Top Ten Uses for an Unworn Prom Dress

by Tina Ferraro

  With heartfelt thanks to my agent, Nadia Cornier; my editor, Krista Marino; my critique partners, Kelly Parra and Cheryl Mansfield; my plot doctors, Terri, Sandi, Lindsey, and my daughter, Sarah; my sons, Patrick and Nick; and my parents, for starting me on my writing journey.

  For Robert,

  who helped make all my

  dreams come true

  A heavenly floral scent surrounds me as the zipper of The Dress magically closes against my back. I gaze at myself in the mirror on the door—which isn't usually there, but whatever—and lose myself in the vision. I am totally feminine, elegant even, from the heart-shaped bodice to the nipped-in waistline to the bit of crinoline peeking out from under the hem.

  Not a volleyball-induced callus, bruise, or scab to be seen. I am Nicolette Antonovich, Prom Goddess.

  My mother is suddenly beside me, mouthing words about him being on the doorstep.

  Him. Rod “Rascal” Pasqual, the big blond football player who asked me to his junior prom. Who needed a date when his longtime girlfriend up and moved out of state. And who is so far out of my league that I suspect some of my bruises are from pinching myself.

  Mom and I float through the mirror, down the hall, through the living room, and to the front door. Which seems to be opening with a will of its own.

  Rascal's too-handsome face is right in front of me. His lips move, but his words are out of sync, something about me looking fantastic. I want to tell him it's all for him, but my own voice gets drowned out.

  By laughter. High-pitched screeches and cackles— like the Wicked Witch of the West has been cloned and is laughing her heart out on my front lawn.

  Then there are faces, everywhere. All around Rascal. And laughing. My teammates, my best friend, her evil brother. And inside the circle of Rascal's arms, I see someone. It's his perfect girlfriend, back where she belongs.

  And zapping me—and the world's most beautiful prom dress—back into our places, too. Namely, the bedroom. In front of the mirror. Alone.

  My mouth was gaping when I woke up this morning, but I wasn't laughing. I wasn't screaming. I'm not even sure I was breathing.

  That dream—the nightmare—hit waaay too close to home. Although in real life, Rascal had given me the courtesy of a before-the-prom, private communication that Kylie had come back to town, the bottom line was still the same. My prom dress and I were left out in the cold and, real or imagined, I was left trying to lose the remnants of laughing faces.

  Rascal and his girlfriend. My coach and teammates.My best friend, Alison, and her seventeen-year-old brother.

  Especially her brother. Jared McCreary, who still treated me like I was twelve years old, when he bothered to treat me like anything at all. Yet despite that, I have been continuously forced to humble myself and ask for his help throughout my saga. As I was going to have to do again today—breaking our two-month unacknowledged and mutual silence.

  Which was only slightly more appealing than the nightmare I was still slowly shaking off.

  And an hour or so later, things were quickly going from bad to worse. Not only did I have to grovel this time, but it looked like I had to do it in front of Jared's buddies. Three idiots so invested in my present humiliation that they probably wouldn't notice if hundred-dollar bills fell from the AC vents.

  There I was, standing beside Hillside High School's Senior Bench and staring into the eyes of the one person I swore I'd never ask for anything again.

  I steeled my nerves, reminding myself of my desperate crusade: to prevent my mother from potentially losing our house. Our somewhat comfortable way of life. And our frigging minds.

  I would suck it up.

  Somehow.

  I knew the only way I stood a chance with Jared was by playing by his rules. Pretending that the loud, fingerpointing scene on the deck of his parents' Santa Barbara beach house eight weeks ago hadn't happened. After he'd basically pulled me out of the arms of a hunky high school Canadian and then lectured me on safety and judgment.

  Like I said—twelve years old.

  But for today's purposes, I was determined to give that memory—as well as my dignity—the morning off.

  With that in mind, I took a deep breath and forced it out. “I need to hire you.” My hands balled at my sides like I meant business, when deep down, all a little voice inside me could say was: Please. Please. Please.

