Free The Anti-Prom by Abby McDonald Page A

of an orgy. I quickly scope out the place. Most of the bedroom doors are open and, unsurprisingly, there’s no flannel or long johns in sight, just plenty of bare-chested boys in boxers, and girls wearing shrunken T-shirts, tiny shorts, and — in a few extra-slutty cases — silky nightgowns as they bounce around to the music.
    “Someone better stay here and keep watch.” I tug at my shorts. They’re printed with tiny giraffes galloping across my butt. “In case security comes to break things up.”
    “Or Phi Kappa shows,” Bliss adds. Taking an abandoned cup from the floor, she pushes it into my hand, finds an almost-empty beer bottle for herself, and then steals a sleep mask from somebody’s door handle to arrange on the top of Meg’s head. In an instant, she’s transformed us from three underage girls in dumb nightwear into a trio of partygoers, perfectly blending into the crowd. I hate to admit, I’m impressed.
    “I guess that means you’re up,” I tell Meg. I’d rather a vaguely functional Bliss as my buddy than her.
    “But —” Her protest is drowned out by a pack of frattish guys whooping past, naked save a collection of Disney boxers and shaving-cream bow ties. They pile into the room next to us, only to emerge a moment later with one of the lingerie girls slung between them. She squeals and laughs but doesn’t put up a fight.
    “We’re on our cells,” I add, already backing away. “Call if you spot Jason!”
    We’re quickly swallowed up by the crowd, rowdy from the mix of cheap drinks and skin. Awesome. I can’t shake my bitterness, just imagining how I’m going to deal with this twenty-four seven when school starts in the fall.
    “You think she’ll be OK?” Bliss glances back, but Meg is already out of sight. “These parties can get kind of wild.”
    I roll my eyes. “Relax. She’s probably got 911 on speed dial. Or her daddy. Now, 318 . . .” I start checking door numbers.
    “It’s down here.” Bliss points the way, past a gaggle of girls in matching black lace nightgowns. I guess the pajama dress code is kind of like Halloween: just an excuse to look like a Playboy refugee for the night.
    “You’re sure you know where you’re going?” I can’t help but tease. She scowls.
    “I haven’t got total amnesia, you know.”
    I laugh at her petulant expression. “I’m just kidding. Jesus, now who’s the touchy one?”
    She exhales, as if forcing herself not to snap back. “Jason’s the last room on the right,” she says instead, adjusting her football jersey shirt so it reveals one bare shoulder. “You’d better check it out first, in case he’s still there.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” I mock-salute, leaving her camouflaged in the line for someone’s keg while I do a casual stroll-by. The door’s lodged half-open, and through the gap I can see a blond boy giving his hair a careful ruffle, peering at his reflection in a handheld mirror. He’s wearing Simpsons boxers and nothing else, and when he’s done mussing the perfect Pattinson look, he flexes a few muscles, just to reassure himself of his own hotness.
    “Yo, Jason!” Another guy pushes me out of the way, slamming the door wide open. “Get out here! Eric’s got a bet going we can’t down ten in ten!”
    Jason tosses the mirror aside. “Like hell, we can’t! Those suckers can eat it.”
    They charge out, off to defend the honor and beer-chugging reputation of the brotherhood. I beckon Bliss over. “All clear,” I tell her. “And he should be gone awhile.” Or however long it takes to drink himself to the emergency room.
    We slip into the room. It’s messy, with dirty laundry and books littering the floor. Bliss looks around.
    “Well?” I ask, impatient. “Don’t you want to make the drop? Unleash destruction?”
    “Uh-huh.” She bites her lip. The journal is in her hands, but she doesn’t make a move.
    “What are you waiting for?” I frown. “I thought this was what you wanted.”
    “It