by Tonya Hurley
“I don’t just give things away,” Petula insisted, turning back to Darcy. “I’m a social entrepreneur.”
“More like a social leper, I’d say,” Darcy pushed back. “Hey, maybe prom can double as a friend-raiser for you? Everyone is into helping those less fortunate these days, ain’t that right?”
Petula walked back menacingly toward Darcy, who held her ground.
“I have real friends now,” Petula said. “Besides, you didn’t take anything away from me. I let you have it.”
“I never look a gift horse-face in the mouth,” Darcy swiped, feigning a whinny. “I’m happy to take it all.”
“Now who’s the charity case?” Petula snipped.
“You can always just stop,” Darcy suggested casually, looking through the rack in front of her and keeping one eye on Petula. “I’m sure I could persuade The Wendys to let you hit the Reset button.”
Petula’s future flashed before her eyes—the future she had planned and plotted for herself before now. She could see it all, except for herself. She was no longer there.
“People change,” Petula said simply. “I don’t need the echo chamber anymore.”
“You are an egomaniac with a guilt complex, that’s all,” Darcy remarked, drilling down deep in search of Petula’s motivation. “This is about you, not about helping those losers downtown.”
“Psychobabble from a psychobitch,” Petula said calmly. “How enlightening.”
“You are not making one bit of difference,” Darcy pressed, seeming a tad frustrated. “And you’re trashing perfectly good outfits in the process.”
“You seem to know a lot about trash,” Petula smiled sweetly.
“Not as much as your prom date, I hear,” Darcy said, grinning widely, then turned back to the salesclerk, who was halfway hiding beneath the counter, hoping to avoid the fallout from any exchange between them. “I’ll have the dress now.”
Petula watched helplessly as Darcy handed over her charge card and signed the charge receipt.
“I think they have one left in beige in a bigger size that you might want to consider,” Darcy suggested, heading out the door.
“You can try to look like me, dress like me, even lure my flunkies away,” Petula squawked. “But there was only one me.”
“True,” Darcy preened. “I am the new you.”
Petula stared at Darcy as she passed by her, not so much in anger as in recognition of what she herself had been and what she could easily become again.
“Hey, Petula, I’m looking for some part-time work,” Darcy inquired snidely. “Are there any unclaimed Dumpsters you can recommend?”
“No,” Petula answered, “but I know some girls downtown who are hiring. You’re a natural.”
“As long as I look good,” Darcy said, fingering her trophy gown, “it doesn’t matter what I do.”
“Or who,” Petula interjected for spite.
“Later, Coma Toes.” Darcy began to giggle disrespectfully, swinging her dress back and forth like a carrot on a stick. “I’ll be you later.”
Petula walked into her bedroom. It was dark, but she didn’t bother to flip the light switch. She was alone and dressless. This was prom and she had nothing to wear. Losing her status at school was one thing, but losing it at retail was an entirely different matter.
She made her way over to her bed in tears and tried to come up with a creative idea. She was good at dressing others lately, but now, when it came to herself, she had nothing left. She rolled over and buried her head in her pillow and, as she did, she felt something. It wasn’t her comforter; it was much more substantial than that. It was heavy, and she could feel its beauty before she even flicked on the light.
“Holy Dolce and Gabbana,” she gasped, as close to a religious exclamation as she could muster, wiping the tears from her eyes.
There it was, lying next to her, a soft pink chiffon vintage Chanel dress. It was gorgeous, archive-worthy, something to be worshipped at a gala thrown in its honor, or even better, studied behind glass. In other words, perfect for her.
Petula delicately stepped into the dress, savoring every detail of the material. It was the sugarless icing on her carob cake. And, it wasn’t just the gown that was perfect, the fit was too. She slinked up to the mirror and checked herself out, scrupulously. The Wendys and Darcy had better prepare, Petula thought to herself. She was dressed for battle now.
“There is a God,” Petula sighed, certain she would be wearing the most beautiful dress at the prom.
