The Anti-Prom - By Abby McDonald Page 0,61
You’ve got to stick your shoulders back.” Bliss reaches over and reties the halter neck. I switched into her dress back at the golf course, under the instruction that mine was way too classy — given that it covered most of my available limbs. Now I’m swathed in her white silk designer outfit, while she’s happily selected the best of our assorted pajama party heist: striped knee socks to cover her bandage, the giraffe shorts, and, yes, that snuggly top.
But Bliss’s questionable fashion choices are the last thing on my mind right now. “You can practically see my nipples!” I object, looking down at the folds of white silk draped precariously over my braless chest.
“Not unless it’s cold out,” Bliss replies, unconcerned. She pulls several thin strips of what looks like tape from her purse and proceeds to stick the dress to my skin, tugging and folding at the fabric until it looks as if it were made to fit me — a miraculous feat, given the fact that I’m three inches shorter than her and at least fifteen pounds heavier, in all the wrong places.
“Voilà!” she declares. “Hot. Very hot. And don’t forget the purse to match.”
“Very illegal, you mean.” I take the beaded clutch she thrusts at me and check myself in the tiny strip of mirror again, my contacts already itching from the amount of mascara and eyeliner Bliss has slicked on my eyelids. I look about two years older and ten times as glamorous as I have in my entire life.
“Do you want Tristan to fall at your feet or not?” she challenges, brandishing a lip-gloss wand at me.
“There.” Admiring her handiwork, Bliss secures another strand of hair in the messy ponytail, pulling a few more to frame my face with tiny ringlets. “I am officially a genius. What do you think, Jolene?”
Jolene rises from where she’s been laying comatose on the backseat. “You look like a stray Pussycat Doll.”
“See?” Bliss grins. “Perfect.”
The moment we step past the front door, I’m hit by a wave of music thundering with a bass I can feel vibrate clear through my chest. It’s loud and hot, packed with bodies and a whirl of laughter and hollering from every cream-papered room. I pause in the marble-trimmed hallway, hesitant, but Bliss plunges ahead into the crowd. I don’t see Jolene, but since Bliss is gripping my wrist in a vicelike hold, I have no choice but to follow.
“None of that sneaking around,” Bliss yells in my ear, yanking me through a knot of girls dancing in the living room. Some of them are balanced up on the couch, yelling along to the music as they bounce, barefoot on the brocade cushions. “Remember what I said; you have to look confident, like you belong!”
I nod, wordless. After the college party, I thought I’d be a little more immune to scenes of teen debauchery, but now that I’m here, I realize how different this is: I know these kids. That’s gangly Jenny Phillips raising her eyebrows at me as we pass, and Mike Tucker from my Chem lab dropping his mouth open as he does a quick double take. Despite all my grand plans, I begin to retreat into myself, wilting under their gaze.
“I mean it,” Bliss scolds me, coming to a stop in the back hallway. Outside, the sound of splashes and squealing filters through the French doors, and I see a tangle of boys hurl themselves into the pool, still in dress shirts and tuxedo pants. “I can only change all this.” She gestures from head to toe. “It’s up to you to do the rest.”
“But —”
“Enough with the freaking buts! You’re doing this.” Bliss gives me a sharp push, and I find myself propelled out onto the back patio, struggling not to fall flat on my newly made-up face.
“Hiya!” I hear Bliss’s synthetic squeal ring out even through the noise. I watch as she sashays ahead, greeting kids with bright air-kisses and yells. “No way, I’ve been here for ages!” she insists, flipping her hair and reaching to take a swig of another girl’s drink.
I follow, awkwardly hovering on the edge of the crowd. It’s quieter out here, at least; less soul-shaking music, and more laughter and gossiping. The paved patio area is full of tables bearing crisp cloths and platters of elaborate hors d’oeuvres, with a stone staircase curving down to the pool area and the lawn stretching beyond.
“And then she caught AJ in the foyer with his belt