by Robin Mellom
“Not real y,” he said with a tinge of bitterness.
He gave me a half smile as I started to walk away.
“Sweetness!” Other Mike spotted me and yanked me back onto the dance floor. “Get out here now and enjoy these tunes.” He was yel ing over the crowd. “Where’s Ian?”
“I don’t know!” I yel ed into his ear.
“Ohhhhh.” He gave me a thumbs-up, faking that he heard what I actual y said.
So I shrugged, realizing we weren’t going to get any further with this conversation, but when I turned to leave I ran smack into a polished rock—Al yson Moore’s head.
“He’s gone.”
The music was so loud I could hardly hear her, but it almost sounded like she’d said he was gone. “What?” I leaned in, cupping my ear.
Just then the music softened—a slow song. A soft song.
Our song. “Open Arms.”
How was this possible? Did Ian get the DJ to play it?
Bouncing on my toes, I popped up like a marmot, trying to find him.
“Ian left!” she yel ed.
My feet dropped flat on the ground and stuck—hard—
like an Olympic gymnast.
Thunk.
“What do you mean he left? Where’d he go?” I could feel my Creepy Cat Lady face coming on, al twitchy with my eyebal s darting around the room.
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“He couldn’t find you. He went to do a favor.” She motioned her hand at Brian to come join her, as if this conversation was now boring her. “Ian seems to have lots of friends. Nice of him to do favors on prom night.” Brian fol owed directions and joined Al yson. She put her arms around his neck, and they showed actual physical contact, affection almost, as they swayed to our song.
Wait.
Ian.
Left me?
I knew I took a long time in the bathroom, but . . . what?
He left to go do a favor? Who would ask him to do a favor on prom night?!
I swal owed hard.
Crap.
A nausea tsunami came over me, and I spun around to get away, but Other Mike grabbed my arm and stopped me.
“Ian needs to get in here. I did that favor for him,” he said.
“What favor?” Jesus, what was up with al the favors?!
“The DJ. He’s a customer of mine. He’s playing your song right now.”
As if I didn’t know? “I know!” I yel ed. The twitch and my darty eyes were back.
No. No, no, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. This moment was planned, severely thought out, mapped on my GPS if he would’ve let me . . . and he was just . . . gone? This 142
was when I was going to get my answer. His kiss—proof he was total boyfriend material.
Everyone was paired up and slow dancing to our song while I stood in the middle of the room alone. I clutched my purse and held it to my chest like a shield—wishing Ian and I were the ones the chaperones had to separate. The thought of missing The Moment of Lip Lock Bliss with Ian was unbearable. It would’ve been an amazing kiss.
My heart started beating erratical y. It flipped and took a nosedive. I pressed on my chest to remind it to keep pumping.
It hurt—ached—as I silently wished for Ian to show up, make the dashing rescue and bring this sad moment to a romantic conclusion.
But no. Ian was not running in to scoop me into his arms.
He was out doing favors.
Hailey was right. Prom is a horror story. I bolted from the dance floor and dashed out the lobby doors to the parking lot, then stood on my toes looking for Ian’s car. I analyzed every headlight and every engine sound, trying to figure out if he was there. But no. His rumbling old piece-o-crap Mercedes was nowhere to be found.
My phone vibrated. I rummaged through my purse and final y found it. I had a text message. From Ian.
Be back soon. Did A tel you? Taking longer than thought.
He didn’t define “soon.” He didn’t tel me where he was.
And he referred to Al yson as “A” as if they were close. A thing. French lovers. Soul mates from another lifetime.
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Jerk. Jerk! Scumbag! How could he do this?!
I quickly dialed Hailey. But she didn’t pick up. I left a loud to-the-point message.
“Ian’s a dick. I want a Buffy marathon! !” I took a deep breath and forced my integrity back to the surface for a moment. And I texted him back. Where are you?
I waited and watched as people strol ed in and out of the hotel, probably visiting their cars for a quick drink or a cigarette.
I waited some more. I checked my phone. I checked it again. And again.
