by Amy Holder
I barely recognize myself when I look in the mirror. My hair's so long and soft without it springing up into my dreaded curls. I love it and can't wait to see the new style paired with my gorgeous, flowing gown. If my hair doesn't make Matt melt, my dress surely will.
"Your hair looks amazing! It's so long and shiny!" the girls rave as we leave the salon.
"Thanks! You guys look amazing, too," I say, admiring Melanie's sleek up-do, Rachel's new layers, and Ashley's bold swept curls.
"You sure you don't want to come over this afternoon?" Melanie asks, hoping I'll change my mind.
"I'm sure. I don't need any blackmail pictures."
Much to my friends' and my parents' dismay, I'm standing firm on my decision not to attend Melanie's preformal picture party, which her parents are hosting at their house. As much as I thoroughly appreciate the time and effort Delvin has put into his makeover, I don't want photographic evidence of him being my date. If, by chance, I become famous in ten years' time, I don't want my date with King Stalker McGerk of Loserhood memorialized in a "Celebrities in High School" issue of a tabloid magazine.
As I'm putting on the finishing touches of my makeup, my mom enters my room.
"Thanks for knocking," I say flatly while smudging more cover-up on the faded bruise under my eye.
"My little girl looks grown," she gushes. "Stand up, honey! Let me see the dress!"
I humor her by standing up and whirling around ... mainly because I can't pass up an opportunity to twirl in this dress. The light, silky fabric wisps around me as if I'm floating through the air, and my long, flowing hair dances elegantly with my dress.
"You look like a princess!" she says, glossy-eyed, taking a seat on my bed.
"Thanks, Mom. Too bad my date isn't Prince Charming."
"That's partly why I wanted to talk to you before he comes to pick you up." Her face becomes serious. "Please be nice to Delvin tonight. You know I'm friends with his mother ... and he's a sweet boy. I don't want you to break his heart!"
I sigh and say, "Of course I'll be nice to him, but don't expect a romantic happily ever after."
"I'm not expecting anything other than friendship." She points at me. "And remember, friends are nice to each other, April."
Why is she lecturing me? Does she think I'm planning on taunting him? Please, I'm planning on hightailing it to the opposite side of the dance floor. I won't be around to be mean to him. Rolling my eyes, I agree with her. I don't bother arguing the fact that not everyone is nice to their friends. Britney Taylor is a prime example of that.
She scans me carefully. Her eyes stop at my chest, which is showcasing my new chicken cutlet boobicle cubicle chestoid enhancers. I gulp nervously, hoping she can't see any remnants of them poking out. I've been trying to conceal them, but depending on how I move, they may show a little bit out of the corners of my dress. Luckily, they blend in with my skin.
"You must be glad you didn't inherit my rinky-dink chest." She laughs, looking down at her flat upper body. "You must take after Dad's side."
I feel my face flush. Clearly, my mom has no idea that I'm an obsessed bosom sculptor and in fact, I've inherited her less-than-there chest. If she can't tell that I have bra enhancers under my dress, hopefully no one else will be able to, either.
I smile at her and say, "Must've got them from somewhere." Unfortunately, the somewhere I'm referring to happens to be Victoria's Secret, not Dad's side of the family.
My mom bounces to her feet; an airy smile creeps over her face. "Well, you look stunning. Let me at least take some pictures before Delvin picks you up."
I agree; after all, pictures of me are fine ... pictures of me and Delvin are not.
Soon before my made-over date arrives, Haley calls to wish me luck.
"Good luck, Apes," she says. "Matt's not going to be able to resist you tonight. The hived peanut oil monster is gonna have nothin' on you!"
"Yep, cross your fingers for me. The trick will be to get it in her drink without her noticing," I say, inspecting the small vanilla extract bottle that I emptied and replaced with peanut oil.
"Just pray that Stalker McGerk leaves you alone long enough to get the job done," she warns.
Delvin's stalkerific tendencies have tortured my mind for the last week. That's why I plan on escaping his view as soon as we get to the formal convention center. Hopefully he doesn't secretly connect a GPS tracking device to my dress while I'm not looking.
