Jordon’s hands are in his hair, pulling it at wild angles. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have…I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Oh my God.” What the hell was that? Was I really about to kiss Jordon Oswald?
“You and Owen.” He turns away, then spins back. “This was a mistake. I just thought…oh shit…I don’t know what I thought.”
“A mistake, yeah. I should go.”
“Good idea.”
He walks me to the front door and barely waits for me to step outside before he closes and locks it behind me.
Tears pool in my eyes as my cheeks flush with embarrassment. What is wrong with me? Owen and I are still pretending to be the couple of the year. At least Jordon had the integrity to get away from me as fast as humanly possible.
Once I’m strapped into my seat, the tears begin to fall. I wipe my cheeks and start the car, blowing out a deep breath as I pull away from the curb. Whatever budding friendship Jordon and I may have been developing was probably just destroyed because of a stupid, impulsive act on my part.
And Owen. Shit. I talked him into staying with me so we could be prom royalty. And this is how I thank him? A strangled laugh escapes. God, I’m a complete mess.
Chapter Fourteen
Riley
Three weeks until prom
When I get home from school, I pull up Q-Chat, checking for new messages. After running into Catherine and Jordon, every time I saw Owen in the hallways, he was the definition of miserable. What’s Catherine doing to him? Trying to make him jealous by acting like she’s interested in Jordon? Or was the scene for my benefit? Maybe Hunter told Catherine about finding me with Owen before school. Is this Catherine’s way of reminding me that she can have any guy she wants, even my prom date?
The shock on Owen’s face reminded me of the way he looked when his grip slipped from the monkey bars in fifth grade. He fell to the ground with a huge thud and broke his leg. Back then, I ran away, into the nurse’s office to find help, unable to stand the sight of him crying out in pain. But now, I want to be here for him. At least check in and make sure he’s okay.
When Q-Chat pops up on my screen, House of Lock is listed as currently online. I type a short message to Owen. It’s so much easier to talk to the boy you think you might love when he’s in the form of a digitized character wearing a helmet and body armor.
ESG: How are you? Anything you want to talk about?
He doesn’t respond immediately, so I minimize the chat screen and spar with an alien trolling through a supermarket. When Owen gets around to replying, he ignores my question.
HOL: Check out my last takedown. Green blood leaking from the zombie dude.
ESG: Blech. Gross.
HOL: Scary guys in sector four. When you’re free, meet me there.
We play in separate areas for a half hour, both of us destroying monsters and villains to rack up points. Eventually, we cross paths. I follow Owen up a dark staircase, and we end up cornered in a vacant warehouse. The screen goes dark. House of Lock switches on his headlamp, and a circle of white light reveals a trio of blood-thirsty trolls.
ESG: Game over? We’re trapped.
Digital-Owen reaches into his knapsack and produces a mini rocket launcher. He aims and shoots a flaming rocket at the wall of evil creatures. They immediately disappear.
HOL: We live to fight another day.
ESG: Thanks for the save, friend.
HOL: I’ll always have your back.
The cursor blinks, waiting for one of us to type. I’m about to sign off when another message appears.
HOL: Can I tell you something? You can’t tell anyone else, though.
ESG: Yes, you can tell me anything.
HOL: Cat and I broke up. We’re keeping it quiet until after the prom. For prom queen purposes.
A zombie walks through the wall in front of Evil Skater Girl, but she remains motionless on the screen because I temporarily forget how to work the keyboard. House of Lock tackles the zombie and somehow vaporizes him while I stare at the screen, my mind temporarily frozen around the message in front of me. I reread it about twenty times, while ESG stands by, still waiting for my next command.
HOL: Riley? Are you okay?
I rub my hands together, warming my numb fingers before typing a response.
ESG: Clarification needed, HOL. You’re NOT her boyfriend?
HOL: Not anyone’s boyfriend.
ESG: But you’re pretending to stay together? For prom purposes?
HOL: Affirmative.
