Top Ten Uses for an Unworn Prom Dress (12 page)

Hang much-loved dress above Alison's locker with the words “Best Friends Forever” spray-painted on the fabric

T
hat evening, Alison didn't call—again. Not that I really expected her to any more than I expected to wake up the next morning two inches taller or with a perfectly coiffed 'do. (But hey a girl could dream.)

In fact, not only did I wake up still short and best-friend-challenged, but as I shuffled into the kitchen, I patted down what felt like Shredded Mini-Wheats on my head.

When my mother announced that my dad and Autumn were coming by later, I thought maybe my brain was malfunctioning, too.

“He's going to sign those re-fi papers,” she added.

I swirled orange juice in my mouth to keep from blurting out the words charging through my head.
You're letting Dad and his spawn of the she-devil into our house
?

She popped rye bread into the toaster. “He apparently has a job interview down here as well.”

I swallowed—hard. In the L.A. area? That would be one monster commute. Unless he sold the beige monstrosity and moved back this way. Or left Caffeine. Hmmm….

Then another thought hit, hammer hard. Where would Autumn be during this interview? “You're— we're—not baby-sitting the little brat, are we?”

Mom turned, little lines creasing her forehead. “No,” she said, then seemed to consider it. “No, I'm sure he'll work that out. Although why
that woman
doesn't take more responsibility for her own child, I'll never know.”

I got real busy tearing the seal off a carton of yogurt. No way was I risking putting my foot in my mouth again.

Besides, I knew what she meant about needing to take more responsibility. I was guilty there, too. Not with Dad or Autumn, but with Coach Luther. For as much as I wanted to believe Kylie would keep her promise and keep her big mouth shut, she was not one to be trusted. And the fact that I had
no idea
how she'd
gotten a copy of that picture kept gnawing at my nerves.

A heart-to-heart with Luther had as much appeal as wisdom-tooth removal, but if I was lucky it might save me a lot of unnecessary pain, too. Though it was equally likely to backfire.

•

Alison and I pretended not to see each other in the halls at school. Which, if I allowed myself to think about it, did terrible things to my insides. But also made it less complicated to head toward Luther's office at the lunch bell.

“Antonovich,” she uttered, crisp and controlled, looking up. “What can I do for you?”

My heart felt like it was thrashing around my rib cage, and I suddenly wanted to be anywhere but there. “Can I talk to you?”

At her direction, I sank down in the chair opposite her desk. Posters and calendars showing sports figures lined her walls, alongside photos of her with former Hillside players, and one of Luther herself in a college-volleyball uniform.

As if she had a life. Besides tormenting us.

I took a deep breath. “There's a picture of me going around. Holding a can of beer. I know something like that would be automatic grounds for expulsion off the team,” I went on, my words coming out faster and faster, “but you need to know—you need to believe—that I was only holding it for
someone else, that I don't drink and never have. And that being your starting center is, like, the most important thing in my whole life, the only thing that's going right.”

I paused to breathe. And to squeeze the arms of the chair for protection from a sudden windstorm or spontaneous combustion or something.

“I assume,” she merely said, “there's more to this story?”

“That's it,” I managed.

“It? Come on, Antonovich. You can do better than that.”

And so, simply, I did. I told her about the mortgage. My estranged father. Autumn. Caffeine. Hiring Jared to drive me. (Twice.) Which, of course, led to the tales about Rascal. The Dress. The prom I didn't attend. Kylie. The friends with benefits rumors. And Alison. Especially Alison. And how much it hurt to be at odds with my best friend.

By that point, tears filmed my eyes. When I was finally done, I let out a little hiccup-cough. And what remained of my pride. “More than you wanted to know, huh, Coach?”

Leaning back in her swivel chair, she steepled her fingers. A tense silence enveloped the room, making my lungs feel like they might burst. (And in the recesses of my mind, I could hear the crumbling of the volleyball scholarship letter that I'd once believed would be my yellow brick road.)

“If a picture of you with alcohol comes across this desk,” she said, and pressed her lips together, “I'll be put between a rock and a hard place.”

I shuddered, feeling terrible about distressing the woman I (secretly) lived to please.

“For the team's sake, and for your own.”

Team … team … like I would still be on it?

