Chapter Forty-Six

      “Will you go to prom with me?” he asked after the elaborate scheme that had transpired before, all leading up to the heavily pressured question. It was a cute and not really creative way to ask someone, but that was Eric: cute and uncreative.

      When I walked into my homeroom, Lauren, Tara, and Alice were all whispering in murmurs as I entered, giggling manically about something. I assumed that their hysterics had to correlate with a new beauty product or one of Justin Bieber’s latest Tweets, so didn’t bother asking anything. Instead, Tara was the one to squeal as she told me to look at the white board at the front of the room. Lazily, I turned my head as I stared at the simple word of “PROM?” with a question mark attached to it that was scrawled in large letters on the modern replacement for a chalkboard.

      The girls continued to secretly converse, as I just rolled my eyes, wondering what idiot had lightly vandalized school property with an erasable marker for their own benefit. Evidently, that “idiot” had to be my dear boyfriend. Eric suddenly arrived at the room, everyone stopping to stare and admire his attractiveness (as they often did) when he strolled over to me, a grin larger than life itself on his face. “So, what do you say?” he had said, pointing over to the board. And that was how I landed myself in the most awkward position of my life; I was the daughter of Monica Turner, so that was definitely saying something.

      “E-excuse me?” I gulped.

      “Will you, Elizabeth Turner, my wonderful girlfriend,” Eric took my hands in his, “go to prom with me?”

      “Aw!” Tara and Alice chorused, looking over to us adoringly.

      “You had better say yes!” Lauren threatened—just to add some assortment to the responses.

      “So,” he began, unable to shield his confident and bursting smile, “what’s it going to be?”

      “Can we take this out into the hall?” I questioned, not wanting an audience for what I was about to say to him.

      “Of course!” he agreed with a jovial nod.

      I sent a sharp look over to the girls, silently telling them not eavesdrop. Eric and I exited the classroom, closing the door behind us. Heading over to a vacant bench across from the room, I felt his presence behind me as I sat down, making room for him to sit next to me. His body lowered beside me on the wooden seat, regret filling me as I knew that I was about to pop his balloon of happiness and possibly jeopardize our relationship within the next five minutes.

      “Eric—” I choked out, as he gathered my hands back into his.

      “Liz, this is starting to become too dramatic. Just say yes already!” he laughed.

      “Eric,” I tried again, more determined, “I don’t know how to say this, but I can’t go with you to prom.”

      “What?” he demanded, confusion and distress saturating into his tone. “Why not? Liz, you’re the prom queen, and I’m the prom king—we have to go together. Besides, we’re dating!” When he mentioned me being the prom queen, I thought that I would puke right then and there. I still couldn’t process that I had won. I was not a prom queen.

      “I know, Eric, and I feel like crap for doing this for you, but when I make a promise, I keep it.” My throat went dry as I searched for how to express the next part of revelation to him. “Ummm…I already have a date.”

      “You already have a date?” he raged loudly, standing from the bench so I could see the agony within his eyes in addition to the fury. It was like at Christmas. The boy before me wasn’t the Eric Wilson I knew. As Shakespeare would say, this wasn’t Eric—he was “some other where.”

      The door of my homeroom then proceeded to fly open to a shocked-looking Lauren as she interjected her own opinion on the matter, “Dump the other guy!”

      “Lauren, leave!” I told my friend firmly.

      “Fine,” she said harshly, but not before saying one last thing, “but, like, seriously, Liz, dump the other dude. You and Eric are, like, too perfect for each other!” And then the door banged shut with a slam, leaving the two of us in solitude once again.

      “Who already asked you? Was it Dylan? He always gets everything! I should’ve asked you sooner! He’s so dead!” he ranted, pacing about indignantly. 

      “Eric,” I addressed him calmly, as I walked over to him, standing a mere few inches away.

