Chapter 10 Harper
Harper
Yesterday was fun.
Easton looked like he was enjoying himself.
He stayed until it got dark.
He didn’t complain once.
He laughed at least a dozen times—not that I was counting.
Not only that, my mom didn’t come outside once to check on us, which means she trusts me having a boy at the house. Wait. Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
Now it’s Sunday morning, and I’ve just gotten out of bed. I pull open my closet and stare inside before shoving a section aside and gazing again at the frothy pink confection hanging there, also known as my prom dress.
I run my fingers down the long, puffy skirt, reaching for it so I can see the front. Take it and hang it on the hook behind my door, nibbling my lower lip.
On my bed, my phone buzzes. I turn to see a new text flash on the screen.
Macy: Hey, what are you doing?
Should I be honest or should I lie?
Me: I was contemplating whether or not to try on my prom dress, LOL. Is that weird???
Macy: No! DO IT!!!! I wore mine around the house yesterday. Mom says I’m getting bang for her buck when I wear it at random times bwahahahaha.
Me: True. But you know I’m still hoping someone will ask me.
Macy: YOU can ask someone, you know—you don’t have to wait for a guy to do it.
My stomach churns, guilt settling in the pit of my stomach.
Not only am I **whispers** forcing a boy to be my date, but my best friend doesn’t even know!
I haven’t said a peep about the situation.
Not that I don’t trust her, but…no one should be bragging about their ill-gotten prom companion, least of all me!
Me: I know, but…
Macy: YOU SHOULD ASK SOMEONE.
Me: Who? Who would I ask?
Seriously. I’m curious who she would suggest—as if asking a random guy were easy.
It’s true that plenty of girls go to dances with guys as friends, but I hoped my date would be someone I had a crush on. Someone who gave me butterflies! Someone who thinks I’m pretty! Someone like…
I give my dress a second glance as I flop down onto the bed, texting Macy flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. I can’t bear to look at the sparkly confection—it’s a horrible reminder of what a troll I am!
How could I do this to Easton?
Don’t get a case of remorse, now, Harper. He’s not miserable; he’s having fun…
Right, but it’s still extortion.
Extortion? Please, you’re in high school. That can’t be a thing. Besides, he’s a thief. It’s no worse than that.
Macy: What about Brendan Schmitz? He’s tall and isn’t he in your gym class?
Me: I’m not asking a guy out because he’s tall. That is not a personality trait. I want to have a good time and laugh a lot.
Macy: Being tall SHOULD be a requirement LOL.
Me: Ha ha.
But speaking of guys and dates—I need Easton to speed up the process of his promposal. It’s been two days since our deal and still no official ask. But…
How do I bring up the subject to him without seeming pushy?
What’s a good way to tell a guy to pick up the pace? Shit or get off the pot?
I may be a born leader, but I’m certainly not cut out for uncertainty.
Macy: I can ask my cousin to take you. Truman, remember him? He goes to Parker Lane but I can ask him. He owes me a favor because I didn’t rat him out to our grandma when he got a stain on her couch.
Me: You’re a hero. And thank you but no.
Macy: Are you sure? I know you think he’s cute.
Me: Yes, Truman is cute. But that doesn’t mean I want him taking me, especially as a favor. That’s embarrassing.
Me: The last thing I need is you telling everyone he’s your cousin—they’d think it’s a pity date.
Macy: IT WOULDN’T BE A PITY DATE! Truman likes you!
Me: Final Answer: NO.
No matter how much Truman “likes” me, there is no way I want Macy setting up a date for me so kids at school can gossip about it. No chance, no way.
Macy: Just trying to be helpful. I know he has a suit, it wouldn’t be a big deal. We have fun together.
Me: I love you, but no.
I will say the words until I’m blue in the face. I love Macy, but she can be overly persistent at times. When she finally gives the subject a rest, I go back to my dress, trailing my fingers along the waistline. Delicate. Detailed.
Beautiful.
“I love you so much,” I whisper to my dress.
It would sure be a waste for me not to appreciate the craftsmanship—and the money my parents spent on it. Plus the shoes. Plus the necklace and other jewelry.
“Pink perfection,” I mutter.
Macy: Now what are you doing?
Me: I need to hydrate—gonna do a face mask.
Macy: The ones I gave you for your birthday?
Me: Indeed.
I grab a moisturizing mask from my stash—also known as the drawer full of masks, pimple patches, and eye patches—selecting an aloe-based pack that boasts ultrarich hydrating power.
Perfect. My skin is as dry as the Sahara.
I tear it open, unfolding the serum-heavy sheet one section at a time until it’s limply dangling from my fingers.