“I thought you’d like it,” Scarlet said casually, walking by Petula’s door without so much glancing in.
She wasn’t exactly Petula’s God, but Scarlet was just the unlikely style-savvy savior she needed.
Chapter
21
Charlotte Sometimes
Whatever this world can give me,
It’s you, you’re all I see.
—Queen
Love to hate you.
We have the whole concept of popularity backward. We imagine it as a small and exclusive club of people we idolize or envy. But most popular people are hated by the majority. So, if you are despised by everyone outside your little clique, and liked only by those inside it, you are vastly unpopular by any objective measure. The key to ultimate popularity is not to be loved or envied by as many as people as possible but to be loved or envied by the right people. Petula understood this instinctively.
The night couldn’t have been more perfect as everyone descended on Hawthorne High, dressed to impress. Gossip was flying about who showed up with whom, who was wearing what, and who the best- and worst-dressed were. The comments were brutal enough to make a Tinseltown blogger blush. It was a night where everyone would say goodbye, to each other and to the confines of high school. Freedom was so close they could taste it.
Damen was set up and spinning at the DJ booth, rattling the bleachers as his beats pumped throughout the room and the seniors started arriving. The Wendys made a typically over-the-top entrance in a twenty-foot-long Ferrari Modena limo, complete with gull-wing doors. They didn’t so much exit the car as they were revealed when the doors retracted upward.
As they stepped out in the most stunning outfits, the pair made sure their dates were three paces behind and safely out of the frames before posing for pictures. The Wendys planted themselves in poses and then moved their heads from right to left with abrupt precision, stopping and pausing at exact intervals like automatic sprinkler heads as they posed for each photographer and literally put their best faces forward. Wendy Anderson rocked a white ball gown with a fitted, beaded bodice, and Wendy Thomas wore a super-sexy, backless green floor-length number from an exclusive boutique in town.
They’d been absolutely promonstrous in their quest, bullying just about every dress shop owner and local designer they could find into holding one-of-a-kind pieces for them to try. They all cooperated, however resentfully, realizing that, with Petula completely out of favor, having The Wendys wear one of their dresses would provide just the sales bump they needed.
Their dates were secondary to the dresses, just additional accessories. Wendy Anderson was escorted by the captain of the football team, of course, and Wendy Thomas was there with Gorey High’s QB, Josh Valence. Josh was the guy who had dumped Petula like a dirty rag and left her comatose—literally. It was actually Darcy’s idea for Wendy Thomas to bring him, even though she admitted to not knowing him very well. It was just another way to add insult to Petula’s injury.
“What is this?” Wendy Anderson asked as they walked into the lobby of the school and saw the huge banner draped across the gym entrance.
“Where is the Night of Our Lives banner?” Wendy Anderson bristled.
“It was changed,” Marianne said indifferently, taking their tickets.
“By whom?” Wendy Thomas asked, pushing her date aside. “Night of Our Lives is the perfect theme!”
“We demand to see your supervisor!” Wendy Anderson added, trying to help.
“I heard that some girl got to pick the theme at the last minute,” Marianne said, not wanting to let on that she knew anything about it. “She won a radio contest or something.”
Wendy Anderson had a sinking suspicion as to what girl she was talking about, and it was only a matter of seconds before Wendy Thomas caught on. They couldn’t be certain because they only listened to pop stations.
“Nobody gets to screw with our memories,” Wendy Anderson cautioned.
“But you’re not the only ones here,” Marianne responded rationally, “making memories.”
“We are their memories!” Wendy Thomas said, pointing her acrylic-tipped index finger imperiously at the masses.
Charlotte, Prue, and Pam arrived in the lobby just as The Wendys were causing a ruckus. Prue and Pam chalked up the super-bratty behavior to their all-juice pre-prom cleanses and proceeded to ignore them, preferring to take in the excitement of the event instead.
