The weekend is just the same as every other weekend I've lived for the past eleven years — slow, monotonous, dull, boring. I do some Spanish homework; I re-read The Fall of the House of Usher; I study a chapter ahead in physics. I sleep in on Sunday. Dad lets me drive to the store for snacks. I watch TV.

Come Monday morning, Mason's voice roars over the intercom once more to announce York High School's official 2015 prom court, and — crisis averted — I am not on it. Not like I expected anyone to vote for me, anyway, but it was smart of me to be cautious. I also notice that Paige Sims is on the court and that Stef is not, and I smile. Good for her.

"Congratulations," I hear Eli whisper from behind me.

"Yeah, no thanks to you," I whisper back.

"You can stop pretending like you hate me now. We all know that's far from the truth."

I don't answer him this time; I just shake my head and look down at my desk. Because he's right. Regardless of all this unnecessary trouble he's caused me, I can't bring myself to hate him. Because he's too innocent. Too pure. Too...

Too white.

"I still don't see why it was such a big deal."

"Just was," I reply.

"There was more to it than that! I know there was. No one reacts the way you did just because they feel inconvenienced, so what's the real reason?"

"Can't tell you that," I say.

"And why not?" he asks.

In a daze of unreason, or maybe just because I'm still riding the high of a mission accomplished, I decide to tell him the truth. "Because if I do, the police will come and take me away from here and give me a new identity and send me somewhere else."

Eli laughs because he thinks I am joking.

I do not laugh because I wish I were.

🦎

Throughout the week, I witness many embarrassing (yet somehow deemed clever) "promposals". The most popular form of promposing seems to be via poster board. Most of these posters are decorated with glitter and stickers and have witty comments written on them, a few of the most cringe-worthy ones being those that incorporate props. One boy glues red solo cups to his poster that spell out the word PROM. His request was, "Don't let me go Solo!" Another poster spells out LEGGO 2 PROM in Legos that are attached to it. A hungrier one comes with a box of chicken wings, reading, "I've never asked anyone to prom before, so I figured I'd just wing it." Passed between athletes was a baseball with "I might strike out asking, but will you go to prom with me?" written on it. The one I've seen that required the least amount of thought and planning is "Prom?" written in Sharpie on a Starbucks frappuccino.

I make fun of them all internally and externally, as well.

"I can't believe how far out these kids are going just to ask someone to prom," I say offhandedly. "Just in the hallway on my way to art I witnessed a girl getting down on one knee and pulling out a Ring Pop. She said, 'I'm a sucker for you. Go to prom with me?' And everyone around them clapped."

"They take it pretty seriously," Eli agrees. He's in the process of tying feathers to his peace wand, which actually came out pretty good according to the picture he'd shown me of a real one for reference. He'd gotten permission from Bertha to buy them from the craft store and attach them to the stick of clay, since molding feathers out of it seemed to be too big a challenge for his attention-deficit brain.

Currently, I am brushing a coat of white paint atop the already white clay of my sculpture. I'd decided on the most unoriginal and least creative object that anyone who's ever played with Play-Doh knows how to make. I rinse the brush off and dip it in orange paint instead, and I swipe it atop my snowman's carrot nose.

"It's more or less like everyone promposing are just trying to outdo each other," I suggest. "But then the recipients are just eating it up! Like they want their date to have the biggest, most intricate way of asking so they can outshine all their friends. It's ridiculous. What happened to the good old passing of notes; check yes or no?"

He has one end of a piece of string between his teeth and the other between his fingers, pulling it so that it tightens around his clay wand. He speaks through clenched teeth. "That might work if you wanted to go to prom with a nine-year-old."

I've moved on to painting Mr. Snow's scarf now, a red and green striped one. "When real life is too chaotic and out of your control, it's nice to have some simplicity in the few things you can control," I say.

He stretches his arm out, holding the wand so he can inspect it. "I don't know why all the promposals are even bothering you," he says absentmindedly. "You don't even wanna go to prom."

He's right, and I don't know why either.

I dip my brush in the brown paint; my super original snowman has to have sticks for arms, obviously. I want to drop the subject, leave it on the floor to be swept away with the dirt we've tracked in on our shoes, but there's another thing bugging me.