Before I can reply, a horrendous noise comes from down the street. It seems to be getting closer and closer ... sounding like a screaming cat on a broken-down carnival ride.
Screech ... screech ... hissssssssssss ... clunk ... clunk ... pop-bang-pop!
"What's that?" I blurt loudly.
The phone slips from my hand as I run to the window to check out the ear-gnawing noise. To my horror, it's a beat-up turquoise Camaro with rust out the wazoo heading straight for my driveway. God help me; it's my spring formal date.
I should have known this was going to happen. Delvin isn't cool enough to have a nice ride. I was beginning to get suspicious when he still hadn't gotten his "new" car as of a few days ago. He had promised me that he'd have it in time for the formal. At this point, after seeing the beat-up gremlin parked in my driveway, I think I'd rather take a bus.
I hear the doorbell ring and my mom greeting Delvin, telling him how handsome he looks before calling up the stairs for me.
My gut stings as I slip the peanut oil bottle into my silver clutch. Checking the mirror one last time, I whisper to my reflection, "Why did you say yes? Good thing you're not a Lipstick Lawlord anymore. You'd be violating Lipstick Law Four."
As I reluctantly plod down the stairs to my made-over date, I can hardly believe my eyes. Is that Delvin McGerk? Yeah, I know he's been looking pretty good at school lately, and some girls have taken notice, but he hasn't been looking this good. If I didn't know that he's a tax-paying resident of Loserhood, I might even think he's hot. I smile briefly, realizing that the people at the formal may not recognize him, either. Unfortunately, this phenomenal moment is overshadowed by the junker car that's waiting for us in the driveway.
Delvin's jaw drops as I approach. His hands shake the plastic wrist corsage box that he's holding. "You look beautiful, April! Your hair is—"
"Straight!" I interject, running my hand through my sleek locks. It feels so good to do this without my fingers getting snarled by curls.
Nodding, he gapes and adds, "It looks fantastic!"
"Thanks, Delvin. You look really good, too. That thing, on the other hand..." I point out the window to his dilapidated Camaro. My mom shoots me a stern look and says, "Time for the corsage and boutonniere!"
She rushes to the kitchen to get Delvin's boutonniere from the refrigerator. While Delvin places the rose and baby's breath corsage on my wrist, my brother and his friend Jeffrey Higgins appear from the game room ... making themselves available for my humiliating exit.
My brother looks out the window at the hideous car. "Looks like you two love birds will be riding in style," he says.
My father quickly nudges him to shut up.
Jeffrey laughs like a goat. His Adam's apple trembles in amusement. What a disturbing moment to have sealed in my mind before the formal ... almost as disturbing as my ride.
***
Being escorted to the spring formal in a train wreck hoopty is almost as humiliating as the tampon locker incident. I can hardly hear myself think over the clanging, grinding metal.
"You said you were getting a new Camaro!" I yell over the ruckus.
He can't hear me. "Huh?"
I repeat myself, even louder this time, "You said you were getting a NEW Camaro!"
"Well, it's not brand new ... but it's new to me," he yells back.
"It was new in 1964, maybe!" I scream over the thunderous clanking and roaring muffler.
He corrects me, petting the dashboard with his right hand. "Actually, 1972. It's a gem."
"Ke
ep both hands on the steering wheel!" I yell, afraid that this monster mess of metal is just one misstep away from disaster.
Once at the Rochester Convention Center, I direct Delvin to park as far away from the formal entrance as possible. I want to protect myself from being spotted getting out of this crusty, rusty, turquoise hunk of metal. Delvin lunges for his digital camera sitting in between the seats.
"No, no," I remind him. "Remember our deal: no pictures."
Mel is standing at the entrance waiting for me as promised. She's glancing impatiently at her cell phone, checking the time. Her face relaxes when she spots me. She grabs my arm and pulls me into the formal entrance hall. A NIGHT TO REMEMBER banners blow in the May night breeze as the door closes behind us.
"You look awesome! But ... where've you been?" she questions.
"Delvin's car stalled eight times in my driveway before takeoff."