Charlotte, meanwhile, was lost in thought and couldn’t help feeling sad. She’d longed for prom since she was small. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined not living to see it. Now, here it was, right in front of her eyes, and she was… alone.
Prom was the first stop on the road to adulthood, one that had turned into a dead end. She was okay with all of that, but she wasn’t okay with the fact that Eric was going with her best friend. It all seemed so wrong.
Charlotte didn’t have much time to stew in her feelings, however, as Darcy came through the door, fashionably late of course. Darcy, in a skintight, red sequined, strapless gown, flaunting her kill-them-with-envy body, slithered down the waxed hall and straight for The Wendys. They’d decided to enter the room together dramatically, officially debuting their new power trio to what they fully expected would be wild enthusiasm from the assembly.
Unfortunately, it was not to be.
“Change of plans,” Darcy advised, smoothing the small wrinkles from her hips. “I’m going to the DJ booth.”
“Do you want us to back you?” Wendy Anderson asked, trying to hang on to a little limelight. “It might get rough with Scarlet or even Petula in there.”
“You guys can keep my seat at the table,” Darcy snipped, leaving no question who the star of this show was. “I want to walk in alone.”
The Wendys nodded discontentedly. Even Petula at her worst wouldn’t have treated them so shabbily in public, they thought.
“I’m going to get this guy,” Darcy said to herself, fussing with the cutlets in her strapless bra, “if it’s the last thing I do.”
“It will be,” Charlotte promised. “I guarantee it.”
Charlotte, Pam, and Prue knew they had a big job ahead of them, but as they approached the doors to the gym they stopped, stood together, and allowed themselves a moment. This would be the only prom that any of them would ever attend. It was every girl’s dream, theirs included, and one they each had believed would remain unfulfilled.
Whatever the ups and downs of being back, whatever they were required to do for others, this was a gift for them, as well. They might not have the pretty corsages or expensive dresses that other girls demanded, but they did have the greatest prom dates anyone could ask for: they had each other.
“Are we ready?” Pam asked, gripping Charlotte’s hand.
“It’s showtime,” Prue said, starting toward the entryway.
Charlotte pulled away for a second, her nerves getting the best of her. It felt almost like when they crossed over from Fall Ball, except the opposite. Both moments were filled with anticipation, but she preferred the unknown scenario to this one, which she could imagine far too easily—and painfully.
“You guys go first,” Charlotte said.
“See you in there, okay?” Pam said, smiling softly.
“Don’t punk out on us,” Prue warned. “We’re counting on you.”
“Eric’s the punk, not me, remember?” Charlotte smiled a kind of pre-vomit grin at them. “I’ll be right in.”
Charlotte prepared herself as Pam and Prue walked in ahead. It wasn’t the prom fantasy she had in mind, seeing her boyfriend there with her best friend, but if everything worked out between Damen and Scarlet and if Darcy was stopped, then it would all be worth it.
She couldn’t help wondering if this was what Markov had really had in mind when he sent them back. It was all about the little things, he said, but all this drama was playing out on the widescreen in her mind.
As Pam and Prue entered they were surprised to find The Wendys still standing stock-still just inside the doorway, looking all around the room with some mixture of astonishment and disgust. A quick glance up and they understood why. The smiles on their faces, they were sure, would be no match for Charlotte’s when she finally came in. She could never have been prepared for what she was about to see.
In the lobby, Charlotte visualized her moves like an Olympic gymnast about to take the vault before she finally talked herself into entering the gym. She closed her eyes, tightened up, and walked stiffly toward the doors, hoping Pam and Prue would be on the other side to “spot” her.
She stood silently, as Pam and Prue beamed at her, unable to find words to describe the sight of an entire room completely encased in the most lush, gorgeous flowers—red roses and deep purple calla lilies as far as the eye could see. They crept up the walls and dripped, as if they were weeping from the tented ceiling and the temporarily installed candlelight chandeliers. Enormous floor-to-ceiling sculptures of mournful, statuesque angels looked over the room, their wings folded to protect and their heads tilted in sympathy. The room was transformed into some magical Architectural Digest version of a designer graveyard and fantastical funeral parlor.
