The Secret Side of Empty (26 page)

P
rom night comes and I haven’t eaten in two days. I am in a full-on panic. Everything is riding on this night. If I act happy, then maybe Nate and I have another shot. Maybe I can hold on to one thing that doesn’t stink.

I try to do my hair like the actress in the picture. I achieve seventy-eight percent success. Mine doesn’t look as shiny or as solid, but it makes pretty waves by my ear. I do my makeup a little heavier than usual, but not too much. At least I hope not too much.

My mother is hand-stitching the hem of the dress twenty minutes before Nate is supposed to show up.

“Ma, hurry up.”

“I’m almost done, hold on.”

She runs an iron over it and hands it to me. I put it on. It fits perfectly.

“I swear you’ve lost weight since I measured you,” she says.

I turn around and look at my butt, then back to my front. It’s kind of crazy how my mom has made an exact replica of the dress in the magazine just by looking at it. She’s gotten the right fabric, the right rhinestone buckle, everything.

She’s doing that mothery, teary thing.
She’s about to say I’m so beautiful
.

“You’re so beautiful. You’re a woman,” she says. On cue.

I give her a weird little half hug to hold off her tears. It doesn’t work.

“Ma, zipper me up; he’s going to be here any minute.”

She holds my face in her hands. They’re rough. “You have a great time tonight, okay?”

I need to pry her off me before she goes in for another hug. “Okay, okay, hurry.”

She presses some bills into my hands. I’m wondering where she’s scoring the cash suddenly. I’m carrying a little evening bag that she pulled out of some forgotten corner of her closet. It’s a little retro, but in a cool way. The shoes I borrowed pinch at the back of my foot.

I run down the stairs without checking if Nate is outside. But he is. He looks amazing in his tux. Although we didn’t com-pare blues, his cummerbund matches my sapphire-colored dress perfectly.

“Hey,” he says. Like he just saw me yesterday.

“Hey,” I say back. I think of the Post-it notes. In my Nate box in my room.

“Thank God it wasn’t light blue. I wondered after I got this. Somehow I knew you’d wear dark blue. You look amazing,” he says, smiling.

“Where are your glasses?” I ask.

“Contacts. I hate them, but I thought for tonight they’d be better.”

He looks different—older, a little bit—with no glasses and a shorter haircut.

He opens his door for me.

We drive to Dakota’s, where we’re all meeting.

Dakota’s house is done all in Zen minimalist style—white carpets, modern white couches. There is one lone giant red circle in a painting on the far wall of a huge great room, over a fireplace surrounded by white stone. No wonder she’s like a Swiss watch, this girl. I bet she hasn’t even been allowed to spill anything since she was three years old. I’ve known her all my school life and I’ve never been in her house before. It’s not a very kid-friendly place.

Her mom is severely skinny. It doesn’t help that her platinum blond hair is cut in a straight line and flat-ironed to within an inch of its slick little life and sprayed to death on her head. She takes pictures of each couple by the fireplace, then all of us outside by her Japanese garden. Then it’s time to go.

In the limo, Dakota pulls out a flask from her bag. A couple of the others do, too.

“Okay, people, it’s time to fuel up,” says Dakota. Wow. Talk about never really knowing someone.

I glance over at Nate. I wonder what it’s going to take to get him to love me again. I feel like this is my only chance. A little liquid courage. I take a long, burning swig.

The prom itself is pure cheese, at a local catering hall done with too many shiny columns. There is fast dancing for hours. And slow dancing for a little while. During one of the slow dances I nestle my face in Nate’s neck and try to inhale him without being too creepy. God, I love the smell of him. It’s amazing how a person can smell different from absolutely everyone else on the planet.

After the slow song, I leave him at the table to go to the bathroom. It’s almost time to go to our after-party.

One of the girls is handing out some pills. Quinn Ford, who should have known better than to wear a green dress but didn’t, takes one. I’m not sure what they are, but the drinks from the car are wearing off, so I take one, too. I sit in the bathroom for a while, trying to strategize how best to get Nate back.

Chelsea walks in. I have been avoiding her all night. In fact, I haven’t talked to her since that sleepover at her house and her total betrayal. She’s tried calling me and cornering me at school.

