Tag Along (3 page)

“I don't really hang out with Vanessa anymore,” I say.

“Well, that's too bad,” she says. “You two were such good friends.”

“It's okay, Gee-ma,” I say. I lean in and give her another kiss on the cheek. “You have a good night. Save some of that pie for me.”

“Of course, dear,” she says. “This is for supper tomorrow. I'm going to roast a chicken. You'll be here, won't you?”

Her voice is so desperate that it breaks my heart.

“Wouldn't miss it,” I tell her.

“If you make any friends, feel free to invite them along,” she says. “The more the merrier.”

I just smile. That might be expecting a bit too much.

I should get one thing straight. I did not want to come here for the weekend. It's not my fault that my father is depressed and my mom decided to leave him. It's definitely not my fault that he lost his job and his apartment and ended up living with Gee-ma out in the suburbs.

But even though my dad's issues are not officially my problem, I figured the least I could do was come spend a few days with him. After the worst year of my life, what's one more shitty weekend?

Besides, it's prom night at my school, and I can't think of a better reason to get the hell out of the city. Maybe if I still had friends, I'd feel differently. Vanessa would have spent weeks dragging me along with her to every secondhand and vintage store in the city, finding us something to wear. I'd have probably complained, but I know she would have made us look pretty awesome. If things with Rick hadn't ended the way they did, I might have even had a date. Actually, scratch that—there's no way in hell Rick would ever be caught dead at a high-school dance.

In the porch, I quickly unzip my backpack to be sure I have everything I need. Then I close it up, toss it over my shoulder and head out the door, stopping to glance up and down the street. Gee-ma's house is on one of those streets that reminds you of a hall of mirrors, just one brick bungalow after another. Jesus, the suburbs are depressing.

I think about what Gee-ma said about making friends. Having to spend a weekend here might not be so horrible if I actually knew someone, but meeting people is the last thing on my agenda. If I've learned one thing over the past year, it's that people are better off on their own. Especially when you've got a hobby like mine.

On the sidewalk, I stop and consider which direction to go. It doesn't really matter. I'm on a mission into uncharted territory. It's just a matter of walking until I find what I'm looking for.

I decide to turn left, but after only a few steps I hear laughter, and a gaggle of high-school kids turns the corner a couple of blocks away. Judging from the way they're dressed—blazers and ties, colorful dresses—it's prom night here too. I quickly cross the street and hustle in the opposite direction from the Teenage Zombies From Suburban Hell.

It's going to be a long and painful weekend, I can tell you that much.

ROEMI

Worst. Prom. Ever.

Okay, so you are not going to
believe
any of this. I had a date. To the prom. A prom date. And this boy is hot to trot, fire and brimstone, one sexy little Abercrombie & Fitch-style love interest deluxe.

John. Hot John. I met him online, and he's totally sweet and really cool, and he obviously has good taste in men. We hit it off immediately. I was all
sup
and he was all
nahmuch, you?
and before you know it, we're texting, like, all the time! And not dirty stuff (okay, not
just
dirty stuff—ahem), but mostly just shit like
whatcha doin?
and
just watchin the Kardashians and eatin' cereal
. Shit like that. Cute, right?

All right, so there might have been a couple of minor roadblocks on destiny highway. For one thing, he lives in the city, about a twenty-minute drive away. He's also hard-core closeted, but that's cool, because I was closeted for a while too. Like till I was twelve. The thing with John, though, was that he was going to use my prom as his testing ground for coming out. He was worried for a while that if he came to the Granite Ridge prom, he'd end up seeing someone he knew or someone who knew someone or whatever. Closet stress, perfectly natural.

Anyway, it took a few weeks, but I totally managed to calm him down and convince him not to be paranoid. At least, I
thought
I'd convinced him not to be paranoid.

So the plan was, I'd get dressed up like America's Next Top Male Model, and John would take the bus out from the city and come to my house to pick me up, and we'd go to the pre-prom party at Terry Polish's house and do lots of mingling, and maybe sneak a couple of drinks, and then we'd go to the prom, and there'd be lots of pictures, and he'd meet all my friends, and then there'd be a bunch of fast dancing, and then I'd slip the DJ ten bucks and a jump drive with “Don't Stop Believing” on it, and John and I would end up stealing the show as the lights dimmed and the crowd parted, and then we'd totally fall in love in the middle of the dance floor, melting into each other's arms as the disco ball threw crystal spheres of light down on us.

