Page 5

Prom itself requires a very particular headspace. Unfortunately, that space does not currently contain my head.

“Nice convalescent Victorian pose you’ve got there,” says Mark.

Mark, who’s slouched so far into an armchair, his head barely clears the back cushion.

But he’s right. That’s the sad thing. I’ve got kind of a full-body splay going on, arms hanging limply off both sides of a

chaise lounge. Technically, it’s a little less “dying of consumption,” and a little more “cure my hysteria, Dr. Freud,” but

you can’t expect that level of nuance from a straight boy. Either way, it’s a green-velvet-couch kind of moment, and there’s

nothing for me to do but—quite literally—lean into it.

Because I’m a hermit now. And in accordance with the full hermit lifestyle, we’ve taken over a powder room near the entrance

of the New Rochelle Golf and Moneybags Harbor Society, whatever this place is called. It looks exactly how you’d expect it

to look: gilded wallpaper, lots of mirrors, and a chandelier overhead. Old in the expensive way. My chaise faces a wall with

big picture windows, overlooking Long Island Sound. But in the spirit of true hermitry, I talked Mark into closing the curtains.

I’d have done it myself, but I was too busy convalescing.

“What’d I miss?” Zora asks, fresh off the phone with her long-distance girlfriend.

She leaves the door cracked behind her, just a little.

Enough to catch the music from the ballroom, without revealing our coordinates to drunk wanderers in formalwear.

She settles into an armchair near Mark. Cross-legged, since her parents aren’t afraid of prom pants.

“You missed moping,” Mark says.

Zora studies me. “Are you—”

“Not moping. How’s Edith?”

“Good—”

“And where’s Nat?”

Zora glances quickly at Mark. “Somewhere with Claire? I don’t know.”

I wrinkle my nose and reach for my phone.

“I thought you deleted the post?”

“I did . Just making sure it didn’t go viral on a repost.”

I can already picture the reaction video thumbnails. TRY NOT TO CRINGE DURING THIS GIRL’S PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A PROMPOSAL!

VIRAL SINGING PROMPOSAL VIDEO LEADS TO DANGEROUS LEVELS OF SECONDHAND EMBARRASSMENT. YOUTUBER SEEKS RESTRAINING ORDER AGAINST

UNHINGED FAN, STATES: SHE ISN’T EVEN THAT CUTE.

“Maybe it’s time for a phone break?” Zora’s voice is so excruciatingly gentle, I want to sink into the cushions. To think

I used to have my own built-in face curtain. One disaster haircut later, and there’s nowhere to hide.

I stand abruptly, instead. “Be right back.”

I’ve got this spring-loaded feeling, like even the soles of my feet are buzzing.

I can’t tamp myself down. I pass the ballroom; normally, I’d be on the dance floor.

Last hurrah, close it out with a bang, et freaking cetera.

It’s not that I’m particularly sentimental about high school ending.

I just love a grand finale. If it’s set to music, even better.

But the music feels so far away now, like I’m hearing it through someone else’s headphones.

There has to be a way to fix this feeling.

Really, I just have to find Nat. She’s the only one who could make this funny. She’ll give me just the right amount of shit.

Or she’ll start riffing on Walter’s insufficient cuteness, his general unworthiness as a crush target, et cetera. Which, incidentally,

is quite the bold statement coming from someone who’s literally dating Claire Zimmerman, but what do I know?

I check the bathroom; no Natalie sightings. Just Kylie Elfman, my lab partner, lurching out of a stall, mouth falling open

when she sees me. “Oh, your hair! I love it!”

I tack on a bright, beaming smile. “I love your dress!”

“Wait! Okay, wait, I’m washing my hands, but then.” She points at me. “Selfie!” Her voice has this fluid sort of lilt at the

edges. Nothing sloppy, but she’s definitely not sober. Sounds like a pretty ideal headspace, honestly, but Mom would sniff

me out in a heartbeat. I’d be grounded until graduation. God knows I’m already on thin ice with the haircut.

Kylie ends up talking me into a whole series of selfies; apparently she’s a perfectionist when it comes to things that aren’t

chemistry experiments. “I’ll tag you when I post them! Ready to dance?”

