The Anti-Prom - By Abby McDonald Page 0,38

sighs beside me. “Brianna better have catering. Like the mini-puffs she did for her New Year’s party — they were amazing.” She looks ravenous at the thought of it.

There’s nothing I can say to that. I remember the party, though — or at least, the furious gossip that dominated the next week at East Midlands. Two new reigning power couples were formed, another split up, and Nikki Hopington did a dance routine to Rihanna that got mass e-mailed to every student in school. Just your typical, average teenage party. With catering, illicit alcohol, and a professional band.

Bliss flicks the radio on, impatiently switching stations. “What’s your deal, anyway?” She asks it almost like an accusation. “You’ve barely said a word all night.”

“I haven’t needed to,” I reply quietly.

She stops. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” I pause before venturing, “Just, you haven’t really said a thing to me, either.”

I shouldn’t have said that. I drum my fingertips lightly on the steering wheel, keeping my eyes fixed on the stairs for Jolene, but I can feel Bliss watching me.

“I haven’t seen you in school,” she says eventually. “When did you move to town?”

“About fifteen years ago.” My voice has a note of sarcasm in it; I can’t help myself. “We were in History together, ninth grade,” I explain shortly. “And study hall, all last year. And for the past eight months, we’ve had Miss Bowers for Wednesday afternoon PE classes. I was on your volleyball team.”

“Oh.”

There’s silence.

“You spilled grape juice on me in the cafeteria line last month,” I add softly. “Kaitlin said it looked like I had my period. You all laughed.”

“What are you, like, keeping track?” Bliss sounds defensive.

“No. I just pay attention to the people around me.”

She stiffens. “And I don’t?”

I’m on dangerous ground here. I backtrack. “I never said that.”

“No,” Bliss says quietly. “You don’t say much of anything. You just skulk around, keeping out of the way and pretending like you’re above us all. ‘No, we can’t take Kaitlin’s diary,’” she mimics, “‘We can’t go to a college party. That would be wrong.’”

I don’t respond. What’s the use? She’s back in her superior clique mode, as if she owns the place. Never mind that any sane person would think twice about getting tangled up in trouble; no, when I say so, it’s because I’m pathetic.

“See?” she says, sounding amused. “I bet you’re doing it right now, thinking how mean I’m being, and how much better you are than me.”

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, tired. “Start crying? Insult you right back?” I shrug. “What’s the point, anyway?”

“The point is, you need to start sticking up for yourself.” Bliss begins to twist her hair around one finger. “You’ll never get anywhere like this.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need your advice,” I reply, fighting to stay calm. I hate that I get emotional so easily — already, I can feel the telltale heat of tears welling up in the back of my throat, my skin flushed and prickling. “I’m fine.”

“Fine?” Bliss snorts. “Sure, being a total outcast is fine.”

I break. “Why do you have to be such a bitch?”

There’s silence, and then she looks at me with a curious smile on her freshly glossed lips. “That’s better.”

I blink. “What do you mean?”

Bliss sighs, clearly exasperated. “I mean, fight back, for once in your life. God, don’t you get sick of it? Always doing whatever you’re told. No wonder I don’t remember you; it’s like I’m looking at a black hole or something — you just suck all the fun and energy out of a room!”

“I . . .” I start to reply, but my survival instincts are screaming the same as usual. Retreat. Hide. Wait for this all to go away. “At least I’m not shallow and self-absorbed like you,” I manage, still holding back tears.

“There you go again.” Bliss shakes her head, sending ringlets bouncing around her face. “Little Miss Perfect. Did it ever strike you that maybe the reason you don’t have any friends isn’t that we’re all bitches, but that you’re just . . . boring?”

I look away, but that doesn’t seem to matter to her.

“I mean, sure, I might not talk to you in school, but give me one good reason why I should,” Bliss continues, sounding self-righteous. “I didn’t just wake up one morning with friends and plans every weekend. I worked for it. You’ve got to make an effort, Meg. No one will just hand you everything for free.”

I pray for