Who was my ride? Obviously, no limo companies would agree to chauffeur us, and even though the police offered shuttles, it was hardly the arrangement anyone wanted for their prom. Luckily, when word got out, Google dispatched a fleet of those self-driving Priuses decorated with sparkly lights on the inside. It was clearly a promotional stunt to prove that these technical marvels were safe even when kids were exploding inside of them. We didn’t care. All that mattered was that we could arrive in some semblance of style. Nerdy style, but style nevertheless.
Like I said, there was a lot of money to spend, but the idea was to keep things authentic and simple. There was talk of periscoping the proceedings, but the kids who did the planning decided on the opposite. If anyone so much as raised a phone, it would be confiscated. This would be an exclusive event. Seniors only. Music would be provided by Tick, Tick, Tick . . . , a band consisting entirely of members of our class. Dougie O’Shea—under the ridiculous moniker of ShamRockz—would DJ, but only when the band was taking a break. There would be a fully stocked bar and plenty of Covington Kitchen–cooked appetizers to go along with a mountain of Oinkers. No chaperones. No rules other than “have a kick-ass time.” It was basically the prom all high school students wish they could have. Except, well, for the strong possibility of blood, blood, and more blood.
When I arrived, my classmates were already hopping, spinning, and acting like fabulous fools under paper streamers and stars made from aluminum foil. Tick, Tick, Tick . . . was not a particularly good band, but they were enthusiastic, and that counts for a lot. The drummer, Rosie Drew, was kicking the shit out of the bass drum, which was shaking the hell out of the place.
I walked across the quaking dance floor and over to the bar, where I poured soda into a champagne flute. Skye was standing there and she clinked my glass with hers, which was full of the real stuff.
“That outfit,” I said. “Damn. Supercute.”
She was wearing patent leather heels and a silver-sequined mini, which was a bit short for my taste, but what the hell, right? It seemed like the sort of thing you could easily wipe blood from, and Skye was so pretty that most people would ignore the obvious Christmasiness of it.
“Thanks,” Skye told me. “You’re wearing the hell out of that dress too.”
Truth is, she’d hardly given me a glance; her eyes were locked on some sweaty dude on the dance floor—Jackson, Jayson, something like that. Still, I said, “Very nice of you to notice.”
She sipped her drink and replied, “I wish Katelyn had lived to see this. She loved it when everyone got together.”
“No doubt,” I said. “Thanks for setting it all up. This is really nice. The perfect way for things to come to a close.”
“Fully catered rites of passage. It’s what we Sanchezes do best.”
I nodded, motioned to our dancing classmates, and asked, “So, what do you think they’ll do?”
“Get drunk, dance, hook up. Standard stuff.”
“No. I mean, after graduation.”
Skye sipped her drink and said, “College, I hope. Did you hear? I got a scholarship to Smith.”
“Really? Hell yeah for you. How’d you manage that?”
“ACLU is putting the pressure on. Deadlines are being extended. Exceptions are being made. Maybe the world is coming around to us freaks.”
“And maybe the powers-that-be will finally let us freaks run free?” I asked with my eyebrows at full mast.
Skye clinked my flute again and gulped down the rest of her champagne. “Supreme Court will never let this situation stand. Might as well get on with things. Like you so elegantly once said, ‘Let’s fucking live again,’ right? You should apply to Harvard, you know? You’re smart. Creative. Harvard could use a badass feminist like you.”
“I don’t know. After tonight, I doubt I’ll be considered Harvard material.”
“Plan on making a scene, are you?” Skye said with a wink.
“Something like that.”
“Have fun with it. All my parents ask is that you keep any monkey business out of the lobby,” she said, then tossed her flute over her shoulder.
I flinched, but the flute didn’t break when it hit the floor.
“Plastic,” she told me with a wink. “Nice plastic, but still plastic. Come on. This isn’t our first rodeo.” Then she sauntered onto the dance floor, waving her arms above her head as she went.
Tick, Tick, Tick . . . was still giving it their best even though their best was a bit off-tempo and off-key. The room was full, the crowd alert. Now was the moment. Now was my chance. I needed to act while I still had the courage and conviction. The booze was curling a finger at me, promising even more courage, but I knew if I started to sip, I’d eventually gulp and I’d lose that essential conviction and join the dancing throng.
So I stepped away from the bar and climbed onstage. The singer, Benji Goldsmith, thought I was looking to duet, so he was happy to slide over and make room at the microphone. But rather than belt out the chorus to “Firework” I hollered, “Cut the music!”
They may not have been talented, but they were obedient. The musicians hit it and quit it. Except, that is, for Rosie, who, head down, kept assaulting the drums. It was like gunfire and it drew every eye to the stage. When she finally looked up, she realized that now was not the time for a bitchin’ solo and she set her sticks in her lap.
“Thank you,” I told her with a little bow, and then I turned to the crowd. “Apologies for the interruption.”
My classmates seemed peeved, but not particularly hostile. Some asshat did shout, “Show us your tits!” but I couldn’t waste any anger (or nipples) on him. Because I could see myself getting worked into a frenzy and wishing people dead and pushing bodies to their breaking points, then—splat, splat, splat—the dance floor might end up like act 5 of Hamlet. When, really, the only person who deserved my anger was myself.
“I have something to say, something to confess,” I announced. “Then I’ll be out of your hair. Or in your hair, possibly.”
Puzzled looks confronted me. There was no patience for cryptic shit.
My voice slipped into a whisper. “What I’m trying to tell you is . . .”
Then I froze, because goddamnit if Tess wasn’t at the entrance of the ballroom. Now I’m not exaggerating when I tell you she was stinkin’ gorgeous standing there in a red satin mermaid dress. Not that she usually dressed like a bag lady, but this was by far the most elegant I’d ever seen her. She was downright sexy, far hotter than Skye. She pushed back her bangs and smiled at me.
“I . . . I . . . I . . .”
Up until that moment, my intention was to lay it out there, to prove to my classmates that I was the cause of all this horror, and then await sentencing. Maybe they’d descend upon me like jackals and tear me apart. Maybe they’d grab my hair and plunge my head in the punch bowl and make me literally drown in booze. Or maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t have to do anything at all. Maybe my confession would be the final straw, the last bit of self-hate that would turn my own powers against me. Maybe I’d blow up right then and there and provide a warm and splashy end to the shitshow.
Spoiler alert: None of those things happened.
The sight of Tess in the ballroom delivered an existential jolt to my body. I hadn’t spoken to her since that afternoon in the sand. I was fortunate enough to have a moment with my parents before I left for prom, to tell them I loved them and assure them they were innocent. But what was the last thing I’d said to Tess? Basically, “Screw you for believing in me.”
The shock of seeing her now—she wasn’t supposed to be here!—combined with what I was about to do was so overwhelming that I didn’t realize it when someone wrenched the microphone from my hand.
“Worst. Confession. Ever!” boomed from the amplifiers.