  It came as no surprise when the guys lounging around him laughed. And a crooked smile tugged at Jared's mouth. Not a particularly wicked smile or even one that lit up his eyes, but his pleasure at my discomfort could not be denied.

  “Hire me. Who's to say you can afford me, Nic?”

  His buddies did that nudge-and-smirk thing.

  I probably rolled my eyes. I know I did mentally. It was bad enough that the night before I'd had to actually see my mom cry instead of just hearing the muffled sobs through the bedroom walls. No self-centered, egomaniacal, year-older brother of my best friend was going to scare me into going through that again. I was determined.

  “Oh?” I said, trying to make light of it. “How much you selling yourself for these days?”

  A couple of “oooh”s and a “She got you, dude!” sounded from the peanut gallery.

  Jared slid off the bench and stood to his full almost six feet, clearly meaning to intimidate little old me. But considering I was the only volleyball starter under 5′2″ in the history of Hillside High School, you'd think he'd know I didn't let size get to me. Or a challenge, for that matter.

  Besides, that was something I had more experience with than the McCrearys. Jared and his sister, Alison, had a pretty cinchy life. Not that I didn't adore Alison. She had a huge heart and was always there for me. It was her brother who got under my skin.

  But it was also her brother, and his vintage '71 Chevy Camaro, that I needed more than I'd ever like to admit.

  “Listen,” I said, and flicked my head toward the stairwell. “Walk me down to my locker and we'll come up with something that benefits us both.”

  His buddies (the Three Stooges? Musketeers? Blind Mice?) did these stupid high fives.

  “Ben-e-fits,” the guy named Kevin or Keith called out. “I don't think she's talking about money, Jared!”

  Guys could be so charming.

  Jared followed me down the stairs and into the firstfloor corridor, as I'd suspected he would. In these first six weeks of school, we might have not so much as nodded in each other's direction, but I knew he was a decent guy and would at least hear me out.

  “So?” he said, stopping beside me when we got to my locker.

  “I need to go see my father,” I said, and popped my lock open. Then met his gaze. Yep, there was a frown.

  “I thought you hated him.”

  “Right now my needing him is more important than my hating him.”

  I couldn't help drawing the parallel between my two current situations with the male sex.

  “Where's he living again?”

  “Ventura,” I answered, which we both knew was an hour's drive north of our Los Angeles community, in the best of traffic.

  “We're talking rush hour?”

  “Depends when we go. But right after school works for me.”

  “Okay,” he said simply.

  “Okay?” I couldn't believe it was so easy.

  He nodded.

  “Well, good. So how much you charging?”

  I studied his face. Dark eyes. Arched brows. And that thick chestnut-brown hair. There had been moments when I'd have given my right arm to trade my blond fluff for his glossy waves. But then, without an arm, I'd probably still struggle in the looks department.

  “What'd you pay me last tim
e?”

  “Eight an hour,” I said. “Plus gas.” It wasn't like I could ask Jared to be seen with me in his passenger seat for less than minimum wage, but this was precisely the problem. Money.

  He nodded, then glanced away from me. At the far end of the hallway, coming into focus, were Kylie Shoenbacher and her entourage. Or what Alison and I called the Pretty Parade. Four or five of them, gliding in perfect synchronization, led by the roll of Kylie's painted eyes, her slender hips, and the bouncity-bounce of her B cups.

  Kylie and I were as different as night and day, she being beautiful, stylish, and popular, me being … well … can I get back to you on that?

  I mean, I wasn't a total loser or anything. Just small, in both height and feminine curves, light on the talent with makeup, and had long ago given up on taming my tight, curly hair. (Suffice to say I worshipped at the altar of barrettes and hair ties.) And even when money hadn't been an issue, I had never been interested in manicures or designer sunglasses, so I'd never be Kylie's idea of a quality girl.

  But whether we liked it or not, she and I shared a bit of history. June 10 of the last school year. When I was a sophomore and she was a junior. And she went to the prom with my date.

  I trained my gaze on Jared, who seemed, at that moment, preferable to Kylie.

