Lana's Ex Prom Date Read online

  Amy Sparling

  Copyright © 2016 Amy Sparling

  All rights reserved.

  First Edition December 2016

  Cover image from BigStockPhoto

  Typography from FontSquirrel.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems -except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews-without permission in writing from the author at [email protected].

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Also by Amy Sparling

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  30 days until prom

  “So, we’re definitely going?”

  Ashlyn’s question sounds more like a plea, like someone standing before a judge after committing a crime and saying, “So, can I just get jail? No death penalty, please.”

  Beside her, Bennet shrugs. He knows his opinion doesn’t really matter in the scale of things. Ashlyn and I always get our way, always have. “I guess.”

  “Yeah,” I say, giving her a little nod. “We’re definitely going to prom.”

  This is a subject that’s been brought up every so often over the last twelve months. Last year was junior prom, and it’s the first prom you can get into just by being old enough and not having someone in a grade higher than you bring you as their date. Bennet had this senior crushing on him pretty hard two years ago when we were just sophomores. Her name was Mary and she had long black hair and was obsessed with just about every fandom you can think of from Game of Thrones to obscure anime.

  I don’t know why she had her sights set on Bennet, but she did, and she kept dropping all these not-so-subtle hints that he should ask her to prom. I still remember how pale his face was the day he came storming into Ashlyn’s room, totally panicked, and begging us for a way to get him out of going to prom with Mary. He said she seemed nice enough but then when she got him alone in a hallway, she would practically jump his bones with how clingy she was and how she kept drying to push him against the lockers and make out with him when no one was looking. Ashlyn and I found this hilarious, especially since Bennet is about the most lovesick a guy can be. He wants a girlfriend—bad. Sometimes it’s all he ever talks about. But he didn’t want Mary. Apparently, she was too friendly in all the ways that creeped him out.

  Eventually Ashlyn came up with a perfect lie to get him out of taking Mary to prom: he had a girlfriend in another town.

  He didn’t, but Mary didn’t know that. When she stomped up to Ashlyn and me in the girl’s locker room during P.E. one day to confirm it, we nodded, all doe-eyed and innocent and said Bennet and this fake girl were totally in love and had been dating for a while. Ashlyn even went further down the rabbit hole of lies and told her that Bennet thought Mary was nice and he would like her under other circumstances, but he had a girlfriend.

  Mary took it pretty well, and she must have found another guy she liked because we never saw her again after she graduated. I still laugh when I think about that story. Bennet is always going on and on about how he wants a girlfriend, but then when a girl wanted him, she was too intense and he didn’t want her. Maybe he should stop complaining so much of he won’t date the girls who like him.

  I still don’t know why Mary set her sights on him. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with Bennet. He’s been my best friend since we were kids, in that way that means I know all of his flaws. I’m even privy to the flaws most people don’t know, like how sometimes he gets nightmares and sleeps in the living room because he thinks it’s safer out there.

  But Mary was very tall and Bennet is kind of short for a guy, and I’d like to say I take the high road and don’t judge a guy by something he can’t control, but…I don’t think I would date a guy who was shorter than me if I were as tall as Mary was. As it is, I’ll probably never have that problem because unlike Mary, I am fairly short. One of the shortest girls in my grade, and so although Bennet is only five foot ten inches, he’s much taller than I am. I could date a guy like Bennet, but not if I were Mary’s height.

  Before that hilarious event last year, we’d never really talked about prom. I guess I always imagined I would go at some point, but as the years went on, and my freshman friends got dates, and then my sophomore friends got dates, and then my junior friends got dates, Bennet, Ashlyn, and I never did. So, we didn’t go. But now it’s our last year and we need to go. It’s like a rite of passage, or something.

  “So we’ll all go as friends?” Ashlyn says, staring at her cuticles.

  “As opposed to going as lovers?” Bennet says with a snort.

  “You know what I mean.” Ashlyn gives him a look. “You two aren’t going to make me find a date, or anything?”

  Ashlyn is as short as I am, with shoulder length brown hair and swoopy bangs that look just like celebrities who have professionals style their hair for them. I’ve never been able to have swoopy bangs. It just doesn’t work on my head. She’s got a cute button nose and perfect lips that are just like her mom’s, which they both credit to their Hispanic genetics. Simply put: Ashlyn Gonzales is totally beautiful.

  I, however, have stringy light brown hair that my stylist mom won’t stop experimenting on, so now I have highlights on top of highlights with some lowlights in between. My lips are flat and lifeless and totally unkissable to any guy who might happen to look my way. And of course, that won’t happen if Ashlyn is near me because all the eyes always go to her.

  Unfortunately for every hot guy who makes a pass at her, Ashlyn is not into guys. Two weeks ago, we were at the Woodlands Mall and Ashlyn got approached by three hot guys in three different stores. All of them were totally gorgeous and they all tried to get her phone number. She told them no thanks, she’s a lesbian, and they were all pretty nice about it. Some guys get pissy and say something rude and bigoted about her sexual orientation, but on that particular day, they were all nice. And they promptly left after being rejected.

