“Tilt your head up a little bit. Don’t smile too big. Makes your cheeks look fat,” Whitney coaches from the sideline. “Yes, just like that.”
The camera flashes, and we’re done. The next couple steps up under the arch and Jackson and I move into the room. The room is decorated with orange and red leaves hung from >the ceiling and bunches of gold balloons tied on chairs. Large round tables with white sparkly tablecloths dot the area with only enough room for a dance floor. Squealing, excited girls teeter-totter across the room, wearing dresses that feature lots of sparkle and little else. Boys lean against walls, trying to look casual and cool. At the far end of the room is a stage with a drum set, piano, and guitars.
We push our way through the people, who are all talking and laughing together in dressed-up clumps. The clouds of perfume change scents as we pass each group of dressed-to-the- hilt girls, leaving me with a dull head ache. Whitney keeps pushing one finger into the small of my back to keep me moving forward. I see Mr. Blair, my math teacher, and Mr. Landmann, the history teacher, talking over by the food tables. It seems strange to see teachers in suits. We finally reach an open spot over by the wall and I take a deep breath.
“Hey, there’s Kristen!” Whitney squeals. She zigzags off through the crowd in her platform pumps to hug the curly-haired girl a couple of tables over.
“Want to sit down?” Jackson asks from behind me.
“Sure,” I say, thinking that sitting down will probably be a little less awkward.
He speaks to Wolfgang quickly as we wind around the crowded tables, but there is no sign of Briella. Where is she? I went straight to Whitney’s after school so I didn’t see her, but I thought she was coming to the dance with Wolf. We finally find a couple of empty chairs at a table shaded by a fake tree with orange and yellow tissue paper leaves. I immediately take the seat nearest the wall, feeling the comfort of the little cover the tree provides. But I’m hardly sitting down before Whitney is back, with Kristen trotting along behind her.
“Wow. Remember when she broke that chair onstage last year?” Kristen calls, as Whitney drags her back to my hiding place. I wince.
“Yeah, but just wait until you see her tonight.” Whitney glances over her shoulder. “She doesn’t look like that at all anymore.”
My hands flutter uselessly by my sides. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing. Now my head and my stomach ache.
“This is what I’m talking about,” Whitney announces to Kristen when they reach my side, throwing her hands wide with a flourish. “Stand up,” she says to me. I get up, relunctantly.
“Surprise,” I say, trying to sound funny but finding no smile to offer.
“Oh. My. God. She looks amazing.” Kristen’s staring at me but talking to Whitney. It’s like I can’t hear, and Whitney is supposed to be the translator.
“Well, she’s still got a ways to go, but it’s pretty dramatic,” says Whitney. “Best makeover ever.”
Kristen agrees enthusiastically. She smoothes her stray curls around her face and smiles encouragingly at me like I’m a dog waiting for a treat.
“You should take pictures and send them in to the Style Network or something.”
“Oh, good idea,” Whitney squeals. “We’ve already taken >tons of pictures tonight.”
“Look, it’s Briella.” Matt taps Whitney on the shoulder. We both turn and stare at the couple under the arch. “Who’s that she’s with?”
I look, then wish I hadn’t.
“It’s that guy with the weird nickname . . . Mouse?”
“Rat,” I say softly.
“What is she doing with him?” Jackson asks.
“I guess it’s the season for giving,” Matt says with a short laugh.
“Well, I think he’s cute in a geeky kind of way,” says Whitney.
Watching him as the camera flashes, I have to agree. He looks adorable. His glasses are gone, replaced with the contacts his mother always wants him to wear. When he flashes that smile at the camera, those two big dimples appear right at the ideal moment and his angular face is transformed into gorgeous.
Briella is the perfect companion. Her head comes just to his shoulder, and her pink strapless dress covers her curves like Saran Wrap. The camera flashes again, catching Briella looking up at Rat with a knowing smile.
I know exactly what she’s up to. It’s like she’s holding him hostage, with her friends as the ransom. If I give all of their attention back to her, I’ll get the Rat boy back. My cheeks burn with anger. Briella doesn’t really like Rat. Briella doesn’t talk about him. She doesn’t text him. She doesn’t call him. Or at least I don’t think she does.