  “So,” I said to him, trying to appear as laid-back as possible. “When can we go?”

  A shift in the air told me the Parade had cruised on by. Jared threw a fleeting look at the retreating wall of wiggles, and I turned, too, half expecting to see handfuls of confetti and hard candy falling in their wake.

  He glanced back at me. “You're the lady with the bankroll. When do you want to go?”

  Now would be good. Just cruise out the side door, jump in his car, and drive away from my problems.

  But first things first. I still had fifth and sixth period. I had to talk Coach Luther into letting me skip a practice (about as easy as escaping a maximum-security prison). I needed to call Dad (always a highlight). And then there was the lie I needed to concoct for Mom so she wouldn't get suspicious, setting her up for the bigger lie I'd tell when I got back.

  And all this went under the guise of making things better?

  “Tomorrow?” I asked.

  “That works.”

  “I'll have to call you tonight. After I talk to my dad.”

  “You know the number.” He took a couple of steps away, then stopped and turned back toward me. “Oh, and I'll tell Keith and those guys that you're paying me, but no promises that they'll listen.”

  “Why are you even friends with them?”

  “I've known them forever. Besides, it won't hurt your rep much. Extra Small and the Extra-Hot Senior.”

  I drew a long inhale. “Extra Small” was something he'd lovingly attached to me when he found out I'd been given that size for my eighth-grade promotion picnic T-shirt. Double meanings and put-downs totally intended, of course.

  He was halfway to the staircase before I found something sharp to throw.

  •

  “You drop this pen?”

  The deep, familiar voice caught me off guard. I looked up into Rascal's eyes. Blue and gorgeous.

  Talk about extra-hot seniors! With dark blond hair and high cheekbones, on his worst days he was merely gorgeous. On his best, he could pass for a younger brother of Heath Ledger.

  Anytime now I'd be developing that immunity my mother talked about. The one where I'd realize Rascal was a complete jerk and never should have asked me to the prom when he had a girlfriend—whether or not she'd been living out of state.

  Yep, any day now …

  “Or,” he continued, “did you actually throw this thing at McCreary?”

  “Yeah, I threw it,” I said, and managed to finagle the pen back without too much skin-on-skin action. “He deserved it.”

  “Give me the word, Nicolette,” he said, and pounded a fist into his palm. “And I'll take care of him for you.”

  I scoffed. Even though he had ripped my heart out, I could still totally get my mind around the vision of him with his shirt off, pecs flexed.

  “Come on,” he urged, as if I'd really agree.

  “I don't want you to fight anyone for me.” I felt a smile tug at my mouth. “But I still wouldn't have a problem with you paying me back for my prom dress.”

  Dimples pressed into his cheeks. He and I had been down this road before—on the last day of school last June, and several times lately, since classes had picked up again. “Don't girls re-wear those dresses as bridesmaids or something?”

  I blew out a breath. “There's no use for an unworn prom dress, Rascal. Although believe me, I'm working on it.”

  For real.

  Mom and I had a list tacked up on the refrigerator: TOP TEN USES FOR AN UNWORN PROM DRESS. Her idea of using humor as medicine. A heck of a lot better than my way of coping, by leaving that dress on the back of my door so I'd have to look at it every morning and every night, a thorny reminder of what Rascal really was.

  So far, the refrigerator list was pretty much blank. It had numbers, starting with ten and counting backward. Apparently David Letterman always saves the best for last.

  Sort of like how Rascal was saving me? For when things finally fizzled out with Kylie?

  Ha, ha. Dream on, Nic….

  “Well, you change your mind about McCreary?” Rascal said, leaning in close, his breath playing hot against my cheek. “You know where to find me.”

  I choked out a laugh, which was kind of hard with my voice catching in my throat. I wanted to say the same: You change your mind about Kylie, and you know where to find me.

  But that so wasn't coming out. So I stepped back, away from the aura of Rascal's warmth—and into a hard, well-muscled wall.

  Ack.

  Even though Jared had walked off minutes ago, had not entered my field of vision, and had absolutely zero reason to be anywhere near my body space, I nevertheless knew he was the wall.