I try to make it sound casual; I keep my eyes focused on my sculpture. "Are you planning on asking anybody?"

He is silent for a few agonizing moments. And then, "Well, since you won't go with me, I guess I'm gonna have to go with plan B."

A pang of jealousy that I cannot and will not attest to runs through me. "Which is?"

"Taylor Swift."

I realize I'd been wiping the brush across the clay limb aimlessly and that a few of my strokes ran up his white body. I hurriedly reach for a paper towel to wipe it off before it dries and becomes a permanent deformity on my otherwise seamless man of clay snow.

"I never pegged you for a Swiftie," I say as I swipe some white over the brown stain the paint had left, trying to cover up my mistake, and it feels very indicative of my life.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Alyssa Renée," he answers me, "one of those things being that I'm a Swiftie, and another being that I'm a fantastic dancer."

He smirks proudly as he says it, still trying to wear me down and apparently being optimistic that he will. And although he won't, I really don't mind him trying. I've never been pursued by a man who wasn't trying to kill me before.

"Well, then, Miss Swift is surely in for a treat."

🦎

On Friday morning, I stop by my locker before first period to drop off my English book and trade it for my math one. When I unlock it, however, the door doesn't swing open like normal. I have to tug on it hard to get it opened. When I do, I see what the problem was. The corner of a folded piece of paper was stuck beneath the hinge, as if someone shoved it into my locker through the crack. I look around me to see if I recognize any of the faces. I do, but none of them are looking at me, and none of their auras are gray, and none of them are anyone I've become well enough acquainted with to be shoving things into my locker.

And suddenly I'm nervous. My stomach dips, and my breath shakes a little as I reach into my locker to grab the paper. Gray has never left me a note before to make me aware of his presence, but I wouldn't put it past him. I peel up the corner, and it makes a satisfying crinkling sound as it opens in half. One more corner to unfold...

Dear Alyssa,

Will you go to prom with me?

YES or NO

I am so relieved that I laugh. He didn't sign it, but I know whom it's from. When I enter the classroom, he hasn't arrived yet. I fold the note back up and place it atop his desk.

He slinks in moments later as the bell is ringing. I remain facing the front as we say the Pledge, and I hear Eli opening the note.

"What is this?" he whispers behind me, his breath tickling the back of my neck.

"Doesn't it look familiar?"

"It's just a plain piece of paper."

I roll my eyes. What did he want me to do, embroider my answer? "I appreciate the check yes or no sentiment. But I don't wanna go to prom."

"I know that. So why give me this? You want me to write it in for you and try again next year?"

I open my mouth to tell him that I won't be here next year, and that's when it hits me. When am I ever going to have this opportunity again? Because I won't be here next year. And I'm finally a senior; this is my last opportunity to do something like this — something that all normal high school students do. And isn't that what I crave? Normalcy? Simplicity?

I don't really have an excuse not to go anymore. My name won't be in the yearbook along with a picture of me cheesing it up next to four other sweating girls with big, uncomfortable, glittery dresses and stiff updos and thick make-up, and I surely wouldn't stand out at the prom amidst the hundred others smashed against their dates in one small gymnasium, so that's not really an issue. I guess my deal is that because it was never an option for me at any of my previous schools, I don't see why it should be an option now.

But at any of my previous schools, I didn't have an Eli.

🦎

"Prom?!"

"Yeah," I say as if it's no big thing. "Why not?"

My father wipes his mouth with the napkin he'd grabbed when he'd started coughing as an effect of the drastic subject change. "You're just not the prom type of girl, Pen."

I lift my brows in challenge, as if just eight hours ago I would not have agreed with him. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," he says, backtracking. "It's just not safe for you, is all."

"Why not?" I ask again as I push a forkful of peas around on my plate, but now it sounds accusatory instead of nonchalant.

"You don't really need to be out in the open like that, Penny. It's not safe."

My father knows I hate when he calls me Penny. Only my mother can call me that. "I wouldn't be any more out in the open than I normally am at school every day."

He peers at me over the tip of his glasses. He is disbelieving: a skeptical, doubting teal. "Why the sudden change of heart, anyway? You've never wanted to go to prom before."

