Lana's Ex Prom Date Part 11

He doesn't like me enough. Prom is most likely a pity date for him. He feels bad for backing out so he's still going just so he doesn't ruin my senior prom by leaving me dateless. As much as I hate to do this, Toby keeping his promise means something. It means he's a man of his word. That's rare as far as normal high school guys go.

But he doesn't like you.

Those words run through my heart like a searing dagger of truth that's forcing me to feel what I've been ignoring. So what if he wants to go to prom with me? He still doesn't like me.

I can't stand the way my two best friends are looking at me right now. Like I'm some loser who's too stupid to realize she's being played by a guy who's too good for her. Like it's all a joke. Like I'm the punchline.

I refuse to be a punchline in my own life. I straighten my shoulders and grab my phone off the bed, shoving it in my back pocket.

"You two can be as judgmental as you want, but Toby asked me to prom and I'm going with him. Not because I'm an idiot, but because I want to. I don't have to be in love with my date, you know. It's just fun."

"Lana," Ashlyn says, but her voice is soft. Defeated. She knows I've made up my mind.

"I'm going to go pick out my dress now, so you guys have a good night. I'll see you tomorrow."

As I walk out of Ashlyn's room, I don't know if they believe me. Maybe they know I'm doing a fake-it-till-you-make-it thing with myself when it comes to prom. Maybe I lucked out and they actually think I stand behind what I said. That I'm not bothered by Toby breaking up with me.

And maybe, if I try hard enough, I'll believe it too.

Chapter 21.

10 days until prom Our attic is the perfect shape to turn into one of those cool kid's bedrooms you read about in books and see on after school specials. The slanted walls, that one window at the end that overlooks the front yard. It would make a magical room for a kid who's still short enough to walk around and not mind the low ceiling.

Unfortunately, no one ever turned our attic into a room. The exposed roof rafters have spider webs holding them together and the floor is old plywood sheets the previous owner tossed around to cover the insulation and the roof beams. But they never actually nailed it down, so we have to be really careful walking across the creaky plywood fake floor. I flip on the light, which is a single dusty bulb hanging from the ceiling. I'm still short enough to walk directly down the center of the attic, but I have to bend over to get the boxes of dresses from where they're shoved in the corner. Because it's so creepy up here with the darkness and the weird musty smells and freaking spiders everywhere, I drag three boxes of old dresses over to the ladder that hangs from the attic door down to the hallway of my house. It's not very graceful, but I manage to slide the boxes down the ladder and they crash on the floor but don't break open, luckily.

Back in my room, I'm fighting back all the negative feelings that keep floating into my subconscious.

Old dresses are always ugly, Lana.

You'll never find anything nice.

It'll probably smell like moth b.a.l.l.s.

You'll be the joke of the prom, Lana.

Why are you even going to this thing?

I begin to pull the dresses out of the boxes, and I lay them on top of each other in a pile on the floor next to the full-length mirror that's on the back of my closet door. There are at least three dozen dresses here, in pinks, purples, blues, and pastel colors. There's one white dress that looks too much like a wedding gown, so I toss it in the no pile.

Then I take out the yellow one and the orange one because those colors look awful with my skin color. A couple of them are super poufy, made with a satin skirt and lace bodice with big poufy cap sleeves that just shout out to the world that this dress is from the eighties. They're the very definition of an ugly bridesmaid dress. I toss them in the no pile. At first, I'd been hopeful I could find one of these overly puffy dresses and sew it into something pretty. In my head, it was a great idea. In reality, they're all so ugly I don't think anything can be done to fix them. Not even some Project Runway level talent.

And I'm not even close to being skilled with a sewing machine. I learned the basics in home ec and since then I've made a few pillows for me and Ashlyn. When my s.h.i.+rt was too long, I hemmed it shorter and although the st.i.tching is a little crooked, it turned out okay. But who am I kidding? I can't turn an ugly dress into a pretty one without the help of a fairy G.o.dmother.

I spread out the rest of the dresses in my bedroom. They cover my bed and the floor, and I spend a long time staring at each one, trying to decide what I like about them and imagining if there's some better dress they could become with a little tinkering.

