Which was exactly why that photo of Reid and Emma sliced right through me.
*** *** ***
Emma
The prom is a nightmare. While it’s not exactly Carrie, it’s no High School Musical III, either.
When Marcus called to tell me he still wanted me to accompany him to his prom, I swallowed back clichéd reassurances: It’s not you, it’s me. We can still be friends. I didn’t mean to hurt you.
Though I didn’t vocalize any of these, I did tell him I was sorry at least half a dozen times. My apparent guilt must have given him the mental go-ahead to transform into a total dick by the next weekend.
The downward spiral began when he arrived to pick me up. I’d told Dad and Chloe that we were going as friends, so I didn’t want them to make a big deal of it. Naturally, Chloe ignored that entreaty and had the camera charged and ready.
“I remember my prom,” she said, smiling dreamily into the distance as I thought, Oh, crap, here we go. “I was a total princess, all the way down to the glass slippers.” She put a hand to her mouth like she was about to reveal a secret. “Actually, those shoes were acrylic and uncomfortable as hell.”
“Ah,” I said, attempting to look sympathetic.
Chloe blinded us with multiple flashes as Marcus slid a corsage onto my wrist in the entryway. She led us out back and posed us in front of the pool landscaping that made Dad walk around for days with his jaw clenched, mute and furious, after he got the bill for all the upgrades she’d authorized.
Snapping photos like she had aspirations as a high-fashion photographer, Chloe was oblivious to the ice-cold wall between her subjects. “Marcus, put your arms around her. Like that, but with your hands meeting in the middle. Oh! Yes! Just like that!”
I let her get off a few of shots before breaking from the false embrace. “Okay, I think that’s enough pictures. You know, Marcus might actually like to go to his prom as part of this experience…” I hoped Marcus and I would share a knowing look about Chloe—not uncommon for us—so we could begin to salvage the night somewhat before it was entirely wrecked. But he stood, one hand in the trousers of his tux, flicking a fingernail and looking bored, and my sense of foreboding mushroomed.
Marcus’s arts-heavy prep school is relatively small, with a modest graduating class. Judging by the response his arrival generates, he’s clearly one of the in-crowd. The venue is the tented rooftop terrace of the Citizen Hotel—the city’s oldest skyscraper. Though the view is only a very familiar Sacramento, it’s breathtaking from this height. Distance alters everything.
Introducing me to his group of friends by way of, “This is Emma,” and a turn of his wrist in my general direction, he doesn’t introduce any of them to me. Unbelievably, no one steps forward, either. I’m stuck knowing no one’s name—except those discovered by eavesdropping on neighboring conversations—so there’s nothing to do but stand next to Marcus, my dress and his tux accoutrements so perfectly matched that it leaves no doubt we’re here together. Trapped at the receiving end of stares and whispers in a crowd of people where I don’t know a single person beyond my ass**le of a date, I consider calling a taxi, or Dad, to come pick me up.
I can’t shake the conviction that I’m getting what I deserve for leading Marcus on, as convincingly as Emily objected to that conclusion. “Marcus doesn’t own you,” she said after I told her what had happened with Graham in New York, and the resulting altercation with Marcus. “I don’t see a ring on your finger, not that you’d ever want one from that pompous ass.”
“I thought you liked him?” I said.
“Psshh,” she said, glancing at me as she made a right turn. We were on the way to get our annual almost-summer pedicures. “I tolerated him. Derek and I didn’t think he was for you.”
I sputtered before answering, “You and Derek discussed—?”
“Hells yeah.” She was, as usual, unapologetic. “We hoped it would fade out before you ended up in New York with him leeching onto you. Derek thinks he just wanted you for your film and theatre connections. With the bonus of your smokin’ little bod, of course.”
I almost spit berry smoothie onto her dashboard. “God, Em. I feel so cheap.”
“Yeah, well, I’m just glad we didn’t have to resort to breaking you guys up.” She parked the Sentra and yanked up the brake.
“You mean you and Derek would have—”
“How many times in this conversation must I say hells yeah? Wouldn’t have been that hard, either. You weren’t all that attached to him, thankfully. You’d just better hope we like this Graham guy.”
I leveled a look at her. “No. Graham is off-limits. I don’t care if the two of you hate him.”
She smiled and pinched my arm. “Now that’s more like it.”
When I come back to earth, I’m still at Marcus’s prom, being pointedly ignored by every person here. Then my focus lands on the other side of the huge indoor/outdoor space. One of the photographers snapping shots of prom-goers appears to be aiming his camera in my direction exclusively. I think paparazzi? before giving myself a mental shake, feeling silly.
Still, I glance around surreptitiously, looking for the other photographers, who are progressing through the crowd, setting up shots of small knots of people talking and laughing, snapping candid shots of couples dancing and teachers chaperoning. Sliding my eyes back to the first photographer, I notice two things. One, his camera is badass in comparison to what the other two are utilizing. And two, he’s still aiming every single shot in my direction.