Top Ten Uses for an Unworn Prom Dress (10 page)

S
uddenly things made sense. Rascal on my doorstep. Mitch wanting to be “study buddies.” Harrison wanting to be “friends.” They were getting in line for their turn, to get some of the goods they thought I was giving Jared.

And the thing was, short of pleading my innocence, there was very little I could do. Sure, I'd straightened Zoe out, but that was like putting a Band-Aid over a gushing wound.

I threw my frustrations into my practice, slamming ball after ball. Coach Luther actually complimented me
as she dismissed us, calling me a player who was “giving it her all.” I just hoped the other girls weren't thinking I was giving my all to the male student body, too.

That night, I did my homework at the kitchen table while my mom worked on her laptop. Even though she kept biting her lower lip in frustration, I kind of liked just being near her.

By the time I closed my geometry book, it was too late to call Alison. Or maybe I'd delayed the call on purpose because, while I knew she would try to make me feel better about the friends with benefits thing, I didn't really want to talk about it, to give her
more
reason to suspect things were changing between Jared and me.

Lying in bed later, I tried telling myself that there were worse things that could be said about a person— although I had trouble thinking of many.

When the clock flashed midnight, however, I decided I had better do
something
or I'd never sleep. Talking to Jared was the obvious course of action. But it was way too late to call. Pulling him over for a sudden heart-to-heart at school would most definitely be a disaster. So I got up, turned on my desk lamp, and wrote him a note I could fold up and slide under his windshield wiper:

The next morning, energy hummed in my chest as I rounded the block to the street Jared parked on. I
might not have happened upon a miracle cure, but I was doing
something
toward the betterment of my reputation and to settle the unspoken static between Alison and me.

All this internal rambling was probably why the sharp pebbles of broken glass on the sidewalk up ahead didn't automatically register as disaster. I looked out at more glass on the street, and then the angry, splintered hole in Jared's windshield, before I truly understood what I was seeing.

That was when I broke into a run toward the car, as if it was a dying person or something.

Jared's beloved Camaro. The windows were smashed. Glass glittered on the dashboard, the seats, the pavement.

And only one suspect came to mind.

Rushing toward the school office, I thought about how Rascal had told me his football coach sometimes ran early-morning practices. If there'd been one this morning, Rascal would have an alibi. But come on, who would have done this but Rascal and his idiot friends?

I ran through scenarios of how to report the crime. What to say and what
not
to say. As much as I wanted to rat Rascal out, there was an unwritten code that students held against authority, and the last thing I wanted to add to my list of problems was revenge for turning in a football player.

When I got to the office, however, I could see that the dirty work had already been done. A lady in a
tennis outfit was talking in hushed tones with Principal Carmody, the words “smashed” and “group of boys” escaping the huddle.

Before I could take a breath, Jared blew into the office. His gaze flew past me and straight to Mr. Carmody. “Yeah,” he said, storming toward the group. “That license plate you announced over the PA is mine. What happened?”

I tucked myself in between the counter and a photocopy machine to get out of the line of fire.

Mr. Carmody (practically bald, no doubt from pulling his hair out over stunts just like this) told Jared that his windows had been broken. He explained that this woman had dropped her kid off and was on her way home when she saw three guys running away from the Camaro with baseball bats. While she couldn't ID them, they were Caucasian, medium to big, and wore below-the-knee shorts and T-shirts.

Sounded like half the guys in the school. If you didn't know what I knew. Or what Jared knew.

Jared stood ramrod straight, as if the overabundance of thoughts and emotions rushing through him needed every available inch. But when Mr. Carmody pressed him for possible suspects, he just shook his head. “No idea,” he said, so convincingly that I almost believed him.

I swallowed my words. Part of me
wanted
Rascal called on the carpet. So this insanity would end. Rascal was the worst kind of bully: a bully with a lot of
friends. What if they decided to go after Jared's head with the baseball bat next?

I couldn't stand it. I wiggled out of my corner, prepared to ruin my life to save Jared's—

But then he turned, caught my eye, and iced me with a glare. A glare with a distinct don't-you-dare flavor.

“Yes?” Mr. Carmody said to me. “Nicolette, isn't it?”

I nodded, my gaze still glued to Jared.

“Do you know who vandalized the car?” the principal asked.

My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. I was confused, but I knew I couldn't snitch if Jared didn't want me to.

“No,” I said, and reached into my pocket to weasel out the folded-up note. “Uh, here, Jared,” I said, and passed it from my palm to his. “I just needed to give you this.”

Mr. Carmody turned his back on me—obviously irritated about the interruption—and told Jared to accompany him outside to identify the car.

I stepped back to let them pass. Jared touched my arm as he moved by, in what felt like appreciation.

I watched his back as he left, hoping he knew what he was doing. Because I sure didn't.

