Prom-Wrecked Page 10

  “Then we’ll just have to practice. A lot.”

  My chest flutters at the thought of spending more time with Jordon. “We?” Just because Owen and I secretly broke up doesn’t mean my central nervous system should be salivating over Jordon Oswald so soon after.

  “I have a vested interest in you getting the part.”

  I swallow my ridiculous response and lift a shoulder, taking on the role of the snarky princess I was born to play. “Oh really?”

  He grins, two tiny dimples popping in his cheeks. “Yup. I want someone else in the cast that I know, and I figure we can split gas money.”

  The butterflies that had been swarming in my belly are squashed beneath a heavy boot of reality. “Okay, we can practice. But my mom can’t get wind of this. Not until after. If she finds out, she’ll schedule college tours or something else on that day just so I won’t be able to go.”

  “No problem. We can totally do this on the sly.”

  I blow out a slow breath. If I end up getting the part, things are going to get a whole lot worse at home. More sneaking around, or worse, coming clean and accepting the consequences.

  After a few more run-throughs, we call it a night. Jordon leads the way back down and across the yard, walking me to the car. The wind has picked up considerably since I got here, and thunder rumbles in the distance.

  “Thanks for tonight,” I say.

  Jordon nods and glances up at the sky. “Better get going before it starts raining.”

  He opens my door for me and closes it after I strap in, then watches as I drive away. As the first fat drops of rain hit my windshield, I tell myself that whatever that weirdness was earlier, it was a fluke. I do not have a crush on Jordon.

  Before I get to the end of the block, the sky bursts with a crack of lightning. Gripping the steering wheel tighter, I navigate the short distance back home, pulling into the garage just seconds before hail pummels the earth.

  Chapter Ten

  Riley

  Still six weeks until prom

  “We’re the last ones standing,” Desmond says, wiping sweat off his brow. “What do you think of this place now?”

  I take one final look around the barn before we leave for the night. It’s clean, at least, but the floorboards are still worn, and the walls are a dingy white. Also, traces of animal smells still waft in the air. “It’s better.”

  With the farm equipment pushed into a storage area, the tables cleared of dust, and the chairs set properly, I can finally imagine holding prom here. Before leaving, Hunter scaled a ladder and shot photos from different angles to help her create decorations that fit the space. I can’t wait to see what she comes up with; she seemed excited about the possibilities.

  “Better is good,” Desmond says. “Let’s go home. Looks like rain out there.”

  The skies darken as we drive back toward town. Every muscle in my body aches, and my eyes feel heavy. Desmond plugs his phone into the car audio and plays classic rock as he scrolls through messages from Jane about meeting up at the movies.

  “How did Jane get out of today’s clean-fest?” he asks after swiping away her text stream.

  “She’s planning Spring Spirit Week activities with student council.”

  “She must not have worked as hard as us if she wants to catch a late show. Tonight, I want to scrub the bugs out of my hair and sleep.”

  After dropping Desmond off, I make it home in time to catch up with my parents before they head out to storm chase. Although they work as wedding photographers, they have more thrilling hobbies—sometimes too thrilling for my liking.

  “Lightning hit to the west of town, and the wind’s blowing our way,” Dad says, training his eyes on the horizon. “Mom and I might try to snap a few photos.”

  “Nothing dangerous, right?” I ask. This part of Ohio isn’t exactly tornado alley, but we’ve had some scary weather events in the past.

  “Just a few quick shots before the skies are too dark,” Mom promises, slinging her camera bag over her shoulder. “We’ll keep an eye on the weather app while we’re out.” She helps Dad load their truck with a tripod and a rolled-up tarp they use as a rain shield.

  Alone in the house, I fall asleep to the distant crackle of thunder, so exhausted from cleaning that I don’t even hear my parents return.

  Hours later, my phone spits out a long, high-pitched wail, shaking me awake. My bedroom door bangs open. Mom speeds in and rips off my blankets.

  “Riley, we need to get in the basement. There’s a tornado warning.”

  Groaning, I pull myself up and slide my feet into slippers, checking the backyard through my window. The smaller trees sway in the high winds. “There’s always a tornado warning this time of year. We never actually get hit with anything, though.”

