Leah on the Offbeat

  “I bet people think we’re famous,” says Simon.

  “I mean, that’s what I’d assume, seeing a limo full of high school kids rolling through the suburbs in April,” Abby says. “Definitely a film premiere.”

  “Or the Oscars,” chimes Bram.

  “Couldn’t be prom.”

  “Shut up.” Simon grins and elbows both of them at once.

  Then Garrett stretches and—honest to God—slips his arm behind my shoulders. Master of subtlety. I scoot forward, just an inch. Far enough to put a little space between us, but not far enough for anyone to notice.

  Except Abby notices. She raises her eyebrows, almost imperceptibly, and shoots me a tiny, secret smile.

  And yeah.

  Holy shit.

  This is going to be quite a night.

  31

  THE DRIVER CAN’T FIND THE restaurant. He rolls down the divider, peering at us in the rearview mirror. “The American Grill?”

  “The American Grill Bistro,” Garrett says.

  “And you’re sure this is the mall?”

  “Positive.” Garrett extracts his arm from behind my back, leaning forward in his seat. “North Point Mall, the American Grill Bistro.”

  We circle for a few minutes, until the driver gives up and lets us off at Macy’s. Walking through the mall in formal wear is surreal. There are old ladies smiling at us and little kids staring, and one dude even snaps a picture.

  “Creeper,” says Morgan.

  Garrett takes the lead, guiding us past Forever 21, the Apple store, and Francesca’s. But we get all the way to Sears, and there aren’t any restaurants. Garrett looks perplexed. “It was definitely down this way. Definitely.”

  “Should I check the map?” Anna asks.

  “It should be right here.”

  We all stand there for a minute in our dresses and tuxes. It’s a little disorienting. Like, I’m a suburban girl—I know malls. But this isn’t my usual mall, which means it’s like stepping into a parallel universe. I watch Simon chew on his lip while Garrett stares at the directory. “Maybe we should eat at the food court,” Anna suggests.

  “No, wait,” Abby says, hand flying to her mouth.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nods slowly. “Let me just . . . I’ll be right back,” she says, furrowing her brow—and then, a moment later, she disappears around a corner.

  Garrett drifts back toward me, looking distraught. “I swear, I made a reservation. I talked to someone. On the phone,” he adds.

  “Garrett, it’s fine.”

  “I did, though. I promise.”

  “I believe you,” I say, scanning the floor for Abby. There’s a Starbucks and a set of escalators and dozens and dozens of people. But she’s nowhere.

  “I want a massage chair,” says Simon, staring into Brookstone.

  “I’ll be your massage chair,” says Bram.

  “You did not just say that.” I scrunch my nose at him. But he just squeezes Simon’s shoulders, and then tugs him closer. Simon smiles and leans back.

  “Hey,” Abby says breathlessly. I look up with a start. And she’s a sunbeam. She has her smile cranked up to a million, and her eyes are bright and crinkly. “So, Garrett,” she says.

  “Suso.”

  She takes both his hands. “We have a reservation.”

  “We do?” He looks hopeful. “Where did the restaurant go?”

  “It’s not a restaurant,” Abby says.

  I look at her. “What?”

  “I mean, it’s sort of a restaurant . . .” She looks like she’s ready to burst. “But it’s in there.” She points to a spot behind her shoulder.

  “That’s the American Girl store,” says Simon.

  “Yes.”

  “As in dolls.”

  “Yes.” Abby’s eyes are twinkling.

  “I don’t get it.” Simon looks baffled.

  “Well,” she says, “it appears that Garrett made our prom dinner reservations at the American Girl Bistro.”

  Garrett shakes his head. “No, it’s the American Grill Bistro.”

  “Okay.” Abby cocks her head. “But the American Girl Bistro has a reservation on file for a party of eight, and it’s under your name, so . . .”

  “Oh.” Garrett’s eyes go wide. “Fuck.”

  Simon face-plants into my shoulder, almost sobbing with laughter.

  This whole place is pink. Blindingly bright pink. Everything—the walls, the tables, the fake flower centerpieces.

  “I love it here,” breathes Abby.

