YOU ARE A PROM QUEEN,DANCE DANCE DANCE

03

"My breath stinks," Emilie says, her voice rising a couple octaves above normal. "It does, doesn't it"? She leans in and huffs at my face.

"You're fine," I tell her. "Grest frest." Which is a lie. Her breath does stink, but being honest about it might breed hysteria.

"I'm gonna find Gavin," Emilie announces, referring to her date. "I'll get him to dance, then I'll manuever him close to Trevor."

I consider pointing out that scheming to dance next to one's crust might fall into the pathetic category, but similar to the breath situation, I decide against it. "Maneuver next to Trevor. Check."

My own date, Adam Edwardson, is nowhere to be seen. Fifteen minutes ago, I sent him to the vending mahines next to the guys' locker room in search of a Fresca. I tried to drink a cup of the punch the prom committee provided, but in addition to being spiked with several kinds of competing hard liquor, I hate punch. Fresca, on the other hand, is very refreshing. I wonder if Adam decided he'd had enough and snuck out of the prom. Maybe I'll get an apologetic message from him on my cell phone in the morning.

"Wish me luck." Emilie gives my arm one more squeeze, then race-walk toward the crowd to locate Gavin, who's most likely too drunk off spiked punch to realize that he's merely a pawn in my best friend's Machiavellian pursuit of true love.

I drift closer to the snack table and shove a fistful of broken Lay's potato chips into my mouth. They're in a bowl next to a mangled King Cake, an apparent Mardi Gras staple.