On Saturday afternoon of the sacred event, Posey had her hair done at Curl Up and Dye, the best salon in town. Her short hair was highlighted, trimmed and blown dry so that finally it seemed to have some semblance of style. Then she dropped by the restaurant to meet her mom so they could go home together, do makeup and put on her beautiful shimmering green dress, take a thousand or so pictures. This night was a coup for Stacia, too. Gretchen, also a sophomore, hadn’t been asked to the prom, something Ruth tried very hard to pretend didn’t matter.

Posey went in the front door of the restaurant for a change, rather hoping to make a grand entrance, delight her father and possibly dazzle Liam into seeing her as a woman. It was still early, only three, so most of the staff wouldn’t be there yet. As she approached the doors that separated the dining room and kitchen, Posey paused at the sound of some voices. Liam’s. And Rick’s (she could identify his because he’d called her—twice!—and also from all the times he’d blocked her locker). There were other voices, too, an explosion of male laughter. Posey peeked through the crack in the door.

There they were. The popular boys, who occasionally swung by when Liam was working. No sign of an adult, which made sense, since it was early. Liam often opened the restaurant for her folks, which Posey thought showed how trustworthy and wonderful he was.

Suddenly shy at the thought of encountering them en masse (they were seniors, after all), Posey stepped back a little. But she could hear them.

“Dude,” one of them—Luke Mayhew?—said. “You’re killing me by still being with Emma. God, she’s beautiful! Give someone else a chance, right? I mean, come on! Just the way she walks down the hall, you can tell—”

“Shut up,” Liam growled, and Posey felt a flush of pride. Liam Murphy, defending his woman. He had class, juvie or no juvie. Someone else said something—the water was running and she couldn’t quite hear. Then Rick, or possibly Luke, said something, but it was lost too, and the guys all hooted and hollered.

The water shut off.

“Here’s what I want to know,” Liam said, and Posey couldn’t resist another peek. He was unloading the dishwasher, stacking the plates just the way Stacia liked, and the other guys were grouped around him. “Rick, my man, Posey Osterhagen? I mean, I know I work for her parents, but were you that desperate? She’s nothing but a bag of bones. Built like a ten-year-old boy.”

Their roar of laughter drowned out the little squeak that escaped Posey’s mouth. Her hands flew up to cover any more noise, and silently, so carefully, she backed away from the door, her legs watery with shock, heart twisting and convulsing. When she was far enough from the door—from them—she turned and tiptoed to the front door of the restaurant as fast as she could, colliding right into her mother.

“There you are, sweetie! I went to the salon to get you! Did you forget? Or were we supposed to meet here? Oh, look at your hair! It’s so beautiful!”

Mom didn’t notice that Posey was quiet…or she did and assumed it was nerves. A floating feeling settled over Posey as they drove home. She went through the motions—makeup, dress, jewelry—and smiled as her father took pictures. Henry was home for a rare weekend, and he looked up from his textbooks, acknowledged that his little sister was growing up and smiled, which was lavish praise for him.

When the doorbell rang, she was somewhat shocked to see that Rick had actually shown up. And he was nice. Polite, attractive, looking somehow younger in a tux than he did at school. He shook hands, posed for a few pictures. There was no limo; Rick had driven his latest Mercedes, and Max asked the usual fatherly questions and issued warnings against drinking and driving.

Posey barely heard. “Bye!” she called as her mother dabbed her eyes. Rick held the car door for her. Got in the driver’s seat. Maybe this won’t be so terrible, Posey thought. Maybe Rick really likes me, no matter what Liam said. At the thought of his name, pain speared her heart. It was still so shocking that Liam—her Liam—thought of her that way. So vicious, those words, that she flinched at the thought of them.

She swallowed and looked at Rick, biting her lip. Maybe he, too, had hidden depths, and she could fall for him, instead of…the other one. Rick’s pretty brown eyes were on the road, his blond hair ruffling in the breeze.

“You look really nice, by the way,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

“Are you excited?” she asked.

Rick still didn’t answer. Didn’t look at her, either. Stupid question, Posey! her brain hissed.

Years later—heck, hours later—Posey would berate herself for not standing up for herself. She should’ve said, “Hey, idiot, I’m talking to you.” Surely her older self would have. But at barely sixteen, having no experience with boy-girl stuff whatsoever, terrified at the thought of offending one of the cool kids, she just…pretended. Pretended it was okay that her date drove in silence, even as her stomach ached and her hands went clammy. Pretended not to notice when he didn’t open the door for her when they pulled up at Whitfield Mansion, didn’t wait for her, didn’t even look back.

Don’t go in, her brain warned. But what else could she do? He drove. She was here. People were swarming inside. Maybe he just wanted to find his friends. Maybe he’d be nicer once they were, um, settled.

She went in, knees twanging with nervousness.

The place was mobbed. Whitfield Mansion was utterly gorgeous, high ceilings, black-and-white tiled floors, chandeliers and French doors. Posey looked around. It seemed like her trick of being invisible had worked brilliantly, because no one acknowledged her, no matter how nice Emma had been in the past month. Still, Posey fake-smiled at no one in particular, praying to see a familiar face, a friend. Rick was nowhere to be seen, and her heart raced with humiliation and fear. The smell of too much perfume and hairspray was making her sick, and, dang it, she hadn’t eaten since lunch, which meant there was a very good chance she’d faint. But who could eat with Liam’s words echoing in her heart?

