Authors: Meg Cabot
But you get what I mean.
I spent mine—the day of my junior-senior formal—doing all the prom-y things every girl does. You know, the manicure and pedicure, the waxing
(ouch)
, the blow out at the hair salon.
Of course, I was the only girl in America who, while getting ready for her prom, had a phalanx of reporters following her around, trying to get photos of the girl who was going to the prom with America’s sweetheart getting her upper lip bleached. Thanks for that, guys. No, really.
It was kind of annoying, but, hey, I’d promised a friend I’d go to the Spring Fling with him. I owed it to him to look my best.
And when I’d slipped into my dress—a blue satiny number, covered with a layer of chiffon, with little poofy chiffony sleeves and little chiffony forget-me-nots all around the hem . . . the girliest dress you ever saw—I felt like I actually
looked
my best. The hairstylist had clipped back my not-fully-grown-out-yet bangs with a barrette that even had real live blue forget-me-nots on it, just like the fake ones around my feet.
Trina had called me and arranged for the two of us to meet in my front yard so that we could pose for photos together for our parents. The fact that every entertainment program from
Access Hollywood
to
Rank
had a van parked outside my house to capture the moment Luke pulled up in his limo didn’t seem to faze Trina a bit.
We met, as planned, by the huge oak tree in my front yard, and commenced to admire each other, even as all around us cameras—and not just the ones belonging to our parents—whirred.
Trina had been able to convince her mother to let her go Village Goth for the Spring Fling. She’d forgone the black lipstick, but she’d still managed to hunt up black fishnets, which she wore with black Converse high-tops. Her dress consisted of a gauzy black thing straight out of the pages of the
Seventeen
prom issue . . .
. . . but she’d fastened a black silk bustier over it, so her not-unremarkable bosom swelled to impressive heights over the neckline.
I couldn’t tell who was more likely to have a heart attack when he saw her, Steve or Dr. Lewis.
"I cannot believe," I said, "that you talked your mother into letting you wear that."
"I cannot believe," Trina said, "that you let your mother talk
you
into wearing
that
."
"Hideously traditional," I said. "I know."
"Still," Trina said. "You look nice."
"So do you." Because she did. I was gladder than ever that we were friends again.
We heard the limo coming long before we saw it, because photographers who’d climbed trees around our street, hoping to get an unimpeded shot of Luke pinning on my corsage, started shouting excitedly to one another, "Here he comes! Here he comes!"
Even I—who could not seem really to work up the kind of enthusiasm that, say, Trina had for the occasion—felt a little thrill of excitement. Oh, well. I wasn’t going to the Spring Fling with someone I loved, it was true.
But at least I was going to the Spring Fling.
Then the limo came into sight, the same long black sleek one that I’d taken to Luke’s condo at the lake and back Trina squeezed my hand excitedly as the vehicle came to a slow stop in front of my house, and the driver got out and went around to open the passenger side door.
Every photographer—every cameraperson, every parent—in the vicinity lifted their camera to snap a shot of Luke Striker emerging from his limo, like Lancelot on his white horse when he swooped down to rescue Guinevere from being burned to death at the stake.
But the person who emerged from the limo wasn’t Luke Striker. The person who came out, carrying a corsage and waving to all the camera people, was none other than . . .
Steve McKnight.
That’s right. Steve McKnight, Trina’s boyfriend and Spring Fling date, in his Troubadours tux (though he’d traded in his red bow tie and cummerbund for black ones).
The reporters sighed—some of them even booed—and went back to their stakeout.
Trina, however, was absolutely delighted.
"I can’t believe you rented a limo," she squealed, as Steve pinned on her corsage—a bunch of carnations that he had, as Trina had instructed him to, let sit overnight in a bottle of black ink, so that the white petals were now tinged with black. "It must have cost you a fortune!"
"Uh," Steve said, looking kind of embarrassed. "Not really."
"Oh, your parents paid for it?" Trina asked, as the two of them posed for photos in front of Trina’s excited mom and dad.
"Uh," Steve said. "Actually, Luke Striker did."
Trina froze.
She wasn’t the only one, either.
"
Luke
did?" Trina glanced at me worriedly. "What . . . why?"
"I don’t know," Steve said with an awkward shrug. "He said he didn’t need it anymore."
