Pop Princess by Rachel Cohn Page B

my imagination. I didn’t even have the chance to say, But I don’t have a date to the Homecoming Dance!
    So what. One week later, I dragged Henry to it, because I just had to hear Doug play. Of course, I didn’t tell Mom and Dad I was going to the Homecoming Dance. The thought of Mom coupling Henry and me in front of the fireplace for pictures in our formalwear, oohing and aahing over us when there was no “us” was just too . . . horrible even to think about. Mom and Dad assumed I had chosen to take a shift at the Dairy Queen that night. Instead, I snuck an old dress of Lucky’s into my backpack, got dressed, and did my makeup in the bathroom at McDonald’s. I slipped a coat over the dress and put on sneakers to walk the mile to school, where I met up with Henry. We had agreed to go to the dance as just friends.
    â€œWow,” Henry squeaked when I took off my coat. Lucky’s dress was a hot pink number with spaghetti straps and cinched waist. On her, the dress had looked sweet. On my curvy body, it verged on slutty. Henry’s face turned the color of a tomato as I replaced my sneakers with a pair of slingback black pumps with three-inch heels.
    â€œScience Project,” I said, “it’s just me. Don’t get all weird.” We were standing in front of the gym as people walked by, and I was on alert, hoping that Doug would show up and see my hot look before my glitter eye shadow and cherry red lipstick started to wear off. Through the gym doors I could see Katie and her cheerleader friends hanging out. Katie offered me a subtle, halfhearted wave, then quickly redirected her attention to her new friends.
    I grabbed Henry’s hand to drag him inside; his palm was all sweaty, so I dropped it right away. Henry and I must have made an odd sight. My getup made me look like I was about twenty-five, and Henry’s awkward face and gangly height made him look like a prematurely aged twelve-year-old. How cool would it have been if Henry had worn an Opera Man cape instead of chinos and a white polo shirt.
    The gymnasium was decorated with an autumn theme: Paper-cutout leaves covered the walls in golds, reds, and greens and strings of lights in fall colors hung from the ceiling. A giant banner across the stage proclaimed, “Go Devonport Lions, ROAR.”
    Jen & Co. found us straightaway. Her eyes appraised me head to toe and she exclaimed, “Oh no! What, is that a B-Kidz costume rejection you’re wearing?”
    Henry said, “Jen, go pick on someone who cares.” My head did a double-take turn sideways at him. Go Science Project!
    As they walked off, one of Jen’s friends said, “Gawd, Jen, you are just gonna make the best Miss Adelaide this school has ever seen!”
    Doug and his band stepped onstage, each of them wearing a black T-shirt that proclaimed “Doug’s Band” in a goth Def Leppard–type print. Doug was clearly the center of their universe, so why bother to mine their brains for a clever band name when “Doug’s Band” said it all? Jen forgot all about her victim to rush toward the stage and fawn over Doug. He did look awesome with his gel-spiked hair, tight black leather pants, and rock star T-shirt. Henry tugged on my arm. “Wanna dance?” he asked. I shook my head. Although if I did want to dance, I thought, wouldn’t Jen Burke be blown away! I was feelin’ it. But really, I just wanted to watch Doug, which was better than listening to him. He wasn’t much of a singer, and the band, though technically competent, was less than inspiring, not that anybody besides me noticed. The crowd was grooving like Bon Jovi was playing Devonport’s Homecoming Dance.
    I could have sworn that when Doug sang a punked-out version of “Isn’t She Lovely,” he was directing his leer toward me.
    Hmm, I thought. Did that just happen? Weirdness. Potential.

Twelve
    An e-mail from Trina