Prom Impossible

  I was alone with the sun setting behind the line of trees in my backyard, trying to convince myself that the summer would fly by.

  Chapter 4

  For breakfast—my official Mom-approved one—I ate oatmeal without brown sugar. Not even a spoonful. Nothing but blueberries to counteract the extreme tastelessness. Who invented oatmeal anyway? I bet cardboard would taste better.

  For my second breakfast as I drove to the school the next town over, I ate a package of Necco wafers and two peanut butter cups. Did Mom really think I’d stick to this no sugar thing? Because when I’m in a new or unusual situation, I crave sugar. Not only was I attending this Adventure thing, but I had to do it in another school.

  I pulled in and sat in my car, trying not to stare at the brick building in front of me, trying not to let my brain imagine death by plastic knives. Maybe I could just sit here all day. Maybe they wouldn’t take attendance.

  Two seconds later some little car zoomed into the lot and screeched to a stop. I ducked as this total bad boy wanna be—kinda cute too—climbed out of his car. Since I had no desire to do the small talk thing, I watched him strut into the building.

  Then I looked at myself in the rearview mirror. “You can do this.”

  I practically sprinted into the school, because I’d put this off too long. There weren’t any signs with arrows pointing me in the right direction, so I wandered and took this time to munch on Skittles.

  The guy from the parking lot stepped out of the bathroom. “Are you lost?”

  “Nope. Just admiring the great halls of my school’s rival.”

  “Because you’re going in the wrong direction. It starts soon, and Mr. Skeeter doesn’t like anyone to be late.”

  I got a closer look at his longish black hair, a bit on the rebellious side, and a lip ring. My first instinct was to ask if I could take him to Aunt Lulu’s for Sunday brunch just to see her squirm.

  Instead, I made a sound kind of like a hiccup and a gasp. I smiled. “Sorry. I’m kinda nervous.”

  He regarded me, took in my hair and clothes. “Someone like you would be.” Then he strode down the hall.

  What? “Excuse me.” I ran to catch up. “What do you mean by that?”

  He flipped around and stepped real close. I moved back, hitting the lockers. While he studied my eyes, I fell headlong into his greenish-brown ones.

  “Just that a girl like you probably doesn’t have too many problems. Probably did something stupid one too many times to land here for the summer.” A tense moment skittered between us, my heart racing. This was the exact reason I was nervous. That I’d be judged.

  He shrugged. “Just saying it like it is. I’m Zeke, by the way.” He sniffed my breath. “And don’t even think about bringing candy. It’s not allowed.”

  I half-snorted, half-laughed.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing. You wouldn’t even begin to understand.” I guarantee Mom and Aunt Lulu had something to do with this policy. “And don’t use sniffing my breath as an excuse to get close to my lips because these suckers aren’t kissing yours.” I whirled around in what I hoped was the right direction. Where did that come from? Kissing?

  My legs shook as I walked away and then down several hallways. When I neared the only open classroom in the building, I stopped and leaned over, taking deep breaths.

  “Are you coming in?” asked a short man with no hair, as in zilcho, entering bowling ball territory. “Or are you going to stand in the hallway?”

  “Is this the Adventure Program?”

  He nodded with a yawn. “Welcome. Take a seat and wait.”

  The class was filled with students from every kind of clique. I guess I wasn’t alone. Unfortunately, there was only one seat left, next to him. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of noting his smirk.

  I soon forgot about Zeke as Mr. Boring Pants lectured on about stuff that couldn’t hold my attention for longer than five seconds. This summer might be boring, but I’d survive it.

  “Time for a backpack check,” Mr. Skeeter announced. “Usually do it first thing. Forgot this time.”

  Everyone got in line. I gripped my backpack, my fingers clenched around the strap, unwilling to cooperate and let go. A warm breeze whispered through from the window, and it brought with it the memories of summer evenings hanging by Jules’s pool. As far away as the memories were, the reminder seemed to be her way of encouraging me to at least try. Maybe she was thinking of me right at that moment.

