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Assistant: Title: party trick
        Author: dollfaces dollfaces 
        Chapter: 1/4 
        Summary: if anyone happened to ask, natalie would say that there are really only three things that you need to know to understand the yellowjackets juniors:1. for shauna, it’s always about jackie, and for jackie, it’s always about shauna.2. if you’re h@rny (you meaning natalie), you go to lottie. if you need to not be (you meaning all of them), you go to laura lee.3. van worships the ground that taissa turner walks on for reasons natalie is certain she’ll never understand. or prom and its aftermaths, 1995.
        Contents: Chapter 1: all of a sudden, i'm missing you
    

    


      
        
          
          (See the end of the chapter for  notes.)
          
      
  

  
  
    
     Shauna is not going to prom with Randy Walsh. No  f@ck@ng  way.  “It doesn’t have to be a thing!” Jackie says in  that  voice, the one that she uses when she knows that Shauna is going to refuse but is trying anyway, because it sometimes (fine,  usually, whatever) works, especially when she bites her lip just a little bit or blinks so hard that an eyelash loosens and falls on her cheek. “It’s just, Randy doesn’t have a date either. And he’s going to go in our group, too—”  “No, Jackie, I’m not  doing  it,” Shauna insists, staring down the stoplight so she doesn’t have to  look  at Jackie’s huge fawn eyes. “I’m not this, like, desperate girl you have to get a date to the f@ck@ng prom—”  “That’s not what I said, like, at all, Shauna!” Jackie exclaims. Her fingers are suddenly on Shauna’s arm, scratching over her freckles. “I just—you  just said—I mean, you basically said, that you didn’t want to go alone—”  “When did I say that?” Shauna steps on the gas, hard. She hears Jackie inhale. Hard.   “I mean, you didn’t, it just felt like—”  “It’s fine, Jackie, whatever,” Shauna moves her arm to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, but mostly so Jackie can’t touch her anymore. “You’ll go with Jeff—”  “It doesn’t feel fine,” Jackie says. Her voice is small, mousey. It’s pitiful, annoying but not annoying enough. The squeak of the imaginary puppy that Shauna’s dad promised but never got her. Her mother’s little sigh, when Shauna declared to her grandparents—on Rosh Hashanah of all days—that she was converting to Catholicism.  Shauna’s stomach churns. “It  is fine,” she murmurs. Shauna doesn’t need to glance over to see Jackie’s eyes—sweet, wide, caramel buttons that make her feel like a f@ck@ng b@tch—but she looks anyway.   “Okay? It’s fine.” Jackie’s frowning. A whisper of hair sticks to her cheek. Her hand hovers over Shauna’s knee. “I just want you to have fun, too—”  “I will,” Shauna says. She entwines her fingers with Jackie’s, transferring their hands to Jackie’s lap. The skin below Jackie’s mini skirt brushes the back of Shauna’s hand. She feels hot. Shauna instantly moves their interlaced hands, fingering for corduroy. Safer than skin. Jackie doesn’t seem to notice. “I’ll just—I’ll go with Tai, yeah?” Shauna stammers, her cheeks warm. She squeezes Jackie’s hand before dropping it. “She’s going stag too. We’ll just…we’ll be in the group. With you and Lottie and Kristen and whoever. It’s fine.”  Even though, obviously, it’s not.   Misty’s wearing turquoise, and her eyeliner is  perfect  (her mom says, the camera clicking just like the spotlights that Misty handled  perfectly  for the spring production of  Hello Dolly, as her mom had also said) and she is so,  so  excited.  “This is  so  exciting, isn’t it?” she says. Softly, not too loud. Her mom is always telling her that she needs to relax her tone, make it more soothing. Men like it that way, her mom says. They like women who are like pot roasted beef, mushy and warm and easy to swallow.  Dylan nods. Two head jerks, his eyes still turned towards the camera. Dylan, who ran props for the show, handled the curtains. Dylan, blonde curly hair, tall, some pimples but those are easily fixable (“I  know  you boys don’t really think about your skin that much,” she had told him, “but those look  kind of  painful, and I would be  happy  to share my Neutrogena with you, it’s worked  wonders on my face”).  Dylan, her  date. (“It’s more of, like, a group thing,” he said when he asked her.  “Oh yeah,  of course,” Misty replied. She almost winked, but she decided against it. She didn’t want to embarrass him, not in front of Kiffy and Joel and that sophomore Crystal and all the other techies. “Like, just something chill, you know? With the other juniors?”  “Chill, yes, of course,” Misty agreed.  “Super  chill.”)  “Misty, sweetie, over here,” her mom exclaims, and Misty smiles wider and holds his sweaty palm tighter—he must be  nervous  and it’s  so cute—as the light flashes. Her mom pulls the camera from her face and scrunches up her nose. “Oh, doesn’t she look gorgeous, Dylan?”  “I, uh,” he mutters. Misty watches his eyes glance up and down her body again. He did it first when she floated down the stairs in her short dress, hiked up high, tulle falling from her arms and around her b@m. (“Like a waterfall,” her mom had said in the dressing room at JC Penny’s, “like aquamarine, like a mermaid.”) Misty, as misty as Niagara Falls, where maybe one day she and Dylan would spend their honeymoon. One day, if he would stop spending so much time gazing at her stomach and look her in the eyes. “Oh, rats, I’m all out of film!” her mom cries, shaking the camera. “Silly old me, I just  knew I should’ve checked this earlier. Hold on, sweeties. Nigel!” She turns back towards the front door. “Nigel, where are you—” Dylan fidgets, his eyes still wide on her middle.  “Did I eat too much or something?” Misty chuckles nervously, running her hand down the lace. “Or um…do you think I’m fat?” “What?” Dylan asks. She watches his face twitch. “No, of course not—”  “You must think I’m fat,” she murmurs, believing it, believing it  so hard  it becomes true. She  almost feels tears well in her eyes. “You wouldn’t be looking at my tummy, if you didn’t think I was fat—”  “No, why would you say that—”  “Or is it the dress?” Misty continues, choking on the words. “I  knew  it was ugly—”  “No, Jesus Christ, it’s not—” Dylan starts, sighing heavily. “You look nice, Misty, okay? Really nice.” She smiles, then, on second thought, frowns.  “But not pretty?” she clarifies. “Of course you don’t think I’m pretty, who would think that—”  “Look, can we go soon?” Dylan says. “Joel is supposed to be picking us up at mine in like, five minutes.”   Oh, he’s just worried about being late.  Misty gets that. Misty  hates  to be an inconvenience, too. That must be it. And nice, okay, he thinks she looks  nice.  She can do nice. She can  rock  nice.  Is it as good as pretty? Obviously no, but maybe he’s saving that for later. Yes, that must be it. He’s saving it for the dance floor, the last dance of the night, the twinkling fairy lights.   “For sure!” She twirls just a bit and nearly falls over her left foot. “Anything you want.”    “So, uh,” Josh is saying, “you want to—”  Lottie kind of wishes she had just ditched prom with Nat and Van. She only wanted to go for the dress, if she’s honest, and at the time it felt kind of silly to buy the dress and not go to the thing, you know? When Josh asked her, she said yes in an instant, like he was a faux fur coat on the rack and she was snatching it up and pulling her arms through the holes and walking out. So fast that she didn’t notice she had done it until she was back in the mall parking lot, jumping into her car. So quick, she didn’t even think.  Josh’s nice, she supposes. He’s a fine kisser. He’s done alright for himself, the few times she’s dragged him to the corner of this or that party because she felt really warm and sweaty and she had that little ache between her legs and it was too crowded to—well, you know—and his lips looked soft. Felt soft. Are soft.  Not as soft as—well,  you know.  “—dance?” Lottie figured it would be at least a little bit fun, though, right? When she was getting ready, it was. All the little things to prepare were fun. Picking out the dress with all those pearly buttons at that vintage store in the city, having Rose take it to that Filipina seamstress on 7th Avenue (Lottie can’t remember her name), putting on pink lip gloss in her bedroom and spinning around in her silver shoes.  