tie themselves up trying to be perfect and popular — I got the hell out. They think I’m white trash anyway, so I may as well live up to my damn name. It didn’t take much, in the end: some big boots, a pair of headphones. Turn up late, fight back, carve some desks, get suspended. The rumors started up, and just like that, they get out of the way for me in the hallways. I’ve got four more days until graduation, two months until I start college, and most of them are smart (or scared) enough to leave me well alone until then.
Except Bliss. I’m swiping some pastry shells from the refreshment area when I hear the tip-tap of heels approaching. Sure enough, Bambi bounds up beside me, her white dress swishing around like she’s got a personal wind machine trailing her. And who knows — on Daddy’s budget, maybe she does.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think,” she insists like we never stopped talking. “I don’t mean it like I’m better than you. I just thought you’d want some kind of . . . incentive.”
I turn my back on her. Crab filling? Awesome.
“Please”— Bliss keeps at me —“would you just —”
“Jolene? Yoo-hooo, Jolene Nelson? There you are!”
I freeze. A perky-looking woman is bearing down on us, marked with the bright red pin of official chaperones. I scan the room, but it’s too late. There’s no escape.
“Look at you! That dress is so cute!” she gushes, enveloping me in a hug. Immediately, I choke for air, smothered by a heavy cloud of floral perfume. “When your mom said you were coming, I couldn’t believe it, but here you are, looking like your old self!”
My mom? I pause, alert for danger. “Uh, hi . . .”
“Can I get a photo of you and your friend?” She waves a digital camera at me. “I know your mom would love some pics.”
“Sure,” I say weakly. “Come on, friend.” I give Bliss a look. Luckily, those girls take classes in being a camera whore. Throwing her arms around me, she grins maniacally at the woman.
“Everybody say prom!” Bliss squeals.
“Fab!” The camera flashes away a couple of times, and then the woman beams. “So glad I caught you! I have to go back on patrol now. Did you know some kids are sneaking out to get drunk?” She drops her voice to whisper the last words.
“No!” Bliss gasps, almost sarcastic.
She nods. “You girls have fun. Be good!” And then at last, the woman sweeps away in a blur of gold beading. I let out a sigh of relief. Pure oxygen, the joy.
“Well?”
When I look up, Bliss is staring at me, smug.
“Thanks,” I mumble. I didn’t expect her to play along, but it’s still not as if I owe her or anything.
“Don’t go OTT.”
“Whatever.” I’m done humoring her, but just as I’m about to tell Bliss exactly where she can take her fake smiles and vast reserve of entitlement, I catch a flash of something in her expression. For a moment, the smile strains at the edge of her lips, and her eyes are full of anger. Then it’s gone, and that careful mask flips back into place.
I pause, softening just a tiny bit. Anger, I know. Damn, I could write an epic novel on that. I know how it burns at you, hardening inside until you’ve got nothing but a metal lump in your gut that won’t shift, not for anything.
At least, I didn’t think there was anything . . .
“You really want them to go down?” I ask, suddenly curious. This is about more than just a wrecked prom, I can tell, and if Bambi here wants it bad enough, then perhaps she could be useful to me, after all.
Bliss nods, her face even again. “I said before,” she answers, almost flippant. “I want revenge, and I want you to teach me how.”
Yup. Tonight is definitely the night of impossibilities.
Suddenly, the room is invaded by a crowd of girls, chattering in that high-pitched whine about how freaking awesome the DJ is and how freaking cute Sam looks in his tux and how freaking uh-MAY-zing their photos will look online. They swarm around me, filling plates with tiny, calorie-free snacks and shrieking about what might get stuck in their teeth.
“Jolene?” Bliss is still pestering me, so I check my phone. Forty minutes late. There’s no way Dante’s going to show now. He probably doesn’t even remember our deal, and even if he does . . .