      “Liz, I really, really, really like you and now what am I supposed to do for prom? You were the—” he continued, though stopped fuming momentarily when I abruptly made the impulsive decision to place my lips on his.

      At first, he didn’t know what had happened, but then began kissing back, force and determination the only two things that could be described by his acts. It was still the easy, nice kiss that I was used to, only… different. As his hands traveled to the small of my back, I wrapped my arms comfortably around his neck. His tongue then sought entrance into my mouth, and served as a bright red stop sign. We were still at school, after all.

      I pulled back to explain myself, “I’m not going with Dylan; he hasn’t even asked me. Chill.”

      “Then who asked you?” he questioned, tightening his hands around my waist.

      “An old friend,” I said, grimacing nostalgically. “Oh, and I asked him.”

      “Then what was that?” he demanded.

      “What?” I inquired.

      “That kiss—it was perfect, yet you’re going to prom with someone else,” he said, shaking his head. “Someone who isn’t me.”

      “It’s just…complicated,” I said, as the first bell sounded. “Look, I have to go.”

      “We have the same class,” he pointed out at the same moment that my phone buzzed. I slipped it out of my pocket, and read the message sent from a blocked number: “Meet me in the gym.” Well, it was as good an excuse as any. If going to the gym to meet some stranger who I most likely knew was going to distract me from the occurrences of the day so far, then so be it.

      “Yes, we do, but I’m going to be late,” I bit my lip, kissing him quickly on the cheek. “Do you hate me?”

      “I could never hate you, Liz,” he sighed, running a hand through his light coffee hair, “I’m just annoyed right now, I guess. I want to go to prom with my girlfriend.”

      “And you will!” I assured him. “You just won’t be my date—you’ll be something better,” I offered up an optimistic smile as I paused for the dramatic effect, “my boyfriend.”

      “Fine,” he grumbled, clearly not liking the idea, which was completely understandable. If I had been in his position, I would’ve been pissed too.

      “Well, if it’s any consolation, you look really attractive right now,” I licked my lips, quickly looking him over. Eric Wilson. The boy had the name of a character in a book and the face (and body) of a model. Today, he wore a simple pair of dark jeans (the expensive kind) and a short-sleeved shirt with a collar. The shirt was of a vibrant blue hue, making his exposed skin of tan glow more than normal. He looked good in blue.

      “Thanks,” was his quiet response, “so do you.”

      “Okay, I have to go, but I guess I’ll see you later?” I gave him another peck on the cheek for good measure, taking a step away.

      “Yeah, see ya,” he said distantly as we parted ways.

      Barely able to breathe due to the onslaught of feelings that I wasn’t ready to deal with, my feet clomped down the hallway, as I remembered how idiotic it had been for me to wear heels. Honestly, there was no need for it, and they were just a down right nuisance. If it wasn’t for the fact that my mother made her money at a profession that revolved around the pointy shoes, then I’d probably go on strike for them setting feminism back fifty years.

      When I finally arrived at the gym, it was darkened, and appeared to be completely vacant.

      “Heads up!” someone called. I did as commanded, my head shooting up to see a basketball being thrown my way. Catching it in two hands, I noticed that there were irregular black marks on it. I turned the ball, and saw the short and straightforward message on it, scribbled in a black marker: PROM?

      “So, what do you say, Lizzie?” the same voice said, startling me. I glanced up and saw Dylan standing before me, a grin set on his face.

      “I don’t like random balls getting thrown at me,” I said, tossing him back the orange orb that was ultimately the bane of my existence.

      “That’s what she said,” he muttered in a prevented manner as any teenage boy would. “Seriously, Lizzie, what do you say?”

      “Regarding what?” I stalled, a pit in my stomach beginning to form. I was starting to rethink the rationality behind the decision I had made long ago, but knew there was no turning back now. Everything was within my reach.

      “Lizzie Abigail Turner, will you go to this thing called ‘prom’ with me, Dylan Collins?” he questioned properly, the cocky air about him still present, but not as apparent as it had been with Eric.

