Ditched (14 page)

“What’s the Ledbetter prom color?”

“
Skin
.” Serenity spun me around. “Done! Check you out, lady.”

I could see the back of the dress in the mirror—it actual y looked cool. A little punk now. I liked it. “Thanks. I think Mike and Other Mike are right about your essences.”

“Thanks, Sweetness.” Serenity turned back to Bliss.

“Let’s pee then dance our skinny asses off!” They both threw their hands in the air and howled. I half howled with them. No—more like a wimpy screech.

When I went into one stal to pee, they shoved into another one to share a cigarette. But after getting a whiff, I knew it was no cigarette.

As we walked out, the girls were red-eyed and giggly, and I was stil stained, sober, and sewn together with bong wire. To make matters worse, the dinner tables had been cleared and the dance floor was jammed with people. I had completely missed dinner! Even worse, Ian was nowhere to be seen.

Oh, no. No, no, no. Why didn’t I let Al yson help me? I had to find him.

136

But Serenity and Bliss grabbed me by either arm and dragged me out to the dance floor. They joined up with Mike and Other Mike and made out for an uncomfortably long time, lots of tongue again, and I started to hear some moaning. They had already lost interest in me, so I stepped away from their smooch fest and stood at the edge of the floor, looking for Ian.

I scanned the crowd and final y saw him. He was at the far side of the room by the exit sign, facing the other direction talking on his cel . “Ian!” I cal ed out, waving my purse in the air. But he couldn’t hear me over the music.

“Wanna dance?”

It was Brian Sontag—stocky, with a fresh buzz cut, and gleaming white teeth. He glanced over to the other far side of the room, where Al yson was standing. On
her
cel phone.

“Our dates are busy.” He gave me an energetic grin. “No reason why we can’t have one dance.”

Was he hitting on me?

Brian started swaying, and I couldn’t think of a single word to say. Al I could do was ping my head back and forth from one side of the room to the other, trying to figure out if Ian was talking to Al yson. What was going on?

But then again, I was the one on the dance floor in close vicinity to a swaying Brian Sontag. The last thing I needed was for Ian to think I was dancing with another guy. But I needed to know if he was talking to her. Surely it was a coincidence. “I gotta talk to Ian.” Brian tried to respond, but 137

I was already hauling it to the other side of the room.

I pushed past people, weaving in and out like a basketball point guard, trying to get to Ian quickly. I reached the exit sign where he was standing, but it was an empty space.

He was gone.

I dashed around the bal room looking for him, cal ing his name out like he was a missing puppy. “Ian? Ian?!” But nothing. Out of desperation I hunted down Eva, worried that maybe he was with her. But I spotted her in a corner holding up a mirror for Jimmy while he smoothed the stray strands on his floppy faux-hawk.

Al yson was now on the dance floor with Brian. They were dancing, but not too close—no body parts touching.

Maybe she
wasn’t
talking to Ian? Maybe I had come down with a severe case of date-stealing paranoia?

Then it hit me: Ian must have gone out to the car to get my peanut butter cookie. Since I’d missed dinner, he’d know I’d be starving, and he took his role as Lord of my Blood Sugar seriously.

My stomach growled and led me away to find leftovers somewhere, because when my brain isn’t thinking straight, my stomach takes over as Head Commander.

That’s when I heard the clink of dishes. The waitstaff was cleaning up the dinner and taking plates off to the kitchen, whooshing quickly in and out of the swinging kitchen doors.

I made my way across the room and stood near a waiter carrying a large tray of empty plates. Except there was one 138

plate stil ful . The entire meal was untouched. It was mine.

My stomach was in ful commando mode, and it was taking too long for Ian to bring me a cookie.

“Excuse me?” I stepped closer and leaned in to get the waiter’s attention. “I know this sounds weird, but I was stuck in the bathroom during the entire dinner and I didn’t get to eat mine. Could I just have a taste?”

“Of course.” He laid the tray down and handed me my dinner. But another waiter swung through the kitchen door at that exact moment and smacked right into him.

The plate flew, food hurtled through the air, and yet another stain came to town and made its new residence on my dress. Chicken marsala. Thigh-high.