And suddenly, there was Liam, right there in the huge foyer. Not in a tux…in a black suit with a black shirt, looking like he should be at the Oscars instead of a prom. His eyes met hers, and he gave a little chin jerk in recognition. He even smiled…a little smile, his mouth pulling up on one side, and that was when Posey really thought she might faint, because what the hell? He smiled at her after saying those horrible things? Her throat tightened, eyes stung with hot and angry tears.

“Hey! Posey, oh, wow, you look so pretty!” It was Emma. “Are you at our table? I asked Rick, but he didn’t know, I mean, I thought all of us would be together, right? Oh, hang on, there’s Lily. Can you believe Luke wore a maroon tuxedo? She’s ready to kill him. Be right back! Stay here, don’t move a muscle.”

Posey had no intention of staying put. Just stick to the walls and pretend you’re happy, advised the wiser part of her brain. Just hang in there. Don’t lose it. She made her way into the banquet room, which was mobbed as well, candles flickering on the tables, the smell of hothouse flowers gumming up her throat. She didn’t see Rick—she hated Rick. But, heck, if he’d showed up at her arm with a soda and a smile, she’d forgive him in a heartbeat. Maybe there was an explanation. There had to be. Because if there wasn’t, Posey had no idea what she was supposed to do. “What are you doing here?” came a voice, and Posey’s heart took a header. It was Jessica Blair, whose locker was next to hers, who’d dated Rick for almost a year. Her hair was piled on her head like Nefertiti’s, and she wore a dress that showed off three-quarters of her significant breasts. “This is senior prom, okay? Not for underclassmen.”

“I—” Posey cleared her throat. “Um, I’m here with someone,” she said.

“Really?” Jessica said. “Someone, who?”

Posey’s legs started shaking. “Rick. Rick Balin.” Her voice was barely audible to her own ears.

“You’re here with Rick Balin,” Jessica repeated, as if for clarification. Two of her cheerleading friends had joined her, and all of them glared at Posey. “You sure?”

“Yes,” Posey whispered, looking at the floor.

“Then why was his tongue in my mouth, like, five seconds ago?” Jessica said. Her minions snickered, and then Rick came up, glanced dismissively at Posey, and slung his arm around Jessica, his fingers caressing the top of her exposed breast. “Babe. You ready?”

“So ready,” Jessica said, and with that, she turned and kissed Rick, an open-mouthed, sloppy kiss that seemed to last forever. When she finally tore her lips off of Rick’s, she gave Posey a demeaning once-over. “Padded bra, Anne Frank?” she asked, and her evil handmaidens howled with laughter.

Posey abandoned any thoughts of clinging to her dignity. Instead, she fled for the bathroom. Thank the Lord, it was empty. She ran to the stall furthest from the door, snapped the lock and clenched her arms over her stomach, her breath jerking in and out in sharp little gasps. What was she going to do? How could she get out of here? Her parents would be devastated.

The bathroom door opened. “Posey?”

It was Emma, stupid, well-meaning, oblivious Emma, her voice soft with concern and sympathy. “Posey? Are you okay?”

For a second, Posey hated her. Then she stood up straight, took a deep breath, and opened the stall door. “Oh, Emma, I’m so sorry, but I have to go home. I have a wicked bad migraine. I feel horrible. I was hoping it’d get better, but it’s not.”

It was, perhaps, the first time she’d ever lied.

Emma wrung her hands. “Um…Posey, I just saw Rick—”

“I know,” Posey said. “I feel rotten standing him up at the prom, but guess what? I think he and Jessica might be getting back together, don’t you? To be honest, I kind of hope so, because you were so sweet to go to all this trouble, but I’m not gonna be able to stay, this headache, wow, it’s really bad, and I don’t want to leave Rick in the lurch, but the thing is, Emma, he’s not really my type anyway. You know?”

Her voice was tight and fast, and her words didn’t fool Emma.

“He’s an idiot,” she whispered.

He’s just following your boyfriend’s lead, Posey thought viciously, and again, the wave of shock and heartache threatened to crash. “I have to go, Emma,” she said, her voice shaking but acceptable. “My ride should be here any sec. I’m really sorry. Thanks for everything. You have fun, okay?”

“You want me to walk you out?” Emma asked.

“No! No. Just…go have fun. Bet you’ll be prom queen.” Posey forced a smile. “Bye! See you soon.”

After a little more hand-wringing, Emma finally left, and Posey sagged with the effort of lying. Stupid, naive, perfect Emma Tate. No one would stand her up at the prom, you could bet on that. Liam Murphy loved her; he’d kill the guy who hurt her feelings, who drove her into the bathroom to hide. The hypocrite.

The door opened again, and without thinking, Posey dashed into the stall once more, sat on the toilet and pulled up her feet, wrapping her arms around her legs so her dress wouldn’t show.

“Did you hear about Rick and Jessica?” one of them said. Of course.

“What? Are they back together?” the other asked.

“Totally. But Rick brought—get this—Posey Osterhagen as his date.”

“Who’s that?”

“You know. Everyone calls her Anne Frank? Kinda weird-looking, looks like she’s in fifth grade. Her parents own that grubby German restaurant?”

“Are you kidding? Her? Why?”

“No clue. Hey, do you have any hairspray? I love your earrings, by the way.”

It was the comment about Guten Tag that started the tears. Her parents’ restaurant was not grubby. It was immaculate. Did those twits know how hard it was to clean that place? Did they have any clue how many hours Stacia put into the restaurant, because of course a cleaning service wasn’t enough, and the Osterhagens themselves polished those steins, scoured the bathrooms, dusted the Hummel figurines and the broken antler on the mounted moose head she’d named Glubby when she was three?