Prom-Wrecked
Page 6
“Whatever,” she says with a flip of her hand.
“Hey,” I say to Owen, doing my best to use my happy voice.
“Hey, Cat.” Owen’s words are flat, exhausted. Proving my concerns about him taking on too much were justified.
“Tough game today?”
“Yeah. We got our asses handed to us by West Valley. How was cheer practice?”
“Same as always.”
He chuckles. “That good, eh?”
“I’m just so over the pettiness. Jessa is making it clear she doesn’t want any competition from the rest of us for Prom Queen, even though she knows it’s my legacy. What about you? Is the team still in the running for playoffs?”
“Doubtful. It’s been an ugly season.”
“Sorry. What are you up to now?”
“Kicking back, playing some Immortal Quest. Anyway, the reason I called… Have you had any luck with the fund-raising?”
“Oh crap, I totally forgot.”
“Catherine…” He only calls me by my full first name when he’s annoyed with me.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’m on it now, okay? We just finished practice and stopped by Starbucks for some coffee. As soon as I get home, I’ll start making phone calls.”
“What about your mom?”
“I’ll ask. She wants to make sure this prom happens almost more than I do.”
“Okay. Well, do what you can. I’ll call you later.”
He hangs up without another word, the distance between us growing wider by the day. I think we’re reaching the point where it’s harder to stay together than split up. But if prom is going to happen, I need to attend with Owen at my side. We can break up after the big night. With Jessa demanding that none of us challenge her for the crown, my relationship with Owen might be the only way I can win. He’s a lock for Prom King, and as his date, I could get enough votes to beat Jessa. She’s only been with Bryan for a few months, and no one beats Owen when it comes to school-wide likeability.
After stuffing my phone back into my bag, I head inside. There’s no sign of my friends anywhere. I run back out to the parking lot and discover Jessa’s beige sedan is gone from its spot. They had to have walked right past me while I was on the phone with Owen. One of them could’ve at least said something, offered me the choice to go with them sans coffee. I blow out a breath and debate calling my dad or Owen for a ride, but the need for some time to myself wins out in the end.
I order a coffee for the road and head across the parking lot before turning left onto the main thoroughfare in front of Starbucks.
My thoughts turn to my ever-growing list of things to do, but after my call with Owen, finding potential prom sponsors gets knocked to the top. The scent of warm cinnamon wafts from the bakery across the street, giving me an idea. I grab my phone and snap a picture of the large gilded window stocked with tiered plates displaying this afternoon’s fresh baked goods. Then I turn to my right and capture the phone number screen printed across the blue-and-white striped awning above Hamilton Custom Tees. Farther down is Riley’s parents’ photography studio, and beyond that is the simple, yet elegant storefront of Posies & Petals.
Wrapped up in capturing the names and phone numbers of local business I hope will be sympathetic to our cause, I don’t notice a car slowing beside me until a voice calls out, “Need a lift?”
Startled, I turn to find Jordon Oswald in an ancient monstrosity of a car making so much noise, I can’t believe he snuck up on me. His lanky frame is hunched, wrists resting atop the steering wheel. He shakes his head to get his dark blond hair out of his eyes.
“Um, sure?”
Jordon is your basic nerd, but we’ve done several school plays and musicals together, and he’s a decent guy. He reaches a long arm across the front seat and opens the door for me. I climb in and search for a cup holder to put my drink in, but there doesn’t seem to be one.
“Here,” Jordon says, reaching for my cup.
I hand it to him and grab for a seat belt, coming up empty-handed.
Jordon chuckles. “It’s just a lap belt. Down on your right.”
Good Lord, what have I gotten myself into? This is a death trap. My fingers fumble with the buckle, which is similar to the ones on airplanes, and tighten it until I can barely breathe. Jordon hands me back my cup, and I grip it with my left hand while I grab onto the armrest on the door with my right. The car rumbles even louder when Jordon presses the gas pedal.