One pink dress is pretty, with a flowy skirt but a sequined bodice that's gorgeous. Too bad it's a size zero. I can't even pretend to fit into it, and no amount of sewing would help because the sequined part is just too small. Maybe it would fit my thigh, I think with a snort. Grudgingly, I toss it in the no pile.

I'm down to six potential dresses. All of them are pretty colors, especially two blue ones and one light purple dress. But they all need some work. I love the skirts on two dresses, but I love the top bodice part on a few others and their skirts are tight and ugly. I want a dress that flows and sways.

I pick up a light blue dress and run my fingers down the layers of tulle for the skirt. It's pretty, but it has those G.o.d-awful puffy sleeves. Why did all dresses have puffy sleeves back in the day? Now most dresses are sleeveless and I think they look prettier that way. Ugh.

I move to the next one, a bright red gown that's more slinky silk and less c.o.c.ktail party. I picture a fancy woman holding a gla.s.s of champagne while wearing this dress. It's gorgeous, and it's even in my size, but there's a long low cut in the cleavage that would make me feel awkward. Of course, I could take some black lace or something and cover up the hole from the inside. I slide it over into the maybe pile next to the light blue dress with the ugly sleeves.

Exhausted, I sink to the floor and stare at the crumpled dresses in the no pile. A cold s.h.i.+ver hits me, making me shudder. I think about Toby. About the stupid kiss. That first date we went on, when we had such a great time. I think about Aunt Shawna's words of wisdom about finding a man you can be yourself around. I wasn't myself around Toby. I couldn't be; I was too scared to let him see the real me because there's no way he'd like the real me.

So, I showed him a fake me. One who is nice and happy and doesn't complain about things. I was sweet, and dare I say charming. I thought I did everything right.

So why did he dump me?

Why did he even like me in the first place?

That promposal was so sweet and so cute and I've never been treated like that in my life. No guy has ever gone out of their way to surprise me with something special.

On my sixteenth birthday, Bennet surprised me with sixteen dozen pink roses, my favorite. Then he took me and Ashlyn out to Shoguns, my favorite hibachi restaurant that we never get to go to because it's so expensive. Later, Ashlyn told me he'd worked his a.s.s off mowing lawns for the neighbors for six months to afford my birthday present. That's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me, but Bennet is my friend. It was fun having Toby pay attention to me. He was a guy who liked me because he wanted to, not because he was my lifelong pal.

And now he's back to just being the guy in my homeroom cla.s.s. This little voice nags at me in my subconscious. It's asking me why the h.e.l.l I'd consider going to prom with a guy who dumped me.

I guess the smart thing to do for my heart would be to tell Toby to p.i.s.s off. But I don't really care about my feelings right now. I want to go to prom with Toby because being around him makes me feel special. Cool. Popular in a way I've never been before.

So what if my heart is sad that he dumped me? I'll find a way to get over it.

I hope.

Chapter 22.

They always say that high school is the hardest time of your life. The "they" in question here are older people. Teachers, counselors, the older relatives you only see once a year at family reunions. They tell you high school is terrible and being a teenager is just so hard, and they give you these pity smiles like they feel sorry for you.

I've always thought that was a load of bulls.h.i.+t. I come from a family where only a single mom raised me. A single mom with a job that didn't pay much and a dream that was always too expensive to see it come to reality. Bills have to get paid, mouths have to get fed, and it's all so very hard. I've always thought that being a teenager is pretty easy, considering the alternative. I don't have kids of my own to take care of, there's no bills I have to worry about. I don't pay taxes on a business every year like mom does, so my life should be easy.

But now I guess I get it. Being a teenager sucks. High school sucks. You don't realize how much it sucks until you do something epically stupid like kiss a guy and then get dumped by him.

Maybe going to work every day and struggling to pay bills would be a little easier. At least those matters don't involve your heart. I gave up on the stupid dresses and they're still all over my bedroom.

Now it's Tuesday and I'm walking into school in the morning. Ashlyn has been talking nonstop about her date with Bethany which is great for me since I don't want to talk about myself.

"It was pretty great," Ashlyn says as we walk past a group of football players congregating by the doors. "I mean, I think it was great. We had a good time, at least. I mean, I don't know."

"Was it fun or not?" Bennet says, pulling open the door for us.