“What’s going on?” Charlotte asked, finally uttering a few coherent syllables.
“Surprise,” Prue said under her breath, still barely able to speak herself.
“It looks like a fantasy funeral to me,” Pam said, pointing to the fresh flower banner overhead.
Hanging above her was a living collage that spelled out “Charlotte ‘ghostgirl’ Usher” in thousands of red roses, complete with dates of birth and death. It was profoundly touching and unbelievably surreal and even a little weird to see people grinding away on the dance floor and having such a good time at her memorial. But she wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Killer prom,” one group of stag guys shouted, high-fiving themselves in a vain effort to get the attention of a group of single hotties dancing next to them.
“A surprise fantasy funeral?” Charlotte mouthed out loud. “For me?”
“I think this is probably the first and only surprise funeral,” Pam said, affectionately making Charlotte feel even more special.
“Somebody down here likes you,” Prue said.
Charlotte touched her chest and felt for something that wasn’t there, but that she could all of a sudden feel. What Scarlet had created for her was indescribable. It was gorgeous and classy, like a fairy tale. Or a state funeral fit for a beloved princess, but it was also prom, the most important night of a teen’s life, which only added to the sentiment. Best of all, Charlotte noted, everything was Charlotte-themed with her favorite songs, colors, and flowers.
Many in the crowd had worn black, in keeping with the theme, and Damen blackened the mood, in a good way, cross-fading into “Funeral Party” by The Cure as everyone floated around the room, elegantly celebrating Charlotte’s life and death. They all looked like beautiful, choreographed marionettes waltzing to a mournful symphony.
Not everyone was enjoying the scene, however.
“A funeral-themed prom?” Wendy Anderson spouted, banging her fist. “I swear I could just kill someone.”
“Are you taking suggestions?” Prue added.
Chapter
22
Femme Fatale
A happy life is one spent in learning,
earning, and yearning.
—Lillian Gish
Off-limits.
We li
ke to think there are some things we would never do. Standards that we set to guide us through even the most difficult circumstances. Depending on what’s at stake, however, we may find ourselves thinking and acting in ways we could never have imagined. It’s easy to draw a line in the sand, but sometimes it’s hard to find that line when the wind begins to blow.
Playtime is over,” Prue said, eyeing the line forming at the photo station. Charlotte was still nearly breathless as she passed by the gorgeously appointed tables, each one sporting an elaborate candelabra cremation urn, overflowing with flowers and with gold-plated toe tags hanging around the base as placeholders. The videographer was filming couples all prepping for their YouTube “eulogies,” which would be posted on the school’s website and then archived to be played again at future reunions.
“Everyone wants to be remembered,” Charlotte sighed as she took her place behind Prue.
The threesome made their way over to the line where guests were waiting anxiously to get their pictures taken. Damen had promised to get his picture taken with Darcy, whom he figured wanted some kind of verifiable proof of the event, but he was most anxious about running into Scarlet. He still wasn’t sure if she was coming, but if she did, he heard it would be with some guy nobody knew or had seen before. Leave it to Scarlet to keep everyone guessing.
“This better work,” Pam said, hoping the plan wouldn’t backfire, like everything else had lately.
“You mean trying to get away with offing somebody in a roomful of people,” Prue sneered. “Yeah, it better work.”
Even though it was Charlotte’s plan, she couldn’t believe they were actually plotting a murder.
They’d thought of all the ways they could “do her in” and reviewed ways that teens had checked out in the past: trying to fit into a size two dress when you’re a six, getting hit by a limo, subway surfing, falling off the stage at the grand march, and there was the classic anaphylactic shock from a corsage allergy. But none of them would work in Darcy’s case. It was all pretty creepy actually, but Charlotte kept reminding herself it was a kind of self-defense, and, if all went well, would be reversible. At least she hoped so.