Best prom daydream ever, right? Totally! We'd be making history!

That's probably worth explaining. See, John and I were going to be the first gay couple to ever own the dance floor at a Granite Ridge High School prom. And yeah, the operative word here is
were
.

So I'm all tuxed up and looking totally fierce, and I've got everything prepared. The lighting is arranged perfectly, my dad is ready with the camera, and I've been training my mother for a week to press Play on my iPod at the exact moment the doorbell rings. I have a really upbeat dance track queued up. At 5:25, we all take our places. I grab the boutonniere I bought this afternoon and perch nonchalantly on the stool that I've placed by the front door. Mom and Dad hang out close by in the living room.

At 5:30, I plaster a million-dollar smile on my face. By 5:40 the smile is a little droopy but still totally ready to snap back to action. By 5:45 I've dropped the smile, but my facial muscles are ready to kick in at any moment. By 5:50 my mouth is starting to twitch in an uncomfortable “we don't know what we're supposed to do, Roemi” kind of way. Also, my backup has decided to abandon me. My dad has gone into the kitchen to make a sandwich, and my mom is on the couch reading a book.

At six o'clock it's official. He's half an hour late, and he hasn't responded to any of my texts. He's not coming. I hop down from the stool and toss the boutonniere onto the entryway table before running upstairs to my room. I slam the door behind me, sit at my desk and open Facebook. Sure enough, there's a DM from John:
I'm so sorry
.

I'm so sorry
?! The bastard doesn't even have the decency to text me face to face? Instead I get a three-word Dear John from John on Facebook? Pa. Thetic.

I throw myself on the bed, but I'm too furious to cry real tears, so I resort to stage weeping. I'm loud enough that my parents come upstairs. They stand in the doorway, looking sad.

“Roemi, cheer up,” says my dad. “Why don't you come downstairs and we'll have a quick bowl of ice cream, and then I'll drive you to the prom.” My dad's solution to everything is ice cream; he rarely had it growing up in India, even though it was the hottest place on earth, or so they've been telling me since I was a kid.

“Listen,” I say, sitting up and releasing the death grip on my oldest stuffed animal, Britney Bear, “I'm not going to prom. Prom is ruined. I bragged to everyone about how I was going to make the most spectacular entrance ever. I can't just show up solo and hop out of the backseat of your Land Cruiser like some kind of loser. Can you guys just leave me alone for a little while? I want to lie here and feel sorry for myself.”

My mom comes over and kisses me on the head. “I'm sorry, Roemi. Next year, I'm sure you will have the best of all the dates.”

“Let me know if you meet him,” I say.

“When you feel better, come down and have some ice cream!” calls my dad as they head down the stairs.

I go back to my desk and stare for a while at my computer screen. I feel like I should respond to his message, but even though I usually have no problem being scathing, I'm just too depressed to come up with anything. The thing is, I really like John—or as much of him as I know from the Internet and my cell phone—and I thought he liked me. I put my computer to sleep.

Even though I'm not going to prom, I'm not ready to take the tux off just yet. I get up and stand in front of the mirror. I look awesome. It seems a shame for such a glam-tastic outfit to stay locked up in my room all night. Maybe I don't want to sit around feeling sorry for myself. I quietly walk downstairs. I can hear my parents laughing at a stupid sitcom in the family room. I grab my shades from the kitchen counter and head out the back door.

ANDREA

When I'm out of sight of the house, I text Bethanne.

Bolted—mom driving me crazy

She hits me back right away.

No way! Come 2 Terry's!

Terry Polish's parents let him invite our whole class to his house for a pre-prom party. He lives close to the school, and everyone is planning on meeting there, hanging out for a couple of hours and then walking to the dance together.

