The Anti-Prom - By Abby McDonald Page 0,44

just shrugs.

“What? Maybe he can help.”

“I don’t want his help. I don’t want anything from him,” I lie, hurling myself into the front seat.

It’s too much. My dad, and Dante, and college, and Meg and Bliss. I can’t deal with them all at once. I don’t have the space.

“Are you OK?” Meg asks quietly.

“Sure,” I lie again. “Sorry we took so long.”

She nods, starting the ignition.

“Wait for Bliss,” I remind her. Meg scowls, hitting the horn in a sharp gesture. A moment later, Bliss slides in.

“I thought you were going to leave without me!” She’s breathless.

“Maybe we should have,” Meg murmurs through gritted teeth. She checks her mirror and then pulls away with an angry screech, faster than she’s driven all night. I don’t ask what’s wrong — I can’t find it in me to care. All I can do is lean my head to the window, the glass cool against my cheek as we speed back through town. I turn the remote over in my hands, tracing every smooth surface and pointed edge as I pull myself back under control.

“So, how do you know Dante?” Bliss finally asks from the backseat.

The streets rush by, dark and blurred. I close my eyes. “He’s just a boy I used to know.”

The industrial park is dark and deserted, and even I feel a flicker of unease as we roll to a stop, half a block away. The streets around here are full of warehouses and wire fencing; no warm houses or neat front yards to help me pretend this is just a crazy teen stunt we’re pulling. No, here there are only flickering streetlights and dirty concrete, and the low feeling in my stomach that this is somehow a mistake.

“You both stay here.” I decide suddenly. I’d planned to drag at least Bliss along for backup, but she’s put herself on the line already for me tonight. I’d rather not reward her with a misdemeanor charge. “I’ll check in on my cell and call if I need any help.”

“You’re sure?” Bliss looks fearfully around. “I mean, you’re sure you want to do this?”

It’s not so much a question of wanting to do this, as needing to get it done. I give her a smile, full of false confidence. “Are you kidding? It’ll be fun.”

She frowns. “Then, good luck, I guess.”

“Luck is for losers.” I switch on Eli’s remote, setting it to jam any surveillance. “This is all about skill.”

I grab my backpack and jog quickly toward the buildings, keeping to the shadows and out of sight. As much as I can, at least. I wish I were dressed better for this — some black clothes, boots I can run in — but maybe this is a good thing. You can’t claim innocence when you’re caught trespassing looking like a cat burglar.

McKenna Imports is on the far side of the lot, a modern, glass-fronted building with plush animals frolicking in every window and a cutesy cat logo above the door. Stuffed animals. I’d never have figured they were a booming market, but clearly, there are plenty of people willing to pay a hundred bucks for a giant pink bunny rabbit, if this place is any indication. I peer through the window and see dark reception area, full of potted plants and sleek couches. No sign of life.

There are two security cameras trained straight on the door, but I don’t have time to second-guess Eli. I pull out the key ring I swiped from the office back at the house, trying each in turn until both locks are open. I step cautiously inside. There’s no sound of sirens, so I cross straight to the alarm panel on the side wall, blinking red at me. 62–34–62.

Nothing.

I enter the numbers again, trying not to panic, but the system doesn’t disarm. 62–34–62.

Oh, crap.

A warning beep starts up. I’ve probably got another thirty seconds or so before it dials up the security company, then starts wailing so loud that every cop in the neighborhood will hear. Heart racing, I keep hitting the numbers, not even wanting to think about bailing before —

“You have to press star for it to register.” An arm reaches across me, inputs the numbers, and then hits the last button. The beeping stops, and the light turns green.

I exhale.

“Details, Jolene. What am I always telling you?”

“I don’t know.” I turn to him, pulse still speeding in my veins. “You don’t tell me much of anything these days.”

Dante doesn’t respond. He looks older than I’ve