She says, “M, please, I
have
to talk to you.”

“I think I’ve told you enough times that I don’t want to talk to you.”

“M, I’m sorry. Can you please just let me explain?”

I’m wondering if that tingling in my left arm is from the pill or something else. I get up. I wobble a little. I get in her face, close.

“I never want to speak to you again, okay? Get it?”

Her eyes get wide and she steps back half a step. I know I don’t mean that. But I can’t have her pestering me, not tonight, not while I am trying to make Nate see how much fun I can be. How I’m not gloomy at all. I can’t do that if Chelsea makes me cry remembering just how she betrayed me, how bad she could have made things for me.

I walk out of the bathroom and back to my Nate.

After prom is over, Dakota tells the driver to head into the city. She seems to have managed to smuggle half a liquor store into the limo, because she keeps the drinks coming. By now I am a warrior goddess, and my powers come from the liquid that has long since stopped burning. I am Good. I am Exciting. I am Fun. I am Not Gloomy. Not the downer Nate ran away from.

Nate loves me again. I just know it.

We get inside the little dive. The music is tinny but earsplitting. I drag Nate onto the dance floor. I trip on something. Floorboard or something.

“M, are you okay?”

“I’m great, Nate. Ha! Get it? Great? Nate? Let’s dance.”

“You don’t seem to be doing so well.”

“I’m doing amazing.”

“Can we sit and talk for a little while?”

“Oh, talking is for losers, come
on
, let’s dance.” I need to move, move, move. I can’t stand the thought of talking.

“Since when do you drink this way, M?” asks Nate.

“Don’t be an old man. You wanted fun, right? You wanted happy. Look at me. I’m happy! Let’s go.” I tug him.

He gets on the dance floor and dances. I look at his eyes. He looks at a point somewhere past my left ear. He pulls me in a little closer.

On the ride home, Dakota is still going like a champ. I want to keep up, but there is a shrill, strange note in my ear that won’t go away. Everyone else stays at Dakota’s house, but I ask Nate if we can go for a ride.

“Sure, where to?” he asks when we’re in his car.

“Summer Park.”

He drives there, pulls into the parking lot. In the same spot where we exchanged Christmas presents.

Nate puts his hand on mine. “Did you have fun?”

“Well, there’s one thing missing,” I say. I channel my inner seductress. I imagine what the actress who wore this dress to the Oscars would say in a situation like this. I lean over and kiss him. The car spins a little.

He kisses back, and it’s just like I remember it. We kiss some more, his hands moving down my neck, to my shoulders, to my back. I want him to go further. I’ve decided that tonight is the night. I touch him there, hoping that will spur him on. It doesn’t. He kisses, but doesn’t advance.

“Nate, I love you. Even if we’re not together, I want you to be my first. Let’s do it tonight.” Maybe, after this, he will want to stay.

He pulls back, takes off my rhinestone barrette, puts it back in tighter. He kisses my temple. “I can’t, M.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re not together and I wouldn’t feel right.”

“But I’m telling you it can be like this, no strings, just so that I can remember that you were my first.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. Not like this.” I think that’s pity in his eyes.

I sit back in his seat. Suddenly the car spins violently. I feel really sick to my stomach.

I just make it out of the car before I throw up all over the hem of my Oscar knockoff dress and my borrowed shoes.

T
he sun feels vicious, like it’s trying to stab me. I let my bike roll with as little effort as possible. Thank goodness for all the flat land on the way to the library. I’m only out in this horrid sunshine because it hurts more to stay in my tomb of an apartment than it does to fight my hangover.

I lock my bike to the rack. Go inside. I get online. No email. I get on Facebook and check my feed.

The latest story is Quinn, something about a vigil tonight. Who in the world has energy for a vigil the night after prom? Talk about religious fanatics.

I scroll down. Patricia’s going to this stupid vigil, too. Thirty-two people have commented on her status.

I scroll down past all the vigil nonsense to see posts from last night. A bunch of phone pictures uploaded. Our table. Me sitting on Nate’s lap. Me in the limo. Man, did my eyeliner really run like that? I quickly save them to my hard drive, to a folder named Him.