But then Josh showed up, and her dad gave him a weird handshake, and her mom barely noticed the delicate little lace cuffs that Lottie asked the Filipina seamstress to add, giving Lottie one of her barely-there kisses on the very tip of her cheek and saying, “that’s nice, dear.” And then they drove to Jeff’s to meet up with the  group—not Lottie’s normal group, because Van and Nat weren’t there and Henry from Christian Fellowship had asked Laura Lee to be his date, and Jackie had invited some of the volleyball girls and their boyfriends to take pictures with them—and Shauna was  clearly  p@ss@d at Jackie for god knows what, and Jackie was fluttering around fixing the boys’ ties and complimenting corsages left and right, and Taissa, her arms tight around her chest, was raising an eyebrow at Lottie as if to declare, in her straightforward but suspicious way,  “that’s a wedding dress,”  and Mari, giggling on Liam Prescott’s arm, squealed aloud, “oh my god, Lottie, is  that  a wedding dress?”  All the volleyball girls had looked at her in that  way  they always did, like  oh it’s just Lottie, pretty and rich but weird Lottie.  There was no Van to hide behind, no Laura Lee to endear, no Nat to—well,  you know—  and the group just felt wrong. Lottie could try to joke with Tai but Taissa always turned into the quietest version of herself without Van, and her air of distant ambition felt more defined, as if she had already rehearsed everything she was going to say and decided on everything she was going to do the night before. Jackie was too busy to give Lottie anything more than a welcome hug, and Shauna…well, Shauna was clearly p@ss@d at Jackie. So before Lottie knew it she was making small talk with Kristen Oh, and she  sucked  at small talk, and all she wanted was to be able to tug on Nat’s shirt and sneak another sip of too warm vodka from her flask.  “Lottie?”  So now she’s standing in a hotel ballroom—boring, suburban, not at all like last year’s aquarium prom because the class of ‘95 had failed to raise enough money to get them to the city—staring at the twinkly lights refracted on the tulle of Laura Lee’s dress. It seems like she’s the only person Lottie knows who is actually having fun. She twirls a full foot away from her Bible study boy, her kitten heels as delicate as doll shoes. She’s all Angelina Ballerina, pink and smiley and sweet, and Lottie can’t stop looking at her, because Laura Lee  looks  like what Lottie is  sure  prom is supposed to feel  like  . Even though she’s wearing nothing more than her older sister’s hand-me-down dress and Jackie’s Lip Smackers, Laura Lee sparkles. Lottie wants to touch her, wants to gobble her up and have whatever she’s having, wants a  sense of her. She feels like every girl in every teen flick ever, and Lottie— “Lottie, are you listening?” —feels like nothing. “Sorry,” Lottie mutters. She looks at Josh’s flushed face, his furrowed eyebrows. “What?”  “I said,” he shout-says. “Do. You. Want. To. Dance?” He speaks to her as if she’s deaf, like her dad sometimes does. Nat would never talk to her like that. None of the girls would. Not Jackie, not Taissa. Not even Mari when she was looking for attention or Shauna when she was looking for a fight. “No,” she returns her gaze to the dance floor, to Laura Lee’s clumsy turns. “I’m good.”   Natalie’s pretty sure she’s drinking the good sh@t. Expensive sh@t. She doesn’t recognize the brand, so Jackie must’ve stolen it from her dad’s liquor cabinet. Or maybe her mom likes a whiskey soda. Over the years Nat’s gathered she’s a bit of a wino. Likes pills too, Valium, lots of downers. Not so different from her mom or Van’s. It’s just easier to hide behind prescription labels and migraines when you’re rich as f@ck. Whoever it belonged to, it’s Nat’s now. Kevyn can finish the vodka for all she cares, but the bourbon is hers.  They’re sitting on Jackie’s back steps, taking in her obnoxious garden, the rose bushes, the manicured grass. And honestly, Nat thinks it’s kind of pretty, in a gross, rich-people-have-bad-taste-but-fancy-flowers-are-cool way. Maybe that’s the weed though. Or the whiskey. Or whatever, but she doesn’t understand why Kevyn and Van are in such horrible moods when they’re drinking free booze from Jackie Taylor’s kitchen island and have free reign of the stereo and oh yeah, it’s free , unlike f@ck@ng prom, which none of them wanted to go to anyway. At least that’s what Kevyn told her, so she doesn’t understand why he’s acting like such an ass.  Well, maybe she does.  
   Maybe.
 Whatever.  He’s stupid, anyway.  “What time is this sh@t starting, anyway?”  He’s really starting to annoy her. He had pushed himself into the middle of her and Van so he’d have premier access to the weed, even though Van is  really only Natalie’s friend. Now his hand is open for the joint Van is holding, expectant, as if she’s had it for ages when it’s been, like, a second.  “I mean, whenever that f@ck the dance is over, I guess,” Nat says, taking a swig of the whiskey.  “Why did we get here so early?” He’s whining, and for  what?  She picks at a hole in her tights so she doesn’t punch him. “Um, because there’s free booze here, f@ck@r.” “Barely—”  Sometimes Nat forgets that his parents are normal. Like,  two-story house,  little-daisies-lining-the-fence,  homecooked-meals-most-nights,  cares-about-his-grades  normal. Not  mega  rich, not Jackie’s WASPY-freak blonde country club folks, but  buys-their kids-new-sneakers-every-school-year,  has-a-sh@tty-lake-house-in-New-Hampshire  normal. Normal, in that there’s plenty of entitlement to go around.  If he wanted to take her to prom, he should’ve just  f@ck@ng asked her.  She would’ve said yes. She would’ve been all,  eh, that’s lame, isn’t it kinda gross and stupid, and  do you know those m@th@rf@ck@rs won’t let us not wear dresses, like isn’t that f@ck@d, but eventually she’d go  yeah, okay, whatever man, sure. Because really,  she  doesn’t care, but if  he  wanted to go so bad, she would’ve done it, and if he had, they would be with Charlie and that girl Paige from band right now, drinking punch spiked with sh@tty gin from Natalie’s flask. Maybe Lottie would’ve joined for five minutes, claiming she wanted the free liquor, and Nat could’ve slid a hand over her waist and shoved Kev around and laughed at everyone being so serious about a high school dance.  But he didn’t ask, so they’re here instead. What else does he want from her?  “Jesus, I didn’t force you to come, dude,” Natalie shoves the bottle into his hands and stands up. “Don’t be a d@ck.”  She sits down on the opposite side of Van, who’s staring straight ahead, her gaze stuck on a bench beneath a huge thicket of roses that look as red as a period stain on Nat’s underwear.  “Sorry,” Kevyn mutters. The pitch of his voice pangs her, just for a second, before Van rolls her eyes and reminds Natalie that no, she’s not being a b@tch. Not this time. This is all him. He’s the g@dd@mn idiot. He’s the sore loser.  Why she puts up with him, she doesn’t know.  “I’ve gotta sh@t,” he continues, gesturing to the Taylors’ kitchen. “You want anything in there?”  “I’m good,” she slaps back. She doesn’t spare him a glance as he jumps up. The screen door slams shut behind him.  Natalie breathes out a sigh of relief, leaning back against the porch. It’s quiet, without Kevyn’s huffing and puffing. Peaceful, almost.  She really doesn’t get what he’s so mad about. Yeah, he blew it asking her to prom. Whatever. The party will get going soon, and then neither of them will remember any of this sh@t, because everyone will be here anyway. It’ll be like nothing happened. And, for real,  nothing happened at prom.  Natalie knows that without even  going to prom.  “F@ck,” Van whispers.  Nat looks over. Van’s cuticle is bleeding. She must’ve been picking at it. One of her nervous habits. A single strand of red hair hangs in front of her eyes. She doesn’t seem to notice. “You okay?” Nat asks, watching Van stick her finger in her mouth. “Yeah.” There’s a pitch to her voice that says otherwise. It’s a cadence that Natalie first noticed a few months ago, soft and off, static on the radio, but it’s intensified since losing States two weeks ago. Tonight, it’s completely taken over the station of rancid jokes and rants about the latest blockbuster and riffs of Mariah Carey songs that is usually Van Palmer, even on a bad day.  Nat nudges her softly. “What’s up with you?”  “Nothing,” she murmurs back.  It’s a refrain Natalie has known since they were little girls. It used to mean  Mom,  even when it seemed to mean other things. No matter what it was, it was always still  Mom  for Van, just like for Nat it was always still  Dad.  
     
