,” I breathe, glancing back toward the store. What has to be the guys’ truck is parked right out front, a Confederate flag draped in the back window. I shudder. “They were drunk, I think. They wouldn’t back off.”

Jolene just gives me another of those looks. She pauses in the middle of the parking lot, halfway to where Meg is waiting patiently in the car. “You shouldn’t let men put their hands on you like that.”

“I didn’t really have a choice!” I protest.

She rolls her eyes. “Here.” Unzipping a side pocket in her backpack, she brings out a tiny canister and a round thing that looks like a key fob. “Pepper spray, rape alarm.” She holds up each in turn and then offers them to me. I shake my head.

“I’m fine, I just —”

“Think you can get your way just by asking nice?” Jolene rolls her eyes. “The real world doesn’t work that way, Bambi. Take them.”

It’s an order, so I do.

“Thanks.” I stuff them into my purse next to the photocopies, thrown by how nice she’s being. I mean sure, the excuse to inflict physical pain on some random dude was probably a big motivator, but still, she just saved my ass.

Jolene smiles. “Now you owe me two favors.”

“I do?”

“Yup.” She grins wider. “So you’re not going straight to that after-party. You’re going to help me out with something first.”

I look at her, wary. “What kind of something?”

“Just a thing.” Jolene presses her lips tightly together, and I realize with a sinking feeling that the smiles are just sugar-coating. Whatever this thing is, it’s trouble. “You probably won’t even have to get out of the car,” she adds, still acting casual. “Just keep Meg from bolting, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“It’s late.” I try to argue, worn out. “Can’t we do this some other time? Meg’s already past her curfew.” I could care less about Meg’s overprotective parents, but I’ve still got the party ahead of me, and all the fake smiles and gossip I’ll have to throw around to make it look like nothing’s wrong.

“Meg called her parents already.” Jolene interrupts my plans. “She said she was having so much fun, they let her stay out longer. So, that’s no problem.”

I sigh. “Jolene . . .”

Her face shifts. “I need to do this,” she says, quiet but forceful. “You’re not the only one who wants payback.”

We face off under the bright neon signs, and for a second, she looks the way I felt. Angry. Determined. Heartbroken.

“OK.” I agree at last, not even wanting to imagine who would dare cross her. “But you’d better not get me arrested. I’m armed now, remember?”

With Bliss on board, Meg is outnumbered. She barely puts up a protest at our slight diversion, and before long, we’ve pulled up just around the corner from my target. It’s another exclusive development, with wide streets that back onto the golf course and white picket fences at every turn. Suburban bliss.

“Wait here,” I tell them, easing out of the car. “I won’t be long.”

“But —”

“Relax.” I give Meg a careless grin. “It’s my dad’s place. I’m just picking something up.”

She relaxes, as if that’s all the reassurance she needs. It shouldn’t be.

I’ve only been to the house once before, but I remember everything. It was a baby shower for the twins a few years back, full of women with shiny hair and tailored silk dresses who widened their eyes every time I sullenly introduced myself as his other child. The Blonde held court, beaming in the middle of the room with a fat belly, while Dad fussed with caterer’s platters, making sure everything looked just right.

I left after twenty minutes. I couldn’t take the perfection anymore.

Tonight, the