I rushed to the bathroom—
again!
—and tried my best to scrub it off. It was the same dril : search around the overly decorated bathroom/living room for something to fix my ridiculous problem.

There were no paper towels, only air dryers with stickers that said, “This is an environmental y friendly bathroom.” The environment is super great and al , but couldn’t Al Gore have agreed to provide some freaking paper towels for al the pathetic stain-covered girls on prom night?

Everyone who passed through had an opinion. One girl suggested using ice water, and another said soda water, and another said apple cider. It didn’t matter—it was pointless.

I had to face reality: my dress attracted flying liquid. And I’d managed to spend virtual y my entire prom night in the 139

bathroom, and not attached to Ian’s lips.

This was a disaster.

After eyeing the tampons again, I gave up on ever getting my dress looking presentable, and shuffled back out to the bal room. I scanned the crowd, looking for Ian, but no luck.

Cookie retrieval did
not
take that long. Where was he?

I reached for my phone to cal him, but the crowd started getting wild and my ears fil ed with thunderous music. Everyone was juking around, jumping up and down to some old-school heavy metal, and based on Mike and Other Mike’s excitement, I guessed it was a song they had requested. Even the school counselor was bopping her head to the beat.

Without realizing it, I suddenly started to sway. Maybe a little twirl, too. I couldn’t help it. Electric guitar, deep bass—

it lured me.

“Hey, it’s my new dancing partner.” Brian Sontag was suddenly next to me, bouncing his head to the music.

Was he
everywhere
?

The counselor scooted next to us. “You guys make a cute couple.”

Oh my god, she thought we were dancing together.

Wait. He was swaying. I was twirling next to him . . . we were dancing together! Had anyone else seen?

Hearing the word “couple” jolted me back to reality, and I stopped swaying. “It’s nice of you to ask. But your girlfriend probably wants to dance with you.”

140

“Not real y,” he said with a tinge of bitterness.

He gave me a half smile as I started to walk away.

“Sweetness!” Other Mike spotted me and yanked me back onto the dance floor. “Get out here now and enjoy these tunes.” He was yel ing over the crowd. “Where’s Ian?”

“I don’t know!” I yel ed into his ear.

“Ohhhhh.” He gave me a thumbs-up, faking that he heard what I actual y said.

So I shrugged, realizing we weren’t going to get any further with this conversation, but when I turned to leave I ran smack into a polished rock—Al yson Moore’s head.

“He’s gone.”

The music was so loud I could hardly hear her, but it almost sounded like she’d said he was gone. “What?” I leaned in, cupping my ear.

Just then the music softened—a slow song. A soft song.

Our
song. “Open Arms.”

How was this possible? Did Ian get the DJ to play it?

Bouncing on my toes, I popped up like a marmot, trying to find him.

“Ian left!” she yel ed.

My feet dropped flat on the ground and stuck—hard—

like an Olympic gymnast.

Thunk.

“What do you mean he left? Where’d he go?” I could feel my Creepy Cat Lady face coming on, al twitchy with my eyebal s darting around the room.

141

“He couldn’t find you. He went to do a favor.” She motioned her hand at Brian to come join her, as if this conversation was now boring her. “Ian seems to have lots of friends. Nice of him to do favors on prom night.” Brian fol owed directions and joined Al yson. She put her arms around his neck, and they showed actual physical contact, affection almost, as they swayed to our song.

Wait.

Ian.

Left me?

I knew I took a long time in the bathroom, but . . . what?

He left to go do a
favor
? Who would ask him to do a favor on
prom night
?!

I swal owed hard.

Crap.

A nausea tsunami came over me, and I spun around to get away, but Other Mike grabbed my arm and stopped me.

“Ian needs to get in here. I did that favor for him,” he said.

“What favor?” Jesus, what was up with al the favors?!

“The DJ. He’s a customer of mine. He’s playing your song right now.”

As if I didn’t know? “I know!” I yel ed. The twitch and my darty eyes were back.

No. No, no, no, no. This couldn’t be happening. This moment was planned, severely thought out, mapped on my GPS if he would’ve let me . . . and he was just . . .
gone
? This 142

was when I was going to get my answer. His kiss—proof he was total boyfriend material.