Now, though,  nothing  is  Taissa.  That’s clear, or at least it should be to anyone who has a pair of eyeb@lls. God, she can’t with this b@llsh@t.   “Oh yeah, sure, you and Kevyn both,” Natalie says bitterly. “Jesus.” She knows immediately she f@ck@d up because Van won’t even look at her as she mumbles out an apology.  
   Now you’re the @ssh@l@, Natalie.
 Natalie’s sweeper, she sees the whole f@ck@ng field, but even she’d admit that there are really only three things that you need to know to understand the Yellowjackets juniors:  
    For Shauna, it’s always about Jackie, and for Jackie, it’s always about Shauna. 
    If you’re h@rny (you meaning Natalie), you go to Lottie. If you need to not be (you meaning all of them), you go to Laura Lee. 
    Van worships the ground that Taissa Turner walks on for reasons Natalie is certain she’ll never understand. 
 She simply doesn’t get it. Tai is fine, whatever. She’s cool, in a sort of quiet, standoffish, witty way. She’s also so f@ck@ng intense that she drives Natalie  insane  more often than not. But that’s beside the point here. She’s making Van upset, which is something you simply  don’t  do. And sure, they haven’t been  close  since they were about seven, and  certainly not close in the way Van and Tai had been since the first day of soccer practice freshman year, but Natalie would still commit murder to keep Van from crying.   “Were we supposed to dress up for this thing?”  “Oh.” Nat didn’t think  that  was where this was going. She glances down at her slip, the one she stole from Kohls  just in case Kevyn got his sh@t together and she ended up going to prom. It’s lacy and short but not so short that she wouldn’t be able to push past the dress code violations, the ones Taissa had been ranting about for weeks— 
   Oh.  

     
“No?” She takes in Van’s white button down and blue jeans, her pale cheek and strawberry-blonde lashes as bare of makeup as ever. “Don’t worry, I’m sure Jackie’s going to throw on sweats as soon as they get here.”  Van hums, still twisting her fingers in her lap.  “I just—” Natalie tries to explain. “I just wore this, you know, ‘cause if I have the dress and like, never wear it, what’s the point?”  As Van nods slowly, Natalie remembers a pair of stares she’s seen passed back and forth over the field for three years. Sunny smiles stolen over bowling balls and plates of fries. Smiles she hasn’t seen in some time.  In their place are tears pooling in Van’s eyes. Natalie’s going to  kill  Taissa.   Oh, f@ck this. Natalie stands up.  “Where are you going?”  “Nowhere,” Nat replies, sitting behind Van and sticking her hands in her pocket.  Where is—yep, okay, there.  
     