No text back.
No text.
No text.
I stepped off the curb and hurried over to the side so I wouldn’t be seen with tears pouring down my face. There I was, crying by myself in the parking lot on prom night. . . .
Pretty much the definition of the World’s Most Pathetic Moment.
It was al because of my expectations. Ridiculous expectations. I had actual y thought Ian was a Professional Boyfriend. That he was saving himself for me, just like I was for him. Why didn’t it ever occur to me that maybe he just wanted to be friends with me? Not be with me.
But none of this made sense. What was going on? He was flirting with Al yson Moore? He left me here alone? He was a dick?
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But part of me stil believed in him. I knew Ian. He was the type to swoop in and save the day. So where the hel was the swooping?
“Wanna cigarette?”
A limousine driver was leaning against a long black Escalade, holding out a pack of Marlboro Lights. I didn’t even realize I’d been crying and making crazy talk right there next to the limo. Which was rocking gently. Clear signs of some action going on in the backseat.
“I don’t smoke,” I muttered.
“Thought it might calm the nerves. You seem a little . . .
distracted.” He leaned back on the hood. Did he not notice the rhythmic rocking? Eww.
“Um, I think someone’s in there.” I pointed to the back window, which was now fogging up.
“Yep. They seem to be having fun.” Then he leaned forward like he was sharing a secret. “That girl’s dad gave me two bil s to make sure she had a good time.” Some giggling seeped out of the back window. “Looks like you did your job,” I said to the clearly perverted limousine driver.
He took a long drag on his cigarette. Then: “Yep, I love my job. I see a lot of crazy shit.”
“I bet,” I said, glancing around, trying to think of a way out of this conversation.
But he didn’t seem to want to stop talking. “Yeah, sometimes I’m a driver, but most of the time I’m a therapist.” 145
I perked up at that. “You mean couples spil their problems to you? And you give them advice?”
“Sure, I’ve helped plenty of couples in that limousine. I oughtta charge a bundle.”
Advice—from an outside party. That’s what I needed.
Not from a friend. Not from Mom. Not from pet psychology.
Not from prom magazine editors. I needed someone who’d tel me like it is. “Could I ask you a question?”
“Fire away.”
“How do you know if a guy is serious? Like if he wants you to be his girlfriend?”
“Go through the checklist.”
“Checklist?”
He stomped his cigarette out on the pavement. “One. Do you have an active sexual relationship?”
“What? No!”
“Okay, okay, I just needed to establish a baseline. I wasn’t sure how far things had gotten already. I’m guessing not far.”
“Not far at al ! That’s why I’m asking you if you think he’s interested in more. I would think an active sexual life would mean an automatic yes.”
“Not necessarily,” he said under his breath. “Let’s start a little easier. Has he ever said you’re pretty?”
“Yes,” I said, as I though
t about that perfect tint of lip gloss he’d noticed, and already feeling good about this checklist.
“Okay, but has he ever picked out something special 146
about you? Like commented on your eyes?” I paused, trying to remember. Nothing. I shook my head.
“Lips? Waist?”
“Waist?”
“As a reason to touch you, some guys wil do that. You know, ‘Gosh your waist is so oval,’ then boom, hands on.” It sounded a little creepy, but also quite nice. But of course, I had only experienced lower back touching, not waist touching. “No.”
And al I could think about was that late-night phone conversation after the Sadie Hawkins dance. Ian mentioned Al yson’s lips. He could pick out something special about her. But not me?
“Huh.” The driver looked up at the sky like he was trying to pluck something from the stars. “Oh! Has he ever bought you a gift, like a super nice piece of lingerie? Or jewelry?” No to the lingerie—we aren’t forty. But there was jewelry—the daisy ring, of course. Except it was one of those vending machine type rings you get at the exit of a Shoney’s.
Not like a piece of jewelry al the other Huntington High girls were accustomed to—the kind that cost as much as my annual clothing al owance.
Maybe a Shoney’s vending machine ring was al he figured I was worth.
