Top Ten Uses for an Unworn Prom Dress (11 page)

Cuddle material; insert thumb in mouth, and do your best Linus impression until you can feel and act your age again
.

I
got up fifteen minutes early the next morning and padded to the kitchen. Instead of grabbing my usual yogurt spoon, I pulled out a spatula and fry pan. Not for myself, but for my mom. I owed her big-time.
Waaay
more than bacon and scrambled eggs, but at the moment, a breakfast tray and an “I love you” were all I had to offer.

She smiled when I presented the tray to her in bed, and gave me a quick kiss. I suppose it made me feel a teeny bit better.

It wasn't long, though, before my emotions were
back on high. When I got to school and saw Alison at her locker, I marched up and asked, point-blank, about the digital photo of me on the beach.

“I told you,” she said, turning toward me, defensive. “I deleted it.”

“Well, apparently not soon enough. The Queen Bee has a copy.”

“Not possible.” Something obviously crossed her mind, because suddenly the lines in her forehead relaxed. “She's bluffing.”

“How would she even
know
to bluff?” The bell rang, meaning we had five minutes to get to class. But I wanted to know
now
. I took a step closer. “What am I not getting here?”

“Look, Nic,” she said, and bit on her lip. “It's true I took that picture on purpose. Thinking, well, I'd give you a hard time about showing it to Luther if you started acting all stupid over”—she threw a look around the crowded hallway—“you know who when we got back here.”

I studied her scrunched-up face. “You would have done that?”

“Probably not. But at that moment, it seemed like something to try. A tough-love approach.” She shrugged. “I mean, it's not like your mom's Top Ten list was working to remind you what a jerk he is.”

I sighed,
not
a happy camper. But it did make sense. Alison hated Rascal for what he'd done to me. And she was there for me, in good times and bad. “Okay, so how did she get it?”

Alison shook her head. “You got me. I realized it was stupid and deleted it from the camera while we were still at the beach house.”

She closed her locker. It drowned out the sound of my voice as I asked, “Then who did it?” But it didn't matter, anyway. There was only one other person who would have access to the camera. Who had been angry at me about Canadian Guy. Who clearly wanted to mess with me and my life.

And for the second time that week, I wanted to track Jared down—and wring his neck.

An hour later, out on a bathroom pass, I spotted Rascal on the Senior Bench.

I knew I'd promised Kylie I'd keep my distance. But I had a score to settle with him, too. And she'd never know, anyway.

I grabbed hold of his T-shirt sleeve and pulled him into an empty stairwell.

“Whoa,” he said, shuffling beside me, letting his dimples run free. “You must want me
bad
.”

I rolled my eyes and dropped my hand.

He pressed the back of his head and one foot against the wall. His nose was returning to normal color, and his smile was widening. “I knew you'd come around, Nicolette. I just didn't think it would be
at school
.”

“Get over yourself. I want to talk about yesterday. About Jared's windows.”

His foot came down hard on the linoleum. “That wasn't me.”

“Oh, just stop.” I glared at him, stunned that he'd think me so born yesterday.

But two could play at his game, so I took a Mother-May-I step to the other side of the Truth Planet. With silent thanks to the tennis mom who'd supplied the info, I described their appearances and outfits, and then laid it on the line. “You drop this thing with Jared, and I'll keep my mouth shut.”

I was pretty sure I had his back against the wall. (More than literally.) Just as Kylie had my neck in a wringer.

Rascal gave me a cocky tilt of his head. “Say, just say, I admit it. And agree to back off. What happens if Jared comes after me? I can't fight back?”

“He won't.”

“How do you know that?”

Because Jared was too smart to keep escalating this insanity. Because he'd let those things slip to Kylie, and he already thought he'd taken the last shot. But I wasn't letting on to
that
. “Because he told me,” I simply said. “And he's a man of his word.”

“And I'm not?”

The world before me went hazy. All I could think was, if my life was a sitcom, the studio audience would be howling with laughter. But I had to keep my focus. This conversation was about calling a cease-fire. Not about me or my dashed dreams (which didn't seem so dashed anymore, anyway).

“Rascal, just tell me you'll leave Jared alone.”

His mouth puckered like he'd tasted something sour. But then he nodded.

I offered a hand. “Okay, then. And I'll promise not to go to the principal or the police. Shake on it?”

“I'd rather we kiss.”

I rolled my eyes. The thought was not even tempting.

I half expected a James Bond-esque response like “Never say never again,” but instead he took my hand and shook. “Fine,” he said. “Besides, I need to try to smooth things over with Kylie, especially with homecoming coming up.”

I assumed he didn't catch the irony in that statement. I just looked his way and said, “Yeah, I hear she's got a killer dress,” and turned toward my classroom.

