Date Me

Except for here.

Here, there is tension.

Peyton is happily sashaying around in her new dress, but you can feel the tension between her and Whitney. You can see the glares Whitney gives her and you can tell that Peyton is pretending not to care.

Whitney is standing next to her perfect-looking parents.

Where there is even more tension.

I think it’s safe to say that Whitney’s mother does not approve of her dress. She keeps looking at it and scowling.

I have to hand it to Whitney though. She has her head held high and a smile plastered on her face.

I didn’t think she could pull off a dress covered with jewels, but she so is. She looks amazing and I can see why she fell in love with the dress. It makes the rest of our gowns look plain in comparison.

Dawson grabs me from behind, kisses my neck, and whispers, “You look hot.” Then he gets in line with his own parents.

I forget about Whitney and Peyton and just stare at him. He looks so sexy in his football uniform and my mind can’t help but wander back to wearing that jersey and nothing else yesterday. Although, in my daydream we are not interrupted by his parents.

Garrett is reading emails from his phone. He coughs and a troubled look crosses his face.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“I just got some news.”

I instantly panic. “Bad news?”

“I’m not sure yet. We had an interview scheduled next week with a guy regarding Vincent and, possibly, your case. Now he’s dead.”

“Dead?” I croak out.

The band director, who is in charge of leading us all out onto the field, yells out, “Okay, line up by class starting with the freshmen. We’re about ready to go out.”

We’re supposed to follow the band director out onto the field. Then, as our class is called, we’ll walk down the sideline, then turn and go up through the 50-yard line toward the home crowd.

“Yes,” Garrett replies. “He was apparently killed in a random mugging.”

Random mugging. Where have I heard that before?

He continues. “His family doesn’t think it was random. They think he was murdered. And, I mean, they’re right . . .” He stops to listen to the stadium a

The band director yells out, “As soon as he says freshmen, all freshmen proceed on your route.”

And this year’s Freshmen Court is . . .

Garrett whispers to me, “The guy was huge. I can't imagine anyone trying to mug him.”

“What did he have to do with Vincent? How did Vincent know him?”

“He had an appointment with him a few weeks ago.”

"And this year’s Sophomore Court is . . .

“Was he a doctor?”

Garrett looks at me and shakes his head. “No, he was a tattoo artist. He did Vincent’s chaos tattoo.”

“All right, juniors, walk down to the fifty-yard line and hold,” the band director instructs us.

Garrett and I walk to the fifty-yard line. I hear someone shouting my name from the Visitor’s section, which I’m now standing in front of. I look up and see Braxton waving at me.

I smile and give him a little wave back, but there’s something gnawing at the back of my brain.

“We had hoped Vincent might have said something about the tattoo that would help our case. Like maybe he mentioned why he was getting the same tattoo as you. Or something like that.” He shakes his head. “It was a long shot.”

And this year’s Junior Court is . . .

I remember the tattoo artist who Brooklyn brought in to do our tattoos. How big he was. “Tell me he wasn't covered in tattoos and looked like Santa Claus.”

I take a step forward to walk onto the field, but Garrett doesn't come with me.

He’s firmly holding his stance and my elbow.

“How do you know that?”

The band director yells, “Miss Monroe, go, please.”

I pull Garrett down the center of the field, putting on a big smile that completely masks the sick feeling in my stomach.

“Because Brooklyn hired a guy who looked like that to do our tattoos. Everyone called him Tiny.”

“That’s the guy who is dead,” Garrett says.

Keatyn Monroe.

As I accept a bouquet of flowers, the student section yells, “MON—R-O-A-R!”

I plaster a fake smile on my face and wave to the crowd.

Then it hits me. Where I heard it.

“Garrett,” I say out of the side of my mouth, while still keeping a smile plastered on my face. “Vincent’s mom and stepdad were killed in a random mugging.”

Garrett says, “This is quite disturbing.”

“Yeah, it is.”

And this year’s Senior Court is . . .

We all turn to watch Dawson, Jake, Brad, Whitney, Peyton, and Mariah walk down the fifty-yard line toward us.

Garrett holds my arm tight. “Are you okay? You’ve got a smile on your face, but I can feel you shaking.”

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. But I’ll be better if you can prove Vincent killed him. Then he can go to jail and I’ll be free.”

“Do you need me for anything else after this?”

“No, this was the big deal,” I say, looking down at the designer dress and shoes I’ve had on for a total of twenty minutes. “Kinda silly, isn’t it? Like, in perspective.”

“Yeah, it kinda is. As soon as this is over, I’m catching a plane to LA.”

“I think that’s a very good idea.”

A New Jersey housewife.

Halftime.

Garrett immediately leaves for the airport and I work my way through the halftime crowd. I have to change back into my dance costume for the rest of the game.

Whitney is surrounded by her family. I hear her mother say, “What in the world are you wearing?”

Whitney stands up straight. “A dress.”

“If you had some feathers, you could be a Vegas showgirl.”

Her sister laughs. “Expect she can’t dance.”

Oh, wow. That was a low blow.

“First you lose Dawson and then you wear a dress like that. Are you trying to lose?”

“Everyone already voted, Mother. They didn’t vote based on me not wearing my sister’s hand-me-down gown.”

“You know, you’ll be the only one in the family that hasn’t won. What a let down,” her mother replies.

“This dress was very expensive,” Whitney counters.

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste. You look like a New Jersey housewife.”

I actually feel sorry for Whitney, especially when I see the tears shining in her eyes. The ones she refuses to let fall.

I make a beeline toward her. “Whitney,” I say, grabbing her arm. “Will you come with me to the dance locker room? There’s an issue that I need your help with.”

“What kind of issue could she possible help with?” her sister asks in a tone dripping with bitch.

I look straight at Whitney’s mom and ignore her bitch sister. “Mrs. Clarke, do you mind if I steal her away?” I roll my eyes dramatically. “We’re having an issue with the security for the after-party and since Whitney runs the Social Committee, I feel it’s best that she handle it.”

Her mother looks at me shrewdly. “Your dress is very pretty.”

I smile sweetly at her. I am an adorable, respectful young woman.

One who wants to rip this woman’s eyes out.

“Thank you.” I look down at it and scrunch up my nose. “Although it doesn’t compare to Whitney’s. I’m so jealous of her bold choice. She looks amazing, don’t you think? You must be so proud. I mean, Homecoming Court is nice and all, but it’s nothing compared to Social Committee. There isn’t a more respected position at school. Did she tell you how we’re doing themed weekends? They will be a learning experience, incorporate the entire student and faculty population, and raise funds for some great causes. We’re all so excited.”

Wi

Whitney says with no trace of a smile, “You didn’t ask.”