•

It wasn't too hard to find out if there had been an early football practice. All I had to do was check out the nonsweaty, sleepy faces of the players just arriving.

Why was I not surprised?

Everybody (everybody!) talked about Jared and his car that day. Not just his friends, but people in my classes, in the halls, during morning break. At lunch.

Everybody, except Alison. Whose response at lunch was a shrug. “Yeah,” she said. “I heard. Sucks to be him.”

“You should have seen it,” I pressed on, because obviously she didn't understand how serious it was. “Glass was
everywhere
.”

“How convenient that you happened to pass by.”

“Convenient?” I stopped chewing some cashews. “Are you implying I had something to do with it?”

“Not at all. It's just that everything Jared is involved in these days, you are, too.”

“That's not fair.” Adrenaline surged through my system, readying me for the defensive. Or offensive. Or whatever.

But she just shrugged and started talking about some new coffee place. And I acted like the subject change was normal.

Still, it would have been great to unload my feelings to my best friend that day. To own up to my worries and my knocking guilt about staying quiet.

And when a cinnamon-apple scent floated by my locker later, my first thought was that I was going to get that chance. With Kylie, of all people. I knew, more than anything else, that the homecoming-queen-to-be wanted peace between the guys—so
her
dress wouldn't hang beside mine in the Unworn Hall of Fame.

I turned to her, expecting an ally. Only to see a mascara-rimmed glare targeted straight at me.

“
Stay away from Rascal.
”

Huh?

“I know he was at your house on Sunday. I know Jared was there, and hit him. I know everything. And all I can say is if you even
look
at Rascal again, you'll be sorry!”

Considering half the school thought I was “benefiting” Jared, I couldn't get too worked up over having Kylie or anyone else knowing I'd simply kissed Rascal during their breakup.

Although who told her was a curious mystery.

I decided to lob the ball back to her side of the court. “Come on, Kylie—what are you going to do, go to the prom with him again?”

But her scowl didn't break. Go figure.

“No—I'm going to have a nice long conversation with Coach Luther.”

Huh? Okay, I'd lied to get out of a practice. But that
had
been for a good reason, and if need be, I could get Dad to vouch for me. And how would she even know? And then there was the friends with benefits rumor, but even if it
was
true, why would Luther care?

“What,” I said, trying to sound all snotty right back, “are you even talking about?”

“Drinking on the beach. A certain digital photo?”

Whoa
. How on earth did she get a copy of that?

“Oh, yeah?” I said, running a hand through my hair in what I hoped was a casual way. When all I could
think was, no team, no starting position. No scholarship, no college.

“Yeah,” she answered with a smug smile.

Crap. I couldn't risk her showing that photo to Luther. I had no choice but to work with her. “Look, Kylie,” I said, and swallowed with my very dry mouth. “There's nothing between Rascal and me. I admit I had the mother of all crushes on him, but real life has a way of taking care of that sometimes.”

Her face wrinkled like she smelled something foul. “You mean, you …”

Her voice trailed off, making me think that when she said she knew “everything,” she meant the lawn but
not
the couch?

I decided to hold my cards closer to my chest. I had to give her enough to believe I was nonthreatening without admitting to anything…directly. “You don't have to worry about me. Okay?” I zeroed in on her squinty eyes. “And I don't have to worry about you showing that picture to Luther, right?”

She gave me something I took for a nod, then turned away.

I was dying to ask where the hell she'd gotten the picture, anyway, but I didn't want to rock the boat. Apparently she had good sources. And me in a tight spot.

•

I waited around at Alison's locker after the last bell, but when she didn't show, I had to hightail it to the locker room.

The team was doing warm-up laps when I shuffled
into the gym. Zoe slowed to let me fall into step with her, but I waved her on, saying I was tired.

Nothing personal, I just didn't feel like talking to anyone. Except maybe Alison. Could she possibly have stabbed me in the back? It was almost as if she'd set me up to take that photo, like someone had paid her to do it or something. Which was crazy. She had all the money she could ever want.

A few laps later, Zoe appeared beside me. “Okay, I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“Huh?”

Sweat beaded her brow. “You seem upset. I'm upset. And don't they say misery loves company?”

A smile tugged at my mouth. Actually, it was nice that someone seemed to care. Still, I couldn't reveal the whole truth about my blue mood. I didn't even
know
the whole truth.

“It's Alison,” I said, giving up what I felt I could. “She's, uh, been acting weird since I started spending time with her brother.”

“That sucks,” she said, huffing. “But you can'tentirely blame her.”

Yeah, except the beach picture happened way
before
Jared and I started hanging together. Back when I was swapping kisses with Canadian Guy and still moping over Rascal.

We rounded a corner of the gym and she added, “Still, it seems you two should be able to work it out. Get it out in the open, set some guidelines or something.
Better than Matt and me, who are now done for good.” She turned and looked at me. “He gave me the let's-be-friends line last night.”

