The Thrashers(88)

When Paige stepped out of the passenger door onto the school’s red carpet, she looked like a fairy princess in white and gold. Lucy was in a faux tuxedo with a plunging neckline that almost got her stopped at the door.

Jodi was climbing out of the SUV, trying to navigate her heels, when she realized they were all ahead of her. The four of them were already on the red carpet, already moving to the doors, already the perfect team. They drew attention to themselves no matter what. The Thrashers.

“Have fun, Jodi!” Cheryl broke her concentration. “If they get too drunk, call me. You have my number.”

Jodi grimaced and thanked her, shutting the car door. She trotted behind her friends in uncomfortable heels, watching them ahead as if through a frosted window. Her on the outside, in the cold.

Inside the dance, Jodi stood at Paige’s elbow, feeling like she was just a step behind in every conversation.

“Pictures?” Paige asked the group.

“Just not the five of us. We can split a bit,” Zack said softly, and Lucy nodded.

But once they were at the photographer, Lucy and Paige asked for a couple’s photo, then Paige wanted a picture with Zack, and then Lucy grabbed Julian for a funny pose. Jodi had that sensation of being underwater again, trying to fight for the surface. No one wanted a picture with her. It wasn’t that they didn’t want one, it’s that they didn’t think of it. She was an afterthought. She wondered how long she’d been an afterthought.

Her face burned as her eyes stung, and she felt mortified to be standing at prom on the verge of tears. Her throat felt choked with all the pent-up loneliness she’d carried since finding out how her mom died—since she was subpoenaed against her friends—since the first time, years ago, that she waited all night for Zack to text her back, only to hear, sorry i was with julian.

Zack turned to her, and she looked away so he wouldn’t see her burning eyes. “Jo. Picture?”

She shook her head with a thin smile. “I’m good.”

Her breath shook as she tried to remind herself that he did think of her, even if it was an afterthought.

Jodi felt completely out of control by the time Paige suggested that they better vote for prom king and queen.

“I’m going to the bathroom real quick,” she said, and though Lucy acknowledged her and Paige told her where they’d be, no one seemed to notice how the first tear had escaped her eyelashes before she could turn toward the doors.

Jodi pushed through the crowd into the hallway and leaned on a set of lockers to steady her breathing.

She felt so foolish. What would she even say if anyone asked why she was crying? My friends’ lives don’t revolve around me? I got sad, and getting sad got me sadder?

She listened to the music change, a clear sign that the dancing was starting, and once her chest felt empty again, she headed toward the theater wing.

Oliver had made her a copy of the key to the theater’s scenic lab a few months ago so she could lock up if she stayed late working on the backdrop. The play was in six days, and Jodi could think of nothing else she felt like doing except putting a workshop apron on over her gown, kicking off her heels, and prying open the paint cans. She would probably get paint on her dress, but she wondered if anyone would even notice.

She unlocked the door, reminding herself to relock it on her way out, and kicked off her shoes. Jodi looked over the city landscape she was almost done with, just highlights and darkened windows still needed. She could take a half hour to pop the cans, make some progress, and clean out the brushes before wandering back to the dance floor. A childish part of her wanted to never go back—to see if they would leave the dance without her, if her phone ever buzzed.

She was just mixing the grays together when the heavy door pushed open, cracking harshly in the silence. Over her shoulder, she watched Julian take in her painter’s apron, her mixing trays, her heels discarded on the concrete floor.

She expected, What are you doing? Or, Is everything okay? But when he just moved into the lab and let the door close quietly behind him, she realized that was what Zack would say. Zack would punch through a problem head-on. As he skirted around the far lab bench, she realized that when faced with a problem, Julian either ignored it or cozied up to it. He leaned forward on the clean workbench, elbows braced in front of him, and stared at the backdrop. She wondered which he was choosing today.

“What’s the plot of this one? More dead lovers?”

“Yeah, actually. West Side Story is Romeo and Juliet, but set in New York in the fifties.”

“And they sing?”

“They sing.”

He was silent for a minute, staring at the painting. “So, this is New York. In the fifties.”

“It is.” She stirred the gray, adding white until it was a few shades lighter than what was on the muslin.

“Can I help?”

She blinked down at the paint, considering if it would be worth it to redo all of his lines later. “If you want. You can leave me here though. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s a dance going on in the gym.”

“A dance. How grand.” He grabbed a paintbrush—the wrong paintbrush—and approached her. “So what are we doing?”

There was a twist to his voice, like he knew he’d asked a loaded question. But Jodi ignored it, replaced the brush in his hand with the correct one, and showed him how she was highlighting the dark windows. She pointed to where the aprons were, but he just stepped up to the tall windows and began.