  I grin at her. “You would.”

  There’s an old-timey soda fountain up against one wall, underneath a twinkly lit ceiling, and light fixtures shaped like giant pink flowers. And everywhere I look, I see American Girl dolls. I think we’re the only people here who didn’t bring our sidekicks. It’s the cutest thing in the world, though. The dolls sit in booster seats, clamped onto the tables, and the waiters bring them tiny cups of doll tea.

  “I remember when this store opened,” Morgan says. “I was obsessed with American Girls.”

  Anna raises her eyebrows. “You’re still obsessed.”

  “Not with all of them.” Morgan swipes her. “Just Rebecca. But, like, she’s Jewish, so she’s family.”

  “I think you can rent dolls,” Bram points out. “For the meal.”

  “I’m renting a doll,” says Simon.

  “Guys, I’m so fucking sorry.” Garrett covers his face.

  Abby grins. “Are you kidding me? This is the greatest prom dinner ever.”

  “Agreed,” Morgan says. She clasps her hands together.

  The hostess seats us at a long table in front of the soda fountain counter, with pink polka-dot chairs and intricately folded white cloth napkins. The first thing Simon does is ask her about the rental dolls—and then he, Abby, and Bram end up following her back to the hostess stand. The boys return moments later with pink booster seats and a pair of blond dolls who look disturbingly like Taylor Metternich.

  “Abby’s still deciding,” Simon explains. I glance back at the hostess stand, and Abby actually winks at me.

  When she finally comes back, she’s hugging a black doll with pigtails. “I’m naming her Hermione,” she announces.

  Simon gasps. “It’s finally happening. Abby’s becoming a Potterhead.”

  “Something like that.” She looks straight at me.

  I end up seated between Doll-Hermione and Garrett, across from Simon and Bram—while Nick stares dazedly at the menu, looking tense and miserable. My eyes drift back to Abby, who tucks her chin in her hand and smiles. “Let’s talk about how Simon’s new school mascot is a squirrel.”

  “A black squirrel.”

  “Still a squirrel.”

  “I love squirrels.” Simon grins. “Oh, and guess what. Amtrak has a student discount.”

  “That’ll come in handy,” Abby says.

  “I think we’re going to shoot for visiting every other weekend,” Bram says.

  “And we’re going to Skype,” adds Simon. “And we’re bringing back the Jacques and Blue emails.”

  “Aww, I love it. That’s a great plan.”

  “Yeah, we’ve got this. Long distance can totally work—” Simon catches himself, glancing back and forth between Abby and Nick. “It can totally work for some people,” he adds awkwardly.

  “I heard it was a dealbreaker,” Nick says loudly, and everyone falls silent. It’s the first time he’s spoken all night. I glance back at Abby, who’s smiling brightly, but blinking fast.

  Nick shrugs. “But maybe that’s just a thing people say when they’re dumping you right before prom.”

  Abby pushes her chair out and stands. “Excuse me.”

  Simon sighs. “Nick.” The boys all shift in their seats, and Morgan and Anna exchange wide-eyed glances. A millennium passes, and no one says a word.

  Finally, I stand and grip the back of my chair. “I’ll talk to her.”

  Then I take a deep breath, and
follow her into the bathroom.

  Abby’s sitting on the ledge by the sinks, toes turned out like a ballerina, jelly flats peeking out from under her dress. She looks up at me, startled. “What are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.” I rub the back of my neck. “Just making sure you’re okay.”

  She shrugs. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay.”

  For a moment, neither of us speak.

  “Why are you in the bathroom?” I ask finally.

  “Did you know they have doll holders in the stalls?” she asks.

  I blink. “What?”

  “Like, there’s a little hook in there where you can set your doll. I’m serious. Go look.”

  “But why?”

  “So the doll can experience this bathroom with you,” Abby says.

  “That’s . . . strange.”

  “Right?” She laughs, but then it’s swallowed by a sigh.

  I peer into her face. “Seriously, are you okay?”

  “You should probably be asking Nick that.”

  “Well, I’m not. I’m asking you.”

