she got hurt; as she said, I only wanted to get at Dellian. I ducked my head back in the door. “Okay, I promise not to tell if you promise that whatever’s going on, you’ll find a way to stop it. You deserve better.”
Mascara and tears streaked her face; she wiped her nose. “I . . . I will. Monday, okay?” She pulled out her green pipe and stepped back into the stall. “Just let me get through homecoming.”
Hours before
I skipped the homecoming game Friday night. Last year I froze my butt off while people like Missy paraded around on the field during halftime to make sure everyone knew they had been nominated for homecoming royalty. I didn’t see the need to watch a repeat. Besides, Jonathan told me he couldn’t hang out with me anyway—too much “homecoming stuff” to do.
“Hey, Beautiful,” Jonathan said when he called Saturday morning. “I can’t pick you up tonight. Homecoming stuff, you know? Can you meet me at the dance?”
“I guess so.” I rolled my eyes. What “stuff” could he possibly have to do that meant he couldn’t pick me up? I was his date!
He launched into his usual rant about the scouts who would be watching him play hockey this year and how Dellian was going to mess it up because he was trying to have Jonathan benched for grades. I’d given up trying to interject my own Dellian woes long ago. Jonathan never listened.
I hung up and called Heather. Ever since Ethan’s party, she’d been on the fence about going to the homecoming dance. Now that I wasn’t driving with Jonathan, I figured I could talk her into coming with me. “Sorry,” Heather said. “Stanford made reservations for us at Café de Paris before the dance.”
“What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard right. “You’re going with Greg?”
“Stanford didn’t tell you?”
“His name’s Greg! And no, neither of you told me. Last time we talked, you just went on and on about the paradise-themed dress code. You never said anything!” It shouldn’t have bothered me so much. But it did. “I gotta go. I’ll meet you there.”
“Remember to dress tiki!” Heather yelled as I hung up.
I didn’t dress tiki. Besides the fact that I was in a foul mood, I really didn’t think that many people would. Nobody but cheerleaders and drama club members ever participated in themed events like pajama day or Halloween. I figured this would be the same. I mean, it was homecoming! Who dressed in beachwear for homecoming? So Mom helped me pick out a little black dress from her closet—classic, knee-length, spaghetti strap—and dropped me off at school.
Decorations had transformed the gym into a tropical paradise. Grass skirts and bamboo lanterns dressed the tables. Lights that filtered through a special lens created green and orange palm trees on the floor. Flowers floated in the punch bowl, and little umbrellas stood in each cup. Everyone wore gardenias in their hair and leis of fresh flowers around their neck to accessorize their paradise-themed attire. Everyone, that is, except me.
“I told you to dress tiki!” Heather said when she saw me. She wore a flamingo-pink beach cover-up with a matching bikini top and flip-flops. She’d even braided her raven-blue hair into faux dreads with little fuchsia beads on each end. “When I give you fashion advice, listen. Greg did. Doesn’t he look adorable?”
I took in Greg’s fluorescent-orange eyesore of a shirt patterned with turquoise surfboards and neon-green palm trees. “Yes, very . . . tropical.”
“I think you mean obnoxious,” he muttered.
“Not obnoxious, more like”—I grinned—“an overzealous Jimmy Buffet fan.”
“I’ll take Buffet. I was shooting for a ninety-year-old Miami tourist, though.”
“You almost nailed it, except”—I leaned forward and sniffed, ignoring how his watermelon smell made my heart pound a little faster—“you should’ve gone with a lime-doused mothball scent; watermelon screams amateur.”
We laughed,
Mascara and tears streaked her face; she wiped her nose. “I . . . I will. Monday, okay?” She pulled out her green pipe and stepped back into the stall. “Just let me get through homecoming.”
Hours before
I skipped the homecoming game Friday night. Last year I froze my butt off while people like Missy paraded around on the field during halftime to make sure everyone knew they had been nominated for homecoming royalty. I didn’t see the need to watch a repeat. Besides, Jonathan told me he couldn’t hang out with me anyway—too much “homecoming stuff” to do.
“Hey, Beautiful,” Jonathan said when he called Saturday morning. “I can’t pick you up tonight. Homecoming stuff, you know? Can you meet me at the dance?”
“I guess so.” I rolled my eyes. What “stuff” could he possibly have to do that meant he couldn’t pick me up? I was his date!
He launched into his usual rant about the scouts who would be watching him play hockey this year and how Dellian was going to mess it up because he was trying to have Jonathan benched for grades. I’d given up trying to interject my own Dellian woes long ago. Jonathan never listened.
I hung up and called Heather. Ever since Ethan’s party, she’d been on the fence about going to the homecoming dance. Now that I wasn’t driving with Jonathan, I figured I could talk her into coming with me. “Sorry,” Heather said. “Stanford made reservations for us at Café de Paris before the dance.”
“What?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard right. “You’re going with Greg?”
“Stanford didn’t tell you?”
“His name’s Greg! And no, neither of you told me. Last time we talked, you just went on and on about the paradise-themed dress code. You never said anything!” It shouldn’t have bothered me so much. But it did. “I gotta go. I’ll meet you there.”
“Remember to dress tiki!” Heather yelled as I hung up.
I didn’t dress tiki. Besides the fact that I was in a foul mood, I really didn’t think that many people would. Nobody but cheerleaders and drama club members ever participated in themed events like pajama day or Halloween. I figured this would be the same. I mean, it was homecoming! Who dressed in beachwear for homecoming? So Mom helped me pick out a little black dress from her closet—classic, knee-length, spaghetti strap—and dropped me off at school.
Decorations had transformed the gym into a tropical paradise. Grass skirts and bamboo lanterns dressed the tables. Lights that filtered through a special lens created green and orange palm trees on the floor. Flowers floated in the punch bowl, and little umbrellas stood in each cup. Everyone wore gardenias in their hair and leis of fresh flowers around their neck to accessorize their paradise-themed attire. Everyone, that is, except me.
“I told you to dress tiki!” Heather said when she saw me. She wore a flamingo-pink beach cover-up with a matching bikini top and flip-flops. She’d even braided her raven-blue hair into faux dreads with little fuchsia beads on each end. “When I give you fashion advice, listen. Greg did. Doesn’t he look adorable?”
I took in Greg’s fluorescent-orange eyesore of a shirt patterned with turquoise surfboards and neon-green palm trees. “Yes, very . . . tropical.”
“I think you mean obnoxious,” he muttered.
“Not obnoxious, more like”—I grinned—“an overzealous Jimmy Buffet fan.”
“I’ll take Buffet. I was shooting for a ninety-year-old Miami tourist, though.”
“You almost nailed it, except”—I leaned forward and sniffed, ignoring how his watermelon smell made my heart pound a little faster—“you should’ve gone with a lime-doused mothball scent; watermelon screams amateur.”
We laughed,
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