Cracked Up To Be

My shoulders hurt where Evan shook them. I hold my hand out. It feels like lead, but at least I'm not cemented to the couch like before, which is good because I'm going to be sick.



I force myself off the couch, and fumble my way to the door, trying to remember which bathroom is closest to the living room while at the same time vowing never to drink again because I've been here a million times and I should know which bathroom is closest to the living room, but my head feels awful and I just can't think.



I push through the door and bump into God knows how many people as I weave down the hall. Mostly all of them laugh at me, or maybe they've just hit the Feel Good Stage of the party where everything's funny. Who knows. My stomach flip-flops.



I cover my mouth.



The closest bathroom is occupied and there's a lo-ong line and there are three bathrooms upstairs, but I don't think I'll make it to any of them in time. The music is so loud it forces any other potential plans of action right out of my brain and I stumble through the kitchen, head outside, take a few uncertain steps toward some bushes and throw up until there's nothing left in my stomach to throw up.



And then I start dry-heaving, which is worse.



When it's over, I sit back on the grass, trying to ignore the sour taste in my mouth and wondering how I'll make it back to my safe haven in the living room. And that's when I spot Jessie by the pool, Jessie laughing it up with some guy I don't know. He looks older than us and she's in full party mode, probably buzzed, and the way she leans into him is all wrong because it's how she leans into a guy when she wants to fuck him. This is wrong. I did this. I focus on getting upright again. I have to fix it.



"Parker?"



"I'm getting by," I tell her.



What else am I supposed to say?



"Well, that's good. Because things are happening, aren't they? Evan Corman is coming back. That must be nice for you and your friends." Grey's voice is like nails on a chalkboard. "I saw him when he met with Principal Henley. He seems eager to get things together. You two could help each other."



"How?"



"Well, given the circumstances..."



"You mean because he tried to kill himself, you think we can help each other?" I can't believe I'm sitting through this for a dance. "It won't help." "Why not?"



"Because Evan didn't really want to die. And mine was an accident."



"Evan didn't want to die?" she repeats slowly. Stupid. "The evidence certainly suggests otherwise."



"He didn't," I say. "He planned it right down to getting caught."



Stupid, stupid. And then I decide to give it to her because when people are this stupid they should be told every once in a while.



"When he got in the bath with the razors, he knew his mom would find him before he bled out," I say impatiently. "It was more a gesture than anything. Like, `This is how far I would go for absolution,' and everyone was like, `Wow, fine, you're forgiven.' And that's how he lives with himself. He did his bit and he goes on like before. Which doesn't help me at all."



"And is this--" She makes this sweeping gesture around the room, like she's gathering up all the things I've done. "Is this your bit?"



God, she's so stupid.



"Look, can I go to the semi-formal or not?"



She stares at me a long time.



"Wait here."



She leaves the room. I sit in the hard plastic chair and wait, wait, wait for, like, ten minutes and then she comes back.



"You can go to the semi-formal," she says, shutting the door. "You can go to the semi-formal, but if you're on anything less than your best behavior--"



"I know; I know. I won't graduate."



"That's right. You won't."



The bell rings. I head for the door.



"Thanks," I say without looking at her.



"English homework," Becky says, handing me a piece of paper. I grab it and she heads on her merry way. "See you Monday or something."



"See you tomorrow," I call after her.



She stops, turns and gives me a hilariously quizzical look.



It could be worth it for this alone.



"What?"



"I'll see you tomorrow. For the semi-formal? You, me, Chris and Jake." I force a big smile at her. "I'm really looking forward to it."



I'm such a bitch, but Becky makes it so easy.



SIXTEEN



Hair.



I stand in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the back of my closet door and try to figure out what I'm going to do with my hair. Jake won't be here for another two and a half hours, but any girl knows you need at least three to look your best for a semi-formal. And I haven't even showered yet.



So I do that.



And then I stand in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the back of my closet door and try to figure out what I'm going to do with my wet hair.



Blow-dry it, probably. For starters.



So I do that while vaguely recalling a time I made checklists on dance nights. I reduced getting ready to a list of tasks, all of them allotted certain amounts of time for completion. As I checked off each one, I got to enjoy a warm feeling of accomplishment for an allotted 1.5 seconds.