“What is this thing?” I ask, inclining my head toward the dash so he knows I mean the car.
“This thing is a pristine 1966 Pontiac GTO. And her name is Sarah.”
“Ohh-kay.” Duly noted. His nerdiness has just hit a new level.
“What are you doing walking home? I thought you and Owen go everywhere together.”
I side-eye him. “First, hardly. I went to Starbucks with Jessa, Hannah, and Nat, but they left without me when I answered my phone. And second, I appreciate the ride, but that doesn’t mean you get to interrogate me.”
“Whoa. I was just trying to make conversation.”
Once it’s clear we’re not about to crash, I release the armrest so I can turn toward him. “Sorry, that was harsh. It’s just been a bad day. I really am grateful for the lift.”
He pushes his hipster black-framed glasses up his nose and returns his attention to the road. “So, Morp, eh?”
“What?”
“Morp. Backwards prom. We’re both on the committee.”
“Right.” Except I had no idea he was on the committee, too. “Yeah. I’m supposed to get some sponsors and I completely forgot.”
“Want some help? I’m on barn cleanup duty, but that’s just a one-day thing.”
I study him, looking for his angle, because yeah, we’re both in drama together, but outside of that, we run in completely different circles.
He lifts his hands off the wheel in a gesture of surrender. “Sorry—”
“Ahh,” I scream. “Don’t let go!”
He glances over and rolls his eyes in my direction. “Are you always this intense?”
I glare at him before staring out the front window, intent on riding the rest of the way in silence.
No such luck.
“So, are you going to tell me where you live?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry. Turn left at that second light up there.”
“Back to my previous question. Do you want some help getting sponsorships?”
“You wouldn’t mind? I mean, that’s a lot of phone calling and visiting businesses to talk to managers and owners.”
“It’s my senior prom, too.”
Of course it is. I know this. Ugh, why can’t I ever say the right thing? “Well then yes, I’d love your help. Up here, take the first left, then right into the cul-de-sac. Ours is the yellow one. Do you have time to go over stuff now? I have a list. We can split it.”
“Yeah, I’ve got time.”
He pulls his beast of a car up in front of my house, and I pray it’s not leaking oil all over the street. Mrs. Abbacus, president of our homeowners’ association, stands on her front porch, mail in one hand, the front of her coat clasped together in the other, eyes narrowed in our direction. Her tiny shoulders are hunched forward as if we’re in the deepest, darkest part of winter instead of a week into spring.
I open my car door, and the hinges creak with what I’m sure is a century of rust. I grab my stuff and hip check it closed with a slam.
“Hey, take it easy.”
“I didn’t mean to close it that hard, but it’s just so heavy. I wasn’t sure how much force was required to shut it.”
I swear he rolls his eyes again.
We stroll up the front walk to the wooden stairs that lead to our wraparound porch. The screen door is in place, and the front door is wide open. Mom is a big fan of air conditioning, but Dad says fresh air makes the house smell better.
“Hey, Kitty Cat, is that you?” Dad’s voice bellows from the kitchen, where the scent of vanil
la and chocolate wafts out to me.
“Kitty Cat?” Jordon asks, the corners of his mouth quivering as if he’s fighting an inevitable smirk, although he does a good job of controlling his expression.
“You ever repeat that and you’re dead,” I hiss. “Yeah, Dad. Um, I’m not alone, though.”
“I just pulled some chocolate chip cookies out of the oven. Owen can have some, too.” He pokes his head around the corner, his mouth dropping open before he quickly recovers. “Or, whoever your friend is.”
“Dad, this is Jordon. Jordon, my dad.”
Jordon nods at my dad in that way guys do when they think they’re being cool. I head into the kitchen and dump my bag on the floor beside the breakfast bar. Dad holds a baking sheet with an oven-mitted hand and places it on the stove. I grab two glasses and pour some milk for me and Jordon while Dad transfers the cookies to a plate and sets it between the glasses on the counter.
“Okay, well, I’ll leave you two kids be. I’ll be in my study if you need anything.”
