The Anti-Prom - By Abby McDonald Page 0,73

moonlight — well, the glow from inside the house — I know what this means. My pulse jumps; my legs feel numb. He’s going to kiss me.

And not just any kiss. My first.

“It’s just kind of a surprise, that’s all.” Tristan is still talking. “You know, one minute you’re just Meg, and the next, you’re . . . wow.” He smiles at me with that charming half grin I’ve been pining over all year.

I catch my breath. This is it.

He knows it, too. Taking both my hands in his, he pulls me closer. Everything is in slow motion now — the scene that’s played over in my mind dozens of times. I’ve felt foolish, being so inexperienced when other girls my age are off doing, well, all kinds of things, but right now it feels worth it. Perfect.

His head dips to mine and I close my eyes, feel the warmth of his face brush mine. Then it happens: Tristan Carmichael kisses me. It’s soft, and gentle, and everything I could ever want.

One minute you’re just Meg . . .

The voice pops out of nowhere. I try to ignore it, to focus on Tristan’s lips instead, and the hand he’s placed against my cheek. I don’t want to get this part wrong, so I press closer against that swim team chest. The kiss deepens.

Now look at you, the belle of the ball.

Tristan’s words from before break my concentration, but this time, I feel myself snap out of the moment, as if I’m separating from my body. The magic dissolves. His lips are just lips; his hands, just hands. We’re not so much kissing as pressing parts of our bodies together, like complete strangers.

The delicious flutter turns to frustration. Here I am, in the middle of a moment I’ll remember for the rest of my life, and all I can think about is a random comment. What’s wrong with me?

Tristan clearly isn’t so distracted: his hands are roaming across my back and hips, tongue exploring my mouth. I pull away, breaking for air.

“It’s, umm, really pretty out here!” I say, feeling like an awkward kid. I’ve ruined it now; I can tell.

But Tristan doesn’t seem to think so. He just gives me that smile again and leans back in. “I know,” he whispers, pushing a tendril of hair from my face. “It’s really pretty right here, too.”

I duck away. “I like the way they’ve done the garden!” I babble. “To make it look natural like this? I hate it when it’s just neat rows of flowers, and —”

A frown flickers across his face. “Is something wrong?”

I blink. “No,” I say quickly, “everything’s . . . great.”

“Good.” Tristan steps toward me, placing me lightly back against the wall. I close my eyes and feel him kiss me again, but my mind won’t stop now; something has been triggered, and now all I can hear is the wave of rebellious thoughts.

Since when should I have to cover myself in makeup and bare half my body just to get noticed by these people?

Tristan is still up against me, but I barely register him. Instead, I finally realize what’s wrong with this perfect picture.

I pull free from his embrace.

“What’s the matter now?” He sighs impatiently but quickly covers it with another encouraging grin. “It’s OK. Nobody’s going to find us. They’re all off asleep now.”

But that’s not the point. I take another step away from him, away from everything I thought I wanted. I can’t believe I’m doing this. After all this time, all those math classes spent daydreaming about his arms around me, and here I am turning him down? I swallow, wondering how on earth I can explain. “I’m sorry,” I manage to say. “This was a mistake.”

Tristan blinks. “But I thought . . . I mean, you like me.”

He says it with such certainty that any last doubt I have disappears.

“I did,” I admit, blushing. “So much. But you didn’t like me. Not at all, not until all this.”

I gesture at the hair, the dress, the shiny, sexy costume that somehow caught his attention in a way that “just Meg” never did. Because the fact is, he’s looked right past me all year. Even in my old gown, I didn’t register — like I don’t exist unless I fit their weird category of hotness. I suppose that’s what they don’t tell you about makeovers in the movies — that maybe the people who gasp with grand double takes aren’t worth the effort. Because