ESG: And after prom, you’re leaving for college.
HOL: Not the day after, but soon. We’re all leaving.
He’s right. We’re all leaving. Life is changing. Maybe he and Catherine really are over for good. Given their rock-solid, long-term relationship, I doubt they’ll be able to stay apart for long. And even if they are finished, so is most of senior year. It’s too late for me and Owen to be more than friends, if only because I could never let him go so easily at the end of the summer. The minor despair of loving someone from afar is nothing compared to the full-on pain of a shattered heart I’d experience, sitting alone in my dorm room next fall.
I slide my fingers over the keys and type a short command. On the screen, Evil Skater Girl flickers before vanishing into her cyberspace home, where she’ll wait for our next round of fun and games.
What a waste of a perfectly good ten-year crush when the end of the story is you leave for college and never see each other again.
HOL: Are you still there?
ESG: Sorry. I have a lot going on right now. Can we talk later?
HOL: You won’t tell anyone about me and Cat, right?
ESG: Definitely not. I’m sorry to hear about the breakup.
HOL: It was going to happen sooner or later. We decided sooner was better.
I switch off the monitor and shut down my computer. My breaths are coming too fast, like I’m the one running from monsters. I sit in my silent room for a long time, wondering if I could have done anything differently. I never told Owen about my true feelings because I assumed he and Catherine would be together forever. If I’d said something—anything—would I be the one going to prom with him?
After school the next day, Hunter darts out of the art room, calling my name. I’ve managed to avoid being alone with her since the morning she caught me and Owen together in the parking lot. I know I’m shirking my duties as prom committee coordinator, but decorations are the least of my worries lately.
I pretend to ignore her until she steps in front of me, blocking my path. She’s wearing a long smock that looks like an old graduation gown splattered with paint.
“Hey, I’m working on prom decorations. Want to see?”
“No, I trust you.”
She reaches up and rubs a hand across the top of her short curls, marking the front of her black hair with a smear of pink paint. “You’re the boss, but I really think you should at least look at my samples.”
Waving her off, I say, “I’m sure the decorations are perfect. You won first prize at the district art show the last three years.”
“Yeah, but I’m not a party planner. I paint pictures of trees and the ocean. All this Project Morp stuff is confusing. I mean, I’ve never worked on backwards art before. Last year’s prom was normal.”
“At least you were at last year’s prom!”
“But senior prom is different,” she insists. “This year is our last in high school, and everything feels more important, you know?”
“Totally,” I say, and we share a look of understanding.
“If you really want my opinion, I can take a look at what you’ve got.”
Her eyes brighten. “Do you also have time to help me load the samples into my truck and drive to the Cleary field? Mr. Slater told us we can’t keep the prom stuff at school, and I don’t have any room for more artwork at my house. Owen and Jeremy already set up one of the smaller tents to store our prom supplies in one pl
ace.”
In reality, I have a history quiz to study for, a Language Arts theme paper to write, and a Community Service Club activity to organize. But I haven’t done anything for Project Morp this week. “Sure. I’d love to help.”
I follow Hunter inside the art room, which has been transformed into a sea of sparkly prom paraphernalia. White organza and streamers cascade from long work tables down to a confetti-covered floor. The overall effect is like waking up in Times Square on New Year’s morning.
“I need to get this stuff out of here before Ms. Torres asks the custodian to clean my workspace.” Hunter lifts the smock over her head and tosses it in a bin before going over to the sink to wash the paint off her hands. “I’ve spent the last two weeks working on samples. If they look okay, I’ll have the decorating committee finish everything the week before prom.”
We recruit a bunch of guys standing around in the hallway and load them up with boxes, bags, and glitter-covered poster boards. Hunter promises when everything’s set up the way she’s planned, I’ll see the big picture, which will be ah-mazing. Between my Kia and the giant white truck she drives, a hand-me-down from her father, we squeeze everything in and head out to Cleary field. When we arrive, Ray’s setting up his smoker next to the tent.