  She gives me a curious look—all eyebrows. I can’t entirely decipher it. I feel my cheeks and my chest and the back of my neck go warm.

  “Well,” she says finally, cupping her chin. “I’m officially the worst.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “I’ve made everything awkward.”

  “Trust me—the boys make themselves awkward.”

  She laughs. “It’s not just the boys, though.”

  My heart pounds when she says that. I don’t even know why. But I have this urge to hoist myself onto the ledge, into the tiny space beside her. I’d sit in the sink if I had to. I want to look into the mirror and see our reflections, side by side.

  But I’m frozen in place. “I don’t like this.”

  “Me neither.” She tilts her head back and sighs. “Prom sucks.”

  “It sucks balls.”

  As soon as I say it, I think of Mom and her determination to have a suck-free prom night. But I think it must have been different for her. Because maybe she was the only pregnant girl at her prom, but at least she got to kiss whomever she wanted to kiss. If I kiss Abby Suso, I burn my friendships to the ground. If she kisses me back, we bring down the apocalypse.

  So I just stand there and look at her until the edges of her lips tug upward. Which makes it even worse. Because every time Abby smiles at me, it feels like getting stabbed.

  32

  AS SOON WE’RE BACK IN the limo, Nick whips a flask out of some secret jacket pocket. I couldn’t be less surprised.

  He swigs it and passes it to Anna, and I just sit there, stiff-shouldered, thinking: here’s why I don’t do school dances. I know exactly how tonight will play out. Everyone will get sloppy drunk, and then they’ll talk about how drunk they are, and then they’ll beg me to drink, too. Because it’s proooom night. Because I should just try it, just a sip. Drunk people are basically zombies. Once they’re infected, they want to take you down with them. Seriously, even my friends are like that, and we’re supposed to be the nerds. Fuck that.

  “Leah?” Garrett nudges the flask toward me.

  I pass it straight to Bram, who then passes it straight to Simon, who passes it to Abby, and then Morgan, and I notice with a start that no one’s actually drinking it. So maybe I’m wrong. Maybe this is just a Nick thing.

  As soon as the flask returns to Nick, he tilts his head back and chugs it. Then he makes a huge scene out of smiling at everyone except Abby. Simon catches my eye and raises his eyebrows, and I shake my head slightly. I love Nick to pieces, but this is cringe central. And prom hasn’t even started yet.

  The sun’s just starting to set as we pull into the Chattahoochee Nature Center, but people are already streaming across the parking lot in groups of two and three and ten. There’s a whole line of limos parked at the curb, and it’s just so Shady Creek. My side-eye is so intense, I should be walking sideways to compensate.

  Of course, the first person I see is Martin Addison—in a powder blue tux, hair gelled like a helmet. He’s walking next to Maddie, formerly of student council and currently known as the Nutcracker—ever since she punched David Silvera in the balls for beating her in the school election. I couldn’t have picked a better date for Martin if I’d tried. I’m about to snark about it to Simon, but then I spot the pavilion—and my heart catches in my throat.

  Okay, yes: prom is stupid.

  But everything’s lit with twinkle lights, and the hanging white curtains seem to glow against the sunset. There are giant rented speakers blasting a song I don’t recognize, but it has the most perfect thudding bass, like a heartbeat. The effect is somehow otherworldly. It doesn’t feel like this space could have anything to do with Creekwood High School, but Creekwood people are everywhere—on the paths, by the aviary, seated at picnic tables on the grass.

  There are stairs that lead straight down to the pavilion, but I veer off onto the side path instead. It’s still strange, walking in a gown. It swishes around my feet with every step I take. But at least I don’t trip. Thank God for combat boots.

  “Hey.” I feel a nudge.

  Of course, it’s Abby, sidling up to me so closely, our arms almost touch. I feel a two-punch in my gut: flutter and yoink. I could easily grab her hand. I could lace my fingers through hers, and no one would think anything of it, because straight girls hold hands all the time. Especially at dances. They hold hands and take cheek-kissing selfies and sit sideways on benches with their feet in each other’s laps. I could honestly just—

  “This is really cool,” Abby says, jolting me back to earth. She’s peering around, wide-eyed, taking everything in. All along the path, there are screened-in enclosures—habitats for birds of prey, mostly. She pauses in front of one. “Is this an owl? Is there an owl at our prom?”