"It was fun. But I never realized how awkward it is to have a girl-girl date." Ashlyn curls her lip. "This is a small town and you don't know who's judging you or whatever. And then during dinner the waiter a.s.sumed we were separate checks instead of together. I mean, if we were a boy-girl on a date they'd probably bring one check, ya know?"

"Did you put the checks together or pay separately?" I ask.

"I paid for both," she says, flas.h.i.+ng me a smile. "I wanted to impress her."

"How does that work with two girls?" Bennet says. "Most of the time in a straight relations.h.i.+p, the guy has to pay for everything."

"Not always!" I say, punching him. "I wouldn't let a guy always pay. I'd ask to pay every other time or something." I say the words without thinking, because it's my true feelings on the subject, but now that I'm talking about dating, I can't help but think of Toby. Toby paid when we went out. I always offered to pay for myself but he refused and it felt nice to be treated like that. Now it feels like a ton of rocks have just been dumped on my head.

Ashlyn doesn't notice my sudden mood change, or maybe she just chooses to let it go. "I think we'll alternate," she says with a little shrug. "I don't know. Being gay is weird."

"So are you two together now?" I ask.

She smiles and then curls her bottom lip under her teeth. "I'm not sure. I mean, I think so?"

"You should ask her to be your official girlfriend," Bennet says.

Ashlyn shakes her head. "No, I don't want to rush anything. We'll take it slow."

"Are you going to take her to prom?" I ask. It's selfish of me, but I'm secretly hoping she will that way I'm not the only one of our trio with a date. Ashlyn shakes her head.

"Sadly, no. She has this family trip thing that weekend. So, she couldn't come even if I did get the guts to ask her."

"Well thank G.o.d for small miracles," Bennet says sarcastically. We both turn to him for an explanation. He shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at his beat-up Converse. "If you're both bringing dates, I'd have to get one."

"It wouldn't kill you to date a girl," I say, nudging him in the ribs with my elbow.

"Yeah, dude," Ashlyn says. "Find someone you've been crus.h.i.+ng on and ask her out. I don't care if I'm the only single one there."

Bennet doesn't say anything to that. I guess he's not crus.h.i.+ng on anyone right now. Usually he's not one to have a crush, at least not that he's ever told me. Girls like him occasionally, and they go after him. He'll always give the girl a chance, but ultimately find something he doesn't like about her and then he's back to being single again. In all my life, I've never seen Bennet pursue a girl. I guess it's just not his style.

After school, Ashlyn reveals that her deadbeat dad has sent her a check for five hundred dollars. She wants to spend some of it on a prom dress, so we borrow her mom's car and head to the mall. Bennet cites "being a boy" as the reason he doesn't want to go with us, and I can't blame him. Every time we go to shop for clothes, poor Bennet ends up falling asleep in one of the chairs near the fitting room.

"Um...that was the exit for the mall," I say, pointing out the window while we zoom by it on the highway.

"I want to spend as little money as possible," Ashlyn says as we drive. She grins. "Outlet mall!"

I roll my eyes. Our outlet mall isn't one of the nice ones like they have down in Houston. It's made up of knockoff stores and super cheap places that sell things that are meant to fall apart after about five minutes. But if she wants a cheap dress, we'll find one there. And if she's lucky, it won't fall apart at the seams until we're driving home from prom.

Ashlyn takes us to a dress shop in the outlet mall. It's jam packed from front to back with beautiful dresses that smell a little weird, like plastic mixed with dry clean chemicals. We head straight to the back, which is where the clearance dresses are. In a store of already cheap clothing, the clearance clothing is a real bargain.

There are beautiful sparkly formal gowns for only fifty bucks here. A few of them have some little flaws, or the sizes are weird, but we get to searching with an open mind.

Ashlyn only has to try on three dresses before we find the one. It's maroon satin, knee length like a c.o.c.ktail dress. The back is low cut but the whole top is covered in a thin layer of pantyhose material with little sparkles all over it. The sheer sparkly material goes down her sleeves and covers her chest and back, with the fabric of the dress looking like it's sleeveless at first glance. It looks adorable on her, and it's only thirty-seven dollars.