I scroll back up to this vigil thing and read through the comments on Patricia’s post.

Patricia: We’ll be meeting at 7:00 p.m. in front of the school. Bring your own candles.

Jane: I can’t believe it.

Siobhan: I will miss this but will be down tomorrow after my finals. I’ll be saying a prayer, too.

How in the world is Siobhan friends with Patricia and crew?

Kelly: It’s just so crazy. Please pray for Chelsea.

Jane O’Hara: Thanks, everyone, for the good wishes for Chelsea. She is strong. I will keep you all posted on here as much as I can.

Pray for Chelsea for what?

As I’m trying to get the story, a message pops up. It’s Josh.

“I just heard,” he says.

“Just heard what?” I ask.

“About Chelsea.”

“What about Chelsea?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“No.”

“Car accident last night. This morning, actually.”

“After prom, you mean?”

“Yeah. Hit by a drunk driver.”

“She’s okay?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Where is she?”

“I’m not sure the name of the hospital.”

“Can you ask Siobhan?”

“I’ll ask.”

I call Dakota. No answer. I call Patricia. Nothing. I have to call five people before finally I get Kathy from history on the phone.

“I just heard about Chelsea. Where is she?”

“Mid-Bergen General,” she says. “But you can’t go see her.”

“Why?”

“Not even family is getting in. She’s in intensive care. Last we heard she had just gotten out of some kind of surgery. Friend her mom. She’s posting updates on her page.”

T
he entrance to the hospital is lit up with fancy lamps and covered in dark wood. There is a gift shop filled with teddy bears and stuff, just the right balance of cute and serious. This place looks like what I imagine a hotel would look like, if I’d ever been in one. What they look like on TV.

The walk to Chelsea’s room takes forever, through corridors that say we’re in a different wing, then another. Then an elevator. Then more walking. Finally, Chelsea’s mom and I are there.

Chelsea looks like the cartoon version of the accident victim—casts, the pulley over the bed. Her eyes are closed, the left side of her face covered with a yellowing bruise. I thought her mom said she was going to be okay? She looks like she’s in a coma.

Her mom pats her hand. “Hey, Chels, I’m here.”

Is she going to do that whole depressing, “I know you’re in a coma but I know you can hear me” thing? Because I don’t think I can take that.

But Chelsea opens her eyes. “Hey, Ma.” She looks just like she does when she wakes up from a sleepover. Well, except for the hospital gear. And the bruises. She looks over at me. “M, you came.”

“Chels, what happened?”

“You know how I drive.” She laughs.

“Does it hurt?”

“They’ve got me on the good stuff.”

Her mom says, “I’m going to go say hello to the nurses.”

I inch closer to Chelsea. She looks in my eyes. “You’re not mad at me anymore?” she says.

“No.”

“See the lengths to which I’ll go to make you forgive me.”

I smile at her cheesy joke.

The next time I visit Chelsea I find a two-bus combination that goes to Mid-Bergen. I take it there every day. I sit on her bed and talk about nothing. The reality star who had the baby with the soccer player and named him after a tropical fruit. The strange bugs eating the bushes outside of school. I paint her nails and reach for her lip gloss for her. That’s all I can handle for now.

One day when I get there, I am surprised to see Siobhan sitting next to the bed.

“Oh, hey, you’re busy,” I say, backing up.

“No, come in. It’s just Siobhan,” says Chelsea.

Yeah, I know
.

“Oh, hi,” I say.

Siobhan nods in my direction.

“How are you?” I ask to no one in particular, hoping Chelsea will answer.

“Oh, well, I’m running a marathon later,” jokes Chelsea.

“Awesome.”

“Siobhan here, a little worse.”

“Oh? I’m sorry.” I seriously don’t want to hear about Siobhan’s issues.

“She broke up with Josh,” says Chelsea.

Siobhan glares at her, like she wasn’t supposed to tell, but Chelsea doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh,” I say. Just because I have no idea what else to say.

We talk for a while but I feel really awkward with Siobhan just sitting there. She barely says two words. How long is long enough to not seem rude? I wait an hour, then tell Chelsea I need to go. I say good-bye to them both, and head to the elevator. I’m surprised when Siobhan calls out to wait for her.