I'm not so sure that's where I want to end up. The whole plan for tonight is to make an impression on Justin, and wearing shorts and a
Lake Snelgrove: Come Meet Snelly the
Sasquatch!
T-shirt to the prom party is probably the wrong way to do it. On the other hand, the idea of straight up disobeying my mother gives me kind of a rush.

I'll look like an idiot.

U won't—come on!

I consider my options. Really, what else am I going to do? Catch a movie by myself?

Ok
.

When I arrive at Terry's house, the backyard is full of people, and everyone looks like they're on the red carpet at the Oscars. Unfortunately, I look like I'm on my way to summer camp. Bethanne spots me right away and makes a beeline across the yard.

“Oh my god,” she squeals. “You made it! I honestly can't believe your mom is such a bitch!”

“I don't want to talk about it,” I say. “You look great, by the way.”

“Thanks!” she says. She leans in and drops her voice to a whisper. “So did Lannie and Paul break up or something?”

“I have no idea. Why?”

“She showed up with Ryan and Darrah, but no Paul,” she says. “I thought you might know since you and he are friends or whatever.”

“We're neighbors,” I tell her for the millionth time. “I haven't hung out with him for years.”

I look across the yard and sure enough, Lannie is standing under a cherry tree with Darrah and Ryan Penner, but Paul is nowhere in sight.

Paul and I grew up across the street from each other. When we were little, we were best friends. After junior high, when I funneled into academic classes and school band and Paul stuck with sports, we just sort of stopped hanging out. Until the end of tenth grade, we still walked to school together a lot of days. That summer he and Lannie started going out, and now she picks him up every morning. I honestly can't remember the last time I even talked to the guy.

Everyone was pretty surprised when Lannie and Paul started going out. She's basically queen of the school, and Paul is the kind of guy who fades into the woodwork. Maybe that's what appeals to Lannie. That and the fact that he put on about six inches and twenty pounds of muscle during the last half of tenth grade.

I notice a table set up on the patio, with some sandwiches and bowls of chips laid out.

“I'm starving,” I tell Bethanne. “I'm going to grab something to eat. Don't go anywhere.”

I'm filling a plate when Penner comes stumbling up and pours himself some soda.

“Interesting choice of outfit,” he says. I can smell the liquor on his breath.

I glance down at my T-shirt. “Yeah, whatever, thanks.”

He pulls a flask from his pocket and pours something into his drink. “You want some?” he asks, shoving the flask toward me.

“No, thanks,” I say.

“I should have guessed,” he says. “You're probably opposed to drinking or whatever.”

“I don't care what you do,” I tell him, which is true. “What is it anyway?”

“Tequila and rum and Irish cream liqueur,” he says, tossing back a big swig. “Stole it from my old man.”

“Oh my god, that's disgusting.”

“Does the trick,” he says. He takes another big gulp and belches. “'Scuse me.”

“Right,” I say. “Sure. Have fun, Ryan,” I tell him. His mouth is full of chips, so he just holds his cup up and grunts at me.

I take my plate back to where Bethanne is standing.

“What did Penner want?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “He's already wasted and it's not even seven. What a loser.”

“What do you expect?” she says. “He's got a reputation to keep up.” She looks past me and her eyes widen. “Okay, perfect,” she says. “Justin is totally standing over there by himself.”

I glance over my shoulder, trying not to make it obvious. Sure enough, Justin is standing by the corner of the house. He's staring at his phone, and from the way he's holding it, and the expression on his face, I'm pretty sure he's playing a game.

I know that playing video games at a party like this isn't the epitome of cool, but there's something about it that I find kind of adorable. I wonder why, out of all the guys in school, I have a thing for this one. Justin's hair is always kind of messy, his glasses permanently sit halfway down his nose, and right now his khakis are just an inch or so too long and dragging under his heels, but still…There's just something about his face that gets to me. His lips are full and usually open just enough that you can see the tips of his two front teeth. His cheeks are always slightly flushed, as if he's kind of embarrassed about something. And his eyes, those eyes…pale blue and crystal clear. He's a little bit shy and doesn't say a lot in class, but when he does, when he's talking about something he's interested in, his eyes practically glow, even from behind his bangs.