“So let's take care of this right here and now. The official word is you've already explained the situation to me, how the picture was doctored to make it simply
look
like you were holding a beer. Am I clear? And in return for this favor, I will expect you …”

Her voice trailed off and her brow furrowed. But for once, she did not scare me. I'd do anything—even play smash ball with my sore nose—if it meant keeping my position.

Finally, she frowned. “You will skip practice today and go straight home. Turn off the phone, kick off your shoes, pop in your favorite DVD. And stop thinking about other people. Stop thinking, period. Just veg. All afternoon. All night. All weekend, if that's what it takes. So when you come to practice on Monday, your head is completely clear of family, friends, and problems. And back in this game.”

“That's … it?”

“Nicolette,” she said, her voice oddly gentle. (Nicolette. Not Antonovich?) “It sounds like you're going through enough.”

My gaze traveled across her, wondering if another being had crossed the space-time continuum
and entered her body. That was the only reasonable explanation.

“Now get out of here!” she suddenly bellowed. “Before I change my mind!”

A smile quivered at my mouth, and I ran like hell.

C
oach Luther's unexpected compassion so completely lifted my spirits that I couldn't even bum out too badly over Alison. But as I was stepping down the front steps after the last bell, my quasi—best friend appeared beside me and did a double take at my backpack. “Don't you have practice?”

My heart sped up. I
so
wanted to fall into a natural and normal conversation,
so
wanted our life back. “Luther gave me a Get Out of Practice Free card.”

“Why?”

“I talked to her about the digital picture. Explained
it wasn't what it looked like. In case Kylie decided to go through with her blackmail threat.”

Then I waited for Alison to grin. To nod. To do
something
besides continue glaring at me.

Finally, she said, “In other words, you're messing with Rascal again and covering your butt?”

Oh, come on—enough with this Rascal stuff! Did she really care? Or was it just easier to harp on any feelings I'd had for Rascal than for her brother?

“No,” I said forcefully, and sighed. I mean, if anyone was guilty of anything here it was Alison, for taking the picture in the first place.

A noise burst from her mouth, half growl, half laugh, half groan. (You get the idea.) “When are you going to get that he totally used you? That he only asked you to the prom because he knew it would get back to Kylie, that she'd go berserk and come home?”

Numbly, I gave my ring a manic twist. Say … what?

“Yeah,” she went on. “Kylie could have handled him going with
anyone
but you.”

Her face swam before my eyes as I tried to take it in. Never—
never
—did I think Rascal had asked me for my beauty or status. I'd figured I was just the best of the slim pickings. But I couldn't ignore what she was saying. It
did
explain how I so suddenly became a bleep on his radar screen.

But Kylie hating me? Okay, maybe
a little
just
because the food-poisoning rumors she'd launched against me hadn't taken. But enough so she'd move back from Arizona? I couldn't believe I had that kind of power.

“Kylie didn't even
look
at me from, like, when we worked in the caf together until last week,” I protested.

She held up her palms as if to say
duh!

“What—the throwing-up thing?”

She nodded.

“That's crazy. She had the flu.”

“Tell her that. And Rascal feeds off it, teases her. Think about her nickname, Nic. Chunky? Blowing
chunks
.” She exhaled through her nose. “You were the only girl at Hillside she wouldn't tolerate taking her place.”

A lump lodged in my throat, the size of, well, Arizona. “And you know this—how?”

“From Jared. Rascal shoots his mouth off when he plays pool.”

Yeah, Jared told me.

Okay—assuming I believed this—that was
cold
. Ice cold. What would Rascal have done if his stunt had backfired and Kylie hadn't come home? Would he have stood me up?

A jab of pain from my ring finger told me to stop twisting and refocus. Besides, Rascal was a jerk. Kylie was an idiot. Why should this surprise me?

But it didn't take long to make the next logical connection. That Alison had not said a word to me. Until now. When she was mad.

“When?” I asked. “When did Jared hear this?”

“At the beginning of the summer.”

“And he told you right away?”

She nodded.

“And you kept it from me?”

She shrugged, and for a moment the animosity died out of her tone. She sounded like my friend again. “You were already heartbroken. Why make it worse?”

I turned away to privately digest all this. I understood protecting a best friend. But I hated to think she had been keeping secrets while I had whined to her about my unrequited love and my unworn prom dress, probably looking like the superloser I was.