She snaps the hair tie around her wrist and places her fingers in Van’s thick hair. Van tenses her shoulders.  “What are you doing—”  “Braiding your hair, weirdo,” she mutters, swallowing the things she really means. The  giving you a minute  and  doing something to make you feel just an ounce of the beautiful you are.  The  comforting you in the only way I know how, because neither of us got enough of the gentleness we deserved when we were little and yet somehow you’ve always been better at this than me  and touching you because I know she won’t. Instead, she says, “I’ve only done it, like, a million times.”   Jackie waits until the bathroom empties of well-wishers and smudged eyeliner before she lets herself cry.   Just a little cry, she promises the girl in the mirror, glittering in purple and a lopsided crown.  Just two minutes, tops.  She told Jeff it would be  one  second, she just had to fix her lip gloss, but really she was looking for Shauna. She had planned to just check the stalls and move on, but Lindsey Nisenson caught her, so Jackie  had to  gush over her dress, and then Este Gomez, who was so sweet,  genuinely,  joined their conversation to congratulate her, so Jackie  had to smile and nod, and she should’ve been done quicker but she got distracted thinking about how Este’s beautiful wide curls framed her dark eyes. Then Laura Lee came out of nowhere and Jackie was hugging her, and behind her came Michelle and Sarah S. and Lizette and Shae, and before she knew it she was lost in a sea of pretty girls, chatting with Misty f@ck@ng Quigley. While Misty blabbered on and on about spotlights and the proper way to hold a salad fork, long after all the other girls had finished fixing their flyaways and reapplying their lipstick and returned to the dance floor, Jackie felt tears gathering in her eyes and grasping at her throat. She only got Misty to bail by inviting her to the after party at her place. One she had never wanted to throw in the first place.  She didn’t want this. She doesn’t want  any of this. She doesn’t even want to be here. The only person she wants is Shauna, and Shauna won’t even  look  at her.   How does Shauna not get that Jackie doesn’t care about prom princess? Jackie didn’t even know prom princess was a thing until last week, when Ms. Wheeler motioned to her from across the hall and asked if she wanted to accept the nomination. She only said yes because she was surprised, and because it’s not the sort of thing you can say no to, right? Her mother would’ve told her that it was an honor, that it would be  rude  not to say yes, so she had to. Besides, she thought it wouldn’t count for anything. It was just a nice token, a silly high school artifact. If she won, she had thought, she and Shauna could take funny little photos that recreated their first Halloween together, dressed side-by-side as Cinderella and Snow White, clutching each other’s hands tighter than they did their bags of candy. That, at least, would make it worth something to  Jackie. If Jackie had known winning prom princess was going to make Shauna look at her  like that, she would’ve told Ms. Wheeler to kindly f@ck off. Onstage she smiled, and posed with Jeff next to Miles Turner and April Liu, and giggled like her stupid spandex weren’t digging into her hips, and tried to find Shauna in the crowd, because just a scoff from Shauna, a grin, an eye roll of endearment, would make her forget how stupid this was, how belittling, how  not her  it felt.  Instead Shauna had stared at Jackie  like that.  Jackie wants to take a deep breath to stop herself from heaving, but her dress keeps getting in the way.  It’s too f@ck@ng small, and she knew it was too f@ck@ng small when she bought it and she bought it anyway. Or Mom bought it, which was entirely the problem. Jackie had already won the fight over lavender, because Mom didn’t like her in lavender, which she reminded Jackie approximately six times on the shopping floor of Lord & Taylor’s, but Jackie  wanted to  wear lavender so she’d match Shauna’s deep purple, so they’d look like two twinned peonies in a French field of flowers. Eventually Mom pulled this shiny number from the rack, and it wasn’t Jackie’s favorite but it fit the marks, which were, as always, that she looked good in it, Shauna would like it, and Mom loved it, and maybe Jackie didn’t but that’s okay, as long as everything else was right. So okay, fine, perfect.  It’s perfect.   Except that when she got to the dressing room she realized her mom had pulled a 0 and Jackie was really closer to a 2 at this point, but when she slipped and asked her to grab the larger size Mom gave her the look that said  really, Jacqueline, you need a 2?  before she spoke the words aloud.  Really? Seriously? What have you been eating recently?  So even though the 2 fit her like a glove, Jackie told her mom she shouldn’t bother opening the door for a look.  You were right, Mom, it’s too big, I’m swimming in it.  She said, forcing a smile on her face, making it audible.  Let me put the other one back on, she added, sucking in her ribs.  Only for Shauna to say “pretty.” Jackie’s seen her  squeal over ratty editions of this or that Brontë novel, but Jackie’s prom dress was merely “pretty.”  She’s crying. Again. Like an idiot.  A knock on the door makes her jump.  “Jax, hey, you in there?” She sniffles, batting her eyes to flush the tears away.  “Yeah, babe, sorry!” “It’s fine, uh, just,” she hears Jeff’s nervous chuckle through the crack in the door, and she can’t help rolling her eyes. “You’re gonna be late to your own after party, if we don’t get going.” “Ah, okay, sorry!” Her voice sounds wrong, cartoonish. She turns on the facet and grabs a wad of paper towels from the dispenser. “Just a minute!” Jeff shouts something back, but his words are muffled by the sound of the pipes whooshing water into her hands.   Stop crying, Jackie, she spits to the girl in the mirror, smearing at the makeup beneath her eyes.  Stop it. What the f@ck do you have to be crying about?   She’s just wiped the last of the tears from her cheeks when the door swings open. “Jeff, I just said—” she starts, irritated, before she looks up. “Oh.”  “Hey,” Taissa says. She lets the door slam shut behind her, her pale teal dress fanning out with the impact. Twin crystal barrettes twinkle in her hair.  “Tai, hey,” Jackie says, busying herself with the soap. “Um,” she forces a swallow. “Having fun?” “Oh, uh, sure,” Taissa replies.  She doesn’t move. Jackie can practically feel her eyes grazing over her back, tracing her face. “Do you, um,” Jackie pushes past the wedge in her throat, “need something?” “Jeff asked me to come check on you,” Taissa says. “He’s all antsy to go because Josh already left for yours.”  “Oh, jeez, okay,” Jackie reaches for another towel. “Wait. I thought you were in Josh’s car?” “Yeah, Shauna went with them instead.” “What?” Jackie turns. “Why?” Taissa shrugs. “I don’t know, she didn’t ask. Jeff just told me she bailed.”  
   Shauna left. Jackie’s been looking for her all night and she just. F@ck@ng. Left. 
 “Jackie?” Taissa asks softly. “Are you okay?” She’s using the concerned tone that she usually reserves for Van and a select few of the sweeter underclassmen. Her brown eyes seem to stare straight into Jackie’s soul.  Jackie keeps her gaze trained on Tai’s silver hoops in the same way she’ll watch her mother’s pearls to trick her into thinking she’s making eye contact. It doesn’t work as well on Taissa, unmedicated and perceptive as she is, but it does give Jackie an extra five seconds to pull herself together into  herself, the self who never really feels like her. “Yep!” She swallows Shauna with another prize-winning smile, resuming her performance. “All good.”   Natalie has her arm around Van.  Natalie. Has her  arm. Around  Van. Taissa wants to punch something, but instead she just bites her lip. “What  are you wearing?” Natalie is cackling up at Lottie. Her group arrived just before Taissa’s even though they had left the dance a full fifteen minutes earlier. They must’ve stopped for more booze, Tai thinks. She’s pretty sure there’s a handle in Lottie’s arms.  “A  dress!”  Lottie exclaims, gesturing with whatever bottle is in her hands. Tai can’t see her face, but she sounds irked. Taissa can’t  possibly  imagine why.   (She clocked that thing as a wedding gown the  second  she saw it. Which is fine, whatever,  you do you, Lottie,  but Taissa can’t stand her acting so surprised that everyone keeps staring at her.)  (Maybe it’s because all Taissa does is think about how to keep people from staring at her. Or, really, how to get them to stare at her the way she’d like to be stared at.) “From where?” Natalie laughs. Lottie must make a face, because Van pipes up.  “You look like Stevie Nicks.” Van lifts her head from Natalie’s shoulder to say it, and even a full ten feet away Taissa clocks a blush over her cheek, a shadow of the strap from Natalie’s dress imprinted on her skin. She has  such  a doll’s face. She always reminds Taissa of lamplight glowing in the dark.  (Tai’s been thinking about her all night. Or, she’s been trying really f@ck@ng hard to  not think about her.)  (It hasn’t worked.) “Oh my god, you do look like Stevie Nicks!” Natalie says, her mouth dropping open.   “Thank  you!” Lottie says. She sounds half-exasperated, half-elated that someone finally got it right. Of course it would be Van.   
   She’s always the sweet one. Always. 
 “It’s  amazing, Lot,” Natalie giggles. “Like, wow. Those sleeves are ridiculous.” She tilts her head as if she’s trying to take a closer look at the lace, and that’s when she spots Tai hovering in the background.  Nat’s smile turns sour.  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Natalie smirks. She tightens her arm around Van. Just barely, but Tai sees it, and Nat sees that Tai sees it, and Tai sees that Nat sees her seeing it. Lottie looks behind her and Van glances up, her lips parting.  “Oh, hi, Tai,” Lottie says absentmindedly. She scoots over, leaving a patch of porch light open for Taissa.  “Hey,” she replies. Lottie nods and turns to steal Nat’s attention, but Natalie is still staring Taissa down. Tai’s sure she’s laughing at her chiffon dress, her boots hidden beneath the hem, the bracelets on her wrists. Cliché, she can imagine Nat thinking, pretentious.   
     