  “That’s a watch, not a warning.” Dad passes by on his way downstairs. “If the emergency siren went off, we need to go into the basement.”

  Mom hands me a flashlight and grabs a battery-operated candle for herself, in case we lose power. In the basement, the three of us sit around an old patio table, still in storage from the winter months, as the ceiling lights flicker and wind pummels the brick exterior of the house.

  “So how’s school?” Dad asks, raising his voice over the vibration of the ceiling panels.

  “It’s almost over,” I say, though I’m not sure if I’m talking about the lightning or senior year. “Did you snap any good pictures of the storm?”

  “Not really,” Mom says. “The wind was too strong. We couldn’t keep the camera still long enough to focus.”

  Dad scans his phone, checking weather updates. “Twenty minutes until the worst of this passes, according to the real-time forecast.”

  Mom throws a blanket over my shoulders when I start to shiver, feeling like a little kid again, wanting this to be over. How will I go away to college and live on my own next year? In a few short months, I’ll be leaving my parents and the only life I’ve ever known. I curl myself into a ball on the chair, tucking my knees into my chest until pure exhaustion drags me down and I sink into a deep sleep.

  Hours later, I wake to a bird’s high-pitched chirps alternating with Dad’s snores. Bright sunlight peeks through leaves plastered to the basement window. I reach for my phone, which landed on the floor during the night, and begin to scroll through news updates.

  “Whoa. Did we really get hit with a tornado?”

  “Yes,” Mom answers, coming down the stairs, changed out of her pajamas into cleaning clothes. “The cable’s out, but we have cell service. A funnel cloud touched down north of town in a narrow streak. Only one building was leveled…an old barn.”

  My heart freezes. “Did you say a barn was leveled? It wasn’t the Cleary farm, was it?”

  A light clicks on in Mom’s eyes. “That’s not where you spent the day yesterday, was it? When you mentioned the barn, I thought you were talking about a banquet hall designed to look like a barn, not a real…barn.”

  “It was a very real barn. That’s all we could afford with our prom budget.” Tossing my blanket aside, I leap off the chair I’d used as a bed during the storm. “I need to talk to Mrs. Cleary.”

  “Can you call her? The news report said she’s on vacation in Florida, but—”

  Mom doesn’t finish her sentence before my slippered feet are pounding up the steps. I run to my room and change into sweats before bolting out of the house and hopping in my car.

  Half of the back streets are blocked by downed trees, but I trust my sense of direction and navigate a roundabout way out of town, occasionally crushing a fallen branch under my tires. Closer to the Cleary farm, more debris covers the roadway. I skirt around a horizontal pine and hop out of the Kia, looking out over the open field.

  The barn—it’s completely gone.

  Shredded redwood planks and gray shingles carpet the grassy field. Crouching down, I pick up the broom Desmond used to sweep away dust—was that just yesterday? Only a two-foot-high base of concrete marks
what’s left of the barn’s foundation. I squeeze my eyes shut and reopen them, hoping this is just a bad dream.

  Nope. Still no barn.

  Defeated, I plop down in the overgrown grass, still gripping the cracked broom handle.

  The sun rises higher in the sky, its bright rays casting a golden tint over the wreckage. I inhale a deep breath and smell wildflowers and wet grass. At least the storm took care of the animal odor.

  My phone buzzes, but I don’t bother to check the message. I sit in the field until my stomach burns from hunger. Still, I can’t force myself to leave—maybe if I sit here long enough, a solution will pop out of thin air.

  In the distance, I hear the rumble of an engine. A vehicle pulls in behind me, and a door slams. Footsteps crunch over the gravel, into the field, pausing at my back.

  “This. Sucks,” Owen says, sinking down next to me. He tosses a blanket on the ground, followed by a brown paper bag and a thermos.

  “You want to have a picnic?” I ask, hearing my voice crack.

  He opens the bag, removes two PB&J sandwiches, and hands one to me. “Compliments of my mother. She thought you might need some comfort food.”

  “How did you know I was here?” I unwrap the sandwich and inhale the familiar scent. Owen’s mom prefers strawberry jelly. My mom uses grape.