Ouch! “Oh, Zoe.”

“I saw it coming, I really did.” She inhaled through her nose. Bravely, I thought. “Still, to break up. And so close to the homecoming dance.”

“Did you buy a dress already?”

“I was still saving.”

“Well, that's good.”

“I guess.”

But getting dumped—dress or no dress—was definitely the pits.

Run the silky pink fabric up the school flagpole in solidarity with all girls who'ev been cruelly ditched, dodged, and dumped

Z
oe and I hung together for the rest of practice, doing drills, passing the ball, letting out long sighs. Later, we walked out together.

Leaning against an SUV in the teachers' parking lot was Jared. To say he was the last person I expected to see would be an exaggeration. That would have been my dad—or maybe Caffeine, if I could even remember what she looked like.

A smile tugging one side of his mouth, he crooked a finger at me.

“See you later,” Zoe singsonged, and turned away.

I moved toward Jared, my pulse oddly elevated.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey yourself.”

I understood the unspoken offer of a ride and figured it was better than walking. We silently climbed into his mom's car. After he started the engine, he turned to me.

“Your note. Sorry it took me so long to get back to you, with my windows and everything. What's up?”

I crossed one leg and then the other. I couldn't get comfortable. What had felt unbearable in the darkness had lessened during the course of this hectic and very confusing day. Still, I had to tell him. “Friends with benefits,” I blurted out. “That's what people are calling us. I mean, not just as a joke. For real.”

A full smile captured his face. But when he glanced back my way, his gaze was appropriately stony. “Yeah. I'll talk to Keith and Mitch and those guys.”

He put the car in gear and backed out of the spot in silence, then pulled onto the main road.

“You know, Jared, Mitch has been calling me.”

“What?”

“Yeah. Wanting to get together. Probably wanting … well, I don't have to spell it out, do I?”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I'll handle him.”

“And Harrison.”

He came to a full stop at a yield sign, and suddenly his eyes were all over my face. “Him, too? Crap, this has really gotten crazy. Don't worry. I'll take care of it.”

“Not like you did with Rascal—okay?”

He exhaled, then nodded.

“You need to explain how a stupid joke got out of hand. And how you and I aren't even really friends anyway.”

Jared leaned over and adjusted the AC. His hand came within inches of my knee, but just like the guy himself, it kept a straight course.

“Today, in the office. Thanks for keeping your mouth shut about Rascal.”

I felt myself nodding, but the real Nicolette seemed to be lost somewhere inside my head, hiding among the twisted thoughts. I knew that somehow getting things right with Jared was of major importance, and yet I couldn't get past his mercy date offer. I didn't want to be Alison's-friend-that-he-should-be-nice-to. Or poor-Nic-with-the-virgin-prom-dress. I realized I wanted to be important to him because I was me. And I wasn't sure what to make of that.

He made a lane change. “And in the car the other day … you got mad and everything. I was stupid. Can we forget about that?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, then took a leap to safer ground. “As long as you can forget about this stupid feud with Rascal. I mean, you're not going to jump him or break
his
windows or anything—right?”

He flipped down his visor to block the late-afternoon sun. “Yeah, this thing's gotten crazy. If it goes any further, one of us will get expelled or arrested. I don't want it to be me.

“And the thing is,” he went on, glancing my way, “I already played my next card. Kylie grabbed me and fired questions about Rascal and what really happened on Sunday. So I told her. It seemed like payback, even if it was pretty weak.”

Of course—it was him. I'd told her to ask him what had happened. I laced my fingers in my lap. “Did you tell her what went on after Rascal came inside my house?”

“How could I? I don't know … I don't want to know.”

“But you listened in on my conversation with Alison.”

“Did I?” A frown and a smile had a collision on his face, the smile barely winning out. “Look, I'm not about making things harder for you. I just want you to be done with Rascal once and for all.” He steered the SUV to the curb in front of my house and stopped, turning to look at me. “You
are
done with him, aren't you, Nic?”

“Totally.”

“Okay, then.”

He gazed my way, and I swear, I saw a sparkle. And it made something fizzy happen inside me.

“Okay.” I knew I should grab the door handle. That we were done. Friends again. But I couldn't get myself to go.

I let the air between us hang heavy—silent—hoping my trick of saying nothing would prompt him to say something. Or
do
something …

His fingers made a drumming noise on the steering wheel. I got the message, loud and clear.

Hiding any signs of disappointment, I grabbed the door handle. “Thanks for the ride, Jared.”

“That's what friends are for.”

•

Mom stood up from a dining room chair when she saw me. A hand rigidly attached to her hip. I gave halfhearted thought to what incredibly delicious meal she was making for her one-in-a-million daughter tonight, and was vaguely disappointed when my deep inhale only came up with the piney aroma of furniture polish.