Melanie looks around through the crowd of dressed-up sophomores, right past Delvin. "Where's McGerk?"
He waves at her. She smiles back courteously, not realizing that it's him.
I laugh and point at Delvin. "In front of you."
Mel jumps. "No way! Shut up!"
Delvin puts his arms out as if he's presenting himself to the world for the first time. "It's me."
Gawking in astonishment, she blurts, "But ... you look so ... so ... hot!"
"Ummm ... thanks," he says, blushing.
I clear my throat loudly to interrupt her stare-fest. "I think we have something to attend to," I say.
"Right." She puts her attention back on me, grabbing my hand. "If you don't mind, Delvin, I'm gonna steal your date for a couple minutes."
Much to Delvin's disappointment, Mel pulls me into the large dance hall. Silver and blue streamers and balloons are overhead. I immediately spot a bubbling fountain of punch in the far corner of the room. It would be so much easier to just go ahead and spike the whole lot of punch, but I can't risk someone else having a serious peanut allergy and being rushed to the hospital because of my hostility toward Miss Dragon Wench Taylor. My job will be much harder having to slip it straight into her drink.
Examining the room, I lean in to Mel and say, "Where is she?"
She points to Britney. "How can you miss her? She's the only one wearing pink plastic wrap."
It feels as if I've been punched in the stomach as I zoom in to clear focus of Brit-brat in a skintight short pink dress with cleavage piling out the top of it. Matt's strong hand is wrapped around her waist as they're being swarmed by the Lipstick Lawlords. He looks absolutely delicious in his tux, but I'm afraid he's being contaminated by the head Lawlord.
"Look, she has a drink already!" Melanie points to the punch Britney's sipping. Her eyes light up as she glances down at my small handbag. "Do you have it with you?"
"Of course," I say, pulling out the little bottle, covering it with my grip. "I want to see the other girls first, though."
I always feel much more confident when I'm surrounded by people who support me. I know that with Melanie, Ashley, and Rachel cheering me on, I'll have the courage I need to successfully spike Britney's punch.
Tunneling through the crowd of formal attire, we meet up with the girls, their two dates, and Melanie's date, Mark Rhinehart. Surprisingly, he's looking extremely tall, masculine, and dapper in his tuxedo. The only thing slightly metrosexual about him is his meticulously styled blond hair. Ashley, Rachel, and I had wondered if he'd top his formal look off with high heels ... or maybe go for the gold by wearing a dress. To Melanie's great relief, he's all male tonight, as far as I can see.
The girls flutter around me excitedly while their dates submerge into guy talk off to the side. We admire each other's dresses, makeup, hair, and shoes before getting down to business.
"You sure you're going to be able to pull it off?" Rachel asks, her hands fiddling nervously with the black satin straps of her dress.
"I think so," I say, trying to talk myself into it.
"Maybe we should get someone else to spike it," Ashley suggests, biting her lip with nerves.
"We can't trust anyone else to do it," Melanie responds loudly over the blaring DJ. "April can slip in behind her. Brit won't even see her."
Looking at the girls' anxious faces, I want to put their nerves to rest with a confident smile. Unfortunately, I'm not confident at all about this idea anymore. I don't know how I'm going to get near Britney without her noticing, let alone slip some peanut oil in her drink. This seemed like such a good idea in the planning stages, but now that I'm at the formal surrounded by a bunch of people, blaring music, and gaudy decorations, I'm suddenly rethinking our plan.
"You okay, April? D'ya want me to do it?" Rachel offers.
Forcefully, I say, "No ... no ... I'm fine. This is my job. I'm going to do it."
A rush of adrenaline comes over me. It's true—this is my job. Britney stole my guy. She gave me a black eye. She spread nasty rumors about me. She stuck tampons on my locker. And she cut a hole in my favorite jeans. It wouldn't make sense for anyone else to take revenge on her tonight but me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I'm on a mission. Intense with aim, I have zoned in on Britney's group as I inch my way closer and closer to them. My hand is so sweaty, I fear the peanut oil bottle may slip from it by accident. Gripping it tighter, I continue my mission march. I'm stopped briefly by several hair and dress compliments, but I don't let this distract me, as I have to get to Brat-ney before she gets to me.