  “My dad drove into town for news this morning. When he told me about a collapsed barn, I figured with our luck, it was this one.” He takes a huge bite of his sandwich. “And I guessed you’d be here, checking on the damage.”

  I choke out a laugh. “Your dad was wrong. The barn didn’t collapse. It was pulverized.”

  “We’ll rebuild,” Owen says, but he has to be joking. “Or start over.”

  “I can’t pay for a new prom site. We have no money. I just emptied out our account to give Barbecue Ray a deposit.” I hold my sandwich up, eyeing the blob of jelly overflowing on one side. “This is my fault. A better leader would’ve had a backup plan in place. That’s why I wanted someone else to be in charge. I’m not cut out for this. Catherine lifts a finger, and people follow her. Every time I talk to Jane, she tells me about something I need to do that I’ve never even thought of. I mean, who forgets to order food for a prom? Even Tristan managed to raise some money. What have I really done?”

  “You’ve done the actual work. The stuff nobody else wants to do. And nobody backs up prom,” Owen says. He stands, sandwich in hand, studying the open field. “We paid to have prom here, and we will. We can put up a tent over there.” He jerks his chin toward the back corner of the lot. “Build a dance floor, wire up some audio. We’ll find a way.”

  My heart lifts. Owen’s a positive thinker, and right now I need several megatons of optimism. “Do you think everyone will be upset if prom is held in a tent or a field of dead grass?”

  “Not if we make it fun. We have the chance to turn this whole thing around now.” He points to a fallen tree. “Right there. We’ll build a bonfire. Set up a stage under the stars. But we’ll put up a shelter in case it rains.” He reaches for my hand and tugs me to a standing position. His mouth is set in a determined line. “I’m not giving up on this, Riley. You can’t either. This is our thing.”

  I look at him, puzzled. “I thought our thing was Immortal Quest. But maybe this is what we need to bring closure to our twelve years of school together.”

  “Exactly. Because a long time from now, this is what we’ll remember, right? How we almost lost our senior prom, before we saved it, together.” I raise my eyes to his, then look away quickly. Something between us feels…too intense. We’re still holding hands and I don’t want to be the one to let go.

  “This isn’t a video game, Owen. We need real money and a real place to have a prom.” And you have a real girlfriend.

  “I know what’s real,” Owen says, dropping my hand.

  “You’re doing a lot just to make Catherine happy.” Because I’m still confused about why he cares so much. He doesn’t even want to wear a tux.

  He’s quiet for a minute, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re right,” he finally says. “I owe it to Catherine to make her happy. She deserves to have an awesome prom, and so does everyone else.” Another long pause while he chews on a bite of his sandwich. “But this isn’t all about Catherine. I’m not sure I’m the right person for her.”

  “What about next year? When you go away to college? Have you talked about it?”

  He half laughs. “Not even once.”

  I hold a breath of air in my chest, waiting for him to go on. When he doesn’t, I dare to ask, “Because it’s too upsetting to think about being apart?”

  “No, Cat and I never avoid conversations that need to happen. I guess…we’ve accepted that things between us are changing and neither of us can do anything to stop it.”

  I chance a sidelong glance at him. “Isn’t true love worth fighting for?”

  “True love? Sure. Me and Cat?” He picks up a loose branch and launches it toward the empty spot where there was once a barn. “I don’t know what we are anymore.”

  He seems genuinely sad, and I wish I knew how to help. But Owen’s relationship with Catherine is the one area of his life where I’ll never interfere.

  A blue jay appears and flits between the branches of a giant oak tree standing just outside the tornado’s path.

  “I hope you guys work it out,” I say. And I do. Because I want Owen to be happy.

  “We will. One way or another.” He brushes off the dead grass clinging to his jeans. “Until then, we need prom to happen. Don’t give up on this now.”

  The fire in his words is too much to ignore. And deep down, I realize how important prom is to me, to everyone. This is our final goodbye to high school. Like Owen said, prom has become our thing. It’s one thing I’ll follow through on and do my part to make happen, no matter how close we come to failing.