  “Ugh,” I said, pretending to bash my head against a granite column near the Victoria’s Secret Pink store. “Every. Single. Time.”

  “What’s wrong, Lana?” Ashlyn said.

  “They always hit on you and then they leave. They don’t even bother looking at the girl next to you.” I gestured to myself. “Am I that much of a troll? Am I so freaking ugly that guys can’t even bother to cast a pity glance my way to see if I might be okay enough to ask out?”

  She laughed. “Lana babe,” —that’s her nickname for me— “Did it ever occur to you that maybe once I tell them I’m gay, they think the girl walking with me is probably gay, too? Besides, you’re not a troll. I would tell you
if you were. I don’t make an effort to befriend trolls, you know. Just hot, fantastic, loyal people, like you.”

  I sighed. “Thanks,” I said, but I didn’t feel any better. The truth is, even when I’m out alone with no crazy hot best friend walking by me, I still don’t get hit on. Guys don’t even seem to notice that I exist. Sometimes that’s a good thing because I would hate to be cat-called by creepy weirdos, but a nice guy who notices me in a non-creepy way would be a freaking miracle.

  “If you’d like, I can wear a shirt that says ‘I’m a lesbian’ and it can have an arrow pointing to you that says ‘but she’s not!’” Ashlyn grinned. “That would be hilarious.”

  She never actually got the shirt made, which is a good thing because that would have been embarrassing. It’s bad enough being single, and it is decidedly worse when your best friend has to advertise it for you.

  It’s Monday afternoon, and the three of us are sitting on Bennet’s porch after suffering through what was a particularly boring day at school. Bennet, Ashlyn, and me all live on the same street. Fourth Street, in the ghetto of Hockley, Texas. Now, it’s not as bad as some towns, because Hockley is just a small loser town of mostly loser people.

  But out of all the loser people in this town, the ones who live on fourth street are the biggest losers. The houses all look the same, shotgun style two-bedroom brick homes built in the seventies. We all have a one car garage, we all don’t have working garage door openers because they’re too expensive, and we all have the same little covered porch next to the front door.

  Bennet is the only one with a porch swing. That’s why we’re always over here, sitting together on this wooden swing, gently swaying away our time in the warm summer breeze.

  Bennet heaves this long sigh and leans forward, putting his forehead in his palm. “I can’t believe I’m letting you jerks talk me into this,” he says.

  “Shut it,” Ashlyn says. “You’ll like prom. We’re all supposed to like it, remember? Besides, at the very least, we can go to make fun of the trashy dresses all the rich bitches are wearing thanks to daddy’s money.”

  Bennet laughs sarcastically. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  “Trashy dresses?” I say, leaning over Ashlyn to look at him. Bennet kicks at the porch to keep our swing going. He’s always wearing those same black Converse shoes, a pair of jeans, and a plain T-shirt. Bennet doesn’t care for change, but that makes him loyal. It’s also why he hasn’t cut his hair in months. It’s now shaggy and hangs down past his ears.

  “No,” he says. “Not the dresses. Daddy’s money.” He runs a hand through his hair, making it all messy. I keep telling him my mom will cut it for him for free in her salon, but he’s too lazy to go. “That would be nice to have.”

  “Amen,” Ashlyn says.

  We all nod in agreement. Bennet, Ashlyn, and I call ourselves the “Single Ladies Kids.” Well, we don’t really say that anymore, but we used to, back in junior high. It was inspired by that Beyoncé song, but it’s about the fact that we’re all being raised by single women. Ashlyn’s mom had her when she was a teenager, and she ran away from home to escape her very pissed off family, and somehow managed to be just fine on her own. Now she’s a medical assistant going to school part time at night to become a nurse.

  Bennet lives with his grandma, who is only sixty years old, which isn’t very old for a grandmother. She’s really nice, if not a little weird, but her cooking is amazing. His parents are divorced and they’re both kind of assholes, so when they dropped him off at his grandma’s house when he was five years old, he decided he wanted to stay. They never made him go back, and I think everyone is happier that way.

  My mom is great. I love her to death, but apparently men don’t. My dad lives in New York and although I visited him a few times when I was a kid, he never calls or visits anymore and I don’t really care. He was a one night stand exactly eighteen years ago, and that’s how I became a person.

  Five years ago, Mom met Jon, and had a quick fling over Christmas break, and I wondered if he’d become my new step dad or something, but then he was gone. She doesn’t like to talk about him and we don’t see him at all. Sometimes the name John will appear suddenly and unexpectedly, like on a TV show or over the radio. Mom always stiffens, then huffs out a sigh and pretends nothing happened.

  None of us are perfect, but we’re all friends. Bennet and Ashlyn have been here forever, and it just seemed natural that we’d always stay friends. We’re the kind of poor where we don’t have many nice things, or any nice things at all really, but we’ve got each other and we have enough food and a roof to sleep under, so we’re doing okay. We’re happy.

