I turn toward the dance floor. Couples are grinding against each other, hands roaming over satin. Boys start unlacing their ties and shrugging off jackets. That’s funny, I think.
Across the room, Jenny and Mike are leaving. Ashley takes a picture of the headmaster as he leans down to kiss Ms. Perez, our newest and youngest English teacher. Surprisingly, neither of them seems to notice the camera.
Behind me, Xavier laughs. I start walking toward where I saw Danny and Daria last.
Couples are no longer dancing — they’re kissing and groping. A few have moved to lying on the floor together. The captain of the football team knocks the shells and plates off the table and throws Missy Carthage on it. He climbs on top of her.
It’s all happening so fast. Someone hits someone else. I don’t see how it starts, but there is a sudden knot of fighting.
The music has stopped and only human sounds fill the silence. The camera flashes again.
“What’s happening?” someone asks. There’s a girl in a shimmering green dress with one sleeve and a heavy ruffle on the bottom. Her hair is spiked up and saturated with glitter and her eyes are heavily outlined in black kohl. Her skin looks blotchy around the neck like she’s getting hives. She slouches against the doorway.
She doesn’t even go to this school.
“You should leave,” I say, but then a boy catches her hand and pulls her into a kiss. She groans.
I grab her hand and pull her back to me. The boy lets go and she slides into my arms. Her mouth comes against mine and we’re kissing. I’ve only kissed three girls before and none of them kissed me like this, like they never wanted to stop, like they don’t care about breathing. I pull back from her and she frowns, like she doesn’t know where she is.
I shake my head, but that just makes me dizzy. The floor is carpeted in sequined gowns and black tuxedos. On top of them, bodies move together. I see the math teacher, Mr. Riggs, among them, writhing around with Jacob White and Nancy Chung. Amy Gershwin’s purple bra is around her waist, like a belt, as she crawls toward them.
Across the room, three cheerleaders corner another cheerleader and swipe at her with their long, manicured nails. Scratches mark both her cheeks.
I stumble forward and see Danny. He’s lying half underneath a table, kissing Hannah Davis, who turns and kisses Daria Wisniewski. None of them is very dressed. Hannah is wearing Wonder Woman underpants.
There’s a part of me that figures Danny deserves whatever happens to him at that point. I know it’s an asshole thing to think, but isn’t this what he hoped would happen at one of the prom afterparties anyway? Would he really have turned down a threesome with two girls? I mean, sure, everyone is going crazy, but aren’t they just giving in to what they really desire? Isn’t he?
And it’s not like I could stop him.
Then I think of the vial in my pocket. There’s still some liquid in it. But then, maybe he wouldn’t want me to stop him.
“Danny,” I say, still not sure. I want him to do something that will make him familiar again.
He turns toward me and his face is blank with desire.
I take out the vial, because I don’t care what he wants or if he deserves it. I just want him to be Danny again.
“Drink some,” I say, but he’s kissing Daria and not paying any more attention. I get down on the floor. Someone is pulling off my jacket. I let it go.
Hannah Davis puts her lips to my neck and I reach over her to try and force Danny to drink, but everyone shifts and I’m afraid I’m going to spill the antidote.
So I take a swig and hold it in my cheek. I press my lips to his and when his mouth opens under mine, I spit it all out. Yes, okay, that’s technically a kiss. Technically, I kissed Danny. But it worked.
“Dude,” he says and stumbles to his feet. He looks like he just woke up out of a dream.
I have no idea what to say to him. “The Latin Club is totally evil,” I blurt.
“The Latin Club?”
I can understand why he’s confused.
“We have to stop them,” I say, but they’re not even here anymore. They’ve already succeeded, taken photographic evidence, and gone home.
Danny picks up a pair of pants. Three kids are doing body shots off the limp form of the assistant headmaster. I don’t even know where they got the liquor, but I think I see blood near his neck.
“What can we do?” Danny asks. Daria pulls at his pant leg and he stumbles, wide-eyed. “This is nuts.”
“I know where they keep their stuff,” I say, and he follows me from the banquet hall and out into the night. We run across campus to Smythe Hall. A few kids are out on the lawn, dancing around naked to the delight of the underclassmen hanging out the windows of their dorm.
Inside the abandoned building, I feel my way through the dusty rooms to the closet. My empty bottle of vodka is still there, but it looks unfamiliar, as though it’s a relic from a hundred years ago.
The closet contains a moth-eaten lion cub skin, which is both scary and gross, a bunch of goblets, and an almost-full bottle that smells and looks just like the antidote.
“I know what to do,” I say, and I explain my kiss/spit technique.
Danny raises his eyebrows higher than eyebrows should go. “Your plan is that we kiss everyone.”
“Basically, yes,” I say.
“Teachers included?” he asks.
I realize I’m looking at his mouth when he talks. I remember the way his lips feel. I’m a moron, but I think I get it. I finally get it.
“Everyone,” I say. “Teachers. The basketball team. The administration. Hot girls. Ever-ry-one.”
He laughs. “It’s genius,” he says, “but definitely evil genius.”
“Is there any other kind?” I quip.