The limo driver must have deduced my answer to that question, because I was looking at my empty ring finger, not at him, so he asked one more question.
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“Almost done.” He crossed his arms. “Has he ever said anything like ‘Let’s take it slow’ or ‘I want to move slowly’
or used the word ‘slow’ in any fashion with your name in the same sentence?”
The conversation in my driveway. When I said I wanted us to dance together, and he said “let’s take things slowly,” I had assumed he didn’t want to rush me. I winced. “That isn’t a good thing?”
He slid out a new cigarette, took a deep breath, and shook his head. “Sounds like you got your answer.”
“But I could’ve sworn he wanted to get serious. This doesn’t make sense!”
“Are we talking about the same guy who asked you to prom?”
“Yeah. Ian.”
He glanced around the parking lot, pretending to look for him. “Ian, the guy who isn’t here anymore?” I flopped my head and thrust my empty hand at him. “I’ll take that cigarette now.”
But before he could hand it over, the back door of the limo flew open. Two people spil ed out, laughing and fal ing on top of each other. Brianna and Jimmy DeFranco.
Oh gross, no.
Brianna’s smile became a scowl when she saw me standing there. I turned and headed back into the hotel. But she caught up with me. “Our secret. Got it? Or I’l tel Ian all about your little kiss with Dan by his hot tub. We al saw it.” 148
I shrugged but didn’t say a word.
“It’s not like people won’t believe me.” I squinted my eyes, making it clear her words didn’t matter to me, even though they did.
“You and your slutty friend?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Reputations, Justina. You can’t just lose them. They stick.” She turned and looped arms with Jimmy, then added,
“Don’t run from it. Embrace it.” Her scowl turned to a smirk, and not the cute, supportive kind . . . the ugly, fake kind.
She had clearly embraced her own reputation. And she seemed to enjoy the fact that I had one too. Like it made her feel more human to not be the only one. No wonder she wanted me to “embrace my reputation.” If I changed mine, she’d have to be the sole representative slut. Because that was not a title Hailey would ever accept. She’d rol and deflect until the label didn’t apply. But not Brianna. You either were or you weren’t—it was black or white.
But it wasn’t so simple. Not for me.
I so badly wanted to say, “I’m done. I’m not the girl with the reputation anymore!” But I didn’t. Instead I spoke softly, defeated. “Forget it. Our secret.”
She winked at me and leaned over to whisper, “The limo driver’s kinda cute. Go for it.”
Brianna and Jimmy pushed through the main doors—he smacked her on the ass, she blew him a kiss, and they walked away in opposite directions.
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I hovered near a bush by the entrance, trying to decide whether to go back in. I picked up my phone, pressed Ian’s number, then hung up. I did that three more times before dropping the phone back in my purse. What was I supposed to say? “Get back to this party so you can continue being just friends with me”? So we can “take things slow” and I can get back to being boyfriend-less with a reputation? So you can stare at Al yson’s lips?
No, I wasn’t going to beg him to like me. And I was not going to chase him.
Prom must have been coming close to an end because herds of people began to fil the parking lot. “Let’s get outta here!” Brian yel ed as he ran out the front door, holding hands with Al yson. They both slowed down when they saw me. The spotlight shining on the building reflected off a window and caught the sparkle in their crowns. Like they were perfect wedding cake toppers.
“See you at the after-party?” Al yson asked.
“Don’t think so.”
“You need a ride?” Brian asked. “Got plenty of room.”
“No.” I gripped my purse tightly. “Ian wil be back soon.” Allyson tilted her head as if she were about to say something. Her mouth popped open for a brief moment, but she clamped it shut and gave me a dinky hand wave as she trotted off. The two of them hurried through the parking lot, and he held the door open for her. But her hands were flailing while she babbled on about something 150
unimportant—probably about how unimpressed she was that they were in a car not a limo, I’m sure. He looked up at the sky a lot.
I didn’t know a Prius could squeal, but Brian managed to skid his little punky tires and haul it out of that parking lot.