  I’d be lying if I said I don’t occasionally yearn for the nice things in life, but doesn’t everyone?

  “Okay, it’s settled,” I say, pulling my feet up and tucking them under my legs. “We’re all going to prom and we’re all going to pretend to be happy about it.”

  Chapter 2

  26 days until prom

  Mr. Robertson should win an award for his innate ability to lecture on the most boring topics for hours at a time. If the bell didn’t ring, I’m pretty sure he’d never stop talking. Sometimes, when he’s going on and on about something he finds particularly interesting—that no one else agrees on, by the way—he won’t even notice the bell. He’ll just keep talking, looking at his computer screen where he pulls up images to further illustrate whatever he’s talking about, and he’ll keep going on even as we all file out of the classroom.

  Homeroom is a weird class. It’s thirty minutes long, so it’s not a full-length class like everything else, and the only point of it is to get memos, report cards, and school pictures passed out to us, and then we’re supposed to study or work on homework or something. At least that’s what other people tell me. We’re stuck with the same teacher for homeroom all four years of high school, and Mr. Robertson is a history teacher who treats his homeroom period as a way to talk about whatever random historical facts interest him. Most students just ignore him, but I always feel bad so I at least pretend to listen to how Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone, or how solar panels are becoming a more viable method of electricity than ever before.

  Mostly I just daydream inside my own head while my gaze looks like it’s looking at Mr. Robertson. Today, when the bell rings, I’m not the first one to dive out of the classroom. I’ve been working on math homework, so I didn’t pay attention to the time.

  While my fellow students are dashing out of the classroom, banging into desks without any regard to anyone sitting in them, I roll my eyes and pack up my binder. I don’t use a locker because with only four minutes between classes, there’s no way I’d be able to make it from one class to a locker and to my next class without being tardy. Tardy slips equal detention, thirty minutes of sitting in purgatory in the cafeteria after school.

  Tardies mean I don’t get to catch a ride home with Bennet.

  Tardies mean staying at the school until Mom can pick me up around six o’clock at night because I’m too nice of a person to call Bennet and beg him to drive back here to get me. So yeah, I lug my backpack around to every class because I refuse to get detention.

  I’m zipping my bag closed when a shadow falls over it. I look up and see Toby Fitzgerald, and at first I wonder if maybe he’s lost because we’re not exactly friends. Don’t get me wrong, Toby isn’t a jerk or anything.

  Toby Fitzgerald is high school royalty. About as popular as it gets here at West Canyon High School. He’s the exact definition of effortlessly cool. He’s tall and muscular but in this lean way, with dark hair that barely covers his eyelashes. His outfits are no doubt terribly expensive and he’s a fan of skinny jeans, designer shoes and multiple leather corded bracelets on his wrists. He’s kind of like a hot boyband member, but without the boyband.

  “Hey, Lana.”

  I freeze, my hand gripping my backpack strap. Toby Fitzgerald just said hi to me. He knows my name. I can count on one hand how m
any times we’ve spoken to each other over the years. Once, in Mrs. Perkins’ English class freshman year, I had to ask him to move his bag so I could get into the supply closet. Another time in the cafeteria, a five dollar bill fell out of his back pocket while he was buying pizza and I told him about it. He grinned, that dimpled smile of perfection, and thanked me.

  The third time we’ve talked is now.

  “Uh, hi?”

  That dimpled grin appears again, and it’s just as charming now as it was in the cafeteria that day. “What class do you have next?” he asks.

  Homeroom is the second to last class of the day, so I’m always in a pretty great mood when I’m heading to eighth period. “Athletics,” I say, finally becoming mobile again. He’s probably going to ask me for a favor or something. I hitch my backpack onto my shoulder and Toby walks with me toward the door.

  “Cool, I’ve got art,” he says. “I am not a fan of art.”

  “Really?” I say. I don’t mean to sound so surprised, but I am. “You seem like someone who would love art.”

  He shrugs. “I’m not talented at all.”

  “But…your shirt,” I say, pointing to the screened tee he wears with a watercolor painting of an elephant on it. It was obviously purchased online or somewhere far away from Hockley since we have no cool clothing stores around here.

  He snorts. “I love wild life. This shirt purchase benefited an elephant reservation.”

  “Ah, cool,” I say. We are now in the hallway, around all of the other students, in plain sight of other people. Toby Fitzgerald is walking next to me, being his effortlessly cool self, and he’s smiling at me and I don’t get it. It makes no sense at all.

  “So…what’s up?” I ask after we’ve gone at least fifty feet and he’s still here. I’m pretty sure people are staring at us now. They’re probably wondering who the hell is this weirdo walking with high school royalty.

  Toby’s bottom lip juts out for a split second, and if I didn’t know any better, I might think he is…nervous? There’s no way.