So we kiss our way through the entire junior class. I make sure to plant a good one on the headmaster. It’s pretty awesome to spit in his mouth.
When we’re done, we round up Daria and Hannah and go out to a diner. We eat in silence, but Danny and I keep grinning at each other and finally we just start laughing, which the girls so don’t appreciate.
“Sorry I was kind of a dick,” I tell him after Daria and Hannah go back to their dorm. “And sorry we had to suck face to save the school.”
“You’re not sorry,” he says, and for a moment the words hang dangerously in the air, able to mean too many things. “You got to kiss Abby Goldstein,” he finally finishes and we can both laugh.
“And you,” I say, surprising myself. There I go, not thinking about consequences. I’m not even sure I know what I mean. No, I know what I mean.
“Yeah?” he asks.
I nod miserably. He knows what I mean, too.
“That’s cool,” Danny says. “’Cause I’m such a stud, huh?”
“You’re such an asshole,” I say, but I laugh.
The next Monday is bizarre. Classes with juniors are almost entirely quiet. Lots of kids aren’t even there. The underclassmen are buzzing like crazy with rumors. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen knots of seniors, sophomores, and freshmen all gossiping together. Drugs, they’re saying. A cult. It’s kind of hilarious, except that people got hurt. The assistant headmaster is still at the hospital, but his wife e-mailed his resignation.
I’ve got to admit it, I’m finding myself strangely full of Wallingford pride.
Of course, Mike and Xavier and all the rest of the Latin Club glare at me when we pass in the halls. I don’t think they’re all that mad, though. Whatever blackmail scheme they got going is probably kicking into high gear. I’m sure they’ll all be buying new computers by the end of the week.
Still, I’m a little nervous as I roll into Latin.
Danny’s already there and he grins as I sit down next to him. “Dude,” he says, “want to go to Western Plaguelands tonight for a raid? I heard abo
ut a sunken temple in Caer Darrow with lots of purple drops.”
“I’m on it like a bonnet,” I say.
All things considered, he’s a good best friend. Maybe better than me.
Ms. Esposito walks by my desk, holding her coffee. “Antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad nece,” she says, which I think means that if we were back in the good old days, I’d be left out on a windswept crag to die.
She smiles.
I’m so registering for German next year.
Your Big Night
by Sarah Mlynowski
You were worried it wouldn’t happen. Terrified. Smashing-a-headlight-while-taking-your-driver’s-test terrified. Ever since Shane dumped you again, this time for The Model (some sophomore named Reese who supposedly had appeared in some random catalogues), you knew that you had HAD to get a date for prom.
But terror be gone! TheMan, the screen name belonging to Brent Booster, your blue-eyed and sexy yearbook editor (with whom you occasionally e-flirt while working on page layouts) has just written you the delicious words you’ve been waiting for:
TheMan: wanna go 2 prom together? Or is asking you sexual harassment?
Yes, yes, yes! You don’t write that, obviously, since you are trying to appear cool. You take a deep calming breath, lift your feet onto your desk in an attempt to stretch and therefore relax, and type:
Drew: Sure
TheMan: sure it’s sexual harassment?
Drew: Sure I’ll go to prom with you. J
But then you worry. Why does he call himself TheMan? You hope he is being ironic.
Your own screen name came from your ex. When Shane met you back when you were fourteen, he thought you looked like Drew Barrymore. Now everyone you know calls you Drew.
But more than Shane’s screen name, you worry about Mandy, Brent’s on-and-off-again girlfriend for the past year, who, though not on the yearbook staff, often hogs the yearbook couch, fridge, and Internet access. Should you ask about her? No, you decide. You should not.
Drew: What about Mandy?
You nervously pick at your split ends while waiting for a reply. You’re pretty sure Mandy and Brent are finished. In fact, just today you witnessed her throw her bio textbook at his head after third period. You wish you had the guts to throw a textbook at your ex. But that would show him that you care. Which you don’t. No way, no how. It’s kaput. Finis.
TheMan: so over
So perfect! Two months before prom and you already have a date. And you need a date, if you want to make Shane jealous. Which, of course, you don’t.
“Don’t go with him,” your best friend Jen warns you the next day in gym.
You, Jen, and your other best friend, Kyra — the three of you clad in hideously fluorescent orange gym clothes — are lying side by side (first Kyra, then you, then Jen) on identical blue and smelly foam mats. This month your phys ed teacher has become obsessed with Pilates and is making you all engage in a form of painful sit-ups called hundreds, where you lie on your back and pulsate a hundred times.
“Why” — you exhale as you pulse — “not?” You are trying harder than you normally would, in an attempt to get into shape for prom.
“Because he’s going to get back together with Mandy and you’re going to get screwed,” Jen says matter-of-factly.
“He wouldn’t have asked me if he was planning on getting back together with Mandy,” you point out.
“It’s a risky move.” Kyra stops exercising and turns on her side to face you. “Why don’t you want to come with us in the Winnebago?”
