Art Geeks and Prom Queens by Alyson Noël

somehow start believing they’re worth it. So I grab a white one and a black one, then I walk around, collecting other stuff like tank tops, jeans, and cargo pants.
    And when my arms are nearly full, and I’m heading for the dressingrooms, I pass this section filled with all this stuff that girls like Kristi wear. You know, like little miniskirts and beaded, silky girly tops. I look around to see if anyone’s watching (not that they would care), then I grab some of that and take it all into the dressing room.
    I try on the girly stuff first.
    And when I’m standing in front of the three-way mirror in this frayed denim mini (not unlike the one I already own, but refuse to wear), and this tiny pink halter top that covers
only
the areas required by law, I barely recognize myself. I guess I’m so used to hiding under baggy sweatshirts and jeans that I had no idea this was even possible. I mean, this may sound crazy, but I look like a blond version of Kristi!
    I release my hair from its usual ponytail and flip it so it falls wild and wavy around my face, then I reach into my purse, grab my lip balm, and cake it on until my lips are thick and glowy. I turn and gaze at myself, adjusting the mirrors so I can see every angle. And then, I admit, I start posing and dancing around with an imaginary headset, lip-synching just like Britney.
    I look seductively into the mirror and jump and kick and spin around and around until I’m dizzy, and just as I’m catching my breath I notice a sign on the dressing-room wall:
    THIS DRESSING ROOM IS UNDER SURVEILLANCE
    Under surveillance?
    Ohmygod! Am I being watched?
    I frantically look behind the mirrors, up at the ceiling, and even under the little bench piled high with clothes, anxiously searching for the hidden camera that may have captured a moment that
can never be made public!
    But just because I don’t find one doesn’t mean it’s not there, so I quickly pull off the skirt and top, placing them carefully back on their hangers (just in case I really
am
being observed). Then I pull my hair back into a ponytail and calmly try on the kind of clothes I’m more used to wearing.

     
    Dressed in a new pair of cargo pants, a white tank top, some little beaded flats that look like Moroccan slippers, gold dangly earrings with little red stones, and a denim jacket in case it gets cold, I’m sitting on the edge of my bed waiting for Jas, because I don’t want to go downstairs and be interrogated by my mom.
    I mean, I was really hoping that my parents would just go out to dinner or something so I’d be spared the introductions. But my mom decided to stay home and cook. And I know she’s doing it just to spite me.
    So the second the bell rings I come charging out of my room, and down the stairs at a potentially leg-breaking speed. “I’ll get it!” I shout.
    But my mom, who’s already downstairs, and therefore has a major head start on me, walks calmly out of the kitchen, reaches for the door handle, looks pointedly at me, and says, “
I’ll
get it.”
    Great.
    When she opens the door, Jas is standing there smiling and looking like a total hottie in his crisp, dark denim jeans, cool vintage T-shirt, black leather jacket, and hair still slightly wet from the shower.
    “Hi, Mrs. Jones,” he says. “I’m Jas.” He shakes her hand.
    “Won’t you come in?” My mom holds the door open and smiles.
    Oh, God, here we go.
    She leads him into the living room where my dad is busy watching a very exciting program on C-SPAN, and after all the introductions are made my dad asks where the “young man” is taking me.
    “We’re having dinner at one of my dad’s restaurants,” Jas says, smiling patiently.
    And after a never-ending conversation about
that,
I go, “Um, we should be going now.”
    Then my mom says something about a curfew, which I swear she just made up right then since I wasn’t even aware that I had one. So I make sure I get in one really good eye roll directed right at