The Anti-Prom - By Abby McDonald Page 0,58

single thing. I’ll work my way through college, like I would without him. I’ll go to State, try for a transfer next year, take on more loans if that’s what it takes. I’ll get by because I want to; I’ll make it out of this damn town on my own — no more fooling around, no more trying to make him care.

But if he doesn’t owe me anything, then I don’t owe him a damn thing either.

He’s not my father anymore. He hasn’t earned the right.

I struggle to my feet and stretch, feeling the stiff ache in every limb. I’m so tired I could curl up and sleep right here on the ground, but instead, I take my things and start to walk. Steady, this time.

A car turns onto the block behind me. It slows, drawing level. I tense.

“Jolene!” It’s barely stopped before Bliss leaps out and limps over. “Thank God, we’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

I blink. “I thought . . . you were going home. Or to that party . . .” I shake my head, still foggy from tears and tiredness.

“We were, until I figured out what you were going to do.” Bliss’s eyes are wide with concern. She looks around quickly. “You haven’t been there already, have you? ’Cause we swung by your dad’s house, but everything looked fine, so . . .” She pauses, reaching a hand to my shoulder. “Hey. Are you OK?”

I give another awkward shrug, but I don’t shake her off. I don’t know why people ask that. What do they expect — for you to spill your soul out right there for them to see? I look past her instead, to where Meg is looking anxiously out from the driver’s side, like she actually cares.

They came back for me.

The thought is strangely comforting. I manage a weak smile. “What is this, an intervention?”

“More like a rescue,” Bliss answers, taking my bag and pushing me gently toward the car. I don’t argue. This time, I’m the one to collapse in the backseat, grateful for the soft seats and warm air. Bliss climbs in up front and twists around. “So you didn’t do anything crazy? I was expecting to find, like, every window smashed in, or the pool house burned down or something.”

I shake my head.

“But you went there, right?” She frowns.

I nod.

“And you’ve still got the painting?”

I don’t even realize until she says it, but the roll is still clutched in my hand. How stupid. As if a scrap of canvas could ever make a difference, or the smallest dent in his denial.

“I . . . I need to get rid of it,” I say at last. We’re driving slowly, Meg taking us back through the development and up along the dirt road at the edge of the golf course. “It won’t make a difference.” I try to think clearly. “She’s seen me with it, and there’s all that mess back at the office. But if they can’t find it on me . . .”

Bliss bites her lip. “Is there anywhere we can stash it for now?”

I shake my head, harder this time. “No, I don’t want it back. I need it gone.”

There’s silence.

“We could burn it,” Bliss says cheerfully. “Except we don’t have fuel or anything.”

“Check my bag,” I tell her, slumping back in the corner of the backseat. A moment later, she comes up with the small bottle of lighter fluid I keep stashed in the side pocket. She gives me a careful look.

“Sure, because you should always throw some butane in with your sweater and tampons.”

There’s a pause, and then all three of us crack a grin at the same time. Mine is weak, sure, but it’s something.

“How would you explain that?” Meg asks, laughing. “Oh, no, officer, it’s just in case I need to do some spontaneous barbecuing?”

“It’s nail-polish remover, honest!”

I don’t laugh along, but their giggles soften the harsh ache around my chest. Make me feel less alone.

“Right. Burning it is, then.” Bliss still sounds way too breezy, as if this is a trip to the mall we’re talking about here. I wait for Meg’s objections, but instead, she pulls up on the side of the road. We’re on the ridge I trekked up earlier, above the dark valley of the fairway and woods.

“I have matches in my trunk,” Meg says, to my surprise. She seems more relaxed somehow, as if the thought of committing felonies doesn’t fill her with terror anymore. But just when I’m wondering