The Anti-Prom - By Abby McDonald Page 0,76
the night of her dreams. “I saw you together. You looked like you were having a great time.”
“Yes.” She gives this quiet grin. “It was all perfect. For a while, anyway.”
“So what happened? I don’t understand.”
Meg shrugs, her hair falling in a dark wave. “I’m not that girl. And I don’t want to be.”
She doesn’t seem sad about it, just calm — content, even — so I give up trying to make conversation and just let the dark highway speed by. None of us got what we wanted tonight, I realize. Jolene wound up burning that painting to ash, Meg isn’t snuggling happily-ever-after with Tristan, and as for my grand secret revenge . . . not so secret anymore.
It was worth it, though, all of it. I pull the blanket around my damp clothes, surprised to feel relief wash through my whole body as I think of their icy stares. I’m done with them now. Kaitlin’s backstabbing, Brianna’s power plays. The gossip, the drama, all that effort to stay part of the loop and on top of things. I can stay in bed all weekend if I want instead of trekking to the mall with the girls. I can roll out of bed without spending twenty minutes blow-drying my hair in the morning. I can eat carbs.
I’m done with them.
But almost as soon as it comes, the relief slips into panic. What am I supposed to do now? I think of telling Mom that the spa days are off, that all her friends’ daughters hate my guts. And summer’s coming now — months without a single party invite or girl to hang out with. The worst-case scenario I’ve been fighting all night to avoid is looming ahead of me; only it turns out, I chose it for myself.
Way to go, Bliss.
I’m still running through ways to avoid total social leper status (go emo, join band, become one of those drama kids) when I realize the car is making a weird clunking noise. “Uh, Meg?” I sit up. “What’s that noise?”
“I don’t know!” She slows down as we all listen to the splutter.
“And why is the warning light flashing?” Jolene looks over. “Are we out of gas?”
“We can’t be.” Meg checks the dashboard, worried. “I filled up on our way back, remember?”
The car lurches suddenly. Meg swears under her breath and then yanks the wheel, pulling off onto the side of the road just as the engine cuts out entirely and we roll to a stop.
For a second, there’s silence. It’s still pretty dark outside, with no light from houses or anything along the highway. And, I realize with a sinking heart, no other cars around either.
“I’ll go see what’s wrong.” Meg unbuckles her seat belt and gets out of the car. I watch through the windshield as she yanks up the hood. A hiss of steam billows up, and she jumps back.
“That can’t be good,” I mutter, scrambling to follow. Jolene doesn’t reply, but she pulls her shoes back on and soon, all three of us are staring into the mess of cables and metal.
“I don’t suppose either of you took auto shop?” I say hopefully. They don’t reply. I was tempted for a while — I mean, a whole class of guys — but Kaitlin convinced me that getting engine grease under our manicures was going too far in pursuit of hot guys. Right now, I wish I’d held out: bad nails seem like a way better option than getting stranded on the side of the highway in the middle of the night.
“I better go call triple A,” Meg says at last, heading back to the passenger side. She retrieves some papers from the glove compartment and begins to dial. Jolene wanders away from the car, wrapping her arms around herself, her wet dress still sticking to her skin.
“Are you cold?” I ask, offering the blanket. She turns away. “Aw, come on.” I sigh. This whole martyr act is getting old. She’s stalking around like I committed the worst crimes ever, but even if I did let her down — for five whole minutes — I’m trying to make up for it now. Not that she’ll let me. “Can you just give it up already? I’ve said I’m sorry. Let’s just go back to being”— I pause —“well, whatever we were before.”
It wasn’t friends, exactly, but it wasn’t this either.
“No.” Jolene folds her arms. She looks at me with disdain — not the snooty looks Kaitlin and co. were