Gemma Halliday - Social Suicide

“Don’t worry. I’m sure I have something.”

“That’s even more worrisome.”

She punched me in the arm. “I have excellent taste.”

She was right. She did. She also had a track record of overdressing me. But, considering this was homecoming, I guess that wouldn’t really be an issue, right?

Famous last words.

That afternoon, while fielding a tidal wave of incoming tweets and texts-including ones from Quinn, Connor, Drea, and Jenni-all asking if it was really true that I knew who killed Sydney, I let Sam put my homecoming outfit together. She’d grabbed from her closet the dress that she’d worn to the Valentine’s formal last year, a full-length red satin with one shoulder strap and a slit up the side that reminded me of a Jessica Rabbit look. Since we were approximately the same size, it almost fit, just clinging a little tighter on me than it had her. But still, it worked.

We paired it with silver heels, a pair of faux-crystal drop earrings, and a simple silver necklace with little crystal beads in the center. While I’d insisted that Sam go light on the eye makeup, she had won the battle of the lipstick, painting my lips in the same shade of va-va-voom red as the dress. At first I’d felt like a clown, but as I looked in the mirror now, the overall effect with the dress was actually kind of nice. A little over the top, maybe, but if you couldn’t go over the top for homecoming, when could you?

Sam, on the other hand, had gone a little shorter, wearing a dress with a tight-fitting purple bodice that ended in a flared, tulle skirt that came to just above her knee. It was cute and flirty and went perfectly with the purple shoes she’d dyed to match. And while I’d gone with simple understated jewelry, she’d gone big, chunky, and bling-ified. Fake diamonds hung in a teardrop shape from her ears, and an ornate necklace that looked like latticework of silver and cubic zirconia decorated her neck. Her hair was swept into an updo that was studded with a dozen tiny, clip-on faux diamonds, making her sparkle from every angle.

“Now, close your eyes,” she told me, reaching into the ginormous duffel bag she’d brought over with her to dress at my house.

“Do I have to?” I protested. “I don’t really like wardrobe surprises.”

She put a hand on her hip. “Play along, okay? Just shut ’em.”

“Fine.” I felt Sam putting something on my head with little plastic teeth that dug into my scalp.

“Ow!”

“Oh, don’t be such a baby,” she said, arranging my hair loosely around my shoulders. “Okay, now… open!”

I did. And blinked at my reflection. Or, more accurately, the reflection of the mass of sparkles on my head.

“Is that a tiara?”

Sam nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s kinda… sparkly, don’t you think?”

She beamed, a grin taking up her whole face. “I know, right?”

“I didn’t mean that in a good way.”

“It’s perfect.”

“Sam, I’m not sure I need a tiara-”

But I didn’t get to finish as Mom called up from the bottom of the stairs, “Hartley? Your date’s here!”

I cringed at the term, quickly shouting back, “He’s just a friend!”

Mom had done a squeal frighteningly like Sam’s when I’d told her that I had changed my mind and decided to go to the homecoming dance after all. In high school, Mom had been the social butterfly, involved in everything under the sun, or so she told it, including being crowned princess of the winter ball one year. Secretly, I had a feeling she was a little disappointed that I hadn’t followed in her footsteps, though she never said so. But when I had told her I was going to homecoming, her face had lit up, her voice had gone high and giggly, and she’d even lifted the lockdown despite my nearly becoming roadkill last night. Never mind that I had spent the next twenty minutes trying to tell her that, no, I did not need her to run to the florist for an emergency boutonniere (which she ignored and did anyway); no, we did not need to go get nails done and eyebrows waxed (ouch!); and no, we did not need a limo to pick us up (though this last one was tempting).

But the thing I had tried to make the most clear was that, no, Chase was not my date, just a friend who happened to be going, too. With me. At the same time. Totally different than going together.

“Hurry up, Hart. You don’t want to keep your date waiting!”

“Friend!” I yelled, again.

But I was pretty sure she didn’t hear me.

Sam and I grabbed our purses-hers a rhinestone-studded clutch and mine a silver, satin one-and slowly (so we didn’t trip in our ridonkulously high heels) made our way down the stairs.

The first thing I saw when I rounded the corner was Chase.

And then I almost did trip.

I wasn’t sure what I had expected from him for homecoming, but I’d guessed his outfit would probably involve leather, denim, or black. I was right on only one count: the black. Amazingly, Chase was dressed in a traditional tux, black on white, with a simple black tie. The effect was… nice. Surprising. But nice. Bordering on a hot sort of nice, even. Huh. What do you know? He cleaned up pretty good.

“Dude,” Kyle said, getting an eyeful of Sam. “You look hot!”

She did a little twirl for him. “Thanks. So do you.”

Sam had, as I might have guessed, coordinated matching homecoming outfits for both her and Kyle. Kyle’s shirt was the exact shade of purple as Sam’s dress.

“Hey,” Chase said when he saw me. “You look… nice,” he said, echoing my thoughts.

I cleared my throat, a compliment coming from Chase that was not laced in sarcasm throwing me. “Thanks.” I paused. “You, too.”

He gave me a slow up and down, landing on the mass of sparkles on my head. He grinned.

“One crack about the tiara and you’re a dead man,” I warned him.

He put up his hands in a surrender motion. “I wouldn’t dream of it, princess.”

I shot him a death look, but before I could spit out a scathing reply, Mom shouted, “Boutonnieres!” and emerged from the kitchen with two little plastic boxes.

I took the non-purple one and leaned in to grab Chase’s lapel.

Honestly-I’d never done this before and the huge pin that came with the flower was kinda intimidating. I had a horrible vision of stabbing Chase and getting blood all over the first white shirt I’d ever seen him wear.

My hands shook a little as I slowly stabbed the front of his tux, navigating around the thick rose stem.

“Easy, Featherstone,” I heard Chase whisper.

I looked up. He was grinning at me. He thought this was funny?

“Ouch!”

“Oops. My finger slipped.”

He shot me a look. “I’ll bet.”

“Pictures!” Mom said, appearing beside me with a camera.

“Oh, Mom, we don’t really need pictures,” I pleaded.

“Okay, line up,” she said, totally ignoring me. “Hart, move closer to Chase.”

“Mom, please. I told you I don’t need-”

“Chase, put your arm around your date’s shoulders.”

I rolled my eyes. And Mom accused me of tuning her out.

“That’s it. Move in just a little closer so I can get you all in frame.”

Chase pulled me tight against him, completely invading my personal space. His arm around my shoulders was warm, and I felt myself start to sweat in places that would stain my satin dress.

“Mom-” I pleaded again.

“Smile, Hart,” Chase whispered in my ear, hamming it up as Mom popped off shots.

If I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn he was enjoying this.

After Mom had taken at least a dozen pix of us in every position possible, we all escaped out the front door… where Chase’s Camaro sat at the curb.

“Oh, no fluffin’ way.” I shook my head as Sam and Kyle climbed into the tiny backseat. “You guys are kidding me, right?”