(You play the cool girl quite well, Tai, for a f@ck@ng coward.) “Well,” Natalie says over the crowd of juniors squealing, the music in the house blasting, “how was  prom?”  She takes a drag of the joint between her fingers, cocking her head to the side. “Get your fix on the dance floor?”  (Taissa wants to scream in response.  Not everyone gets to be you, Natalie.)   “Lame, naturally,” Tai says instead, shrugging. She steels her gaze at Natalie for a second longer before letting her eyes drift to where they really want to go. There are tiny braids in her hair, pulled back to reveal the full skyline of her freckles. Her shirt is loose, and the white of it contrasts her red hair so perfectly it’s almost obnoxious. She’s left an extra button undone, showing the soft V of her neck. She has those tiny hoop earrings in, the only ones she ever wears—Tai had looped her tongue around the bottom left one only two weeks ago, when they were so drunk in Shauna’s basement after States and Tai pulled her inside the bathroom because every time Van so much as shifted to the side Taissa’s pelvis twitched with hunger, and once the door locked behind them Van’s lips had been so open for Tai, relenting where her hands would not because they were already quick beneath Taissa’s sweater scrambling for her bra—  (Stop. Stop it, Taissa.)   She smiles softly.  “Hi,” Tai murmurs.  Van returns a smile that’s half a grimace, radiating Taissa’s awkwardness back to her. Natalie slowly circles a chipped fingernail over her shoulder.  “Hey,” Van says. “You, uh…” Van looks Tai up and down and swallows hard. “You look nice.”  “Nice?”  Taissa blurts out before she can stop herself.   (Nice, seriously, just  nice?  Seriously?)   Van stares at the ground. “Heard Miles won prom king,” Natalie interrupts, passing the blunt to Lottie. “I’m sure you’re  so proud.”  She reaches forward and wraps a second arm around Van, hugging her from behind and hinging in such a way that she looks more drunk than she actually is. Taissa’s never seen Natalie hold anyone like that, not even Lottie.  Tai wants to tear Van out of her arms and push her to the ground. 
   (She’s not yours, Natalie—) 
 