"Just because I never expressed any interest around you doesn't mean I don't want to. I have a brain that makes thoughts that sometimes don't connect to my vocal cords, you know. I am a human."

Dad looks at me for a too-long moment and then sighs, frustrated, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I'd just smarted off to him, I learn. "It's this boy, isn't it? You're really gonna get yourself killed this time if you're not careful."

"This time?!" I cry, astounded and hurt that he'd actually used the k-word — which is always off limits — much less by the fact that it had been him who'd originally encouraged me to continue on with Thursday night dinners, as he thought it'd be good for me. "What," I continue, "as opposed to all the other times you kept me locked up in the house like freaking Rapunzel or something?!"

Just like my father doesn't curse, he also doesn't yell. I often find myself wishing he would, though. Lose it for once. Instead of this infuriatingly soft but stern tone he takes when we argue. "Oh, do not even go there with me, young lady." He slams his fork down on the table and lifts a finger at me, his aura going from teal to red in an instant. "You know I was only trying to keep you alive and safe."

I scoff. "Eli's the only one around here who makes me feel alive anymore, Dad!" I realize a moment too late that I've said the wrong thing. Because I know it will likely provoke a thousand different scenarios in his mind of all the different ways Eli could be "making me feel alive", each one more inappropriate than the last, and I feel myself blush at even entertaining the thought myself. If I'd wanted permission to go to the prom before, I'd probably just gotten even my game night privileges revoked instead.

"That's enough," my father commands, his mouth a hard line. "Finish your dinner, do your dishes, and then go to your room."

"So that's how it's gonna be then, huh," I ask, my voice a monotonal passive-aggressiveness. Two can play the calm game. "You're gonna be the dictator, and we're not even gonna talk about this? Cool."

"We did talk about it," he answers, his blue eyes hard as well, and it is nothing less than Mother Gothel-like. "And I said no."

I stand, pushing my chair out and leaving my half-eaten plate of food on the table, mostly because I'm an impeccable daughter and know of no other way to rebel on such short notice.

"Do your own dishes," I say, and I leave him and lock myself in my room. I know I shouldn't disobey my father and that I should trust in his judgment, but really, what's the worst he can do? Ground me? Ha. I wish he would. It wouldn't be much different than the life I already live.

🦎

I'm standing in the hallway of the senior building at York High School. There are five boys who stand before me, lined shoulder to shoulder against the wall of lockers. My eyesight is unfocused and the edges of my peripherals are blurred as if I do not know what lies on either side of me. And as I step towards the first boy, the others disappear behind a cloud.

"Hey, cutie," the first boy says. He is tall and muscular with flippy blond hair and a deep voice. He reaches out to me with a sly grin and purple eyes and I feel my face contort into a look of disgust. I take a step backwards and then he is gone, disappeared into thin air, and I am standing in front of another.

This boy is not Sampson — he is short and round and his skin is brown. His hair is coiffed up with gel and he scowls at me as if I have done him wrong. "Hello, Jules," I speak for the first time, and my voice does not sound like my own.

"It's Julian to you," he replies with a growl, and he opens his mouth and his teeth are sharp and pointed like a wolf and I am scared. I step to the side, and he also disappears.

I now stand face-to-face with the third boy. He is tall, taller than Sampson, even, and his clothes are baggy and hang off of him, but not in a trendy way. His hair is buzzed short and his eyes never exactly lock on mine. He smiles and closes his eyes, and a mouth full of braces is suddenly growing larger in my point of view. "Dexter," I say confusedly and he closes his mouth.

"What?" he answers me, and he sounds just as confused.

"That's enough," I scold him, although for what reason I am unaware, and then he, too, is gone.

There are only two boys left. The next one is dark-skinned, darker than Jules, and his hair is curly and he wears a black beanie and thick-rimmed wayfarer glasses, and he has an expensive-looking watch fastened around his wrist. "'Sup, Alyssa," he says as he gives me an upnod. "Cool that you're here."

"'Sup, Reggie," I say back because I don't think he's ever said more than two words to me at a time, and I don't know what else to say.

He licks his lips. "So, you going to the prom?"

I squint my eyes at him. "No. Are you?"

He chuckles. "No, probably not. Not my thing."

