All the Way

by Megan Stine

  Was he kidding? Now I couldn’t even get a date with the school nerd?

  “Why not?” I blurted out angrily, like he owed me an explanation or something.

  His face turned as red as mine felt. “Um, oh . . . sorry, I mean, I . . .”

  He stammered around for a minute while I glared at him like I wanted to strangle him.

  “I, um, I just . . . you know, prom is usually . . . I mean, you’ve been with so many guys . . . I mean, not that I’m judging you or anything, but I’m not . . . I mean, I haven’t gone out with that many girls, so I’m not probably what you’re . . .”

  Oh, man. What was he trying to say? That he thought I expected him to sleep with me on prom night? Like I was going to take his poor pitiful, virginity away from him?

  My mind was spinning. Could my life possibly get any more painful?

  I wanted to say something so he’d stop babbling on, crushing my feelings and basically calling me a slut to my face, but I couldn’t speak. Tears were welling up in my eyes, and there was a lump in the back of my throat the size of a grapefruit.

  He didn’t seem to notice, though. He just kept on yammering.

  “You know, it’s your business and everything, but I heard you and Tyler spent the night together in Cleveland, and that’s just . . . I mean . . . I really like you, but . . .”

  Okay, this was too much, even for me. Was Tyler telling everyone lies about me now, too?

  “Just shut up,” I said, losing all semblance of pride, dignity, or self-control. I spat the words at him as tears streamed down my face. “Shut up and . . . stop talking about me and . . . and . . . just shut up about it!”

  Great exit line. Smooth, Carmen.

  Everyone in Murphy’s was looking at me as I ran out the door, knocking over a cardboard display of coffee beans on my way.

  That’s it, I thought as I barreled home in my car, accidentally running a stop sign and almost knocking over our garbage cans by the curb.

  I slammed on the brakes in our driveway, pounded into the house like an elephant on a rampage, and threw my jacket and keys on the bed.

  That was the limit. That was as much as I could take.

  With trembling hands, I picked up my phone and sent a text message to Ariel and Emily.

  It said: If everyone thinks I’m such a slut, I might as well act like one.

  Why not? I thought. I was done playing by the rules.

  And besides, at this point, I had nothing else to lose.

  Chapter 17

  “Wait a minute. If you’re going to act like a slut, how does that get you revenge?” Emily asked.

  The minute Emily got my text message, she’d called, like a true friend, to find out what was wrong. I told her how David had turned me down for the prom, how I’d had to run out of Murphy’s in disgrace, tears running down my face, and how having him reject me was the absolute last straw.

  From now on, I was going ballistic. Pulling out all the stops. Launching a guerilla attack. It was going to be a campaign of shock and awe . . .

  I threw in all the badass terms I could come up with.

  “I’m on the warpath,” I told her. “I’m getting revenge. On all of them.”

  “I’m not following it,” she said. “Explain to me how being a slut hurts anyone else but you?”

  “Trust me,” I said, twisting the phone so I could cradle it while lying on my bed. “I’ll make it work.”

  Poor Emily. She was so nice and trusting. She couldn’t really buy into the idea that I had a dark side.

  Well, okay, actually neither could I. I didn’t actually have a dark side so much as a mean streak. I was the kind of person who could take a lot . . . just keep turning the other cheek for a really, really long time . . . but eventually I reached my limit.

  Then, ka-boom. I exploded.

  “I’ve had it,” I said. “I’m not going to put up with the crap everyone’s been handing me anymore.”

  “Yeah,” Emily said patiently. “I get that. I just don’t see how you’re going to get revenge on anyone.”

  “I have a plan for Joey,” I told her. “He called me a slut, so I’m going to make that work in my favor. I’m going to make him sorry he messed with my rep. And my head.”

  “Really?” She sounded psyched. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not telling,” I said, because I really wasn’t sure how to pull off what I had in mind. “I don’t have all the details worked out, but trust me—it’s going to be incredible. But I need help with Tyler. I can’t think of a good way to get back at him.”