I look back across the room at my friends, who excitedly showcase three thumbs-up signs, giving me a much-needed confidence boost. I'm within earshot now, and a twinge of longing surfaces as I'm close enough to hear Mr. Hottie-Body Brentwood's delicious laugh. Who in their group could possibly be making him laugh? They all have the sense of humor of a jammed doorknob.
I carefully dodge being spotted by slipping behind various sophomores while I wait for a clear opportunity to pour the mutant hive oil in her drink. I watch her closely as she brings her glass up to her lips, taking a small sip from it. Then she does what she's best at and gives a backhanded compliment to Erin.
"No, really, Erin, your dress looks great. It totally hides your stomach bulge."
My heart is pounding louder than the DJ's bass. Unscrewing the cap, I glide within arm's length of Britney's rearview, still making sure I'm out of eyeshot. This is it. She's holding her drink to the side of her, unprotected. I can just pour it right in there. As I bring the small bottle up in position to spike her drink, I shudder with fear when the group turns in my direction. Quickly, I stagger a few feet away to a snack table bordering the wall of the large dance hall, hoping they didn't see me. For a moment, I innocently look in every direction but theirs, until I get the nerve up to reevaluate the situation. Thankfully, I realize that Brianna was just pointing out the bathroom exit across the room, asking if anyone needs to go.
"Oh, thank goodness," I whisper, exhaling a heavy sigh of relief.
With their designer clutches in tow, the Lawlords part from their dates and strut to the ladies' room. I can barely believe my luck when the girls brush by me gossiping, without a second glance, placing their half-full punch glasses on the table just a few feet away.
Is this a joke? Can it be this easy? Watching to make sure that they are indeed going to the bathroom, I wait until they're no longer in sight. When the coast is clear, I sidestep nonchalantly to the unmanned drinks. Hovering over Britney's lipstick-stained punch glass, I fiddle nervously with the peanut oil bottle as I look around to make sure no one is watching me.
A sense of sadness purges my thoughts as I scan the large room. Everyone is having so much fun. There's laughter, dancing, kissing, and talking all around me. And what am I doing? I'm in a beautiful Oscar de la Renta gown, sabotaging my dragon wench nemesis. Something that seemed so fantastical just an hour ago suddenly seems so juvenile and ridiculous. Why can't I be focusing on fun like everyone else? Why have I devoted this whole year to Britney Taylor?
First, by trying to impress her ... and second, by getting even and trying to make her miserable.
I become shamefaced looking around at all my fellow classmates, having the best night of their lives, all the while knowing that my night has been planned purely around making Britney Taylor a mutant freak.
Glancing back at my three friends again, I suddenly wonder if they would even be my friends at all if it weren't for our common hatred of Britney and her Lipstick Laws.
Although perched over Britney's drink is not the best place or time to be rethinking the last year of my life, I can't help my conscience from not allowing me to go through with the peanut oil plan. Is this how I want to remember my sophomore spring formal? What if her allergy is worse than I think? What if people think I tried to kill her? What if Matt catches me? Why can't I just forget about our rivalry and have a good time? I can't let myself stoop to her level tonight.
"I'm better than this," I whisper to myself, screwing the cap back on the bottle. I know I'll be disappointing Mel, Ashley, and Rachel horribly, but I decide that if they really are my friends, they'll understand ... and we'll be able to put this all aside, forget about the Lipstick Laws, and just have fun tonight.
I turn around with a burst of inner maturity and self-pride, finding myself a foot away from Mr. Hottie-Body Brentwood. His smile is contagious. Although, I notice that his face looks a little different ... I can't quite put my finger on what's changed, however.
"April! You look great!" he says, appraising me from head to toe.
"Thanks!" I blush, shoving the small bottle hurriedly into my shiny silver clutch. "I—"
I don't get another syllable out before I hear an intrusive high-pitched voice behind me. "Well, well, well ... I don't recognize you without the Brillo pad on your head."
I turn around to see a fuming Britney Taylor, arms crossed against her chest.