   (She’s not f@ck@ng yours either, Tai, you made that abundantly clear.) 
 “Mmmh, he’s already treated like he’s god’s greatest gift to earth, so,” Taissa shoots back instead. “The crown’s certainly a nice touch, though. Mom will be f@ck@ng thrilled.”  “Perfect brother’s perfect again, huh?” Natalie grins wickedly.  (As if Taissa doesn’t know that. As if he isn’t the one Tai thinks about whenever she thinks about Van in that way—his stare at them curled up on the couch watching TV, his blinks over breakfast on Sunday mornings after Van has spent Saturday night in Tai’s bed—his face minuscule motions of her mother’s eyes and her father’s nose, almost like hers except not.) (Her perfectly nice perfect brother with his perfect pretty girlfriend who got into Stanford, the perfect picture of American multiculturalism and success—) “Apparently,” Tai replies, trying to sound nonchalant and failing. “Where is the king, anyway?” 
   (Screw you, Natalie.) 
 “F@ck if I know—” “April looked nice,” Lottie interrupts, halting their p@ss@ng contest before it can start. “And Jackie won princess—” “Ooof,” Natalie says, “of  course  she did!”  “Sounds right,” Van smirks. She meets Taissa’s eyes again. “Sounds like Jackie,” Tai offers, aching.   Van smiles. For real this time. She’s so pretty, she sometimes makes Taissa dizzy. “Very Jackie.”  “Extremely Jackie.” Natalie and Lottie ramble on, but Taissa can’t even hear them because Van is grinning, and Taissa knows it’s just for her. Van’s lips are soft, and they look so close to forgiveness in reply to an apology Taissa never offered but really, truly wanted to say, she just  f@ck@ng  can’t, and Van must get that, right? She gets it. She has to understand that she could smear Taissa’s stubbornness and fear away so fast if Tai would only give her a chance.   (Just let her,  Tai thinks, trying to sidestep the panic she feels over a plastic crown and her mother’s love.  Just sit next to her and nudge her shoulder and give her the rundown of Shauna’s Jackie fit and tell Natalie to f@ck off. Surely Lottie would be more than happy to make that happen—)   The screen door slams open. Shauna steps out, huffing. “Hey, Ship—” Natalie starts, but Shauna stomps over and grabs the bottle of whiskey from her hand. “Dude, hey, that’s my—” Shauna takes a quick swig and quickly slumps down on the steps next to Van. She leans her head on Van’s shoulder, pouting. Shauna on Van’s left shoulder, Natalie on her right. Taissa sees red  again.  “You okay, Shipman?” Van asks, bemused.  “Fine,” she barks out, sipping the whiskey and snuggling deeper into Van’s side. The shimmer from the sequins on her dress stings Taissa’s eyes. She scowls. “Jackie was looking for you,” she spits out.   (Sweatpants,  Jackie had said,  I need sweatpants.)  (Code for  Shauna.)  “So?” Shauna asks, glaring at Taissa. “So, maybe you should go find her.”  “Maybe  you  should, Taissa,” Natalie says. “Give me back my whiskey, Shauna.”  “It’s not yours, Nat—” “I was here first—” “Nat,” Lottie whines, holding her hand out. “I thought you said you were going to dance with me.” “Later, Lot, the music hasn’t even really started yet—” “Okay, but there’s no room for me there.”  Lottie gestures towards the stairs, filled up with the three of them, Nat’s weird stoner guy friends on the left side of them, various juniors on the swing, the porch, the sides of the house.   Yeah, Natalie,  Tai thinks, raising an eyebrow at her.  Move.   Natalie looks from Lottie to Taissa and back again before smiling.  “Naw, let’s go play pong!” She pats Van’s shoulder and gently punches Shauna’s back, leaning as far away from Taissa as possible. “You two versus me and Matthews. Hm? Game?” Taissa clenches her fists. (Of course.) (Of  f@ck@ng  course.)   Van forgot that Shauna sucks at beer pong. “Score!” Lottie squeals again,  jumping up and down, her cheeks pink with drink. Natalie wiggles her eyebrows and shoots her fist in the air, her awkward movements too exaggerated to be accidental.  “Drink up, Palm—oops,” Natalie clicks her tongue as Shauna grabs the solo cup ahead of Van and starts to chug. Nat meets Van’s gaze and smiles darkly, revealing a twisted line of teeth that Van would recognize anywhere. She knows  exactly  what Natalie’s doing. Coaxing her, placating her, cheering her up. Mind games, party tricks. Distractions. Whatever you want to call it. Typically, that’s her  job. Van’s got that sh@t down to a science. Not only does Van know how to deal with the general crying teammate—really, at this point, crying’s a cakewalk for her—but she’s also trained in the more specific iterations of the Yellowjackets juniors. Hiccupy Laura Lee, spacey Lottie. Frazzled Jackie. Natalie, sharp and distant.  Drunk, dumb, sloppy Shauna.  “Dude,” Van says to her, amused and more than a bit exasperated, “I’m right here.” Beer drips from Shauna’s lips, soaped in spit. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “You got the last one,” she says over Natalie’s cackling. She sways a bit. Van steadies her. “Nope, that was you,” Van says, patting her shoulder.  Shauna furrows her eyebrows.  “You sure?” “Yep, positive,” Van replies. She cups Shauna’s hand and gently forces the ping pong ball from her fist. “It’s all good—just, uh, let me throw this time, okay?”  Shauna nods, squishing her face into Van’s shoulder. She’s already left makeup stains on the collar of Van’s white shirt from all of the other times she’s missed a shot or slurped down a beer.  Not that Van cares. That much. About the shirt  or  the game. Truly. It’s just that when she plays with Tai, they…okay, yeah, against Natalie they usually lose, but not this terribly. Tai has better aim, longer arms, gets tipsy but never drunk, likes to gnaw at the right side of her bottom lip when she’s concentrating— It’s fine, though. Van lost track of Taissa after she rolled her eyes and insisted she was “good,” that she wasn’t interested in playing anyway, that she wanted a drink. But it’s fine. Van’s  fine.  She tosses the ball and misses.  “D@mn it,” she scowls, Lottie and Nat whooping. Even Shauna laughs as she sways forward into the table. She giggles so hard that she knocks over the solo cup closest to her.  “Oh, f@ck!” Shauna exclaims.  The liquid spills to the ground, splashing Van’s pants on the way down.  Great. At least her nicest jeans were dark wash.  “Sh@t, I’m sor—” “It’s fine,” Van cuts off her apology. She squeezes the denim, swallowing the acid floating up her throat.  “No, really, I’m—” “I said it’s fine,” Van snaps, madder that she’s mad than anything else. She’s supposed to laugh sh@t like this off. It’s a stupid pair of jeans, she deals with worse sh@t all the time and these aren’t even stained. Her boxers were much worse after— 
   Rum and coke and coconut hand cream, a tongue in her mouth and curls ticking her cheek— 
 “Just like—give me a second, okay?”  Shauna’s still sputtering, and Van can hear Nat talking too,  pitying  her again. She flinches and shakes her head when Natalie shouts for a paper towel, bludgeoning Van into the spotlight at the exact moment when she’d like to be literally anywhere else. Van wants to kick them both. She wants to kick herself for wishing that their voices were someone else’s. She stares at the gritty white cotton crumbs of denim flaking on the surface of her jeans, wet like bites of a sandwich after it’s sat too long in the fridge, the jam and peanut butter seeping into the bread and turning it to mush. The burning sensation gathering behind her eyes doesn’t feel all that different than the way those harried, careless, stale lunches tasted. She just wants— “Shauna!”   Her voice pulls at Shauna’s attention.  “There you are,” Jackie exclaims, her hip flush against the ping pong table. Some part of Shauna’s inebriated mind registers a web of dark curls behind her—Taissa, she assumes—but the alcohol has her fixated on the glow of Jackie’s smile, the gold rush of her hair. “I’ve been looking everywhere for—here, Nat, I heard you say you needed paper towels?”  Shauna tries to listen to Nat’s response, forcing herself to stare down the cotton roll in Jackie’s fist. She’s dizzy and guilty and dizzy with guilt. She’d  finally  been enjoying herself that night, stealing giggles and shouting at Natalie over the ping pong table, before she tripped over her feet and knocked the beer over straight into Van’s lap. She meant to just laugh it off but Van looked like she was going to  cry  about it for some reason, which made no sense to Shauna because she’s seen Van shrug away grass stains on her shorts a million times, so what was so different now? Van’s face was tense, and it spun Shauna into the itchy madness of toothpaste sticking to the sink as it circles the drain. A glob for being so clumsy, a line of spit for getting mad at Van because  she feels bad and she’d just gotten over feeling bad. She thinks maybe she should just stare at the synthetic cotton in Jackie’s fist for a second until the water washes it all away. Instead, though, Shauna finds herself watching Jackie’s little hands. Fixating on her fingernails, clocking the scar on the back of her thumb from the time she was trying to make rugelach (“like your Bubbe’s!”) and slashed open her finger (“it really doesn’t hurt that bad,” tears betraying her, blood dripping over the cherries). Shauna tracks the half moon on Jackie’s skin as it wanes upon releasing the paper towels, widens as it gets closer, and then waxes again over Shauna’s arm as Jackie strokes her elbow.  “You okay?” Jackie’s voice pulls her gaze upwards. She smiles. Her mouth keeps disappearing behind walls of wet darkness—blinks that Shauna can’t seem to stop. When Shauna fails to respond, Jackie’s lips fall in slow motion, twisting into a frown. “Did you get splashed?”   Splashed?  Shauna blinks, and Jackie’s eyebrows furrow, and she can’t  think  over Natalie’s quips and Taissa’s questions and Jackie staring at her like  that. What does she mean by—  A hand trails over Shauna’s stomach. She jumps at the touch, but Jackie’s too distracted to notice, her fingers hastily skimming over the fabric for— 