“Why is this so slimy?” Kind of gross.
Plopping down at my desk chair, I stare at myself in the mirror, applying it like a professional, plucking the edges so it’s perfectly in place. Tug it here and there. Grab my scissors and cut the nose folds larger so I can breathe.
Pat, pat.
It may be thin but it’s slick with goo—slick with the nutrients and vitamins about to permeate my skin once I get the darn thing on properly.
It sags.
“Oh no, you don’t…” I scold. Fussing, I rearrange it around my eyes. “My gawd, this feels disgusting.”
I pucker my lips through the gaping mouth hole. “You’re solid gold, baby. Solid gold.”
The flap over my nose flutters with every breath, uncovering and covering my nostrils, until finally, I snip the tip off.
“Gorgeous.” I kissy kissy the air and snap a selfie, which I immediately add to my private Snap story. “Twenty minutes from smoother, luminous skin.”
Twirling in my chair with my neck bent toward the ceiling, I spin and spin, bored already with having to wait to take this mask off. Lazily, I eyeball the blue box on my desk and contemplate whether to add teeth-whitening strips to my self-care regimen.
I’ve always been a multitasker.
“Why not?” Might as well.
I tear open the small silver-and-blue package and adhere the top and bottom strips.
My phone buzzes with a call this time, Macy’s name flashing across the screen. As always, her timing is nothing but impeccable…
I debate ignoring it but I answer anyway, knowing she couldn’t care less how I look, and prop the phone against my desk mirror.
Macy’s face appears, instantly twisting into horror. “What the hell am I looking at?”
I raise my eyebrows—or at least, I think I do; the mask is already tightening, making it difficult to speak. “Mhhhnnng.”
My bestie is having none of my nonsense. “Stop being so dramatic.”
Who, ME?!
I scowl as best I can with my face semi-paralyzed. “Ih nhot.”
Macy snorts, adjusting her camera angle so I can see she’s lying on her stomach, kicking her feet. “You sound possessed.”
I glare. “Now you’re the one being dramatic.”
We sit in companionable silence, falling into the same easy rhythm we always do—silent but still “together.” It’s one of my favorite things about our friendship. We don’t need to fill every second with words. Just existing in the same space, even virtually, is enough.
After a few minutes, Macy’s video goes black.
I frown. “Macy?”
Silence.
I narrow my eyes. “Knock it off.”
Still nothing.
I know the brat can hear me. She’s probably checking her messages or scrolling TikTok, completely zoning out. So annoying.
“What are you doing?” I demand. I hate that I’m being momentarily ignored.
“Relax a second—I’m checking something.”
Checking what?
I press my fingers against my skin, testing the moistness of my mask. Half of it is already mostly dry and nearly ready for the trash.
Macy laughs, her face back on my screen, animated and excited. “Okay—we have to go to the rink. Like, right now.”
“The rink? Like the hockey rink?” I blink. “What? Why?”
Her mouth drops open. “Because! The guys are practicing! I just saw Easton Westermann’s story—literally just now. Marcus will be there, and I want him to see me watching.”
I hesitate, glancing at myself in the mirror. “Macy, I currently look like a wet napkin. I have a sheet mask on.”
She rolls her eyes. “Take it off, put on some mascara and a hoodie. We are going.”
My pulse quickens.
I’ve never gone to the ice rink to watch the guys practice like other girls at school do—I get secondhand embarrassment for those girls! It’s too obvious!
“I am not that girl. And neither are you!”
Macy snorts. “Oh please. You want to be that girl.”
I huff, peeling off my sheet mask and tossing it in the trash. “You are so ah-noy-ing.”
Macy grins. “Yet here I am, the only one of us with a plan to get you a prom date.”
I freeze. “Mace. Stop. I thought this was about Marcus?”
Macy props her chin on her hand, her smile growing.
“I mean, it ninety percent is. But also, Harper, Easton is literally the perfect option. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.
He’s Marcus’s best friend, so we could go in the same group.
Plus he’s hot, and single, and didn’t you just tell me last night he signed up to be on the decorating committee with you?
Why would he do that, unless—news flash—he likes you. ”
Of course, I agree. Easton is hot, and single. But he doesn’t like me—not the way she thinks he does. And Macy also does not know that Easton was forced to be on the committee with me.
Nor does she know Easton has already agreed to ask me to prom on a technicality, i.e., extortion.
I hesitate, gazing at my reflection in the mirror.
Hair a mess, sticking up along my hairline where the mask was.
Skin still sticky—but glowing. I in no way resemble the girls from school who go to the rink, looking far too perfect in case a guy glances their way.
But how can I convince Macy her plan isn’t going to work without revealing my pact with Easton?