Prom Nights From Hell: Five Paranormal Stories. Meg Cabot
That’s when I noticed there was somebody hiding behind it. The pillar, I mean.
Not just any somebody, either, but Mary, that new girl from my U.S. History class, the one who never talks to anybody but Lila.
And she was holding a crossbow.
A crossbow.
How the hell did she get a crossbow through the metal detector? No way does she know Ted’s uncle Vinnie.
Not that it matters. All that matters is that Drake’s staring at the pillar Mary’s crouched behind like he can see straight through it. There’s something about the way he’s looking over at her that makes me … well, all I know is that is not where I want that guy looking.
“Moron,” I mutter. Mostly about Drake. But also about myself, a little. And then I aim and shoot once more.
“Oh, snap,” Ted yells happily. “Did you see that? Right in the ass!”
That gets Drake’s attention, all right. He turns …
… and suddenly, I get what they mean about blazing eyes. You know, in Stephen King books, or whatever? I never thought I’d actually see a pair.
But that’s exactly what Drake’s got, as he stares at us. Eyes that are most definitely blazing.
Come on, I find myself thinking in Drake’s direction. That’s right. Come on over here, Drake. You wanna fight? I’ve got a lot more than just ketchup, dude.
Which isn’t exactly true. But it doesn’t end up mattering, because Drake doesn’t come over anyway.
Instead, he disappears.
I don’t mean that he turns around and leaves the club.
I mean that one minute he’s standing there, and the next he’s … well, he’s just gone. For a second the fog from the dry ice seems to get thicker—and when it clears, Lila is dancing by herself.
“Here,” I say, thrusting the Beretta into Ted’s hand.
“What the—” Ted scans the dance floor. “Where’d he go?”
But I’ve already taken off.
“Grab Lila,” I yell back at Ted. “And meet me out front.”
Ted utters some pretty choice expletives after that, but no one even notices. The music’s too loud, and everyone’s having too good a time. I mean, if they didn’t notice us shooting at some dude with a ketchup-filled water gun—or a few seconds later, that dude literally vanishing into thin air—they’re hardly likely to notice Ted shouting the F word.
I reach the pillar and look down.
She’s there, panting as if she’s just run a marathon or something. She’s got the crossbow clutched to her chest like a kid’s security blanket. Her face is as white as notebook paper.
“Hey,” I say to her, gently. I don’t want to startle her.
But I do anyway. She practically jumps out of her skin at the sound of my voice and turns wide, frightened eyes up at me.
“Hey, take it easy,” I say. “He’s gone. Okay?”
“He’s gone?” Her eyes—green as the Great Lawn in Central Park in May—stare up at me. And there’s no missing the terror in them. “How—what?”
“He just vanished,” I say with a shrug. “I saw him looking at you. So I shot him.”
“You what?”
I can see that the terror has disappeared as suddenly as Drake did. But unlike with Drake, there’s something in its place: anger. Mary is mad.
“Oh my God, Adam,” she says. “Have you lost your mind? Do you have any idea who that guy even is?”
“Yeah,” I say. The truth is, Mary’s pretty cute when she’s mad. I can’t believe I never noticed before. Well, I guess I’ve never seen her get mad. There’s not a lot to get all heated up about in Mrs. Gregory’s class. “Lila’s new man. That guy’s such a loser. Did you get a look at his pants?”
Mary just shakes her head.
“What are you doing here?” she asks me in a slightly stunned voice.
“Same thing as you, apparently,” I say, eyeing the crossbow. “Only you’ve got way more firepower. Where’d you get that? Are those even legal in Manhattan?”
“You’re one to talk,” she says, meaning the Beretta.
I hold up both hands in an I-surrender sort of way. “Hey, it was just ketchup. But that’s definitely not a suction cup I see on the end of that thing. You could do some major damage—”
“That’s the idea,” Mary says.
And there’s so much animosity—Mom keeps encouraging Veronica and me to instead use descriptive language to express ourselves—in her voice, that I know. I just know.
Drake’s her ex.
I have to admit, I feel sort of weird when I realize this. I mean, I like Mary. You can tell she’s pretty smart—she’s always done the reading when Mrs. Gregory calls on her—and the truth is, the fact that she hangs around Lila, dim as she is, proves at least she’s not a snob, since most of the girls at Saint Eligius won’t give Lila the time of day … ever since that cell-phone photo went all around school of exactly what she and Ted were doing in the bathroom at that loft party downtown.
Not that there’s anything wrong with what they were doing, if you ask me.
Still. I’m kind of disappointed. I’d have thought a girl like Mary would have better taste than to go out with a guy like Sebastian Drake.
Which I guess goes to prove that what Veronica’s always saying about me is right: What I don’t know about girls could fill the East River.
Mary
I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS. I mean, that I’m standing in the alley next to Swig, talking to Adam Blum, who sits behind me in Mrs. Gregory’s fourth-period U.S. History. Not to mention Teddy Hancock, Adam’s best friend.
And Lila’s ex.
Whom Lila is currently steadfastly ignoring.
I’ve taken the ash-tipped arrow from the stock and slipped it back into my case. There will be, I know now, no extermination tonight.
Although I suppose I should be grateful that I wasn’t the one who got snuffed out. If it hadn’t been for Adam … well, I wouldn’t be standing here right now, trying to explain to him something that’s … well, frankly inexplicable.
“Seriously, Mary.” Adam is regarding me with somber brown eyes. Funny that I’d never noticed how good-looking he is before now. Oh, he’s no Sebastian Drake. Adam’s hair is as dark as mine and his irises are dark as syrup, not blue as the sea.
But he does fairly well for himself with his broad-shouldered swimmer’s physique—he’s led Saint Eligius Prep to the regional finals in the butterfly two years in a row—and a six-foot frame (so tall that I practically have to crane my neck to see up into his face, my own height being a sadly disappointing—to me, anyway—five feet). He’s a more than middling student and popular, too, if you count all the freshman girls who swoon every time he passes them in the hallway (not that he seems to notice).
There’s nothing inattentive about the way he’s staring at me now, though.
“What’s the deal?” he wants to know, one of his thick dark eyebrows lifted with suspicion as he eyes me. “I know why Ted hates