While she's buying the dress, I stay behind and look at the other clearance dresses. It's really tempting to buy something here for so cheap, but I know I can't afford it. Even forty dollars is too much. The last few months I've had to pitch in my Book Attic money to help keep the lights on. Mom swears I don't have to do it and that I should get to keep the money I earn from work, but I've seen her bank account and her checkbook when she's not at home. It's not good. We're barely getting by these days. I like spending my money on the bills and helping Mom. It makes me feel good to be there for her while she pursues her dream of making her salon into a busier place. One day, I think all this scrimping and hard work will pay off.

So, although the urge to buy a pretty dress here is so strong it hurts, I leave them all where they are. There's a no refunds sign on every single wall in this place. I can't buy a dress I can't return. It would be selfish and I'm not selfish.

"You ready?" Ashlyn asks me, her new prom dress draped over her arm in a plastic garment bag.

"Yeah," I say. "Let's go home and try to fix my stupid dress situation."

Chapter 23.

1 day until prom I stare at my phone, reading over last night's text messages one more time. Toby still wants to go to dinner before the prom like we had planned. I don't think it's such a great idea since we're not dating anymore and this prom date is just a formality. We're trying to be friends, but friends don't have to go on romantic dates with each other.

It had taken sixteen text messages before he finally convinced me to go to dinner. He ended up pulling the emotions card with me and said his parents check his credit card statement and if he gets caught lying to them about attending a dinner he didn't go to, he'd be in deep s.h.i.+t. Kind of weird, right? Why would his family care if we go out to dinner? I'm guessing they gave him money to pay for it all and if they know he's not spending it on a meal, they might make him give it back. That's the only reason I can think of for a weird lie like that. It's not like we're lying about anything that's actually important.

As far as my mom knows, I'm going to prom with a "nice boy" who asked me to be his date and we're not actually boyfriend and girlfriend or anything. I'll be meeting Ashlyn and Bennet there and it'll be more like a group date thing. Mom didn't even ask many questions, despite the well-known cliche that teens go to prom to have s.e.x.

I had never been so embarra.s.sed as I was last night when Mom looked at me across from the dinner table and asked if Toby and I would be getting a hotel room.

"Uh, no," I said, trying not to laugh. Toby and I couldn't be less romantic with each other and here my mom thinks we might be planning s.e.x.

Ha!

So now that I've reviewed my text conversation with Toby over and over again, I realize there's no getting out of this. I mean, I guess I could still fake getting sick and bail at the last minute. But that would be a s.h.i.+tty thing to do to my best friends who are expecting me to be there. And even though I hate to admit it, deep down somewhere in my stupid teenaged heart, I really want to go to prom. It's the last year I'll ever get to go, and I've never been before, and it should be fun.

It doesn't matter that my date doesn't like-like me. He's cute and he's nice and my best friends will be there, too. I'll dance and drink the lame punch and go home without hooking up in a hotel room, but that's fine with me. It's all part of the high school experience, and even though I keep getting the desire to bail, I know I want to go.

So now it all comes down to the dress.

I have narrowed the boxes of dresses down to two possibilities. One is a dark green, like the color of a Christmas tree, and although that color is normally kind of ugly, the dress is sparkly and fits me pretty well. The other is the light blue puffy sleeve dress. I love everything about it, except for those stupid sleeves. It fits well, hugging my curves in a way that actually makes them look s.e.xy, and the tulle skirt is flirty and fun.

But those sleeves have to go.

I dig through Mom's vanity drawers and find a tiny pair of scissors. Then I sit on the floor of my bedroom and get to work. When I turn the dress inside out, I can see all of the st.i.tches that attach these horrendous sleeves to the bodice. It was sewn on with one of those fancy sewing machines with two needles.

With a deep breath, I work the scissors under the threads and start cutting. It's tedious work, cutting through several threads of st.i.tching while avoiding cutting the fabric, but after a few minutes I think it might actually work. One sleeve comes off, and it looks pretty good from a distance. There's all these little holes in the satin from where the st.i.tching used to be. I rub my fingers over it, trying to flatten it out a bit and it helps.

It takes me twice as long to remove the second sleeve because now my hands hurt from all these precise st.i.tches, but finally it comes off. It also has the little hole problem in the fabric, but from a distance you probably can't tell. And maybe I can put my hair in front of my shoulders to hide it.