      “I’d love to, but—”

      “Lizzie, please don’t say the starting word for rejection. I’ve been turned down so many times in my life—people always telling me that I’m not good enough—and if you were to turn me down now, it would be the ultimate failure,” he said, dropping the ball and taking a step towards me. “Besides, do you think I’m the type of douche who fucking goes to these things? It’s because of you, Lizzie.” He took another stride forward, advancing nearer to me.

      “Dylan,” I said, tottering up to him so that we were just a few inches apart, “I like you a ton, but I already have a date—” He cut me off before I could tell him that it wasn’t Eric.

      “Goddamnit, Lizzie! When will you see what a fucking asshole he is?” Dylan laughed darkly. “Do you remember that convenient store next to the gas station that we passed on the first day that we met when I was a giving you a tour of this crappy town?” Instead of waiting for assertion from me, he went on. “Yeah, well if you go there after school today, I’m more than sure that you’ll see how fucking perfect your precious fucking ‘boyfriend’ isn’t!”

      “What do you mean?” I inquired.

      “Go that gas station this afternoon and see for yourself,” he sneered, but his vehemence wasn’t directed at me—no, that was all reserved for Eric.

      “Dylan,” I kept my tone as calm as I could, “I’m not going to the prom with Eric.”

      “Y-you’re not?” His face visibly lightened, despite the dim atmosphere of the gymnasium. I shook my head no. “Then who the fuck are you going with?”

      “An old friend,” I gave him the same response I had given to Eric. “When prom is over, I’ll explain this all to you, I promise.”

      “If I go, will you dance with me?” he pouted.

      “As we already know from previous experiences, I don’t dance,” I said, shuddering at the thought of my drunken escapade a few month prior at my house and how well that had turned out. I may have been coordinated when it came to basketball, but when it came to dumb stuff like dancing, my body lacked rhythm and every sign of dexterity imaginable. “But, if it makes you happy, I will.”

      “Will you tell me I look pretty?” Dylan crossed his arms across his broad chest in a childish fashion.

      “I’ll tell you that you’re the prettiest fucking boy there,” I swore.

      “Will you help me spike the punch?”

      “Depends on what we’re spiking it with.”

      “Will you get drunk with me before and after?”

      “Probably.”

      “Will you have sex with me?”

      “Fuck, no!” I punched his shoulder with all my might.

      “Didn’t think so,” he mumbled with a smirk, rubbing the spot where I had hit him. “Will you be the designated driver?”

      “Again: fuck, no!” I answered. If I had to suffer carrying the title “Prom Queen” around for the evening, in addition to dealing with my past, then there no way in hell that I was tackling it sober. Yeah, I was going to be absolutely smashed and probably suffer the worst hangover of my life the next morning. High school was such a fun time for self-discovery! And by “self-discovery,” I meant “finding-out-how-many-shots-it-takes-to-pass-out,” but same difference, right?

      “Will you do this?” Dylan swiftly asked, eliminating all distance between us and crashing his lips into mine, only to send me into a stunned state.

      Kissing Dylan and kissing Eric were two completely different affairs. Though they both involved the same body parts, the emotions that went along and the sensations formed created two distinct universes. When I kissed Eric, I felt like a wussy princess on a cloud. But, when my lips touch Dylan’s, it sent electrical currents down my spine and there was always a sense of adventure and surprise. When I kissed Eric, I felt like I had to strive to be as perfect as people thought he was, and, yet, when I kissed Dylan, everything was safe and secure—as if nothing could possibly go wrong. That was how I felt, now, kissing Dylan Collins …who wasn’t my boyfriend.

      He placed his hands on my hips, and they eventually made their way up my back, as I simply tangled my fingers around his neck. His lips blended perfectly with mine, and the kiss was full of so much heat and passion. It was like no other kiss I had ever experienced, as if Dylan was trying to prove something to me within the saliva and small amount of strawberry lip-gloss (the miniscule quantity that I had managed to get on my teeth earlier in the morning tasted really good) that I had proudly put on myself.