  There was a long pause, then a sigh.

  “I can’t discuss revenge on the phone,” Emily said firmly. “If you want to talk about this seriously, I’m coming over.”

  “Fine,” I said, feeling a long way from fine. “I’ll be up in the studio over the garage.”

  I sat at my project table working on my prom dress while I waited for her to arrive. The lights were on over at Molly’s, and I tried not to look, but finally I caved. Molly was lying on her bed, writing something in a spiral notebook.

  Wow—she had time to fit homework into her busy social schedule?

  Bitter, bitter, bitter, I know. But can you blame me? I mean, just a few days ago, my mom actually said to me, “Why don’t you try to be more like Molly? She’s getting a huge scholarship to college because of her volunteer work at the homeless shelter.”

  Right, Mom. If you only knew what Molly was really like . . .

  Anyway, when Emily arrived, I pulled the blinds closed so we wouldn’t be distracted by the Molly Barton Show.

  Emily grabbed a bottle of water from the minifridge we had in the studio, and I pushed my sewing aside.

  “Okay, seriously,” she said. “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t really know,” I said. “I just want to think of some way to get back at all of them, starting with Tyler. Got any ideas?”

  “Well, I was thinking on the way over here,” Emily said gleefully. “What if you started your own blog on a website? We could sneakily take pictures of Tyler at rehearsals. You know, show him flirting with Natalie, show everyone what a player he is.”

  “No, that’s not mean enough,” I said. I should have known Emily wouldn’t be very good at revenge. “No, I have a better idea. What if we put up a new website and make it look like it’s Tyler’s own blog? You know, use his name in the title, and put all kinds of nasty comments up about Natalie. Then we just subtly spread the word. I’d be like, ‘Did you see Tyler’s new blog? Wow, that dude is cold to his new bitch.’ Like that.”

  Emily laughed, but we both knew it was a lame idea.

  “Tyler would just deny it was his,” she said, “and everyone would believe him.”

  Besides, I wanted to get better revenge than that. Something major and irrefutable. Something he couldn’t deny or talk his way out of.

  “What about something to totally embarrass him on opening night of the musical?” I said.

  “Like what?” Her eyes lit up.

  “Like do something to his costume, I’m not sure what.”

  “How about a big stain on his shirt?” she said.

  “Yeah . . . but, no, no, on his pants!” I screamed, loving this. “A big old stain right on the front of his crotch!”

  “Arghhhh! Perfect!” she screamed.

  We both roared with laughter at the thought, but I wasn’t sure it would work.

  “If he sees the stain, he won’t put the pants on, will he?” I said.

  “Yeah,” Emily agreed.

  The gears in my head whirred, trying to come up with something. Doing something to his pants just seemed like the perfect kind of poetic justice.

  But what?

  “I’ve got it!” I practically jumped out of my chair, I was so pumped. “You know where he has that costume change right before his big love scene with Natalie? What if I sewed up the side seams of his pants and made them smaller! So he couldn’t zip them up! So he�
��d have to go out onstage with pants that he can’t keep on!”

  Emily threw back her head and laughed like there was no tomorrow. “You’re a genius!” she screamed. Then her face got sober. “But we have to think this through. I mean, what if he sees that they’re too small? You ought to sew them up on Thursday afternoon, right before the opening night performance.”

  “Totally,” I agreed. “And you can help me that night. Like when he’s changing backstage between scenes, maybe you can get him to fork over the blue pants—the ones he’s taking off—so we can hide them. You know, give him no choice, make sure he has to wear the ones that are too small.”

  “Or no pants at all,” she said, delighted with our evil plot.

  “This is going to rock!” I said, feeling my own power again for the first time in days.

  I was so high on our brilliant idea, I couldn’t sit still.

  “Listen,” I said, pacing around nervously. “I’m going to the prom whether I have a date or not. And you’ve got to come with me. We’ll go together, looking hot as we wanna be, you know? No matter what anyone thinks.”