Everyone was paired up and slow dancing to our song while I stood in the middle of the room alone. I clutched my purse and held it to my chest like a shield—wishing Ian and I were the ones the chaperones had to separate. The thought of missing The Moment of Lip Lock Bliss with Ian was unbearable. It would’ve been an amazing kiss.

My heart started beating erratical y. It flipped and took a nosedive. I pressed on my chest to remind it to keep pumping.

It hurt—ached—as I silently wished for Ian to show up, make the dashing rescue and bring this sad moment to a romantic conclusion.

But no. Ian was not running in to scoop me into his arms.

He was out doing favors.

Hailey was right. Prom is a horror story. I bolted from the dance floor and dashed out the lobby doors to the parking lot, then stood on my toes looking for Ian’s car. I analyzed every headlight and every engine sound, trying to figure out if he was there. But no. His rumbling old piece-o-crap Mercedes was nowhere to be found.

My phone vibrated. I rummaged through my purse and final y found it. I had a text message. From Ian.

Be back soon. Did A tel you? Taking longer than thought.

He didn’t define “soon.” He didn’t tel me where he was.

And he referred to Al yson as “A” as if they were close. A thing. French lovers. Soul mates from another lifetime.

143

Jerk. Jerk! Scumbag! How could he do this?!

I quickly dialed Hailey. But she didn’t pick up. I left a loud to-the-point message.

“Ian’s a dick. I want a
Buffy
marathon! !” I took a deep breath and forced my integrity back to the surface for a moment. And I texted him back.
Where are you?

I waited and watched as people strol ed in and out of the hotel, probably visiting their cars for a quick drink or a cigarette.

I waited some more. I checked my phone. I checked it again. And again.

No text back.

No text.

No text.

I stepped off the curb and hurried over to the side so I wouldn’t be seen with tears pouring down my face. There I was, crying by myself in the parking lot on prom night. . . .

Pretty much the definition of the World’s Most Pathetic Moment.

It was al because of my expectations. Ridiculous expectations. I had actual y thought Ian was a Professional Boyfriend. That he was saving himself for me, just like I was for him. Why didn’t it ever occur to me that maybe he just wanted to be friends with me? Not
be
with me.

But none of this made sense. What was going on? He was flirting with Al yson Moore? He left me here alone? He was a dick?

144

But part of me stil believed in him. I
knew
Ian. He was the type to swoop in and save the day. So where the hel was the swooping?

“Wanna cigarette?”

A limousine driver was leaning against a long black Escalade, holding out a pack of Marlboro Lights. I didn’t even realize I’d been crying and making crazy talk right there next to the limo. Which was rocking gently. Clear signs of some action going on in the backseat.

“I don’t smoke,” I muttered.

“Thought it might calm the nerves. You seem a little . . .

distracted.” He leaned back on the hood. Did he not notice the rhythmic rocking? Eww.

“Um, I think someone’s in there.” I pointed to the back window, which was now fogging up.

“Yep. They seem to be having fun.” Then he leaned forward like he was sharing a secret. “That girl’s dad gave me two bil s to make sure she had a good time.” Some giggling seeped out of the back window. “Looks like you did your job,” I said to the clearly perverted limousine driver.

He took a long drag on his cigarette. Then: “Yep, I love my job. I see a lot of crazy shit.”

“I bet,” I said, glancing around, trying to think of a way out of this conversation.

But he didn’t seem to want to stop talking. “Yeah, sometimes I’m a driver, but most of the time I’m a therapist.” 145

I perked up at that. “You mean couples spil their problems to you? And you give them advice?”

“Sure, I’ve helped plenty of couples in that limousine. I oughtta charge a bundle.”

Advice—from an outside party. That’s what I needed.

Not from a friend. Not from Mom. Not from pet psychology.

Not from prom magazine editors. I needed someone who’d tel me like it is. “Could I ask you a question?”

“Fire away.”

“How do you know if a guy is serious? Like if he wants you to be his girlfriend?”

“Go through the checklist.”