Maybe, maybe, maybe.
Maybe none of it mattered, since we’d be leaving the day after tomorrow anyway.
I listened to make sure my mom wasn’t coming down the hall, then leaned over the edge of the bed and pulled out a shoe box that I’d hidden behind some winter clothes. I opened it and tossed my sketch of Jack’s tattoo and the photo of me on top.
I was about to slam the box shut, but stopped. I pulled out the top few mementos—invitations to parties I never went to, a picture of me with a neighbor’s family. Rattling around in the bottom of the box was the infinity-sign pinky ring from eighth grade, when I broke The Plan for Missy and Alina and Katy. We called ourselves the Fab Four, and promised to text every single day when I moved. That lasted for about six weeks.
Halfway down the stack, a ripped-out sheet of notebook paper listing everyone I’d ever found on Google named Alexander Mason who could maybe, possibly, be my dad.
He and my mom had dated in college, and when she got pregnant with me, he left. When I was younger, I wondered if one day he would realize he’d made a mistake. That he wanted us after all, and we’d have a normal life, full of smiles and holiday dinners and cheesy, feel-good, cell-phone-commercial family moments. My dad’s parents were dead, and he didn’t have any other family, but I used to think about how there was a possibility of brothers and sisters if he came back into the picture.
I got over that wish a long time ago. I ran a finger over my locket. I’d taken the one picture I had of him out, and now there was only a photo of me and my mom, protected by the worn gold filigree. The picture of my dad stared up at me from the box. It was small, and blurry, but you could tell my dark hair and pale skin came from him, and I knew I had his eyes. You could almost call my natural eye color deep blue, but that wasn’t quite right. Really, my eyes were purple.
When I was younger, kids had teased me that I was wearing contacts to be cool. That normally wouldn’t have been a huge deal, but as weird and friendless as I was already, it killed me. But it did give me and my mom an idea. Since I had horrible vision anyway—and, though she’d never admit it, probably because they reminded her so much of my dad—my mom suggested colored contacts. I’d had dark brown eyes ever since.
I jammed everything in the box and shoved it back under the bed—and then opened it once more and snatched out the compass drawing.
Even if The Plan was the right thing to do in the long run, what was one night? One dance. One date with one guy. Tonight could be one tiny memory that wasn’t a what-if.
I could hear my mom in the kitchen, opening the cabinets over the sink. I knew the sound of her bundling the silverware, wrapping it in a dish towel, and putting it in the bowl of the blender, the same way she’d always done it. Next she’d pack up the baking stuff and the cleaning supplies, and I’d pack my room and the bathroom and the laundry room. And then we’d pile those boxes alongside the ones we’d never gotten around to unpacking from last time.
I made a decision.
I fished my phone out from between the pillows, typed out a quick text, then jumped off my bed and went to the kitchen. I grabbed some of the broken-down boxes my mom had brought up from the basement. “You’re probably right,” I said, and her thin shoulders relaxed. “I’ll start folding clothes.”
The rest of the afternoon, I was a model daughter. I packed my room, vacuumed, and even heated up frozen lasagna for dinner. Then I waited until my mom was safely on her way to the airport, slipped my dress on, threw my hair up with bobby pins, and walked out the front door.
CHAPTER 6
The gym reeked of cheap aftershave and a hungry energy fueled by the crush of bodies and the open backs of dresses and the euphoric faces blinking in and out of the dark. Streamers on the walls caught the strobes and exploded with light, like fireworks, spearing the dark corners of the room.
The swirl of bodies in jewel tones and sparkles and pressed black suits parted around me as I stood at the edge of the dance floor, physically present but not actually a part of anything. I wondered sometimes if they all knew how good they had it: girls in circles with their friends, singing at the top of their lungs, or with their arms curled around their boyfriends’ necks. Girls who had gotten their hair done by a big sister, cheesy prom pictures taken by a proud dad.
Across the gym Lara saw me and jumped up and down waving, the spinning lights flashing off the glittery blue tulle of her dress. I waved back, a surprisingly sharp pang running through me at the thought of leaving her, too. I’d tried so hard not to get too close to any of them. I held up a finger to tell her I’d be over in a minute.
I wove my way past the line for the photographer, who was posing a guy’s hand on a girl’s hip, and pulled at the hem of my dress. I’d gotten it in the ninth grade for a neighbor’s wedding. It was pretty, with capped sleeves and scalloped lavender lace, but definitely too casual for prom. I hoped Jack wouldn’t care.
If I ever found him, that is. He hadn’t texted back. It would be just my luck if he’d turned his phone off and didn’t see the message until tomorrow.
Fifteen minutes later, I’d circled the whole gym once, twice. Casually peered onto the dance floor. Walked by the bathrooms and the water fountain. Gotten a cup of punch from the snack table, just in case he was waiting there. Checked my phone five times. Stopped and talked to Lara and her date. Still no Jack.
I traced a pattern on my scuffed leather messenger bag with one fingertip. It was fine. It was probably better this way.
I took one last look at the human-sized papier-mâché Oscar statuettes, felt the bass of the dance track vibrate through my feet, and took a sip of too-sweet red punch. Then I turned to head for the exit—and ran straight into a senior in a yellow dress.
“Sorry . . .” I trailed off when I realized I’d splashed punch all over myself. Perfect.
The girl was staring intently at something I couldn’t see, though, and didn’t even notice me. The friend she was dancing with was looking, too.
I put down my cup and, dabbing at my dress with a napkin, ducked between two guys in tuxedos and too much cologne to see what was going on. I stopped short.
It wasn’t a what that was going on, it was a who.
Crosswalk Guy.
He leaned against the gym wall, one foot propped casually over the other, his blond hair falling over his eyes. He was a head taller than everyone around him, and had to be at least a year or two older than all of us.