“Hey, Riley. I had some free time today, so I decided to take a ride out here and test this thing out with a few hot dogs. Want a snack?” he asks.
Hunter’s nose wrinkles. “That’s our prom food?”
I wave to Ray on the way inside the tent. “Jane said no one eats at a prom.” Seriously. I’m tired of talking about the menu.
“She’s right. I don’t even remember what was served last year.” Hunter drops a heavy box of decorations on the nearest table, and white feathers fly out. “Anyway, I’m vegan. I’ll bring my own.”
“You don’t have to do that. I asked for veggie burgers.” Outside, Ray fires up the smoker. I pick up the bags of decorations and move them farther away from the entrance to the tent. “Hey, Hunter? Did you ask anyone to prom?”
She rips open a bag, and streamers go flying. “No, but soon. What do you think of the colors? I stayed neutral with silver and white.”
She pulls out yards of sheer material, which she explains will be draped along the walls of the tent. I hold up individual sections while Hunter snaps photos to get a sense of what she needs to add to complete the look.
“Gorgeous,” I say, turning in a slow circle to take in the full effect. “I picture white tablecloths, flickering lights, and streamers draped above a dance floor that looks like it’s floating on top of the world, surrounded by the night sky.”
She smiles. “Good, because that’s what I was going for. A night under the stars…in a tent. I originally planned it all to go in the barn, hanging from the rafters, but I think this will work.”
The aroma of grilled hot dogs wafts inside the tent. “The night sky with a little meat-scented fog thrown in,” I say. “Maybe I’ll ask Ray to shut down his barbecue before the dancing starts.”
We spend an hour winding streamers together, testing different color combinations until Hunter approves of the final design.
“If there’s money left from ticket sales, I can buy paper lanterns to hang from the ceiling,” I say.
Hunter flashes a wide smile. “Perfect. I’ll dig through the art supply closet for extra material to drape along the stage after Jordon and his crew build it.”
“Everything is finally coming together,” I say, feeling a slight easing of the perpetual prom-related tightness in my chest.
Hunter gives me a wry smile. “Did you doubt it?”
“Only every day! I’m not exactly prom committee-leader material,” I admit.
For a minute, Hunter looks confused. “Why not? Prom is for everyone. It doesn’t matter who organizes it, just that it gets done. That’s what’s happening, right?”
I realize she is, in fact, correct. Maybe Catherine or Jane would have done a better job organizing the effort. If Tristan tried harder, he could have rounded up his friends as volunteers to do all the work. But none of them stepped up, so I should at least get credit for something. “It’s getting done, yes.”
Hunter snorts. “Then who cares? You’re a doer, Riley. We all know that. How many other clubs are you running this year?”
I rearrange one of the bouquets of tissue paper flowers she spread out on a long table. “I’m not in charge of anything except for prom.”
Hunter glances at me, then back at her decorations. “If you had to pick something to run, at least it’s the one night we’ll never forget.” After a slight pause, she adds, “Hopefully in a good way.”
Desmond leans over the lunch table, picks up my berry yogurt, sniffs, and sets it back down.
I shove my spoon into the cup, marking my territory. “Why are you smelling my lunch?”
“Because I like the nectarine flavor you brought in last week. Mixed berry is gross. The raspberry seeds stick between your teeth.” He settles for a handful of my veggie chips. “I talked to my grandpa. The Golden Eighties Guys should be home from their road trip tomorrow. We can have that audition you wanted.”
“I’ll round up the committee. Is the band available Friday, right after school?”
“I can ask them to meet us at the tent. Jordon said his crew’s almost finished building the stage.”
