I widen my eyes. “Do not.”

Abigail gives me a stern look. “You lying little shit,” she teases.

I retape my left boob X, then burst out laughing. “Fine, wish me luck.”

Abigail slaps my butt and opens the door for me, the sounds and smells of prom washing over me like a high school–themed tsunami. “Godspeed.”

22

Days ’til graduation: Still 2, but minus a few hours

I HAVE WORMS IN MY STOMACH AS I WALK INTO THE BIG, BRIGHT room, just huge, fat springtime worms that have been crawling out of the cracks of the earth lately and now are crawling out of me too. I hate walking into rooms by myself, especially ones that are loud and fancy and full of the entire senior class. I wouldn’t wish that sort of emotional trauma even on Helga. After a few moments of anxiously looking at all the tables where everyone is finishing up their dinner and clanking their silverware and taking selfies with the asparagus stalks, I find Brendan at a table in the back. I walk over with my hands sweating, grateful for the first time all night to be in sneakers and not heels.

“Can I talk to you for a sec?” I ask hurriedly, speaking to his bow tie because it’s less intimidating than his face. Slow down. Deep breaths.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Prom Scrooge!” he says, turning in his seat and twirling a pink rose in his hand. “Sure, we can talk, but only if we promise to stay absolutely miserable.”

“Shut up.” I laugh and pull him up from the table, hitting him with his napkin.

As we cross the room toward the lobby, a few people look up as we pass. I realize I might look carefully styled by a punk-rock six-year-old, with the white dress, black-taped Xs over my boobs, and highlighter-orange sneakers. But if the only sane response to an insane world is insanity, I guess I’d rather be crazy than live life fast asleep with my eyes open.

My confidence drains in the lobby, which is a stark contrast from the loudness of the room back there. What the hell am I going to say, and why did I think this was a good idea? I stop by the table with the fancy water for a drink, feeling all my fucks rushing in.

“That’s how you know you made it,” I say a little too loudly to Brendan, taking a sip and passing him a cup too. “When your water has food in it on purpose.”

He holds his cup up to me, looking handsome in his pale blue suit. “It’s official. We did it.” I hear him swallow, and the voices inside the room change as dinner is cleared and the DJ starts the dance music. Man, it is stressful to be a standing, breathing person. I take an inhale I hope he can’t hear.

“Do you want to take a walk?” he asks me at the same time I say, “I was lying earlier.”