"Didn’t . . ." Trina’s gaze on me grew pitying. She realized what was happening before I did. Or thought she did, anyway. "Oh, Jen. Look, it doesn’t matter. It doesn't. You can come with us. We’ll have a ball. Won’t we, Steve?"
"Sure," Steve said. "Of course."
I still didn’t get it. So Luke had given Steve his limo? Big deal. That didn’t mean Luke wasn’t coming.
Luke wouldn’t stand me up. Not in front of all these reporters. After all, what had I ever done to deserve treatment like that? Just been his friend. Kept his secret.
CHANGED CLAYTON HIGH FROM A PLACE FILLED WITH ANGST AND ANTAGONISM INTO THE WARM AND ACCEPTING SCHOOL IT WAS TODAY FOR HIM.
"Oh, honey," my mom said, coming over to give me a hug. The photographers, starting to realize what had happened, lifted their cameras to get a shot of that. I could just see the headlines the next day.
AMERICA'S SWEETHEART JILTS JEN!
A MOTHER'S LOVE ONLY BALM FOR
BROKENHEARTED JENNY!
THAT DIRTY RAT!
But before my mom had a chance to say any of the words of comfort she’d thought up, a cry rose from the treetops.
And the next thing I knew, a guy in a tux had pulled up in front of Steve’s limousine . . . on a motorcycle.
A Harley, no less.
"Hey," Luke said, as he pulled off his black helmet. "Sorry I’m late."
The yard was ablaze with flashes. Reporters were screaming, "Luke! Luke! Look this way, Luke!"
Luke completely ignored them. He walked straight up to my dad and stuck his right hand out.
"Mr. Greenley, sir," he said. "I’m Luke Striker. I’m here to take your daughter to the Spring Fling."
My dad, for possibly the first time in his life, looked as if he didn’t know quite what to do. Finally, he took Luke’s hand in his and shook it.
"How do you do," he said.
Then he seemed to recover himself. He said, "You expect to take Jenny to the formal on
that
?"
"No," my mother said, shaking her head. "Absolutely not without a helmet."
"There’s an extra helmet under the seat, Mrs. Greenley," Luke said, taking her hand and giving it a shake as well. "And I swear I’ll have her home by midnight "
I elbowed him.
"I mean one," Luke said.
"I’ll call you if I’m going to be later than that," I said, and grabbed Luke by the arm "Bye "
"Wait!" my mother called. "We didn’t get a picture!"
But my mom didn’t have to worry. Because every periodical in America—with the exception maybe of
National Geographic
, who didn’t seem to have sent a representative—got a picture of Luke helping me put the spare helmet on over my flowered hair clip. Of Luke helping me onto the back of the bike without getting any grease on my skirt, and of Luke wrapping that skirt around my legs so it wouldn’t catch in the wheel spokes and strangle and or drag me to my death. Of Luke waving as he stepped on the accelerator. Of me grabbing Luke around the waist and holding on for dear life.
And of the two of us zooming down the street as fast as we could go without breaking the speed limit or worse, upsetting my parents.
"I hope you don’t mind," Luke said later, after we’d pulled up in front of the Clayton Inn—where we were met by more reporters . . . the ones who’d been able to beat us from my house, of which there weren’t many. "About the bike, I mean."
"It’s fine," I said. I had actually really enjoyed it. I’d never been on a motorcycle before. Nice girls like me don’t generally get asked to ride them. "But I thought you wanted a typical prom experience. And arriving at the prom on a Harley? Hate to break it to you, Luke, but that’s not so typical."
"Well," Luke said, reaching up to fix one of the flowers on my hair clip. "I always like to make a big entrance. Oh, I almost forgot."
And from beneath the motorcycle’s seat, he withdrew a clear plastic box, inside of which lay a corsage made of white roses and baby’s breath.
"Oh, it’s beautiful," I said. Then I remembered the boutonnière I’d left in the fridge back home. "I forgot yours at the house!"
"We are
not
going back there," Luke declared, expertly pinning the corsage into place, just above my heart. "I’ll survive without one."
Then he offered me his arm. "Madam. Shall we dance?"
"So long as we don’t have to use jazz hands," I said.
"Have no fear. I called ahead to check. This event is guaranteed jazz hands free."