And Jared? He knew I'd been duped, too. And besides being furious at Rascal, did he feel sorry for me?

Oh, God …

Heat flared up my neck.

But in the midst of my humiliation, there was something left that wasn't adding up: Rascal and his roaming hands. “So if Rascal isn't into me at all, why'd he come over last Sunday?”

She pressed her lips together, as if choosing her words. “Jared says Rascal's been telling the guys that he's not getting enough from Kylie. So figure it out. There were rumors about you giving it up easy to my brother. Rascal already knew you kinda liked him. Either he was trying to get some on the side, or make Kylie jealous so she'd give in herself.”

My thoughts cartwheeled. Knowing Rascal and his Teflon conscience, it was probably both. But as disheartening as this was, I couldn't think about it now.

I had to stay on Alison and me. While part of me (calmly, rationally) appreciated and understood why she'd kept this painful stuff from me, another part
really
resented it. And hated the fact that it had come out in anger.

“Thanks for finally telling me … I guess.” I swallowed hard. “And I suppose we're even now.”

“Even?”

“Yeah, since I've been making you crazy lately.” I didn't say with her brother. I didn't have to. Let her do her head-in-the-sand act and think I meant Rascal if she wanted.

Besides, while it was true that Jared and I were spending time together, he was still only a friend. Whether I liked it or not. So why go rubbing salt in Alison's wounds when nothing was bound to change?

She grumbled something meaningless and walked away.

Maybe she needed a feet-up, clear-your-head weekend, too.

•

Mom wasn't home. But since she hadn't expected me to be home at this hour, either, she hadn't left a note.

I couldn't quite bring myself to unplug the phone, but I made myself a promise to only answer if Mom's cell number flashed on the caller ID. Or Dad's.

I grabbed a DVD off our shelf.
Bring It On
, where one best friend gets together with the other's brother, was usually a favorite, but now? It hit a little too close to home. Instead I popped in
Pirates of the Caribbean
.

Mom shuffled in the door sometime after five. The business suit and the heavy lines around her eyes announced that her outing had not been a pleasure cruise. I looked back at the TV. Part of me did
not
want to know.

“The bosses called me in,” she said, and let out this scratchy sigh. “I've been put on a sixty-day suspension. At which time they will reevaluate my ‘place in the company.’ ”

I paused the movie. Johnny Depp stood frozen with a devilish half grin. But believe me, no one
outside
the screen was smiling.

“You told them it was me, right? That you had nothing to do with the flyers?”

She nodded and leaned over to pat my arm. “Maybe it's for the best. Maybe I should take this as a sign to find a new job.”

Considering how much she hated it and how bad she was at it? Uh, yeah! But what I said was “At least you have the time to look around some.”

She moved toward the kitchen. Probably to make
something complicated and yummy that I totally did not deserve. I couldn't get my head back into the movie, so I followed to help.

As I pulled the silverware drawer open, my gaze drifted to the cluttered refrigerator door and a gaping hole in the midst of the photos/notes/coupons mess.

“The list,” I said, and pointed to the mess. “It's gone.”

“Oh, that—I was cleaning up last night and pitched it.” She threw me an over-her-shoulder look. “It was just a joke, right?”

“Right.” A joke. No matter how many so-called
uses
I'd come up with lately, I certainly hadn't committed them to paper. Still …

“I started thinking, honey,” she said as she started pulling things out of the fridge, “that maybe it was wrong of me to get on you about that dress. Your first formal dress is very special, like a rite of passage. And since you didn't actually get to wear it, you should be able to keep it on the back of your door or wherever you like for as long as you like.”

Emotion sort of jammed in my throat. Wow.

“You remember when Grandma died?” she continued, her question, of course, rhetorical. “Up in her attic, I found the dress I'd worn to my senior prom.”

Her voice seemed to catch, but I would have set myself on fire before speaking what she was surely thinking, which was that her senior prom had been her first date with my dad.

“Grandma had kept it for me,” Mom continued, “because that night had been so special.”

I worked to find my voice, grappling with the unspoken tension and what she was trying to tell me. “So what you're saying is my hang-up about my prom dress … it's
hereditary?
”