You roll your eyes. You are not going to prom in an RV. And you are not going to prom with girlfriends. Any other time, any other occasion, fine, but this is prom. You need a date. You can’t have Shane thinking you can’t get a date for prom. Seeing you on the arm of another guy will make Shane realize what he has lost. Which will make Shane fall in love with you all over again. Not that you’d take him back. No way. Not this time.
At least, not right away.
Fine. You admit it. You want him back. Maybe. And making him jealous is the way to his heart. It’s worked before, and it’ll work again.
“We saw you roll your eyes,” Jen says, still hundredsing. Unlike you, she is superathletic (plays intramural soccer and Connecticut community baseball). She can even multitask easily, i.e., work out and talk at the same time.
“It’s going to be fun,” Kyra says, re-tying her long black hair into a ponytail. “Don’t you want to spend the night with the people who are actually important to you and not some random guy?”
“Brent isn’t random,” you say. “We’ve been on yearbook staff together for three years. Plus we e-flirt.” The IMs and e-mails were always harmless, although you used to leave them open on your computer so Shane would see them. Making it look like another guy was interested in you always made him more attentive. Much more effective than all those times you’d call him (after not hanging out for a week) and bug him not to take you for granted.
“You e-flirt whenever he’s fighting with his girlfriend,” Jen reminds you. “Then they get back together, and good-bye, IM buddy.”
“He’s not getting back together with Mandy,” you huff.
“I don’t like Mandy,” Kyra says. “She’s so snobby.”
“I don’t like her either,” Jen says. “She’s so blond. I have to watch her every morning, bobbing up and down in her cheesecake convertible.”
You shake a fistful of your blond hair at her. “Hel-lo?”
“You know what I mean. It’s blinding. Like a spotlight glaring into your eyes.”
Mandy lives two doors down from Jen and never offers her a lift to school. Luckily, Jen has you to pick her up.
“Don’t you think he’d make a good prom date?” you ask, deliberately steering away from the topic of exes. “Picture him in a tux.”
“You guys would look good in pictures,” Kyra admits.
You lay your head back on the mat, close your eyes, and visualize these so-called pictures. Yes, you would look good together. Not as good as if you were going with Shane, but still good.
“I understand wanting to go with a boyfriend,” Jen says, “but since none of us has one, it’s stupid not to go together.”
“Are you saying I’m stupid?” you snap.
She is obsessed with the Girls Only Winnebago. She read about it in a teen magazine and became convinced that all senior unattached females should do it. Instead of bringing dates, a bunch of girls have their pre-prom party in a chauffeured Winnebago, go solo to the prom, and then party all night in the RV.
You’re not crazy. Are you? Most people want a date for prom, don’t they? Your friends act like you’re the first person in the history of the world to want to be paired up for the friggin’ thing. Though if they knew the real reason you’re so desperate to go, they might be more understanding. Of course, they might also have you institutionalized. Either that or chain you to a brick wall until the whole thing is over.
“I’m not saying you’re stupid,” Jen says. “I just don’t understand why it’s so important to have a date.”
Shane always wants what he can’t have, but no way are you going to remind them of that important little tidbit. “I am not going to let you go through that again,” Jen would say. “How long do you think it would take before he breaks your heart another time?”
“Let her do what she wants,” Kyra cuts in. “It’s her senior prom. She has to make a decision that she’ll be happy with for the rest of her life.”
Jen snorts. “You make it sound like a tattoo. It’s just a dance.”
Just a dance? Easy for Jen to say, considering she already went last year with her then-senior boyfriend. “I want the whole shebang,” you announce. “A date. A corsage.” Shane to realize his mistake.
“We?
??re going to get ourselves corsages,” Kyra says. “Come on, Drew, are you in?”
“No, I’m not in. I want to go in a limo.”
“But the Winnebago has a king-size bed!” Kyra exclaims. “How cool is that?”
“What do you need a bed for if none of you even has a date?” you ask.
“Jumping,” Kyra says. “And watching movies.”
“More like napping,” you mutter. “Because that’s how bored I would be in the Winnebago.”
You spot Brent and Mandy chatting by the water fountain.
Uh-oh.
Calm down. They’re just talking. Nothing to be worried about. Nothing wrong with a little chit and chat.
When Brent tells you that he and his friends have rented a limo, you cheer.
And then you buy The Dress.
A gorgeous pale pink Nicole Miller dress that makes your mom tear up when you model it for her. She buys you a matching (on sale!) pink wrap because Connecticut nights can be cool in May, and one-inch silver heels that don’t give you much height but will keep you comfy and able to dance all night. You are so not making the same mistake you made at your cousin’s wedding last fall. You wore three-inch strappy heels that gave you blisters the size of your thumbs and forced you to hold on to tabletops for balance.
Tabletops — and Shane. He was there, holding your hand, showing off his dimples, telling you that you looked beautiful, making you feel beautiful. And special. Until the next week when Jen told you she saw him making out with The Model in the back row of a James Bond movie.
You’re on your way home from school when you spot Brent in the passenger seat of Mandy’s car.
I’m going to be sick, you think.
You IM him later that night.
Drew: What’s the story? Are U and Mandy back together?
TheMan: no...