But not tonight. The lack of structure disorients me. I decide to leave my hair down and curl the ends. While I wait for the iron to warm, I pick out my best black dress from the closet. It has off-the- shoulder short sleeves and stops just before the knees. Decent, but sexy, and miraculously uneaten by moths. I have a feeling it's not going to fit what with the ten pounds I've gained and the fact that I haven't done anything remotely physical since I quit the cheerleading squad, but unfortunately it does fit. Kind of. My boobs look desperate to break free of the soft satin material that binds them, and if I sit I have a sneaking suspicion the whole dress could split down the back. But if that happens, then hey, at least I'll have an excuse to leave early.



The dress (barely) on, I begin to work on my hair, which is a longer process than I'd like it to be or ever remember it being. It's because I don't have a list.



And the makeup. That's another beast entirely.



How did I do this every day for school? I didn't need a checklist then. The routine was so ingrained in me because it was so important because--why?



Because I had to look perfect, of course.



I pick through the collection of makeup on my desk. Foundation, under-eye concealer, lipstick, lip gloss, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara and blush. I settle for clear gloss and mascara and then stand in front of the mirror and inspect myself.



It's good, I guess.



"Parker!" Mom shouts. "Parker, they've just pulled up!"



I grab my black clutch and hear Mom cooing all three of them into the house before I'm halfway down the stairs. I've barely stepped into the living room when Bailey comes bounding at me, lampshade tight around his neck.



"Bailey, stop!" I say before he can jump up. He comes to a screeching halt and I reward him with a pat because I can't help it, he looks that ridiculous. "Good dog."



"Look at that! You know, he doesn't even fetch my slippers anymore," Dad says from his recliner, smiling. "You look beautiful, honey."



I bring my clutch up to my chest. "Dad, don't."



"Well, you do. Have fun at the dance." He gives me a look. "And behave."



"I wouldn't dream of doing anything but."



I give Bailey one last pat on the head and make my way into the kitchen, where Mom's having an animated conversation with Jake, Chris and Becky. She has the camera out. Joy. I clear my throat. They stop talking and look at me. "Oh, Parker!" Mom cries. "This is the best you've looked in ages!"



Becky smirks, but not for long. We simultaneously ascertain that I look better than she does, even packing weight. Just because one is an affinity for pink doesn't mean she should wear it, but boy, is she. Pink hair accessories, jewelry, makeup, dress, shoes, clutch. It's one those hard, bright pinks, too. Not the soft, pretty kind.



I mean it's blindingly awful and awfully satisfying all at the same time.



"I just want to get a picture of all of you, really quick! You look so nice!"



Mom ushers us into a line and places me between Chris and Jake, who both look very handsome. They've opted for black suits. Chris's hair is slicked back and Jake's is loose, like it always is. Chris smells like pine; and Jake, like paper. For a minute, I can't remember whom I'm supposed to be spending the evening with.



Jake.



Mom raises the camera to her eye and says, "Smile!"



"Thank God that's over," Becky says as we cross the lawn to Chris's car. She glares at me. "Your mom is such a freak, Parker."



"Well, I think it's sweet that she wanted to get a memento of this grand occasion," Jake says cheerfully. "Your mom didn't take any pictures, Becky."



She snorts. Chris opens the driver's side door and gives me this look.



"I've seen that dress before," he says, letting his eyes travel over me. "But I don't think you've ever worn it quite like this."



I glance at Becky. She clenches her jaw, climbs into the passenger's side and slams the door shut. The night can only get better from here.



"I've gained weight," I tell him. "All in my boobs."



"Looks good on you," Chris says as he gets in the car.



Jake opens the back door for me. What a gentleman.



"You look really beautiful. I like your hair."



He says it in a voice I don't really deserve and it catches me off guard. I feel my face heat up and bring a hand to one of my curls. It's a weird moment.



"Thanks. You look nice." I reach out and push a stray piece of hair away from his eyes. "I like your hair, too. It looks very complicated."



We smile at each other and get in the car.



The dance has a ten-dollar entrance fee, the music is loud and bad and the auditorium is sparkly, purple and hot. Chris gives me a longing look as Becky drags him over to the popular corner. Just because we came together doesn't mean we stay together, especially when I look a thousand times better than Becky does.