•

I went to Alison's locker after my last class, but again, she was a no-show.

Heading toward the gym, I spotted Jared in passing. I stopped him with a tug on his backpack, exhaled, and let rip. I told him exactly what I thought of him downloading the photo and sending it to friends back here in Thurman Oaks. (I was betting the Three Musketeers were involved.)

But he wouldn't give an inch. He stubbornly, thoroughly, and convincingly denied all knowledge or participation. Then walked off, leaving me with my fingernail in my mouth and my tail between my legs.

I didn't know
what
to think.

Zoe welcomed me with a big smile when I traipsed into the locker room later. Her full focus felt terrific, momentarily filling the little hole in my best-friend heart.

“Ask me what's new,” she bubbled.

“Okay. What's new?”

“Ben Snyder asked me to the homecoming dance!”

I wasn't quite sure who he was or if she even liked him. But I held up my hand for a high five.

Luther's voice suddenly filled the air, painstakingly reminding us that we'd lost our last two games and that she was not coaching a team of losers. So we'd better win today's!

Her warning still rang in my head as I crossed into the gym. The house lights were on, the nets erected, and a sprinkling of onlookers gathered on the court and bleachers.

The starters fell into position and passed the ball around. I couldn't help thinking that the ball was a sort of symbol for how I'd been feeling lately. Slamming back and forth between Jared and Rascal, between Mom and Dad, with occasional setups from Alison and Kylie …

Some time later, I spotted my mother climbing the bleachers. While her loud cheering sometimes embarrassed me, it warmed my heart to see her today. She still loved me, even though I'd been screwing up
her life. I waited until she caught my eye, waved, and mouthed “Hello.” I only hoped Alison would roll in, too.

The referee blew the first whistle, and we did a pregame handshake with the other starters, followed by our respective cheers. The next whistle sounded and the ball went into play.

As setter, I could set any hitter with the ball, and unlike some other setters I'd watched, I did not play favorites. To me, a good game was all about stamina and teamwork. Whoever was on top of her game got the most sets. Trouble was, that day,
no one
was playing well.

But the worst of all?

Oh, that would be
me
. My setting was off, over the net, into the block.

In the third game, the ball was coming down right at me, so my arms automatically went over my head. The ball fell into my hands. Piece of cake. Like it had a gazillion times in practices and games. I went to launch it back up to my team. But the stiff fingers I relied on betrayed me. The ball continued falling. Right through my hands. Until it landed (ka-thunk!) on the hardwood.

The ref blew his whistle and signaled a point for the other team.

Ugh! Missing the ball was bad enough. But dropping? What was I, five years old?

A couple of girls on the other team smirked; one
was biting back a laugh. Complete humiliation.
Waaay
worse than losing the point. Or the browbeating I'd get from the coach later.

Zoe gave me this
I'm sorry
look. And a couple of minutes later, probably still trying to cheer me up, she pointed up to a bleacher area. “You've got a fan.”

I looked up, dizzied, distracted, and set my eyes on a big, waving piece of cardboard with black-painted strokes:

GO NICOLETTE!

Beneath the cardboard extended a pair of jeaned legs. Alison had been wearing jeans earlier. My blood warmed. Everything was just fine. Once again, I was making too much out of things.

But the cardboard eased lower, and the face that appeared above it wasn't hers. Or even a girl's. It belonged to a too-handsome, dark-haired guy. With eyes the color of root beer and a crooked smile that I knew could light up his eyes. Who did things to my insides I was only now just beginning to understand.

Omigod, Jared.

“Antonovich!” barked an irate coachlike voice from the sideline.

I knew not to follow the voice, but to swivel my head back toward the net—and just in time, too, to take a serve with the center of my face.

My hands rushing up to cup my nose, I couldn't decide which would be worse: having it spurt like a red geyser in front of all these people who already thought I was a dork. Or simply having it swell purple until I looked like Rascal's ugly twin.

A
fter I'd sat out the last game of the set under an ice bag, it looked like my nose would retain its color. And its blood.

I got home to be greeted by Mom on the phone, retelling my volleyball/nose story. Not in a concerned motherly way, but light and friendly. I knew she had to be talking to Alison, so when she met my eye, I pointed at the phone. She nodded and said into the receiver, “Here, talk to her yourself,” and handed it over.

“Hey,” I said, then winced at the pain that came from an automatic smile.

“Glad you're okay,” came the deep reply, the voice of my childhood.

Dad? Wait—Mom was talking to Dad? In a non-lethal, I-don't-want-to-rip-you-a-new-one way?

This was ginormously weird!

“Yeah,” I managed to say into the receiver.

He asked a few questions about the game, but once I'd given him satisfactory answers, I turned the tables on him. Inquiring minds wanted to know! “Did you just happen to call tonight?”