   Oh, right. The beer. 
 “No,” Shauna shakes her head. “No, I just—”  She opens her arms and gestures aimlessly: to Van inches away, to the puddle that she stares at to avoid Jackie’s big, huge, anxious eyes, to Taissa,  of course , already on the ground, fixing Shauna’s mess. Typical Shauna,  she thinks, watching the liquid skim over the floor, Taissa’s teal dress pooled beside it as she wipes the hardwood floor. Useless. “Sorry,” Shauna mutters around the lump in her throat. She feels like she’s swallowed one of the soiled paper towels.  “Hey, no, it’s okay,” Jackie says. She moves her hands from Shauna’s waist to Shauna’s shoulders, running her fingers over the straps. “It’s just a spill. No harm done.” Shauna’s not so sure. Mrs. Taylor  always  notices sh@t when it comes to her house. She once threw a fit because Jackie took two Diet Cokes from the garage fridge without asking, even though there were dozens of soft drinks left over from Mr. Taylor’s fiftieth birthday party.  Jackie must see her hesitate, because she swings her arms around Shauna’s neck and pulls her back tight against her chest, so fast that it nearly makes Shauna dizzy again. She  swears she can feel Jackie’s heart beating against her spine, her nipples through her shirt—she must’ve changed her clothes, Shauna realizes. The lavender dress with the low cut neck and the swooping bunches near the br@@sts that Shauna had been watching all night was far too sequined to feel this soft. Shauna's been so distracted by Jackie’s wispy honey hair and honey eyes and honey skin and honey hands that she didn’t even notice.  Jackie rests her chin on Shauna’s shoulder, snuggling into her neck. She always manages to smell like gingerbread cookies. Jackie f@ck@ng  loves Christmas, despite the fact that she notoriously hates the cold and once burst into tears on a sleigh ride because slush got in her boots. She’s like candy canes and snow angels and hot chocolate to Shauna’s White Witch, frigid b@tch persona. Even in the dead of summer, Shauna swears it’s December whenever she inhales Jackie.  Tonight, Shauna breathes out molasses.  “Well, those are soaked,” Natalie’s saying in the background, tossing paper towels on the ping pong table. Van’s grimacing, and Shauna looks away, closing her eyes.  “Are you guys finished?” She hears someone—Joel Schneider, she thinks—ask Lottie. Shauna presses her cheek to Jackie’s and blinks her eyes open to a crowd of jewel tones.  Oh f@ck, not the theatre kids.  She can’t handle any  Cats tonight. “We were hoping for a round.”   “Yeah—” Lottie starts, and Natalie shoots her a look, still clutching Van’s spoiled shirt. Shauna flits her gaze towards the table and counts the remaining Solo cups, half-filled with BudLite.  “F@ck no, we’re—” “Nat,” Lottie whines. “Come on, I thought we were going to—”  Might as well drink up. Shauna reaches forward towards the table for a cup.  “Maybe wait a second,” Jackie murmurs into her shoulder.  Shauna clenches her jaw.  “What?” she says sharply. Jackie tenses against her back.  “I just—” Jackie says, loosening her grasp on her shoulders. Somehow the  smell of her grows more pungent when she slackens, brown sugar and apple butter that suddenly makes Shauna want to gag, even though apple pie is her favorite. “You seem a little dizzy, is all.” “I’m fine,” Shauna says stiffly.  “Okay,” she replies. Too quick, pixie stick. She resumes her hold, clasping Shauna tighter.  Shauna squirms. Suddenly the toothache that had been gnawing at her all night returns. It started hurting when she saw that Jackie chose a purple dress, because naturally she had to upstage Shauna’s, because of course, what else would happen? It only got worse when Jackie leaned into Jeff for the quintessential prom pose, his chest flat against her back, his hands skimming her hips. When her name came over the loudspeaker and she smiled wide at Shauna, Shauna couldn’t help but wonder, am I supposed to be happy for you? That once again it’s you, Jackie, in the spotlight, you, Jackie the princess to Jeff’s prince, you, Jackie, onstage with a crown on your head and a kiss on your cheek.  Jackie, a cavity forming in her mouth. “Would you let go of me?” Shauna bites out. “I’m hot.”  “Oh, yeah, of course,” Jackie releases her, adjusting her camisole, her Adidas joggers. “Actually,”  she says, smiling, and Shauna tries not to grit her teeth, “I, uh, laid out some of your sweats for you. So you can change. You must be uncomfortable.”  Translation:  I took my dress off, so you have to.   She  always  does this, just assumes that Shauna will follow her lead, plays with and plans out her movements like she’s a f@ck@ng Barbie doll. Jackie can’t bear to be the only one in normal clothes at her own party, and Shauna, well,  Shauna  is  inanimate unless she’s in Jackie’s hands, can’t  possibly  stand on her own two feet, let alone move without her, so it doesn’t make sense if they don’t match, a girl and her adjustable-me, a person and her thing.   “No,” Shauna wants to scream. “No, I’m not. I’m f@ck@ng fine, Jackie.”   She doesn’t understand what she  did. One second Shauna was softening into Jackie’s chest like butter in a pan or chocolate stuck to her fingers on a summer afternoon. She was back, not the weird ghost girl that sometimes takes her place but Shauna.  Her Shauna. For a moment, Jackie thought she’d finally caught her, smoothed over whatever it was that had made her so upset earlier and saved their night for their memory books.  The next, Shauna had turned to stone. “I  know  you’re fine,” Jackie says slowly, pitching her tone  just so. “I just think you might feel…less constrained in pants—” “What’s that supposed to mean?”  “I  mean  there are a lot of people here,” Jackie spots a bead of sweat on her hairline to confirm what she’d already felt on Shauna’s back. Jackie’s used to reading bodies for signs of sobriety and pent-up nerves. “It’s warm in here, and you’ve got a tight dress on—” “Oh, yeah, my dress  must be tight,” Shauna spits.  “That’s not what I—” Jackie stops.  Reframe, Taylor.  She forces a grin, begging Shauna to return it. “I don’t know about you, but  I was desperate to get out of my stupid dress and into something else—” “Right,” Shauna scoffs. “I’m sure.”  Her dark eyes flash. She folds her arms across her chest, stepping just beyond Jackie's reach.  She’s being  mean.  Even though  she’s  the one who abandoned prom. Because she was  so miserable.  “Fine, then,” Jackie says.  Fine, just fine, f@ck you, then. “Enjoy being damp, for all I care—” “Jackie, uh,” Taissa interrupts, and Jackie jumps. She almost forgot the rest of them were there.  “Speaking of damp—” She gestures to Van, who glances at Taissa, her eyes widening. Behind them, Natalie’s bartering with the theatre kids for an unopened box of cigarettes, Lottie wiggling with boredom next to her, out of earshot. Jackie spots Misty Quigley in the ranks, beaming and waving.  Oh, god. Jackie spares her an awkward smile before turning back to Tai. “Van could use a pair of sweats.” “I’m fine,” Van says quickly. “Don’t be silly,” Tai says, shaking her head. She meets Jackie’s eyes. “You just said you have a pair out already, right?” Van paws the edge of her white shirt, her stance one of a deer in headlights, or Shauna just five minutes ago. Jackie isn’t sure why Van looks so astonished at Taissa’s concern. There’s nothing new about Taissa prioritizing Van. It’s just what Taissa  does. Always. Just like Jackie does with Shauna. “Those are—”  “Mine,” Shauna cuts Jackie off. “Van can have them, I don’t care.”  She walks towards Lottie, who smiles and ushers Shauna under her arm. Jackie listens as Shauna joins Natalie’s argument with Joel Schneider and Dylan Roy. She watches, too, as Shauna turns her back to Jackie. Jackie swears she can still feel the imprint of Shauna’s body in her arms, now growing colder by the second.   Misty hasn’t been inside Jackie Taylor’s house in  years, but really, it doesn’t look that different. “Did I tell you I’ve been here before?” Misty asks.  She wants Dylan to understand that she knows her way around, in case he wants to…go somewhere, later. There’s a bathroom tucked in the back corner near two guest rooms with a  huge tub that should work nicely.  “I mean, it was a while ago,” she continues, edging herself a little closer to him. “You probably don’t know, since you went to Wisokayk South, but Jackie always threw the  coolest  birthday parties when we were little. She stopped when we were…nine, I think? Which, like,  totally  makes sense, it’s kind of lame to do anything more than a sleepover with your  closest  friends after that.” She bumps his shoulder against hers. “But Jackie’s always been  super nice. The last party was a murder mystery, I think—” “Misty,” Dylan says, staring at the ping pong table. “I’m trying to concentrate.”  “Oh, right,” she giggles. “Of course.”  He doesn’t spare her a glance. Not even a fond smile thrown causally to the side, one that says,  you’re silly, Misty, but that’s okay, I like you anyway. He just lands another ball, this time in the cup closest to Joel Schneider.  He doesn’t even seem to hear her cheering at his…do they call it a goal? Whatever it’s called, Misty swears her shout is the loudest, even louder than Kiffy’s, and Kiffy played Minnie in  Hello Dolly  and has about the pitchiest singing voice Misty’s ever heard. No, Dylan is just smiling at  Joel  again, like he has been all night. Even when they were slow dancing to  Always Be My Baby  and Joel had his arms around Kiffy, and for a while Misty thought Dylan was looking at Kiffy until she remembered that he hadn’t talked to Kiffy all night, just Joel and Damien and Charlie Connell from band. Besides, if he had wanted to go with Kiffy wouldn’t he have asked  Kiffy and not  Misty?   Maybe he’s still just nervous. Maybe she hasn’t tried hard enough. Her mom always tells her, if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again, but Misty’s been trying for years, trying so hard and never getting anywhere. She just doesn’t understand how, with all her trying, she’s not more like Jackie Taylor. Their houses and their birthday parties and their parents’ jobs and even the waves in their hair are not really that different, if you ask Misty, but somehow everyone likes Jackie and no one likes Misty. Somehow Jackie is the girl who has a Mariah Carey song dedicated to her and Misty’s the one who can’t even get her prom date to touch her b@@bs.  Try, try again. She remembers seeing Jackie snuggle into Jeff Sadecki’s side…no, wait, that was Shauna, just a half hour ago or so. Well. Same difference. Friends, boyfriends. Misty’s never really had either, so maybe they’re more similar than the movies make them out to be. She throws her arms around Dylan’s waist and cheers again, jumping up and down.  “Jesus  Christ,  get off of me!”  He does it for her—pushes her, and not playfully. One of the spots of acne has burst open on his face. It oozes watery blood near his mouth. “I just—”  try again, Misty, try again. “I just wanted to—”  But she doesn’t know  what  she  wanted to,  so she reaches out her hand towards his arm again. Dylan recoils.  “No, f@ck! Stop touching me!” He shakes his head, looking over to Damien and Kiffy and  Joel  most of all, his mouth agape. He waves his hands in Misty’s direction. “I don’t—  literally,  what the f@ck?” “Dylan,” Misty starts to say, scrambling for words, trying to get him to  look at her. “Come on, we’re just having fun—” “What Dylan’s  trying  to say, Misty,” Joel says, “is that you’re super  f@ck@ng annoying.”  Misty’s stomach drops.  “Joel—” Kiffy says, a giggle falling from her lips before she frowns. “Joel, that’s mean.” “He wouldn’t have even  asked  you,” he continues, “if it weren’t for Kiffy. If she didn’t feel  so bad  for you.” Misty blinks. Her face feels hot. She fiddles with the white chrysanthemum on her wrist, the corsage he bought for her, the ribbon matching her dress. She remembers, now, that it had been Kiffy who asked her what color she was wearing.  “F@ck you, Joel, it wasn’t just  me,  Dylan said he wanted—” “A date, yeah,” Joel scowls at Kiffy.  “A  date. Misty was  your terrible idea.”  “Is that true?” Misty chokes out.  Dylan keeps his face turned towards Joel as he gulps. She watches as a thin line of pus drips down his face, lingering near his lips.  She wishes she didn’t still want to wipe it away. “Yeah,” he says, scowling, “yeah, it’s—” She’s walking out of the room before he can finish saying it, slipping through the screen door and scurrying down the steps, sliding against the siding of the garden shed before she starts to sob.  The tears fall fast, in great gasps, waterfalls trailing down her face.  She’s so  stupid,  she’s always so, so, so  stupid.  How is she so stupid? She gets straight As and has passed the Red Cross babysitting certification  twice  just to make  sure  she knows her sh@t and can point spotlights and name all the bones in the human body and all they see is how lonely and pathetic and  ugly  she is, and she’s still  stupid enough to believe that they don’t.  She wants to  kill  Dylan Roy. She wants to drag him into her basement and tie him up and stuff her white chrysanthemum in his mouth and wait until he  cries  as hard as she’s crying now to kiss it better, wait until he  sees how f@ck@ng smart she is before grabbing the kitchen knife her dad uses to slice open steaks and running it right down his bare chest without puncturing the skin, slipping the sharp tip in just at the nape of his— “Hey,” someone says, their voice husky, “you, uh, okay?” Misty looks up and sees silver stars.  Natalie Scatorccio is blinking at her, a cigarette dangling between her fingers. With her pale skin and pale hair, she glows in the dark, her body a mass of silk and shadow.  Natalie Scatorccio. Is talking. To her.  “Oh, I’m—” Misty chokes. She’s so shocked that she almost forgets to cry. She shakes her head, conjuring fresh tears. “No.”  “Ah, sh@t, uh,” Natalie mutters, looking around in the dark, as if there will be someone to take Misty off her hands. Of  course Natalie Scartoccio wants nothing to do with her— “—because I’m such a  loser—”  “Whoa, whoa, I didn’t say you were a—” Natalie’s scrambling, holding her hand out. “Listen, you want a smoke? It might, uh, calm you down.” Natalie Scatorccio. Giving her. A cigarette.  Misty’s never smoked before (it’s  terrible  for you, her mom has been saying so for years and that was  before Aunt Lorianne died of lung cancer) but she doesn’t hesitate when she nods up at Natalie, trying to hide her smile.  She takes a drag and coughs. “Th-thanks,” she whispers, fumbling, trying to make her fingers look like Natalie’s, delicate and casual and cool.  “So which one of those drama @ssh@l@s made you cry?”  When Misty eventually rambles out that it was Dylan Roy, Natalie huffs out a laugh.  “M@th@rf@ck@r,” Natalie shakes her head. Misty likes the sound of her voice—it’s sort of deep and high at the same time, the sound she imagines a hawk would make perched on your shoulder. “You know he only did tech because Paczkowski picked Levi Houser for second bass over him, right? And he couldn’t even get  in the show because the dumbass can’t sing for sh@t.”  “Really?” She puffs on the cigarette again, jetting her hip out in an attempt to look relaxed.  “Yeah, dude, really,” Natalie says. “And, look, you didn’t hear this from me, but he sh@t his pants in gym last year. The only reason the whole school doesn’t know is because Charlie’s a f@ck@ng  saint.”  Misty giggles, tripping over her feet. “Oh my god, that’s, like,  so disgusting.”  “Exactly,” Natalie takes the cigarette from Misty’s hands before she can drop it, but her hands aren’t mean. Not like Dylan, ripping her palms away from his hips, but gentle.  “And he, like…Dylan’s, like…” Natalie takes a drag before shaking her head and turning to look Misty right in the eye. “Look, man, it doesn’t matter. My point  is,  he’s the loser. Not you.”  Natalie’s eyes are blue. No, blue-green. Nearly the color of Misty’s dress. A color that says,  you’re not a loser, Misty.  A color that says,  we’re friends.   “Thanks, Nat.” That’s what her friends call her, right? Van Palmer and Lottie Matthews and Jackie Taylor and all those other girls on soccer.  Nat. Cute, quick, fun. Easy, slips off the tongue because you’re calling her up, you’re getting her attention from down the hall or across the field.  Hey Nat, what’s up Nat, come here Nat.   “Don’t worry about it,” Natalie—Nat—doesn’t even question the name. She swings her back off against the wall of the siding. “Look, I gotta get inside—promised Lot—”  Lot,  Misty’s got not just Nat but  Lot,  now, in less than five seconds, “that I’d be right back but—hey, you want a beer?” “I’ve—” Misty scrambles for the right lie (“I love beer” or “Of course” or “Yeah, sure, if you insist”), but Natalie raises her eyebrows and she cracks. “I’ve never had one.” “Oh, d@mn!” Natalie says with a smile, stomping out her cigarette. “First timer! Well, come on, then, we’ve  got to get you one—” Misty follows Natalie Scartoccio back into Jackie Taylor’s house, holding her chin high and proud. The back of Natalie’s white-blonde head reminds her of the sign-up sheet she saw last week next to her babysitting flier when she checked to see if anyone had taken a phone number (they hadn’t).  
   Equipment Managers for Fall & Spring Sports, 1995-1996. Name, graduation year, home room. Preferred team. 
 Yes,  Misty thinks as Nat grabs her a beer from Jackie Taylor’s cooler.  I think I know what I’m doing next year.   
  
  

    
      
        
        
          oh misty my little superfreak.i apologize if that was an abrupt ending! i really, really hope to update this soon. i WILL finish a flower for you and the dogs are near, i swear. i just needed to work on something a bit lighter.anyway, catch us next time for some illicit kissing, toxic bestism, and vomit. thanks as always for reading!!'
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
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