      Roughly, his lips disconnected with my own, and traveled down to my neck, tenderly biting it in a foreign way with which I wasn’t familiar. I groaned, moving my hands from his neck to the top of his head. His short hair escaped the light grasp of my fingers as I ran them through. I was breathing deeply as he continued to suck on my neck, aiming to produce a red mark referred to as a hickey. It was slightly disgusting, but I couldn’t really function, so didn’t bother to point it out.

      “Dylan,” I whimpered.

      “Mhmmm,” he replied.

      “We—have to! Get t-to class,” I fragmentally got out, school the last thing that I wanted to be thinking about.

      “Shhh…” he said, his lips relocating to mine as an effective way to shut me up. His tongue somehow slipped into my mouth, and began exploring. Awkwardly, I stuck mine inside his mouth, and they then began dancing together in such a way that caused me to never want to breathe again. Our tongues went back to their respective places, and our lips returned to mashing together.

      When we had both lost all hopes of usage in our lungs, we pulled back. My hands were on his neck, and his were tightly around my waist. Dylan looked me in the eye seriously, and opened his mouth as if he was going to say something. He hesitated, and then said something that he had said before, but it felt different this time—as if it meant more. “Fuck it, Lizzie! I really fucking like you! You know that?”

      I blinked, unsure of how one was supposed to respond to something like that. Staring at Dylan, I began to slowly analyze what I had done …again. I had kissed a boy who wasn’t my boyfriend…and I liked it. Cheating on my first and probably only relationship with a member of the male gender: check.

      Everything was so fucked up. There was Dylan and there was Eric. They were practically opposites, both with pasts involving each other, and I felt a connection to each of them. Eric and I had labeled our association with other another, while Dylan continued to spontaneously bust my head open with a metaphorical bat every time we somehow ended up in a compromising position. It was wrong what I had done to Eric without his knowledge, but it felt… right. Not cheating on Eric—no, that was definitely wrong, but rather being with Dylan. He felt right. But, then again, so did Eric…

      “I know,” I finally voiced after a long rest. “And I also know that, despite my naivety, whatever that was can’t happen again. Dylan, I’m dating Eric!”

      “You know what that was, Lizzie?” His fingers began to run across my side, igniting the skin beneath my thin top like a fire. If Dylan really did possess the power to light things on fire with his bare hands, I would’ve had the worst third-degree burn in the history of, like, ever.

      “Wrong,” I mumbled, stiffening as he continued to implement the intimate action.

      “It was right,” he corrected. “Lizzie, I know this may sound severe and fucked up, because, believe me, it is, but kissing you just feels so fucking right! Even though I’m not currently failing English, I can’t find words to describe it!”

      My heart thumped loudly, so much so that I feared Dylan could hear the pounding. Blood was rushing to my ears, blocking out the lack of sound within the gym. All I could hear was the sound of heavy breathing as I took in Dylan’s words, recognizing that I felt the same, indefinable way. It was unlike any emotion I had ever encountered before, and, like most emotions, it scared me.

      I glanced at Dylan, shaking my head as a faint smile conned its way to my searing mouth. Dylan Collins. His name was simple and generic, while his face was endearing and also austere. Sweatpants with frayed hems and aged color draped on his legs, while a basic T-shirt of a lifeless gray was placed lazily on his torso. And then there were his Jordans: charcoal with yellow and blue hints. As always, he wasn’t trying overly hard—or even at all, really—with his appearance. He was just Dylan.

      My arms dropped to my side, and I managed to wiggle away from Dylan’s comforting grip. I gave him one more, quick glimpse, uttering few words. “I-I have to go.” And with that, I jogged away, leaving the gym and Dylan Collins behind… once again.