  When it was my turn and I held tight, Mr. Skeeter tightened his jaw, waiting. With resignation, I dropped by backpack at his feet.

  “If you don’t mind I have items of a personal nature in the front pocket.” I whispered, “Like tampons.”

  With a grin, he reached for the front pocket first and slid the zipper open. I thought about collapsing to the ground and faking a seizure, anything to distract him and save myself from anymore humiliation, but before I could do anything he was digging around, then throwing a bag of Skittles on the floor, then my Twix bar, then a small baggie of chocolate chips, then two boxes of Tic Tacs.

  I cringed as soft giggles and huffs rippled through the girls in the front row. At the time, in my last moments of desperation, packing this extra stuff seemed like a good idea, items to carry me through the tough times.

  “Fine.” I huffed. “You found it all. I’m sorry. Okay?”

  He flashed me a Did you think I was stupid? look. I had hoped…maybe. I then saw my backpack with fresh eyes, the bulging sides and barely closed zippers. I guess I could’ve been a bit more subtle.

  “Hey! Don’t I get any privacy?”

  I was met with icy cold silence that traveled down my spine and I regretted my last few items. He even went so far as to unzipper the small pocket on the inside where I hid Carter’s phone, an extra mp3 player, earbuds, and a pack of gum. After dumping everything out, he tossed the backpack at me.

  I sighed and watched as he stuffed all my candy and electronics into a garbage bag he whipped out of the fanny pack around his waist, like every summer there’s always that one student who tries to smuggle paraphernalia into the Adventure Program.

  This summer that student just happened to be me.

  ***

  At the end of the first week, Mr. Skeeter had the whole group create a circle with our chairs.

  He leaned forward, a serious expression on his face as he talked. Guarantee that if Ava or Jules were there they’d already have him convinced to end the program a couple weeks early. They have that kind of influence over people. Influence I obviously don’t have.

  Mr. Skeeter ran a hand over his bald head as if he missed the days of having hair. “You will all get more out of this program if we learn to trust each other. That starts with sharing a bit of our story.” Awkward silence followed. “Anyone willing to be first?”

  The tension skyrocketed as a few of the girls seemed to close in on themselves. They ducked behind their hair, they looked off into the corners of the room as if it could curl in on them and hide them, or they stared at the floor.

  A shine appeared on his head as if he didn’t know what to do if no one talked. “Doesn’t mean you have to. We’ll have other opportunities, but it’s a good time to introduce yourself, tell us a little about your life, and if you’re really brave, tell us what brought you here.”

  Silence lay over us like a thick wool blanket, the kind my dad pulls out when the temperature drops below zero and instead of turning up the heat past 64 degrees he mentions something about the pioneers and survival.

  There was the occasional huff and holding of breath—almost as if someone might talk—but then the moment passed. Girls bit their lips or picked at their cuticles, probably hoping this awkward moment would end soon. Boys shoved their hands into their pockets. Zeke played with his lip ring. I sat on my hands and bit my lip for a different reason. I have this problem with silence. It tends to draw the words out of me even when I don’t want to talk.
>
  “How about s’mores?” I asked. “Maybe some snacks would make us more comfortable. I don’t know about you, but food for me always helps relieve the awkward tension.”

  Mr. Skeeter turned the glare of disappointment on me and I shut up. Obviously, no one got my joke. I guess that wasn’t the kind of sharing he was looking for. Then I caught the expression in his eyes, the caring look he cast on everyone. A horrible feeling sank in my stomach. Here he was, sitting in a stifling classroom with a bunch of troublemakers, and he got me, screwing up his efforts to get us to talk.

  “Sorry. Just a suggestion.” With a deep sigh I gave up the fight, which is probably how I ended up in the program in the first place. “My name is Cassidy…” That’s when my story trailed off. My story of proms and smoke blasters would probably come off sounding pretty stupid.

  Zeke leaned forward. In fact, everyone seemed a little more attentive as if curious to listen to my story. “Like I said, my name’s Cassidy but don’t worry. I didn’t rob a bank or anything like that.”