Right. Jordon. It strikes me that I haven’t spoken to my date since asking him to prom. Maybe I should stop by his lunch table and check in about…something. At least thank him for the stage. I pass the rest of my chips to Desmond and hurry off in the general vicinity of the Drama Club lunch tables. Jordon usually sits next to Brielle Parker, his costar in most of our school productions. I spot Brielle’s dark curls, and my eyes slide to the empty seat next to her. As I turn to leave, I notice Jordon sitting at a table in the back corner with sheet music spread out in front of him. His eyes are trained on Catherine and Hannah, who are engrossed in a private conversation at a nearby table. I slip past the girls and call to Jordon.
“Thanks for taking care of the stage. Desmond just told me you’re almost finished.” I slide into the empty seat next to him.
“Oh, hey, Riley. It was nothing,” he says, dragging his attention away from Catherine. “I just want prom to be nice.”
“It’s not nothing, Jordon. It’s super-awesome. So, um, do we need to talk about anything else?”
His eyes narrow and then grow wide. “Oh, you mean about us going together? Yeah, we should probably talk, but I’m really busy with a show now—”
I hold up my hand. “No worries. I was only checking to make sure you hadn’t forgotten our date. Catherine told me all about your car, by the way.”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Really? I thought she hated Sarah.”
My brow creases. “Who’s Sarah?”
He presses one hand to his temple. “My car,” he says, slowly. “My car has a name.”
“Oh,” I say, wondering if that’s a thing. Does Owen have a name for his Jeep? Should I name my Kia? Wait, Kia is a name. But Jordon’s car is named after a girl, so do I need to name mine after a boy?
“Are you okay? Still with me?” Jordon asks, waving his hand in front of my face.
“Slightly confused, but I’ll power through. So, me, you, and Sarah, huh?”
“She’ll be ready for our big night. Will you?”
“Definitely ready. We’ll talk more later.” I pop up from my seat. “Also, Friday we’re auditioning the band. I’d love to hear your input, as a singer.”
“Just tell me when and where.” His warm brown eyes light up, but still, I don’t feel the same excitement that practically knocks me over when Owen smiles at me. Life would be so much easier if I felt something for Jordon. But, then again, given the way he was looking at Catherine, if I did have a crush on him, I’d probably still feel like an intruder in someone else’s love life.
Friday afternoon, Desmond hops in my Kia. “Follow that big blue
car,” he says.
A motor thunders to life as a boat-sized blue sedan rolls out of the school lot, following Hunter’s massive white pickup truck.
“Is that…Sarah?” I ask.
“Oswald named his car?” Desmond laughs. “I could’ve come up with something way cooler than that.”
Owen and Catherine roar past Sarah, leading our caravan of vehicles. I follow at a safe distance, resisting the urge to press harder on the gas pedal.
Desmond plays with my radio, frowning at my choice of station presets. “Top 40, Top 40, soft rock, country, and pop. If this is what you like, no way are you voting on the band. Wait until you see the old guys rock out, Riley. We’re gonna light this prom on fire.”
“You don’t need to sell me, Des. You just need to convince Owen they’re better than the playlist on his phone. And Jordon will tell me if he likes their sound.”
As we turn onto the long, winding road leading to what was once the Cleary farm, I hear a boom, followed by the clanging of metal.
“What’s going on?” Desmond leans forward until his forehead is nearly touching the windshield. “I thought the tent and stage were already set up.”
My stomach tightens as I roll through a stop sign, cutting around Sarah and the Jeep. Owen honks his horn, long and loud.
“Who are you, Vin Diesel? Slow down,” Desmond says, jerking his seat belt across his chest.
When I pull to a stop at the edge of the Cleary field, our tent has disappeared, replaced by a huge yellow excavator and a giant bulldozer.
Owen jumps out and runs over to me. “Riley? What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure.” I leap from my car. “I need to check it out. Stay here.”
Leaving everyone behind, I race over the upturned grass and dirt, toward the trucks.
“Please tell me prom isn’t destroyed. Again,” I whisper to myself, surveying what is obviously a construction site.
“They tore down the tent.” Desmond appears next to me, eyes focused straight ahead. “What the hell?”
This can’t be happening.
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