THE DRIVER CAN’T FIND THE restaurant. He rolls down the divider, peering at us in the rearview mirror. “The American Grill?”
“The American Grill Bistro,” Garrett says.
“And you’re sure this is the mall?”
“Positive.” Garrett extracts his arm from behind my back, leaning forward in his seat. “North Point Mall, the American Grill Bistro.”
We circle for a few minutes, until the driver gives up and lets us off at Macy’s. Walking through the mall in formal wear is surreal. There are old ladies smiling at us and little kids staring, and one dude even snaps a picture.
“Creeper,” says Morgan.
Garrett takes the lead, guiding us past Forever 21, the Apple store, and Francesca’s. But we get all the way to Sears, and there aren’t any restaurants. Garrett looks perplexed. “It was definitely down this way. Definitely.”
“Should I check the map?” Anna asks.
“It should be right here.”
We all stand there for a minute in our dresses and tuxes. It’s a little disorienting. Like, I’m a suburban girl—I know malls. But this isn’t my usual mall, which means it’s like stepping into a parallel universe. I watch Simon chew on his lip while Garrett stares at the directory. “Maybe we should eat at the food court,” Anna suggests.
“No, wait,” Abby says, hand flying to her mouth.
“Are you okay?”
She nods slowly. “Let me just . . . I’ll be right back,” she says, furrowing her brow—and then, a moment later, she disappears around a corner.
Garrett drifts back toward me, looking distraught. “I swear, I made a reservation. I talked to someone. On the phone,” he adds.
“Garrett, it’s fine.”
“I did, though. I promise.”
“I believe you,” I say, scanning the floor for Abby. There’s a Starbucks and a set of escalators and dozens and dozens of people. But she’s nowhere.
“I want a massage chair,” says Simon, staring into Brookstone.
“I’ll be your massage chair,” says Bram.
“You did not just say that.” I scrunch my nose at him. But he just squeezes Simon’s shoulders, and then tugs him closer. Simon smiles and leans back.
“Hey,” Abby says breathlessly. I look up with a start. And she’s a sunbeam. She has her smile cranked up to a million, and her eyes are bright and crinkly. “So, Garrett,” she says.
“Suso.”
She takes both his hands. “We have a reservation.”
“We do?” He looks hopeful. “Where did the restaurant go?”
“It’s not a restaurant,” Abby says.
I look at her. “What?”
“I mean, it’s sort of a restaurant . . .” She looks like she’s ready to burst. “But it’s in there.” She points to a spot behind her shoulder.
“That’s the American Girl store,” says Simon.
“Yes.”
“As in dolls.”
“Yes.” Abby’s eyes are twinkling.
“I don’t get it.” Simon looks baffled.
“Well,” she says, “it appears that Garrett made our prom dinner reservations at the American Girl Bistro.”
Garrett shakes his head. “No, it’s the American Grill Bistro.”
“Okay.” Abby cocks her head. “But the American Girl Bistro has a reservation on file for a party of eight, and it’s under your name, so . . .”
“Oh.” Garrett’s eyes go wide. “Fuck.”
Simon face-plants into my shoulder, almost sobbing with laughter.
This whole place is pink. Blindingly bright pink. Everything—the walls, the tables, the fake flower centerpieces.
“I love it here,” breathes Abby.
I grin at her. “You would.”
There’s an old-timey soda fountain up against one wall, underneath a twinkly lit ceiling, and light fixtures shaped like giant pink flowers. And everywhere I look, I see American Girl dolls. I think we’re the only people here who didn’t bring our sidekicks. It’s the cutest thing in the world, though. The dolls sit in booster seats, clamped onto the tables, and the waiters bring them tiny cups of doll tea.
“I remember when this store opened,” Morgan says. “I was obsessed with American Girls.”
Anna raises her eyebrows. “You’re still obsessed.”
“Not with all of them.” Morgan swipes her. “Just Rebecca. But, like, she’s Jewish, so she’s family.”
“I think you can rent dolls,” Bram points out. “For the meal.”
“I’m renting a doll,” says Simon.
“Guys, I’m so fucking sorry.” Garrett covers his face.
Abby grins. “Are you kidding me? This is the greatest prom dinner ever.”