“Definitely. Yes! Yup. Meet you in there?” I’ve already got my eyes on a side door.

Turns out, it leads to the harbor club’s wraparound porch.

It’s beautiful out here—soft and still, barely even a breeze, and the sun’s just starting to set over the Sound. In an hour, it’ll be twinkle lights reflected in water. Already, a few couples have made their way out here for semi-public makeout purposes.

But all of that’s on the other side of the clubhouse. You could say I’m more of an empty-space-overlooking-the-parking-lot

kind of hermit.

One more Instagram check—just to confirm I’m not a viral laughingstock, obviously. It’s not like I’m expecting—

My heart leaps into my throat. There’s a tiny red circle in the corner of my screen.

One new message. If only—

I tap into my inbox, take an extended deep breath, and—

It’s a forwarded reel of a bottle-fed baby koala. From my aunt Stacey.

Which is fine. It’s great! Nothing against Aunt Stacey, and nothing against koalas. I’m a friend and ally to all marsupials.

But since I’m here, I’ll just sidle up to the search bar...

Walter’s handle pops up. His bright blue check mark. One quick peek.

There’s nothing on the grid since yesterday, and no new Stories since this morning. Last one was at least an hour before I

posted my video, so maybe Zora’s right. Maybe it’s not a rejection. If he never even saw it—

“Amelia?”

I almost drop my phone. “Fuck—are you—” I whirl around. “Nat?”

She’s tucked behind a support beam; at first, all I see are her legs.

Oxford flats, tights, and the pale blue hem of her dress.

Have I mentioned I’m absolutely obsessed with Natalie’s prom dress?

Gauzy and knee-length, with bits of lace near the collar.

Paired with a cardigan. Zero evening vibes whatsoever.

She looks like she’s dressed for a Kiddush bagel luncheon.

Then I see her face. “Whoa. You okay?”

“Absolutely amazing. Thriving.”

“Nat, what happened?”

She just shrugs. So I drop to the floor, scooting in beside her.

“Want me to guess? I can guess. Let’s see—I’m assuming it’s Claire-related.”

“Ding ding ding.”

“Okay. Yup. Are you guys—”

“Nothing,” Nat says softly. “We’re done.”

My palms smack the floor. “What the fuck did she do?”

“She didn’t—”

“No, for real. I’ll throw hands,” I say. “Watch me.”

“Watch you fight my ex? No thank you.”

Ex. Hey, that’s a nice word. Simple, easy to spell, warms the heart. Wholly underrated, if you—

Okay, head in the game, Applebaum. No smiling. Wipe it away. We don’t celebrate our friends’ breakups. Not even breakups with

Claire Zimmerman, a known trash demon hellspawn who once broke up with Natalie on the first night of Chanukah and won her

back five days later. By showing up in a snowstorm. With a plush naked mole rat! A creature that’s uniquely ill-suited to cold weather ! How is she a serious person?

And that’s not even getting into sophomore year, when Claire dumped Natalie on the way to the big city choir trip, only to

reel her back the next day with last-minute Hadestown tickets. Or two months ago, when Claire soft-blocked Nat after a fight, changed her mind, and proceeded to spam her DMs with links to an apology video.

“Fucking unbelievable. After she made you do a whole-ass photo shoot?” I shake my head. “Where is she?”

Natalie blinks. “I think she went home.”

“Like fuck she did. And she did it on prom night? At prom? I’m sorry, but that’s a new fucking low. That is unstoppable fuckery.”

“It wasn’t really—”

“Like, what—you weren’t living in the moment enough? You weren’t dancing enough?”

“Something like that.”

I laugh, sharply. “Seriously?”

“I don’t know—it was just stupid stuff. Like, we got here, and she wanted to dance—”

“I knew it!”

Natalie nods. “And I really just wanted to hang out with you guys, so—”

“Let me guess.” I pitch my voice up, drawing my vowels out like Claire. “ You’re so focused on frieeeeends . You never prioritize meeeee .”

“I mean.” Nat tips her palms up and wrinkles her nose—but it’s the smiley kind of wrinkle. Smile-coded. I’ll take it.