Everyone else rushed through the doors, al headed somewhere. Certainly not home. And it hit me that I had just completely missed the prom. The whole thing. No food, no dances, no kisses. Just two more stains and one less date.
How did this happen?!
“Need a ride, sweet lady?” It was Serenity.
The two Mikes and their dates had walked up, looped arm in arm. They were smiling and giggling. Stoned out of their minds.
“Wait.” Serenity held her hand up. “Where is Ian? We can’t leave without him.”
I held out my phone, showing her our text messages.
“Stil haven’t heard back from him.” I flopped my head down, my eyes watered, and everything went blurry. “I think I got ditched.”
“Aww, girl.” Serenity put her hand on my shoulder.
“We’re going to In-N-Out. You should come with us!” Her voice was upbeat and persuasive—like she’d make a good car commercial announcer.
Other Mike was giggling, but he managed to get the words out. “Wil you drive us, Sweetness?” I kind of wanted to stomp on his foot and tel him to 151
stop cal ing me that—I wasn’t some “suh-weet” party girl.
Not like before.
But then again, Sweetness sounded kind of nice. Unlike anything else that had happened tonight.
I shrugged. “I don’t have a car.” My voice was high-pitched and giddy—I sounded like I’d total y lost my mind.
“My jerk of a date left me.”
“You know how to drive a Cadil ac.” Mike quickly handed over his keys. “Everyone does, right?” How disappointing. I couldn’t believe our own high school stoners were luxury car owners, too. Couldn’t they have at least owned a van? Something with a teardrop window and frosted glass? Something interesting?
I glanced out into the parking lot. Al the cars were driving away, and not one single car was driving in. Ian wasn’t coming back for me.
“Do you want us to take you home?” Bliss patted my face with a tissue, then patted her ow
n face, I’m not even sure why. But it felt nice.
I stood up tal and took a deep breath. This night was not going to be ruined by Ian. He wasn’t going to ditch me and force me to go home with my tail between my legs. That was for Sol. And even though I missed my adorable person of a dog, I wasn’t ready to go home. Plus, I was starved, and Mom’s leftover fundraiser curry didn’t sound appetizing.
“We’re going to In-N-Out,” I announced as I jingled the keys to the Cadil ac. “I’m driving.”
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9
Nutty Bar
“YOUR SONG IS ‘Open Arms’?” Donna has a wide grin.
“Yeah, it’s cheesy, I know, but—”
“I love that song. You got good taste, dol .” Gilda edges closer to me, leaning in. “So he ditched you to do a favor?”
I nod. “I didn’t know what kind of favor, but I knew I wanted to unhinge the mother of al lectures on him.”
“Would you?”
“Would I lecture him? I’m not his mother or anything, but I mean . . .”
Oh, gosh. Was I needing to be hyper-involved? Get in the middle of every decision he made?
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Gilda looks at her fingernails and says al casual y, “Maybe we should talk about your parents. What’s their relationship like?”
Oh, come on. This has to be the standard textbook question she asks al of her convenience store patients. She real y thinks my parents’ relationship has some huge bearing on my day-to-day behavior?
“They’re fine. Al good,” I say. “This is . . . look, they have nothing to do with—”
Both Donna and Gilda fold their arms. They aren’t letting me squirm out of this one.
And so I tell them. I tell them that my parents’ paths hardly ever cross—she’s so busy with her philanthropies, and he’s always training dogs of people who know famous people.
When they’re apart, I get all of Mom’s attention—too much of it, actually, but then when he calls, her world halts and she organizes him in a way that keeps him from getting lost in the world: flight schedules, bank account balances, oil changes. And when they are finally together in a room, they talk incessantly about all the minutiae—every moment and feeling and thought they’ve had while they were apart, and all of this is usually done between hugs and butt grabs and long kisses—the kisses seem to be Mom’s favorite because she goes for those whenever she’s not talking or breathing. But it’s as if I don’t exist. I sit in the corner with my hand raised, and part of me is grossed out by all of this and part of me is relieved to know my parents are still hot for 154