“Agreed,” Morgan says. She clasps her hands together.
The hostess seats us at a long table in front of the soda fountain counter, with pink polka-dot chairs and intricately folded white cloth napkins. The first thing Simon does is ask her about the rental dolls—and then he, Abby, and Bram end up following her back to the hostess stand. The boys return moments later with pink booster seats and a pair of blond dolls who look disturbingly like Taylor Metternich.
“Abby’s still deciding,” Simon explains. I glance back at the hostess stand, and Abby actually winks at me.
When she finally comes back, she’s hugging a black doll with pigtails. “I’m naming her Hermione,” she announces.
Simon gasps. “It’s finally happening. Abby’s becoming a Potterhead.”
“Something like that.” She looks straight at me.
I end up seated between Doll-Hermione and Garrett, across from Simon and Bram—while Nick stares dazedly at the menu, looking tense and miserable. My eyes drift back to Abby, who tucks her chin in her hand and smiles. “Let’s talk about how Simon’s new school mascot is a squirrel.”
“A black squirrel.”
“Still a squirrel.”
“I love squirrels.” Simon grins. “Oh, and guess what. Amtrak has a student discount.”
“That’ll come in handy,” Abby says.
“I think we’re going to shoot for visiting every other weekend,” Bram says.
“And we’re going to Skype,” adds Simon. “And we’re bringing back the Jacques and Blue emails.”
“Aww, I love it. That’s a great plan.”
“Yeah, we’ve got this. Long distance can totally work—” Simon catches himself, glancing back and forth between Abby and Nick. “It can totally work for some people,” he adds awkwardly.
“I heard it was a dealbreaker,” Nick says loudly, and everyone falls silent. It’s the first time he’s spoken all night. I glance back at Abby, who’s smiling brightly, but blinking fast.
Nick shrugs. “But maybe that’s just a thing people say when they’re dumping you right before prom.”
Abby pushes her chair out and stands. “Excuse me.”
Simon sighs. “Nick.” The boys all shift in their seats, and Morgan and Anna exchange wide-eyed glances. A millennium passes, and no one says a word.
Finally, I stand and grip the back of my chair. “I’ll talk to her.”
Then I take a deep breath, and follow her into the bathroom.
Abby’s sitting on the ledge by the sinks, toes turned out like a ballerina, jelly flats peeking out from under her dress. She looks up at me, startled. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” I rub the back of my neck. “Just making sure you’re okay.”
She shrugs. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
For a moment, neither of us speak.
“Why are you in the bathroom?” I ask finally.
“Did you know they have doll holders in the stalls?” she asks.
I blink. “What?”
“Like, there’s a little hook in there where you can set your doll. I’m serious. Go look.”
“But why?”
“So the doll can experience this bathroom with you,” Abby says.
“That’s . . . strange.”
“Right?” She laughs, but then it’s swallowed by a sigh.
I peer into her face. “Seriously, are you okay?”
“You should probably be asking Nick that.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m asking you.”
She gives me a curious look—all eyebrows. I can’t entirely decipher it. I feel my cheeks and my chest and the back of my neck go warm.
“Well,” she says finally, cupping her chin. “I’m officially the worst.”
“No you’re not.”
“I’ve made everything awkward.”
“Trust me—the boys make themselves awkward.”
She laughs. “It’s not just the boys, though.”
My heart pounds when she says that. I don’t even know why. But I have this urge to hoist myself onto the ledge, into the tiny space beside her. I’d sit in the sink if I had to. I want to look into the mirror and see our reflections, side by side.
But I’m frozen in place. “I don’t like this.”
“Me neither.” She tilts her head back and sighs. “Prom sucks.”
“It sucks balls.”
As soon as I say it, I think of Mom and her determination to have a suck-free prom night. But I think it must have been different for her. Because maybe she was the only pregnant girl at her prom, but at least she got to kiss whomever she wanted to kiss. If I kiss Abby Suso, I burn my friendships to the ground. If she kisses me back, we bring down the apocalypse.
So I just stand there and look at her until the edges of her lips tug upward. Which makes it even worse. Because every time Abby smiles at me, it feels like getting stabbed.