  I cringed.

  “Yes, Cassidy. We’re listening.” Mr. Skeeter’s voice, the way it reverberated, the deep tone, soothing yet familiar, seemed to reach in and encourage me to keep talking. He had a pure talent for this. Maybe someone had recognized this and paid him like a thousand dollars to con kids into sharing the secrets of their heart.

  “I guess that’s all. I’m Cassidy. I’m not quite ready to share.”

  “Whatever.” The scorn in Zeke’s voice was scorching. “The most you could probably tell us is that you drove your daddy’s car after you crashed yours.”

  What? I wanted to march over and slug him one. I drove my mom’s van and sometimes the car. I studied him and saw the moment of hesitation as if he knew he went too far.

  “Yeah, I guess someone like you would think that,” I spit out. I felt like I was back in an elementary cafeteria, defending my tater tots.

  Everyone glared at me, like they immediately took Zeke’s side. Tension sparked, and Mr. Skeeter jumped in with his soothing voice. “Now, now. This is a safe place for everyone.”

  Zeke eased back in his chair but not before sending me a scathing look.

  Instead of asking anyone else to share, Mr. Skeeter talked a little bit about the next day and his expectations of us over the next six weeks. I tuned him out and kept sneaking evil looks at Zeke, hoping he’d be on the receiving end of one.

  Mr. Skeeter coughed, probably to wake everyone from their daydreams. “I think we’ll work in pairs starting tomorrow.” He turned to Zeke and me. “And you two will have the whole summer to work out your differences. As partners.”

  Figured.

  Week One

  Summer was never going to end. Something I never thought I’d ever say or think.

  Week Two

  This summer was like a piece of Laffy Taffy melting in the sun on top of your phone or stuck on the bottom of your favorite flip-flops—ruined forever.

  I was pretty sure my friends were having the worst summer ever. I bet they were bored to death and wondering why it didn’t feel the same. Hint: I wasn’t there. They just didn’t realize it, because if they had they would’ve sent a homing pigeon with a message, or used a flashlight at night with a Morse cord message or broken in with ski masks to break me out for a night of fun.

  Chapter 5

  “You’d better not drop me,” I half-growled, half-threatened.

  Zeke flashed me his innocent smile. “What? Don’t you trust me, brat?”

  “Trust a bad boy with a lip ring? I’m not so sure about that. You boys do have a reputation.” We were a few weeks in and just barely on the verge of calling a truce and maybe sorta becoming friends.

  He stood with his arms out, and I was supposed to fall backwards and trust he’d catch me. These activities were supposed to increase the chances of our sharing our life stories. Not happening.

  Mr. Skeeter peered at us, jotting down notes. “That’s the whole point of the exercise. To build trust. Now carry on!”

  “That’s right,” Zeke whispered. “Are you scared?”

  “No.” I crossed my arms, ready to knock his smug grin into outer space.

  He shrugged. “That’s okay. We can fake it if you want. I understand the chicken complex.”

  For about three seconds we stared each other down. “I’m ready,” I muttered.

  I turned my back to him and closed my eyes. The warm summer breeze whispered through. I listened to the gasps and giggles of all the other partners, and a couple thuds and groans.

  “Are you sure?” I peeked behind my shoulder. “Make a muscle for me.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. I want to make sure you can catch me.”

  He stepped closer. “You want proof?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, if that’s what you need.” In one swoop, Zeke had me over his shoulder and ran across the soccer field. I bounced on his shoulder, which felt like I was riding a camel with a pointy hump. The colors blurred and, even though I wanted to be furious and pound his back, I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe.

  “Stop!” I gasped.

  “What? I can’t hear you!”

  After flailing my arms, I grabbed hold of the skin on his arm and started pinching. Finally, he slowed. When he tried to lower me, I fell, and we landed in a pile.

  A quiet voice spoke over us. “What is going on here?” It was Mr. Skeeter. “Four laps around the field. Now!”

  I pushed up to my feet, stifling any remaining giggles. “Sir, I think I’m allergic to exercise, because I get the same kind of symptoms, especially shortness of breath, like my throat is swelling. Could I walk?”

