“Now help me choose, please. I don’t know anything about this stuff,” he says, twirling his finger in the air.

   “Huh?” I look around and see that we’re in the men’s formal wear section. “Oh, okay.”

   I glance at him. He’s still wearing his suit pants and a plain white tank, which shows off his broad chest and muscular back. “What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

   “Ha-ha,” he says flatly. “It would be fine if I wanted to look like Eminem circa 2001.” We both laugh. “I’m thinking a black shirt and blue tie to go with your dress and flower.” He starts sifting through the racks.

   I look down at myself. My mind is so hazy that I had forgotten what I was wearing. He pulls out a black dress shirt and slips it on. He looks at himself in the mirror, then shrugs it off. He removes the tag and puts it in his pocket, then puts the shirt back on and starts buttoning up. I look away because watching him dress feels too intimate. Plus, I think he might be stealing, and I don’t want to be an accomplice.

   I head over to the accessories, where there are two-dollar ties galore. I find a blue one that matches the little dahlia pinned to my dress, just under my breasts.

   He saunters over and smiles.

   “Here, this one should do.” I hold it out to him.

   “Perfect.” He grabs the tie from me and frowns. “My mom’s going to be so disappointed.” He laughs. “I have no idea how to knot a tie.”

   “I can totally help you with that.” I grab the tie from his hands and begin to knot it the way Mom showed me. She said one day I’d meet a man who would appreciate my knowing how. Who knew she’d be so right? I start to twist it around his collar when I realize how close we are. I can feel his breath on my face. I’m surrounded by his cologne—it’s subtle but strong enough to make my head swim. I close my eyes for a second to calm my nerves, but I can feel his eyes on me.

   I take a small step back before opening my eyes and force a smile. “There, now you look more like Eminem circa 2005.” He laughs as we head to the front of the store.

   Everyone else is already waiting. Whatever they bought is hidden away in a few plastic bags, so I can’t tell what it is. Jake starts walking through the checkout but stops abruptly in front of the cashier. I bump into him from behind, losing my balance. He turns quickly, steadying me by my elbows. He then pulls two tags out of his pocket and gives them to the cashier. She’s a few years older than us but shamelessly eyes Jake up and down and winks at him.

   “I need to pay for these,” Jake says, adjusting his tie and looking past her. She doesn’t speak, which seems to make him uncomfortable.

   After the transaction, we make our way back to the group and walk out to the limo.

   “Dude,” Logan says. “That chick would’ve totally banged you in the storeroom.”

   “Not everyone’s a pig like you, Logan,” Heidi huffs as we settle back into the limo.

   “I can’t stand girls like that.” Jake shakes his head. “I mean, what if Mikayla were my girl, and we’re on a date?” He quickly looks at me then faces Heidi. “I’m not saying we are . . . But it’s obvious we were kind of together. I mean, we walked up to the register together.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. It just seems disrespectful to Mikayla if, you know, she were my girl.”

   I blush and look at the floor. I can sense Heidi is staring at me, but I don’t say anything.

   “Aw, Jakey, always the gentleman,” Logan coos.

   “Whatever,” Dylan huffs. “Let’s cause some mayhem.”

   A bottle of food dye, a bag of sugar, dozens of bags of popcorn, hundreds of Post-Its, a roll of Saran wrap, and a death-metal CD later, we admire our masterpiece, laughing to ourselves. To the outside world, we’re just a group of crazy kids playing an innocent prank on one of our friends. Even the limo driver chuckles to himself.

   “How much do I owe you guys? This couldn’t have been cheap. And I’m the reason we’re here, right?”

   Logan looks at Jake, who clears his throat. “It’s nothing, Mikayla. We have a mayhem fund. We all chip in to do stupid shit like this. It just so happens that this time it’s not someone we know. We love it, so don’t even worry about it.”

   I glance at Logan, who smiles and nods enthusiastically. Jake bends forward to place his mouth near my ear. “All good, Mikayla?” he whispers.

   I nod and smile up at him. Then I make the mistake of looking next door—at the silhouette of a girl watching us from the bedroom window where my now ex-boyfriend has probably had sex with my now ex-best friend hundreds of times. I feel a sob coming and cover my mouth, knowing tears will fall the second I blink. Jake notices and follows my eyes to the girl at the window.

   Logan must see her, too, because he asks, “Is she going to be a problem?”

   I shake my head. “That’s Megan.”

   “Fuck,” Jake mutters under his breath. A sob overtakes me, and he envelops me in his arms.

   “Um, guys.” It’s Heidi. I don’t look up. “They’re announcing prom king and queen in twenty minutes.”

FIVE

MIKAYLA

   Megan and I are not as similar as you’d imagine best friends are. We’re polar opposites in almost every way. She’s the head cheerleader with the smokin’ hot body, long, shiny blond hair, and sparkly blue eyes. She plays the field, and the boys are all for it. Megan knows what she has and uses it to her advantage. People tend to not take her seriously, because she acts the airhead role to perfection. But she is so much more than that, and I’m one of the lucky few to have seen that side of her.

   I met her in fifth grade. She had just moved for her mom’s job. I remember she sat behind me in class, chatting with everyone around us. All I could hear was her talking about her stationery. Girls love stationery. I was facing the front, trying to concentrate on the new art project we had just been given, but she continued to giggle, talking to whoever would listen about how she had two of everything. She called them “emergency” things—emergency ruler, emergency eraser, emergency sharpener, and on and on.

   By that point, I had lost focus and turned to glare at her. She just looked at me and smiled a full, toothy grin. I huffed and turned back around, fishing through my pencil case. But I couldn’t find it—I must have left it in the book I was reading during lunch.

   I raised my hand. “Ms. Spencer?”

   The teacher, sitting behind her desk, looked at me over the frames of her glasses.

   “I don’t have my ruler. Can I, um . . . May I please go to my locker to get it?”