  And yup. It’s an actual owl, staring unblinking and motionless as we cut down the path. As if this wasn’t already the weirdest prom ever.

  “Insert Harry Potter reference here,” I say.

  She grins. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  We end up reaching the end of the path just as Simon and Bram step off the staircase. “Fancy meeting you here,” Abby says.

  I realize with a start that they’re holding hands. Like the real kind of hand-holding, not the ready-to-spring-apart-at-any-moment kind. And they both look so sweetly self-conscious about it, even though you can tell they’re trying to be super casual.

  “So, do we just walk in?” Bram asks.

  Abby shrugs. “I think so.”

  Already, there’s a crowd of people milling around the dance floor, even though no one’s really dancing yet. But there’s an emcee working the crowd, pumping his fist up and bellowing, “ARE THERE ANY SENIORS IN THE HOUSE?”

  “This is literally junior and senior prom,” says Simon.

  “I can’t hear you. ARE THERE ANY SEEEEEEEEEEEENIORS IN THA HOUUUUSE?”

  “Does he realize he’s white?” Abby asks.

  But everyone screams and howls in response, and it’s completely surreal. Under the pavilion, the lights are dim and tinted orange in a way that makes people’s skin seem to glow. I catch a glimpse of white in my periphery, which turns out to be Taylor in a full-on glide. Evidently, she’s decided to wear Kate Middleton’s wedding dress to prom.

  “Is she . . . ?” Abby asks.

  “Yup.”

  “Wow.”

  We exchange grins.

  “Taylor, don’t ever change,” I say.

  Then Garrett appears at my side. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you, Burke.”

  Right. My date.

  “Want to dance? I’m ready to dance.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, right now.” He takes my hand. “Come on, I love this song.”

  “Um. Really?” The deejay’s playing some wordless techno song that sounds exactly like robots having sex.

  “I mean
, the lyrics are genius.”

  I peek at his face, and all at once, I realize: he’s nervous. I don’t know if that’s really clicked for me until now. But he’s smiling too widely and scratching the back of his neck, and a part of me just wants to hug the poor kid. Or hand him a beer. He just needs to relax.

  I let him take my hand and tug me to the dance floor, right up front, near the emcee. “YO YO YO. ARE THERE ANY SENIORS IN THA HOUUUUUUUUUUSE?” Suddenly, there’s a microphone in my face.

  “Yes,” I say flatly.

  “Say it louder for my peeps in the back! ONE MORE TIME. ARE THERE ANY SENIORS IN THE HOUSE?!”

  “Yes, we’ve established that there are seniors in the house,” I say into the mic. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Abby giggling.

  “Come on. We’re dancing.” Garrett tugs me closer, his hands finding my waist.

  “Are we really slow dancing to this random techno song?”

  “Yes.”

  I shake my head and roll my eyes a little, but my hands settle onto his shoulders. And then we sway. There’s barely anyone dancing—people are mostly just hovering around the dance floor—and it’s hard to shake the feeling that everyone’s watching me. I think self-consciousness is in my bones.

  But then the song changes to Nicki Minaj, which seems to flip the switch. People storm the dance floor. I disentangle from Garrett and end up pressed up between Simon and Bram. And—okay—other than the musicals, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Simon dance. But he’s pure Muppet. He’s basically bobbing up and down and shuffling his feet—and as stiff as he is, Bram’s even worse. I grin up at both of them, and Simon takes my hands and twirls me. I feel almost breathless.

  I guess all the teen movies were right: prom is slightly, slightly magical. There’s just something about being crammed onto a dance floor with all your friends, surrounded by twinkle lights and dressed up like movie stars. Simon grins down at me and bumps his hip against mine. Then he grabs Abby’s hands and they spin together in circles. Bram and Garrett are attempting some kind of shoulder swerve, and I’m pretty sure Martin Addison’s reeling in the Nutcracker like a fish.