  “McCreary,” Rascal said, staring over my head and confirming my suspicions.

  “Rascal,” Jared answered—but instead of looking at Rascal, he was turned to me. “I forgot,” Jared mumbled, thrusting a slip of ripped loose-leaf my way. “Here's my cell phone number. In case I'm out tonight.”

  I slipped the number into the back pocket of my shorts, then looked up to see the guys' gazes drilling into each other. I half expected them to start circling and sniffing like dogs.

  “You're calling him tonight?” Rascal asked me, although you'd hardly know it from the way his gaze seared into Jared's.

  I nodded, though no one was looking at me. “I—” Then I realized what I had started to do … to explain myself to Rascal. The guy who'd left me and my dress without a date for the prom.

  I don't think so.

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek to stop myself.

  Not that Rascal even noticed my nonresponse. He was too busy making this back-of-his-throat noise. For an insane moment, I thought he might throw a punch after all. (And I mean insane because any acts of aggression on our zero-tolerance campus meant automatic suspension, sometimes expulsion.)

  Jared shuffled in closer to Rascal, as if accepting an unspoken challenge.

  A flutter exploded in my gut. “Okay, you guys,” I said, and forced out a laugh. “Whatever's happening here, deal with it after school.”

  Neither moved. Not a twitch.

  So I did. I grabbed my books, slammed my locker, and walked off. I had an agenda. A class about to start. A mother to protect. A father to confront. And a life to fix (or totally ruin, depending on how you wanted to look at it).

  In my weakest moments, when I was about to admit that my mother was right about Rascal and that I was throwing away moments of “the best years of my life” mourning over a buttwipe (my word, not hers), I fell back on his half-baked apology for breaking our date, to keep hope alive that someday, somehow we'd get together.

  It had come almost two weeks after the prom, o
n the last day of my sophomore year. …

  I'd stayed to talk with Coach Luther about the starter setter position. I'd let her know I was ready to give my all to volleyball (since my love life was a total goose egg—although I didn't tell her that). She'd responded that my “all” wasn't good enough, that she'd expect 110 percent. In which case, the position was mine for the taking.

  I'd practically danced down the empty hallway. I'd slid my locker combos into place, opened the door, and frozen. Somehow I'd managed to amass a solid block of stuff in nine months' time.

  Twenty minutes and a trash can later, I'd slung my backpack on. It was crammed with sweatshirts, Tupper-ware containers, spiral notebooks, romance novels, and four or five umbrellas—I had all I could do to keep myself upright.

  As I'd stepped out the side door, early summer rain had pattered down on me. While I was trying to extract an umbrella from my backpack, a forest green minivan had pulled up beside me.

  “Get in.”

  Rascal's voice had set off bells and whistles in my head. Nerve endings I didn't even know I had sprang to life. But oddly, so did some latent brain cells.

  Get in. Get in? As if he'd said “Jump” and I'd asked “How high?”

  “I don't think so,” I said, springing one of the umbrellas to life over my head.

  “Get in,” he said again. Softer this time, idling the van beside me. “You've got all that stuff. I'll take you home.”

  I'd kept my chin elevated and my pace steady.

  “Nicolette. Look …” He'd rolled along slowly beside me. “Everything that happened with the prom … We never really got to talk.”

  That was what had stopped my clock. Was an apology possibly in the air? Had he and Kylie split up? Did he want ME to be the bikini-clad girl on his arm that summer?

  “Come on,” he'd said, and flashed those dimples.

  I'd closed the umbrella, heaved the backpack into the rear compartment, and slipped into the bucket seat beside him. “Okay,” I said. “Talk.”

  He'd raced out into traffic, telling me about a summer job he had lined up, and a trip up the coast. Then he'd made what felt like an impulsive turn into one of those drive-thru coffee places and ordered two café mochas. After paying, he'd driven to a parking lot for a nearby home-improvement store. Parked. Motioned for me to take a cup. And then looked everywhere but at me.