“No, your mom called me.”

“Why?”

“We had some business to discuss.”

“Business? But last night you two …” My voice trailed off as I tried to find the politically correct term to recap Mom's rage and his attempts to calm her down.

“Yeah, well, she and I talked a few times today about refinancing the mortgage. Seems to make the most sense right now.”

Relief overshadowed my shock. “Great,” I said— and meant it. While I'd been totally ready to step up with the mortgage thing, I was more than happy to “be the kid again” and hand this responsibility to Dad. Besides, he'd be likely to make things better, unlike
moi
.

I got off the phone and helped Mom stir-fry some veggies. I kept thinking Alison would call … surely Jared had told her about my nose disaster? But after dinner, I couldn't wait any longer, so I decided to pick up the phone myself.

Jared answered.

Crazy as it seemed, my heart went all erratic.

“Hey, it's Nic,” I managed.

“How's your nose?”

“Not as bad as Rascal's.”

He laughed.

My accusations about the digital photo seemed to fly out the window. It was like they'd never happened. And it was no longer like talking to my best friend's older brother. Or a friend, even. Somehow, while I hadn't been looking, he'd stepped up to the role he'd once teased me about. He'd
become an
Extra-Hot Senior. And I was a lowly junior, trying to catch my shallow breath.

“Thanks for the sign today,” I told him after a silence. “It was great.”

“You're welcome. I'd originally planned to do something with bright colors at the print shop, but then suddenly I didn't have a car.”

“I loved it just the way it was,” I gushed.

Then I realized I'd said “loved.” Not “liked” or “really liked.” Did he notice, too?

“So,” I said, and swallowed hard. “I was wondering if Alison was home?”

“She's in the shower. But I'll tell her you called.”

“Okay, thanks.” I bit my lip, giving him ample opportunity to take charge of the conversation—tell me stuff, ask me stuff (like
out
).

But again, no dice. He just said he'd see me tomorrow, and we disconnected.

“Yeah,” I said. Then held the receiver against my cheek and let out a sigh.

•

Alison didn't call back. All night.

I tried not to keep looking at the clock. (How long could a shower
take
?) I tried not to overanalyze every aspect of our friendship—what I might have done to make her mad. I tried not to worry and/or care. But I failed on every point.

Taking gel and a brush to my hair the next morning, I ran through can-we-talk scenarios with Alison in my head. But since I didn't know what she would come back at me with, it was pretty hard to bring them to hug-and-make-up endings.

Alison didn't stop by my locker before first period. When I spotted her by a junk machine later, she suddenly got very busy studying her choices. I imagined her thinking:
Hmmm … M&M's or Skittles? Say hi to Nic or pretend not to see her?

My head told me to catch a clue and walk on by. But my gut wouldn't give up that easily. This was
Alison
— who knew me better than anyone in the world, who knew that in my weakest moments I zipped inside The Dress and sang old Beatles songs. Alison, who'd seen me through so many tough days before.

“You'll be proud of me,” I said, trying to break the ice.

After a silence so long I wondered if I'd celebrated a birthday, she looked up. Her expression flat, nonread-able. “Oh, and why is that?”

No! No, no, no.
no
. She was supposed to guess. But like a meteor had fallen from the sky and thunked my head, I realized that of course, she hadn't forgotten. She just wasn't playing.

I worked fast for something neutral so I could go off and regroup before I did something goofy like tear up. “I tackled my hair today instead of just throwing it back.”

“Your hair? I thought you said you were over Rascal.”

“I am.”

“Oh, you're telling me your sudden interest in your hair isn't totally guy-related?”

I had thick skin for slams from girls like Kylie. But not from Alison. “Okay, fine, I was up early, worried about seeing you today. It's like you're avoiding me. You didn't come to my game yesterday. You didn't call me, even after I left a message. I did my hair this morning just to keep my hands busy while I thought about what to say to you.”

There: the truth.

She grabbed a Snickers bar from the well of the machine and tore open the wrapper. “You're right,” she said, and shrugged. “Jared did tell me, but I didn't call you back.”

My heart jumped to my throat. No “I'm sorry”? Who was this redheaded girl? “We need to talk.”

“About what? You and my brother?”

“Actually, about what's happening between you and me. I mean, Jared and I—”

“Spare me.”

“Alison! It's not what you think.”

“How would you know what I think? When practically the only McCreary you talk to these days is Jared?”

Hey—that wasn't fair. “It's not my fault you hide from me and don't call me back.”

“Look,” she said, “I'd love to stay and chat, but really, I think we're done here.”

My mouth dropped open.

She turned and walked away. So very civilized. So in control.

Leaving me so incredibly heartbroken that I couldn't even stand to think about it. More heartbroken than any guy could possibly make me feel.