39

I figure that everyone except me will be fashionably late to prom, but when I arrive there’s already a crowd waiting to get inside. Immediately in front of me, GRRLS forms a snaking line of slinky dresses—without a single tuxedo to spoil the effect. The few couples who somehow missed or ignored Brookbank’s feminist revolution are so heavily outnumbered that they look embarrassed to be here. It must be the first major event in school history where the partnerless dorks feel cooler than the hip, beautiful couples. I appreciate this change—it benefits people like me.

The line is moving slowly and eventually stops altogether. I hear raised voices ahead of me, so I pull away to have a peek. Morgan and Taylor are standing side by side, holding their ground as Jefferies shakes his head, staring defiantly at a point slightly above their heads.

“But we did what you asked,” Morgan insists.

“You did no such thing. You were an embarrassment to the school and everything it stands for.”

“No, the baseball team is the embarrassment,” Taylor corrects him. “We were simply standing up for ourselves.”

“Turn around and go home, girls. And be grateful that your punishment ends here.”

“This is completely … ” begins Morgan, but then trails off.

Ms. Kowalski emerges from inside and sidles up to Jefferies, holding a finger to her lips. He spins around.

“Oh hello, Jane. I was just telling these girls that—”

“They should hurry up and come inside.” Ms. K smiles innocently. “I wondered what had been holding up the line.”

“B-But the game last night,” he stammers.

“Yes. They came, they dressed, they cheered.”

“But they cheered for the wrong team!”

“Well, you didn’t tell them which team to cheer for, did you, Carl? And you’re always telling me how important it is to be specific with one’s instructions.”

Jefferies is livid, but Ms. K is already ushering GRRLS inside to avoid further incident. They trail along behind Morgan, their unofficial leader, all smirks and giggles. And suddenly I’m at the front of the line.

“Hold on, Mr. Mopsely,” sneers Jefferies. “What a coincidence to find you standing beside the cheerleaders again. Weren’t you one of the participants in their Quad stunt?”

“Well, I wouldn’t call myself a participant, exactly.”

“Then what would you call yourself?”

“Um … a bystander?”

“Oh really? Rumor has it you provided them with the Book of Busts. Is that true?”

Ms. K stops in her tracks and peers over her shoulder; I imagine that hearing Jefferies refer to the Book of Busts has not improved her mood. As our eyes meet I can tell that we’re both considering the current status of our cold war, so I try to convey through telepathy that I’m sorry for everything I’ve done and would like to declare a truce. Somehow, Ms. K seems to understand.

“Carl, I’m sure you’re about to congratulate Kevin on bringing an end to that galling tradition, but in the interest of time, how about we just let him in immediately, instead?”

“But Jane, I—”

“Carl,” sighs Ms. K, “let’s just move things along here, okay? At the rate we’re going, some of the students won’t even make it to prom.”

It’s about the most assertive thing I’ve ever heard her say, and Jefferies looks distinctly hot under the collar. With a flick of her head, Ms. Kowalski indicates that I should jog inside while he seems too distracted to stop me. No wonder she’s my favorite teacher.

The school gym is decked out with streamers, balloons, and banners sporting French place names. A model Eiffel Tower that was a prop in the last school musical stands proudly in the middle of the floor. I sense a theme here, but I’ve always studiously avoided anyone associated with prom organization, so I can’t say for sure whether it’s deliberate.

At the front of the gym, on a flimsily constructed stage, a string trio massacres a Mozart Divertimento. It’s an excruciating experience, and midway through their performance someone steps forward and asks them to wrap it up. As if aware of their own ineptitude they don’t even bother to finish the piece properly, so the music sort of fizzles out. In a pauper’s grave somewhere in Vienna, Mozart is thanking them for stopping.

“Geez, that was seriously hideous,” says Kayla, shaking her head like she still can’t understand why she was made to hear it.

“Yeah, it really was.”

Silence.

“Listen, Kayla, I just want to say I’m sorry I put you through … you know … that stuff. And the date.”

Kayla waves it off. “You’ve already apologized.”

“Yeah, but not to you personally. And Abby made me realize that I owe you a personal apology.”

“Yeah, you really screwed things up with her, huh? I mean, if I’d known she was into you I’d never have gone on that so-called date. I still find it pretty incredible that someone as cool as her is interested in you. No offense.”

“No offense taken,” I assure her. And I’m really not offended, because she’s right—Abby is way cooler than me, and it’s a miracle that she ever wanted to date me.

Right on cue, Abby, Nathan, and Caitlin take the stage, launching into one of our jazz arrangements. The sound is so much better than the string trio that everyone is immediately into the music, dancing or nodding their heads rhythmically, even though they’d never be caught dead listening to music like this outside of prom.

GRRLS leads the way, performing a raunchy, hip-grinding series of moves that has every guy staring with an open mouth. But Morgan and her sisters don’t even seem to notice. It’s like they’ve somehow moved beyond the need for boys completely, which would be depressing if they didn’t look so utterly contented.

By the third song, a couple of dorky chess-playing seniors with acne summon the courage to approach Morgan and her friends and ask for a dance. It’s the most improbable request in history, but GRRLS welcomes them into the throng, passing the boys along the line until they’ve danced with every girl. Straightaway, all the geeks, dorks, stoners, and losers gravitate into the GRRLS vortex and surrender themselves to the irresistible allure of Morgan and company.

The only geek who remains apart is me, because I’m busy focusing on the quartet. More accurately, I’m focusing on Abby, watching as her hair whips across the front of the double bass. She’s dyed it so that thick red streaks punctuate her natural brunette, and her red satin dress matches the streaks. But more than anything I notice how completely unself-conscious she is as she lets herself go with the music. It makes her look amazingly confident and sexy. I get the feeling a few of the other guys are checking her out too.

Nathan strikes up the first of the classic pop songs, and again everyone gives in to the urge to dance. For a while I join them, but then I stop so I can listen to the music properly, enjoying the precision of the ensemble and the energy of the performance. How did I ever turn my back on this?

The song ends and I initiate the applause, striding to the edge of the stage and screaming my appreciation. And even though I wish I could be up there with them, right now I just want them to know how good they sound. Nathan and Caitlin laugh as they see me, jumping up and down and whooping until I’m red in the face. But Abby doesn’t smile. She just stares me down until the applause dies out, by which time everyone is watching our interaction with morbid fascination.

I feel frozen to the spot as Abby gently lowers her double bass and approaches the front of the stage, her hands clasped firmly behind her back. When she’s almost directly in front of me, she bends down and raises her right hand menacingly. I close my eyes and brace myself.

Suddenly I feel the palm of her hand on the back of my head, and her lips against mine. I open my eyes. We’re kissing. We’re really kissing. Behind me, everyone cheers.

“Welcome back, you dork,” Abby murmurs, her breath like a gentle summer breeze.

Straight away, Nathan launches into the opening bars of “California Dreamin’.” Abby is biting her lip and smiling, and I can’t resist the urge to kiss her again. But then she pulls away and brings her other hand around so that I can see it.

Grasped between her fingers is my flute, already pieced together and ready to play.

For a couple of seconds I’m too stunned to react, but then I leap onto the stage and take the flute from her.

A moment later I begin singing and playing the arrangement she wrote for me from memory.