My dad is an even bigger dork than the guy next to me. He and my mom are so different, sometimes I wonder how they ended up together.
Reaching into my bag, I grab my notebook and pen, then pull up the photos on my phone that I snapped earlier. One by one, I add the names and phone numbers from the pictures to my list. “Okay, here are local businesses that have been friendly to Hamilton High in the past or have strong potential. There are about twenty in total. You take half, and I’ll take the other?”
“Sure.” He moves closer, so close that I can feel his body heat. He smells like clothes dried outside, like the air on a hot summer day just before it rains. It’s very different from the scented shampoo and spearmint chewing gum I’m used to with Owen.
When we’re done dividing the list, he shoves his notes into his backpack and stands. I lead the way to the front door, where he pauses and turns to me, hand on the doorknob. “Hey, do you think I could get your number? So we can compare notes on our calls.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure.”
He hands me his phone, and I type in my details. My phone dings almost instantly with a text from him. “Now you have mine, too.”
“Cool. Okay, so I’m going to get started. Let’s check in later tonight.”
He gives me some sort of goofy salute before letting himself out. Moments later, the loud rumbling of his beast of a car rattles our windows as he drives off.
Lea Michele’s sweet voice belting out “Being Good Isn’t Good Enough” comes from my iPod speakers as I do my psych homework. My phone dings with a text, and I pick it up to see a message from Jordon.
Jordon: I called everyone on my list. Left messages for 5. 2 said maybe. 3 said no.
Catherine: I didn’t do much better. 1 said to come see her tomorrow to talk.
Jordon: Want me to come with u?
Catherine: If you want.
Jordon: Meet u in the parking lot after school.
Catherine: K
The little dots indicating he’s typing bounce up and down for a while, but no message comes in, making me think he just accidentally hit some keys. I lean back against my headboard and prop my book against my knees to finish the last of the questions due tomorrow. When I’m done, I repack my bag and set it by the door. Turning, I start to head into the bathroom to brush my teeth, when my phone dings again.
I haven’t heard from Owen since our phone call, so he must finally be checking in. Instead, I find another message from Jordon.
Jordon: Cincinnati Theater World is having auditions for Wicked in June
Catherine: I know
Jordon: U going?
Catherine: I don’t know. I want to
Jordon: U should. UR really good
Catherine: Thanks, but it’s not that simple
Jordon: U can explain why tomorrow
Catherine: Night, Jordon
Jordon: Bye
“What happened last night?” I ask when I slip into Owen’s Jeep in the morning.
His face screws up into an expression of confusion. “What do you mean?”
“You said you’d call later, but I never heard from you.”
He shifts his gaze to the road and starts the engine, pulling away from my house. “Oh. Yeah, sorry, I forgot. I just got so busy, and had so much—”
I place my hand gently on his forearm. “It’s okay, I don’t need an explanation. I just wanted to make sure everything’s okay.”
He gives me one of his famous grins. “Yeah. Yesterday just kinda sucked.”
Back when we first started dating, we’d talk for hours on the phone. Especially after one of us had a really bad day. But we don’t do that anymore and haven’t for quite a while.
“Any luck on the donations?”
“Maybe. Jordon Oswald is helping me. Between the two of us we got five maybes, and we’re meeting the owner of Francine’s Frocks this afternoon.”
“Good. A store that sells prom dresses probably wants to make sure said prom takes place.”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
The rest of the ride to school is quiet, the only sound coming from Ed Sheeran on the radio, a concession to me, since he much prefers something edgier like The Chainsmokers. When we arrive, I hop down before he has a chance to open my door. We walk into school in silence, my thoughts focused on how best to convince Francine Baxter to sponsor our prom and how much money I should ask for, before separating for our first period classes. Since I don’t really know the budget, I shoot a quick text to Owen between periods asking him to check with Riley on the amount.
