The Anti-Prom by Abby McDonald Page A

tells me it’s not plain old lemonade.
    “Hey!” A stocky guy in neon boxers suddenly catches sight of me, lurching closer with a beer in his hand. He must be nineteen or twenty and looms over me. “You’re that chick from my chem lab!”
    “No.” I try to edge backward, but I’m already against the wall. I give him a polite smile. “I think you’re confused.”
    “No way.” He shakes his head vigorously, sloshing sticky liquid over my bare legs. “You sit in the back, remember? And one time, you lent me your notes. That was cool of you.” He grins, taking in my outfit.
    “Really,” I say again, painfully aware of his eyes zeroing in on my chest, barely covered by a tiny pink tank top with SNUGGLY emblazoned across the chest in sparkly gemstones. “It’s not me.”
    “How’d you do on the final?” he asks, unconcerned with the fact that we’ve never actually met before. “Killer, right? I studied so hard, but I still blew it.”
    “Mmhmm.” I make a noncommittal noise, looking around for an escape. What’s taking Jolene and Bliss so long? “Killer. Sure. Can I just . . . ?” I gesture to get past him, but the boy doesn’t move; he just sort of leans against the wall, blocking me in.
    “Peterson is such a dick,” he sneers. “I was ten minutes late handing in this paper one time, and he gave me an F.” He pauses, distracted by a passing group of girls in silky negligees. I take my chance and quickly duck under his arm.
    “See you in class!” I back quickly into the crowd.
    It’s hot and noisy in the hallway, and I push my way through the riot of bodies, trying to avoid any more spilled drinks or leering guys. There’s a bathroom just ahead, so I duck into the gray-tiled room, jostling for space by the long row of sinks as I do my best to dab the beer off my legs.
    “You saw Elliot, right? In the onesie? That guy is totally ridiculous.”
    Beside me, two girls are reapplying lip gloss, dressed in matching athletic T-shirts and men’s boxers. Their drinks are perched on the narrow ledge by the mirror, next to tiny purses overflowing with makeup and keys.
    Her friend giggles, ruffling her bangs. “Ridiculously cute, you mean.”
    “Ewww! Seriously?” The girl snorts. “You’d have to, like, unbutton it, like a baby!”
    They fall into hysterics as I finish cleaning myself up. It’s not too bad, at least: if I were wearing normal pajamas, they’d be soaked through by now, but as it is, I’m just left with sticky skin and the waft of beer around me. Score one for the indecent short-shorts, I decide. Not that I’ll be rushing out to buy myself a pair any time soon.
    “Excuse me.” There’s a quiet voice behind me, and I turn to find a petite girl clutching a shower bucket waiting patiently for the sinks.
    “Oh, sorry.” I back away, letting her through. She sets out her toothbrush and mouthwash on the ledge and begins to cleanse and tone her face in methodical swipes with a cotton ball. Her pajamas are, I realize, real: flannel printed with tiny musical notes, with fuzzy pink slippers.
    “Or he could keep it on!” The party girls are still falling over themselves, clutching each other at the idea of Elliot and his hilarious outfit. “And just undo the crotch! It, like, pops open!”
    The other girl’s eyes meet mine in the mirror, and for a moment we share a look of sheer exasperation as the pair collects their things and stumbles out, back to the party. The girl reaches for her floss.
    “How will you get any sleep?” I venture, curious.
    “Earplugs,” she replies, her voice resigned.
    “Oh.”
    More girls bustle into the bathroom, brimming over with laughter and gossip, but she ignores them all, curiously detached from the chaos. I watch, my sympathy fading into something else, a new kind of chill. For a moment I wonder if this will be me in two years’ time: still on the outskirts of everything, still alone, while the party whirls on around me. I’ve been thinking