  “Make it six laps!”

  On our second lap, Zeke said, “Allergic to exercise?”

  “I know, I know.” I panted between every third word. “I say dumb things sometimes.”

  “Sometimes?” He smirked.

  “Okay, a lot of the time. I can’t help it.”

  We jogged most of it in silence, and I seriously debated the whole allergy angle. As in maybe I could forge a doctor’s note. When we finished the laps, I collapsed under the shade of a tree. “I think I’m going to die.”

  Zeke leaned against the tree, sweat making his hair kinda stick up. “It was worth it.”

  “What? Running? I’m not so sure. You could probably put in for a new partner.” I didn’t even want to think about how beautiful I looked on the verge of passing out and puffing like a train engine.

  “No. Getting you to see that maybe I can have fun. That I’m more than just the bad boy.”

  I pondered his words and how often stereotypes follow us. Okay, so maybe, more than once I’d commented on his lip ring and the whole bad boy image. “Most of the time, I’m just kidding with you about that. Anyway, the bad boy image is probably better than the rich, spoiled brat.”

  “True.” He plucked a piece of grass and chewed on it. His face grew serious. I could practically see the thoughts churning in his mind. “I’ve tried real hard to fight against that bad boy image.” He fell silent for a moment, then said, “I don’t want to end up like my parents.”

  My back prickled. This was starting to sound too much like a friendship and that we didn’t hate each other, which I knew was false because he poked fun at me constantly.

  “Then don’t.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “End up like your parents. Pick out one thing you don’t like about them and do the exact opposite every day.”

  “Huh,” then he kinda stared at me like I was Yoda.

  “I do it every day.”

  “Might be easy for you to say with everything handed to you for free.”

  I stood, tried my best to smooth my hair down, and walked away. I’d never corrected him on my whole spoiled brat stereotype. He’d assumed and I’d let it go. We had spent several weeks together, and he still couldn’t see past that?

  “Hey, where you goin
g? We’re supposed to do some partner thing.”

  “I’m going to weave some potholders,” I called over my shoulder. Even though we both knew that was a complete lie, because they’d forgotten to hire an arts and crafts director.

  Guess we weren’t meant to be friends after all. Not if he couldn’t see past something in me that wasn’t even true.

  Week Three

  It was extremely difficult to focus my thoughts on Michael and a first date and prom when being partnered with someone like Zeke. I deserved a page in the World’s Book of Records for the person with the highest tolerance for someone who was annoying and constantly calling me a brat.

  Week Four

  After a particularly long and mentally exhausting day of exchanging barbs with Zeke, I came home from camp and wrote an email to God, listing all the reasons Zeke shouldn’t be accepted into heaven when he arrives at the pearly gates.

  Then I included Santa too. Zeke should expect a rather large lump of coal this December.

  Chapter 6

  All summer, I’d worked on a super-secret, top-priority, no-one-could-see-this-or-I’d-have-to-move-to-Alaska-and-adopt-an-alias list. Every night, I’d flop on my bed, sip my organic green tea—oh, how I longed for the days of soda and cheese curls—and add to my ever growing list of ways to help Michael realize his true feelings for me.

  My goal was to write down every conceivable plan and then narrow it down from there.

  1. Bring him donuts every morning.

  2. Memorize and sing elfin songs from Middle Earth. (Convince Carter to accompany me on the guitar.)

  3. Play hard to get. (This one doesn’t always work for me.)

  4. Make him jealous. (Definitely has potential. Possibly pay someone to take me out on some dates. Make sure Michael is there. Make sure the guy is at least somewhat cute. Make sure Jules helps with wardrobe.)

  5. Break a leg and enlist his help for weeks. (This depends on the Florence Nightingale Effect. Possible problems: the pain factor, what if he doesn’t help?)

  6. Memorize the Periodic Table of Elements and casually insert into conversation. (This could be too time intensive.)

  I broke out of my mad brainstorming session when someone knocked on my bedroom door.