“What's for dinner?” I said, falling into a chair.

She jerked a neon sheet of paper in the air. The same color as the flyers Jared, Alison, and I had made.

I would have smiled had her mouth not been an angry red slash. “A prospective client brought this into the office today, Nicolette. Asking for ‘Thurman Oaks' top-selling realtor.’”

Uh-oh. So that wasn't such a brilliant idea?

“Since that title happens to belong to a man from another firm on the other side of town, Nicolette, the receptionist called my boss over.”

I swallowed hard, the enormity of my “good deed” settling over me.

“Who nearly popped blood vessels. Then called me over for an explanation. Which, of course, I couldn't give. Until I remembered the stack of hot pink papers on the grass last weekend. That you said had something to do with your homework?”

I cringed.

“Was it your assignment to commit false advertising? Or to see if you could get your mother
fired
?”

Shock waves formed before my eyes. “You—you got fired?”

“Not yet. But I'm on suspension, pending an investigation.”

I pulled my knees up to my chin, wanting to hide inside myself. But even a thick turtle shell wouldn't have been good enough to hide me from my own stupidity. I'd wanted to help Mom so badly that I hadn't stopped to connect the dots … that, oh yeah, someone probably
was
the area's top realtor.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” I said miserably. “A good surprise. A helpful one. Like paying the mortgage, you know?”

(Okay, I admit the mention of the mortgage was to try to douse her flames.)

“That's what's so shocking about this,” Mom said, her face all blotchy. “You were so thoughtful about the mortgage. And yet so thought
less
about this. Explain that to me, will you?”

Thanks, but I'd prefer Door #2, which I was sure was “crawl into a hole and die.” I knew this was a line-in-the-sand moment, where I either barfed out the whole truth … or I could no longer live with myself.

“Mom,” I began, looking at her through squinted eyes. “About the mortgage …”

•

Minutes later, I sat perched on the kitchen stool with the telephone pressed against my ear, listening to Mom go off on Dad. She was on the cordless in the living room, and Dad was in Ventura, although it seemed to me my mother's screeches could have been heard quite clearly without instrumentation in any part of Southern California.

“How
dare
you conspire behind my back!” she bellowed.

“Lynn,” my dad said, trying to be heard from his end. “I didn't give her the money because I was teaming up against you. I gave it to her because she was right when she said I'd shirked my responsibility with the two of you. I should have paid you alimony longer, helped out until you were solidly on your feet.”

“So now you're calling me a failure!” my mom wailed.

Oh, God. Just kill me now.

After a time, Mom told Dad she'd be paying him back. Every red cent. Then she hung up and stormed toward the back of the house.

I sat on the stool, my limbs quaking, just Dad and me on the line.

He spoke my name. My full name, I might add, although right then I would have answered to Nicki. Or Bonehead. Or any old thing he wanted.

“There's something I wanted to clear up with you,” he continued. “I'ev been thinking that my decision to
stay home with Autumn might be rubbing you the wrong way, since I missed so much of your childhood.”

Whoa—a two-pronged acknowledgment: that I might feel sensitive, and that he'd missed my childhood. If my guilt hadn't been weighing me so low to the ground, I might have floated.

“What happened is that right before she was born, the company downsized. I got laid off. It made the decision a whole lot easier.”

He paused and so did I. For a crazy moment, I thought I could hear his heart pounding.

“The money I gave you was Cathleen's. That's why I postdated the check. I had to make sure she was okay with it.”

“Was she?” I asked, my voice sounding scratchy and like it belonged to someone else, someone who was kinder and more accepting of her parents' problems.

“Not really, but she allowed the check to clear.”

“Well, you can tell her she's getting paid back.” My words tumbled out. “Somehow.” If not by Mom, then by me. I'd get a job if I had to.

“I should have told you this earlier. But the truth is, it turned out I liked being a stay-at-home dad, and practically had myself convinced that I'd chosen it.”

I read something past tense into his tone. “Liked? As in, it's over?”

He made a
mmm
sound of agreement. “I also wanted you to know that I'm putting Autumn in day care and going back to work,” he said in a weary tone.

“Things … aren't great between Cathleen and me. Another income, another
perspective
might help smooth things out.”

I didn't know much about marriages—especially considering that the only one I'd ever seen up close and personal had sunk like the
Titanic
—but it seemed that he'd be
adding
stress rather than taking it away.

“I started sending out résumés,” Dad said, filling the dead air. “I should be working again soon. So if you and your mom need anything, I can be there for you.”

I managed to thank him, to get off the phone before saying anything
else
I'd live to regret. Then I shuffled out into the living room, knowing I needed to go see Mom (and grovel).

All this parent stuff (and the confusion and guilt) made me feel like a little kid again. Or at least made me wish I still was one. Made me wish for a quick fix like a hug from a grown-up, made me wish for a security blanket.