Brandy Colbert - Pointe

The dance is held in the cafeteria, which has been transformed into An Enchanted Evening, according to student council. The room still reeks of boiled meat, but the dance committee hung giant silver stars and sparkly snowflakes from the ceiling so we’ll forget about it, at least temporarily.

Everything’s a little hazy, though. We smoked a bowl on the drive from Pizza Bazaar to school and I’m feeling it. I almost passed; I don’t want to be too out of it when I see Hosea or risk the chance of missing him because I forget to check my phone. But I won’t forget—how could I possibly forget when seeing him will be the highlight of the whole evening?

Besides, I’m just the right amount of stoned to get through this thing. Bryn Davenport accosts me at the entrance to the cafeteria—and so it begins.

“Theo, your dress is amazing, ” she says, reaching out to touch the strap.

Her shining eyes match the smile on her mouth and she looks nice, too. She’s in a simple black dress that only looks simple because of how expensive it is, and a tasteful white rose corsage decorates her left wrist.

“Yours is really nice, too, Bryn.” I return her smile, then gesture toward the corsage, ask about her date.

“Oh.” Her face flushes but she composes herself just as quickly as the blush rose to her cheeks. “David Tulip. I mean, it’s not like a date date. I’m pretty sure he’s taking shots with Joey in the bathroom right now. But he asked and no one else had, so . . .”

She shrugs as if to say, What’s a girl to do? Then her eyes sweep over my bare wrist and she looks behind me, says, “You’re here with Sara-Kate and Phil?”

“Also not a date date,” I respond with a wry smile.

“Yeah, but what’s their deal? Are they together now or what?”

I look over my shoulder to find Sara-Kate pinning something to Phil’s suit jacket. “After tonight? The answer will probably be yes.”

“Good,” Bryn says with a quick nod that sends her shiny black hair swaying by her chin. “They belong together, don’t you think?”

I look back at them again. Sara-Kate gave him a boutonniere—a plastic one in the likeness of a mounted deer head. It’s so miniature and even from here, I can tell it’s incredibly detailed. Phil is beaming and can’t stop looking down at his lapel to admire it.

“Yeah,” I say, turning back to her. “They do.”

I don’t have much time to figure out the feeling that flared up in that moment—jealousy that they can be together without any complications? Worry that they’ll forget about me once they become an official couple?—because David and Joey walk up to us then. Stinking of tequila. I can’t believe they didn’t bother with chasers or breath mints, but as Joey’s shoulder slams into the wall I think maybe the smell won’t be what gives them away after all.

David comes up behind Bryn, slides an arm around her waist. He nods at me, then moves his head close to hers. “What do you say we go out there and tear up that dance floor?”

She moves her nose out of the line of his tequila breath, but she smiles. “Only if you promise to hold off on the rest of that until we get to Klein’s?”

“Of course,” David says, already leading her toward the dance floor. “I was saving it for you.”

“Hey, Joey.” I tug on his elbow to stop him before he follows. “Do you have any more?”

“The te-kill-ya? Oh, yeah.” He pats the inside of his suit jacket.

“Let me borrow it?” I say, batting my eyes as I look up at him. Joey is a total pushover for a damsel in distress, even if the “distress” is needing to get as fucked up as possible.

He lumbers over me, swaying like a drunken giant, and I think maybe I’m doing him a favor. Taking it off his hands and all, because one more shot and he’d be facedown on the linoleum.

“Sure thing, Theo.” He turns his back to the cafeteria entrance, blocking us from everyone’s view as he deposits a silver flask into my beaded, black clutch. It fits perfectly, settled into the satin lining between my phone and a tube of lip gloss. “Finish it. Man, I am blitzed. ”

He totters off to the cafeteria, and I walk over to Sara-Kate and Phil, who are being so cute, it makes me self-conscious about being here with them. If it weren’t for my plan to see Hosea later, I would wish I hadn’t come at all.

“Bathroom,” I say, then pantomime taking a drink.

“Seriously?” Phil’s fingers run over the edges of his boutonniere. “I’m pretty baked right now.”

“I think I’ll pass, too,” Sara-Kate says, her eyes apologetic.

But I don’t think she’s all that stoned. She only took a couple of hits; she just wants to stay close to Phil. Suddenly, it’s like I’m not here with them at all.

“Okay, well.” I shrug. “I promised Joey I’d take good care of the tequila, so I can’t let him down. I’ll be back soon.”

The bathroom at the end of the hall isn’t empty, but I walk past the girls retouching makeup at the sinks and sneaking cigarettes by the window and lock myself into the handicapped stall. I lean against the stall divider with my clutch in one hand, Joey’s flask in the other. The pale blue walls were repainted at the start of the school year and they’re already covered in graffiti. Declarations of love (LB JW 4EVER) and random phone numbers and a couple of unattributed quotes from the poets among us.

But the accusations. There are so many. Scrawled onto the wall with permanent black marker and layers of black and blue ink. Who’s a whore and who slept with him or her and whose number you should call for a real good time. I recognize some of the initials. Some names are crossed out and replaced with new ones—a slut-shaming war taking place on the wall.

God. If people found out I dated Chris, they’d never run out of things to say, no matter how many times the custodian painted over them.

If I had a marker in my clutch, I’d scratch over all of this. Cover it up until no one could see how hateful people are. The very people who walk through these halls every day. But I don’t have anything besides a tube of lip gloss and my keys, so I’ll have to drink.

The tequila burns my throat like hot fire, but I tip my head back and take a drink for every girl who was called a name on that wall. Then I double up for good measure.

I float back to the cafeteria. Silver and lace and chiffon and flowers. Shiny pop music and cologne-infused sweat. And the unmistakable smell of liquor. A whole smorgasbord on the breath of my classmates, so I’ll blend in if nothing else.

Mr. Jacobsen is one of the chaperones. He wears a tan sweater over a collared shirt and tie. His hair is slicked back with some kind of gel or water and he keeps patting at it as he talks to Mrs. McCarty.

I move along the perimeter of the cafeteria, avoiding them. I’d get tangled up if I tried to cut through the dance floor. Too many people.

I’m glad Sara-Kate and Phil are nowhere to be found when Hosea enters the room, because I’m pretty sure the look on my face is completely readable. But it’s not my fault. He’s wearing a dress shirt and nice pants and a tie. And his hair is down and he looks gorgeous.

My eyes follow him. He waits at the entrance for Ellie to catch up to him in her skintight dress, but she’s digging through her clutch two feet away from him, too preoccupied to see that he’s holding out his hand for her. Finally, she looks up and they trail slowly across the room to the opposite wall, with Klein and Trisha close behind.