  “You think so? But I don’t even have a dress!” Emily moaned.

  “I know! That’s why we’d better go shopping for you right now. Come on!”

  I dragged her out of the studio, ran into the house to get my purse and a jacket and leave a note for my mom that I wouldn’t be home for dinner, and we dashed off to the mall.

  Nothing like shopping for a prom dress five days before the big event to get the adrenaline going!

  “Do you think that black dress is still there—the one with the spaghetti straps?” she said. Her face glowed just from thinking about it.

  “Who knows? But don’t worry,” I reassured her. “There are a lot of black dresses with spaghetti straps in this world. If that one’s gone, we’ll find you something else just as good.”

  I felt like her big sister, which was kind of cool.

  “Besides, you never ever buy the first dress you try on,” I explained. “Even if it’s perfect. You’ve got to try on, like, a hundred, and then come back to that one, and finally give in to it.”

  Emily laughed, totally into the spirit of this shopping trip.

  The mall was pretty empty, so we more or less had the place to ourselves. I decided we’d start at Banana Republic because they had a fabulous printed chiffon tea-length dress in the window, with spaghetti straps to keep Emily smiling, but it turned out to be a bad color for her—way too much orange for her pale porcelain skin. They had the same dress in a blue-green print, but in those colors, it looked like something you’d wear to a garden party with a big hat.

  “What about this?” Emily pulled a blue silk dress with a pleated skirt off the rack.

  “Not hot enough,” I said, taking it right out of her hands and shoving it back where it belonged.

  Next we went to Hollister & Co., but they didn’t have anything dressy enough for the prom. (They did have the cutest little skirt and top in a chocolate color that made Emily’s hair look even blonder, so she bought it to wear in New York for her next American Superstar audition.)

  Then we cruised Major Party, a cute little boutique with a lot of local designer dresses. But they were out of all the small sizes.

  “Can’t we go to Kaufman’s and try on that black dress?” Emily pleaded.

  “Okay.” I gave in. It was getting late, and we hadn’t eaten anything since lunch.

  The minute she put the black dress on, I could see it all over her face: she had to have it. And why not? I mean, I’d picked it out for her myself the first time we were shopping together. I guess my instincts were totally right that day, because the dress just made her look and feel like a hottie. She even carried herself differently when she was wearing it.

  “You’re right, it’s perfect for you,” I said. “The only thing it needs is something to dress up the bottom. What if I add a flounce of black tulle around the hem, just to make it a little more fun?”

  “I’d love that!” Emily said, her eyes glowing.

  “Great! Now all you need are some long, glittery drop earrings, some cute strappy sandals, and a little black bag with a rhinestone clasp.”

  “My mom has a bag like that,” she volunteered, and then instantly looked guilty. “Oh, right. I’m not supposed to wear anything my mom would wear . . . right?”

  “Basically, yeah,” I said. “But when it comes to little evening clutches, vintage is good.”

  “So you’re saying it’s okay?”

  “It’s probably excellent.”

  For some reason, that made her happy. I guess we all like to please our mothers.

  We made the salesclerk wrap her dress up in a big box, just so it would feel more like a present when she opened it at home. Emily paid with her mom’s credit card, then I zoomed through the jewelry department and found the perfect earrings: four-inch droopy Judith Jack-style marcasite chandelier earrings. The best part was, they were knockoffs at half the price.

  Emily couldn’t stop staring at herself in the jewelry counter mirror. I held her hair swept up, so her cheekbones really showed. She was a knockout, now that I had worked my magic on her.

  “You’re amazing,” she said to me.

  Yeah, I thought. I am pretty good at this makeover thing!

  We marched out of the mall arm in arm like we owned the place.

  And all at once I knew the prom was going to be the best night of my life. We were going to be the two hottest babes at the dance . . . we were going to rock ’n’ roll the whole school . . . and if my plan worked the way I thought it would, I was going to make over my own reputation on prom night, too.

