Read Will Work for Prom Dress for Free Online

being to melt into linoleum. And if so, how I might achieve that. I heard welcoming yells of “Hey, Art King!” and “Art King’s here!” echoing from the theater doors.
    I turned and headed back down the hall to the cafeteriainstead.
Sorry, Anne. This is so not worth it
. With every classroom I passed, I thought of another good comeback.
    That always happened to me. A whole pile of stunners materialized, too late to use them. Self-involved. David thinks I’m self-involved? Unreal. It was during times like these that I felt like counting the days left of high school. That thought just reminded me of my meeting with my guidance counselor.
    According to the note, we were supposed to work on a Plan B college entrance strategy. Which sounded suspiciously like teacher code for crappy-student-who-needs-help-to-get-pawned-off-on-some-school-any-school-so-she-doesn’t-screw-up-our-placement-ratio. Anne had received telltale fat manila envelopes from three different Ivy League schools. My letters from universities came back in your standard business envelope. It didn’t take much room when the letters started, “Thank you for your interest. Unfortunately …”
    Anne tried to pump me up about the one that included a “waiting list concession” at the very bottom. It was like they didn’t even mean it, like an afterthought. Really, it was just that—an afterthought.
After
all the good students
thought
about where they’d attend, they would let me know if they needed a warm body to fill a dorm bed.
    It was enough to make a girl want to hit the nacho-cheese broccoli.
    I stood in line to pay for my BP-approved lunch instead. I snapped a baby carrot in two, wishing it was one of David’s stupid, artistic fingers, and poked the pieces into the blob of hummus on my plate. I smiled at the resemblance to The Spikester’s hair.
    I selected a few more of the skinnier veggies and soon had a freeform sculpture in progress. I nibbled a piece of carrot into a little orange scowl and nudged it into place. Not bad. Maybe Anne was on to something with that pepperoni idea. I could do a whole series of food portraits. It would be better if the medium fit the personality better, though. The Spikester was so not a carrot-sticks-and-hummus kind of guy.
    “I was waiting for ten minutes. What happened to you?” Anne asked.
    I pulled my backpack off the saved chair next to me. “Why didn’t you tell me that David was working on the play?”
    “Well, hello to you, too. Quigley, it’s not like you exactly welcome mention of his name. He’s a friend of T-Shirt’s, remember? When the original set designer bailed, he asked David to fill in. I thought I’d do you a favor and keep that info to myself.”
    “Well, thanks a lot. I made a total jerk of myself in the hall.”
    Anne’s normal smile turned into the grin that usually landed her in detention. “Not according to David,” she singsonged. “He came in and asked T-Shirt if you were seeing anybody.”
    I sucked my breath in so quickly that tiny pieces of baby carrot flew the wrong way down my throat.
    Anne banged on my hacking, gasping back and giggled.
“Really
, Quigley. You’re making a scene now. Unless you’re trying to catch David’s attention—bet he does a mean Heimlich.”
    I barked like an unattractive seal with laryngitis and wiped at my watering eyes. “Not funny.” I gasped for breath.
    Anne ignored my near-death experience and pulled my plate closer. She turned it around and lovingly stroked an orange spike. “I can’t wait for Wednesday.”
    “What is up with you and that guy, anyway?” I asked.
    “Which guy?”
    With Anne, that was a fair question. “The designer guy. The Spikester. How old is he, anyway?”
    “Who knows? Age is in the eye of the beholder—”
    “I think that’s ‘beauty,’ “I said.
    “Well, he’s beautiful, too. He’s got the most piercing blue eyes.”
    “Yeah, he’s big into ‘piercing.’ Besides, it’s only the