He doesn’t respond until I see him at lunch. He tells me to try for a thousand dollars. That seems like a lot, but if the dance is a go, she stands to make a lot more than that on the sale of prom dresses. By the time the final bell rings, I’m actually pumped to go talk to Ms. Baxter. I’ve practiced my presentation skills since I was old enough to understand what that meant, groomed from the beginning to be a litigator like my mom.
After school, I find Jordon waiting for me on the low brick wall that parallels the sidewalk from the side entrance to the student parking lot. He sits, long legs crossed at the ankles, staring at his phone. When I approach, he lifts his head and shoots me a grin. “Ready to do this?”
His smile is infectious, and I find myself returning it. “I was born ready.”
He sweeps an arm toward the lot as he pushes off the wall. “Your chariot awaits.”
That’s about the nerdiest thing any guy has ever said to me, but coming from Jordon, it almost seems sweet, so I let it go without teasing him as he guides me to his car in the farthest spot in the lot. On the other hand, I apparently can’t let this particular oddity go without comment. “Couldn’t you find a place any farther away to park?”
He gives me a side-eye glance, his dark brown eyes easily visible behind his glasses today with his hair in some sort of organized messy style, like a member of The Vamps. “There are no trees or power lines above for birds to sit on, and no one parks next to me out here, so no door dings.”
I snort. “Your car is older than my grandmother, and you’re worried about dings?”
“Hey! I’ll have you know that Sarah is a classic. She’s in near mint condition. My dad and I restored her ourselves.”
“Okay, okay.” I put up my hands in mock surrender, a giant grin splitting my face. He sure is touchy about his car.
He opens the door, and a puff of hot air hits my face as I slide onto the scorching black vinyl seat. While I buckle myself in, he turns the hand crank to roll down my window before closing the door.
After he opens his window and straps himself in, he starts the engine, and a blast of heat from the vents pummels my face.
“Let me guess, no air conditioning?” I ask.
“She has AC, but it takes a few minutes to cool off.”
He backs out of the space and heads to the exit in advance of our fellow students who parked much closer to the school.
“So, tell me why it’s so complicated to audition for a musical that’s less than an hour away by car. I can drive if that’s the problem.”
“Trust me, the distance isn’t the issue.”
“Then what is?”
My annoyance with my mom is unleashed on Jordon, unfortunately. “I don’t recall saying I was ready to discuss my family drama with you.”
After parking, we cover the short distance to Francine’s Frocks without speaking. Jordon politely opens and holds the door for me to enter, his face neutral. If he’s mad that I snapped at him, he hides it well.
Inside, a single customer fingers a pale pink monstrosity that can only be considered for the worst wedding party in history. Sometimes I wonder how much brides hate their friends. The bells hanging above the door jingle as it swings shut behind us, and Ms. Baxter glances up from her computer. She removes her reading glasses and sets them on the counter before coming over to greet us. “Oh, Catherine, it’s so good to see you. You are as radiant as ever,” she gushes. It’s pretty over-the-top for a woman who owns the only formal dress shop in town. She pivots her attention to my left. “And who is this?”
“Oh, sorry, this is Jordon Oswald. He’s on the prom planning committee with me.”
She reaches out to shake his hand, placing her free hand on top of their joined ones in some sort of weird, almost flirtatious gesture. Even though she’s got to be over forty, her skirt only comes a couple of inches below her butt, and her three-inch wedge heels look like something she borrowed from her daughter’s closet.
She leads us back over to her desk and steps behind it. “So, what can I help you with?”
Jordon gives her a brief explanation of our prom dilemma and how we’re now doing something on our own. I explain about the barn and the booths, why we’re looking for sponsorship, and about our social media campaign. “If you sponsored us, we could tweet about it, Instagram our dresses from here, and use our hashtag.”
Ms. Baxter nods and listens intently while we talk.
“Can I see this dress in mint green again?” Bridezilla asks from across the store, raising her voice to be heard rather than walking closer.
“Excuse me,” Ms. Baxter says and disappears to help the woman.