  Chapter 18

  “Carmen, can you, uh . . . can I talk to you?” David mumbled as I brushed past him five minutes before curtain on the opening night of the play.

  “Not now,” I said, shaking my head and racing toward the girls’ dressing room.

  What could he possibly want? I wondered. He’d been avoiding me all week, ever since that horrible scene at Murphy’s, ducking behind the curtains backstage, slinking around behind pieces of scenery every time he saw me coming, and darting his eyes away when we passed in the hall.

  Now all of a sudden he had something to say? Right now? On opening night?

  Well, it would have to wait.

  “Come on, people, curtain in four minutes,” Mr. Richards called, dashing around in the wings. Cast members were everywhere, most of them fully costumed and ready to go, but some of them racing to Dressing Room C, where guys and girls both were either doing their own makeup or having it done by a few parents who had volunteered to help.

  “Carmen, my fishnets are ripped!” Becca cried, racing up to me with a doom-and-disaster expression on her face.

  She twirled so I could see the big gash in the back of her fishnet stockings.

  “Don’t worry, I can fix it.” I dashed over to the lighting board and grabbed a small roll of black electrician’s tape.

  I tore off a small piece about the size of a fingernail clipping and used it to patch her stockings, pulling the torn pieces together.

  “Genius,” she said gratefully. “Thanks!”

  “Emily! The crap table is missing!” Mr. Richards called.

  “Right there!”

  “Someone sat on my hat!”

  “Carmen! Can you find another hat for Nicely Nicely Johnson?” Mr. Richards called.

  “We need the chorus boys and girls stage left immediately!” Darren Gagin, who was acting as stage manager, called.

  “I can’t find my drum!” Natalie moaned. “It was right here a minute ago. Dammit, Tyler, did you move my drum?”

  “Calm down, my darling,” Tyler said in his most theatrical baritone voice, and a fake English accent. “If we don’t find it before curtain, you can simply beat on me.”

  I raced around checking each of the actors to make sure they hadn’t forgotten to zip up, or button, or whatever, and making sure they had all the
ir accessories on. Then I went from guy to guy, trying to find one who had a big head and didn’t need his hat, so Nicely Nicely Johnson (played by not-so-nicely Benny Rancelli) could have a hat for his opening number.

  When I came to Tyler, I just glanced up and down and said, “Yeah, you look like a guy who’d make a bet about conning a girl.”

  He didn’t dare say anything back. He knew he’d been a first-class ass.

  That was the one difference between Tyler and Joey: Joey was an asshole without even realizing it.

  Finally the curtain went up, and half the cast rushed onstage for the opening dance number. Natalie wasn’t part of it, so she hung out backstage, watching me like a hawk.

  What’s her problem? I wondered. Had she somehow figured out what Emily and I were up to?

  I tried to think hard, to make sure she hadn’t seen us or overheard anything over the past few days. Emily and I had worked the whole revenge plan out in cunning detail. We’d watched both dress rehearsals on Tuesday and Wednesday so we knew exactly where Tyler would go to change. The boys’ dressing room was too far away from the wings for the quick change Tyler needed to make in Act II, so Mr. Richards had gotten the crew to set up a screen in the back corner of the wings, stage left. It was dark back there anyway, and the guys weren’t too worried about privacy, so they were supposed to just duck behind the screen, change their costumes, and get back out, ready for their cues.

  The great thing was that Sky Masterson didn’t even need to have a costume change in the second act, but Tyler was such a peacock, it had been his idea. There was this very cool suit he’d found at a thrift shop—it showed off his cute butt—so he bought it and talked me into letting him change into it right before his big love scene with Natalie.

  That was back when he could get me to do what he wanted. Way before last weekend, needless to say.

  Emily came up and stood beside me as we watched from the wings.

  “Everyone’s nervous, you can tell,” she mumbled under her breath.