With this assurance, I took Luke’s arm, and the two of us glided into the Clayton Inn—flashes going off all around us, and reporters—not to mention actual residents of Clayton, who’d crowded the inn’s driveway for a chance to see their favorite star and his date for the evening—screaming our names.
I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. Like that the Spring Fling is fun or anything. I mean, even if you go with the most popular teenage movie star in America—maybe even the world—the Spring Fling is still kind of a drag.
It’s true that you get to see everyone from school looking better than you've ever seen them.
But, you know, they’re still the people that you see every day at school. Just shinier. And maybe, you know, cleaner.
I didn’t have it half so bad as
some
girls. There were
some
girls there who you just knew were destined for a bad time. Like Karen Sue Walters, for instance. She had shanghaied one of the tenors into going with her. One of the tenors who everyone in the whole school knew was completely gaga for Luke Striker. The whole time they were dancing, Karen Sue’s date kept gazing longingly in the direction of Luke’s tuxedo pants.
It was actually kind of amusing.
Which was really the best part of Spring Fling. You know, the part where we all made fun of it. It turned out Luke was really good at it. We all sat at the same table—me; Luke; Trina, Steve, Bored Liz and her date (one of the football players. Don’t ask), and Tough Brenda and her date, a surprisingly nice, soft-spoken guy named Lamar—and made fun of the food and the music and, finally, everyone there.
The dancing didn’t start until the food had been cleared away. Then everyone drifted out onto the dance floor including me and Luke I told Luke I could only handle the slow ones—I was still suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome from my whole Troubadour experience—and he said he understood.
Luke, it turned out, was a terrific dancer big surprise, right? He was so good that he almost made up for me sucking so badly at it. Our knees only collided like half a dozen times, and I think I only kicked him once.
I don’t know what Luke was thinking about as he held me close during our slow dances together. I can only tell you what I was thinking about.
Or who, actually.
And that was well, not Luke.
I know. It really was awful I have to be the most ungrateful girl in the history of time. I mean, there I was, with this great—
really
great—Spring Fling date, this guy who had worked hard to make the Spring Fling as fun for me as the Spring Fling could be—or, at least, as fun as a Spring Fling you were attending with someone in whom you weren’t romantically interested could be—and I couldn’t stop thinking about someone else!
It was pathetic, is what it was.
But not as pathetic as my reaction a minute later when I spotted, just past Luke’s shoulder, a familiar figure in a slinky, low-cut gown of pale peach.
Geri Lynn! What was Geri Lynn doing at the Spring Fling? Could she have found a date so soon after breaking up with Scott?
No way. Or I would have heard about it.
Which could only mean one thing.
I lifted my head from Luke’s chest and started looking around. He had to be here somewhere. I mean, if Geri was here . . .
I felt Luke chuckle, deep in his chest.
"Relax, Jen," he said. "She came alone."
I pretended not to know what he was talking about. What else could I do?
"Who?" I asked.
"You know who I’m talking about," Luke said. In the "romantic" lighting—really just purple gels slipped over the reception room’s normal lights and one of those big glittery disco balls . . . which Luke swore he hadn’t seen anywhere since his character’s prom on
Heaven Help Us
—his face still looked incredibly attractive.
And though I couldn't, in the half-light, tell that his eyes were blue, I could tell that his gaze was on mine, with somewhat disconcerting directness.
"I’m onto you, Jen Greenley," he said.
I squinted at him. "I beg your pardon?"
"I’m onto you," he said again. "Not just about that, either. I've got you completely worked out. You’re Annie, aren’t you?"
I nearly choked. "Who-what?"
"You’re Ask Annie," Luke said, "from the school newspaper."
I blinked. I couldn’t believe he even knew what Ask Annie was.
And that he was bringing it up
now
. At the
Spring Fling
.
"Are you kidding?" he said, when I mentioned this. "Everybody talks about her. Ask Annie says this. Ask Annie says that. You're, like, the unofficial school psychologist."
I have to admit that hearing this gave me a nice tingling feeling. I would totally have
loved
to be the school psychologist. If I were, the first thing I’d do is abolish mandatory attendance at pep rallies. I mean, how are you supposed to feel peppy about crushing your opponent? It was just so wrong. Wasn’t your opponent going to feel bad for losing? That’s the only reason I never went to the games. I could barely look at the faces of the team who lost. It was just so
sad
.