  I raise my fist and bump it against Owen’s. “If you’re still committed to this, I am, too.” Because I may never be with Owen the way I’d always dreamed of, but I want him to remember me as someone who stepped up, fought hard, and won.

  Later, I call Mrs. Cleary, hoping she has a plan to rebuild the barn before prom, only to discover her number has been disconnected. Apparently her vacation has turned into more of a long-term disappearance—with the money from Owen’s paycheck that I gave her for the deposit. Monday, after school, I schedule an emergency meeting of the prom committee. Owen, Desmond, Catherine, Jordon, Hunter, Jessa, Bryan, and Jane show up.

  “The barn is gone,” I tell everyone. “There’s no way it will be rebuilt in time for prom. We need to come up with an alternate location and find a way to pay for it.”

  Jessa rolls her eyes. “Is it too late to get Tristan back?”

  “Let’s start selling tickets,” Jane says, ignoring Jessa. “We’ll build suspense if we say ‘more information to come’ and announce the details later.”

  Desmond barks out a laugh. “We don’t need suspense. It’s prom, not a murder mystery.”

  Jane shoots him a glare. “Shut up, Des. We paid to have prom at the Cleary farm, and we can still use the field as a starting point. She should be happy with the deposit we gave her, given that we need to supply our own shelter now. The ticket money should cover the costs of the food and renting a tent.”

  “I’ve already talked to the stage crew. We can build a stage, and a dance floor, too,” Jordon offers. “Whatever you need, Riley.”

  I nod, showing my gratitude.

  “The decorations are already in process,” Hunter adds. “Ms. Torres said the project can be graded as part of my senior art portfolio.”

  “And I’ll round up the baseball guys for setup. We’ll borrow chairs and tables from school,” says Owen.

  “Thanks, everyone,” I say. “Desmond, will the band take a reduced rate?”

  “How reduced?” he asks.

  “Extremely. I ran the numbers last night. We need to cut the entertainment budget
by at least half.”

  “If they won’t, I’ll plug my guitar into an amp and round up some juniors from the jazz ensemble.”

  “Jordon can sing,” Catherine offers.

  Jordon’s head whips around, and he stares at Catherine, his mouth hanging open. He looks like he’s about to say something, but Catherine’s ice-cold stare shuts him down before he utters a word.

  “I’ll create a Project Morp playlist on my phone for if the band doesn’t work out,” Owen adds with a smile. “Don’t sweat the music, Riley. Or any of the small stuff. We just want to get our class together for a celebration before we graduate.”

  “And crown our Prom King and Queen,” Hunter adds, her eyes sliding in Catherine’s direction.

  “In fact,” Owen says, looking like he just thought of the best idea ever, “we can even relax the dress code. No tuxes.”

  “If you’re going to prom, you’re getting dressed up,” I say, drawing the line. “I’m killing myself to pull this off. Every girl wants to wear a prom dress. How can you walk in with Catherine when she’s all dressed up and you’re wearing a hoodie and sweatpants?”

  My eyes flick to Catherine when I realize I might have overstepped my bounds. But she’s nodding in agreement.

  “Yep, Riley’s right. If I’m spending hundreds of dollars on my dress, nails, hair, and makeup, then you’re wearing a tux, Locklear.”

  Owen huffs out a breath. “Whatever. If it’s that important, I will.” He tosses his backpack over his shoulder. “Gotta go. Practice.” After he ducks out of the room, the rest of us brainstorm ideas. I jot down the bare-bones version of Project Morp 2.0 in my notebook.

  “We’ll have a meal. We’ll have shelter. And we’ll have some type of music and decorations,” I say. “Let’s write up a marketing plan this week and sell some tickets, people.”

  Nothing, not even a tornado, crappy food, or a missing deposit can derail our plans.

  I run through my to-do list one more time before stuffing my notebook into my backpack. Halfway across the parking lot, I catch Owen’s laugh floating up from the baseball field. Pausing mid-step, I consider apologizing for my dress code outburst. Without Owen’s help, I might still be sitting in the empty field at the Cleary farm, crying over the lost barn. I stow my backpack in the backseat of my car and head down the gravel path toward the sound of his laughter.