I chuckle back. "Too mainstream for you?"

"What?" he asks as his brows pull together at my question.

I open my mouth to explain to him that I was only kidding, but he walks backwards into the lockers and becomes dust.

I now stand with the final boy. I do not recognize him, but I know instantly his name. "Mason."

He smiles at me sweetly, and he is very attractive, with honey-brown hair and warm eyes. "Hello, Miss George." It is the same voice I hear give the announcements every morning — that of the student body president.

"What are you doing here?" the voice that doesn't sound like mine asks.

"I'm taking you to the prom, of course," he says, and that's when I notice he is wearing a tuxedo. I let him hook my arm through his and we walk out of the hallway.

I blink, and now I stand in the doorway of a gymnasium. It is dark and loud and crowded inside, and there is glitter and streamers and balloons. I take a step into the prom and I see the bright pink ruffles of my dress swish as I walk. A slow song comes on, and suddenly Mason isn't Mason anymore. He is Eli.

I smile wide at him. "Eli. You made it."

"Well, duh," he says with a grin and he spins and twirls and dips me because it's a fast song now. He lifts me up into the air and I laugh. But when he sets me back down, I see that he is frowning.

"Eli, what's wrong?"

He doesn't answer. He just stares blankly at something somewhere behind me. I try to touch his face but I can't reach it; I try to call his name but I make no sound. I turn to see what he's staring at, and the gym is empty. All the people are gone.

"Well, that's odd," I say as I turn back around to Eli.

But it is not Eli.

My arms are around a man with salt and pepper hair, a square jaw, and eyes black as coal. I pull away quickly. I try to call for help, but we are all alone and my throat is sandpaper and I cannot scream.

The man who murdered my mother smiles and reveals a knife in his hand.

I scream.

My eyes are wide as I come to. I am breathing heavy, my forehead sticky with sweat. But I take in my surroundings: my maroon bed comforter, my white pillows, the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway, tall and strong. He flicks on the light switch and hurries to my side, gun in hand.

"It was just a dream."

He sweeps the room with his eyes, his muscles taut and his entire body alert, the gun cocked and ready.

"He's not here, Dad. It was a dream."

He finally decides that the perimeter has not been breached, and he uncocks the gun and lowers it down to his side. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed and brushes my hair back from my face. "You haven't had a nightmare in a while. Not since..."

He trails off, and so does his gaze, and he doesn't need to finish because I remember. The last time I had nightmares about Gray was right before he found us again. It was two years ago, and we were up in New Jersey. It's like he puts the visions of himself in my mind somehow. To warn me that he's coming.

"It's too soon. We've only been here for... not even two months! And I've been really careful... If you only knew all the trouble I went through at school last week trying to get my name off the dang prom court ballot..."

My father's eyebrows peak, his aura curious and surprised. "You were nominated for the prom court?"

I hurry to explain myself before I get into trouble for not laying now. "Kinda, yeah. But it was a joke. It was just Eli and his friends being idiots. I got my name taken off before anything happened."

"Eli," he grumbles.

"It was just a joke."

"Still. You need to be more careful about stuff like that."

"I know. But it wasn't his fault. He doesn't know."

My father grins then, and it's so small that I could almost mistake it for him pursing his lips if I'd not felt the coral aura. "Prom court, huh? My little girl's growing up." And then, after a moment, "So that's why you want to go, then?"

"No. I just wanted to go with—"

"With Eli."

I nod.

"My little girl really is growing up," he says sadly, and I don't know what to say to him. Because he's right. I'm nineteen years old, but he doesn't see. He still sees me as a child that he has to lock up from the world. Little Rapunzel, not yet fully grown.

He claps his hands on his knees and stands. "Well. You coming?"

I nod and stand, too, taking my pillow in one hand and the water bottle from the bedside table in the other. I am nineteen years old, and whenever I have nightmares I sleep in my father's bed while he takes the blanket from the foot of it and curls up on the floor. He is a great man, and an even greater father, and I feel guilty for yelling at him earlier. Maybe I'm the one who should be eating more lemons.

"Goodnight, Dad," I say softly.

And his voice travels up to me from below: "Goodnight, baby."

__________

First, LOOK AT THAT GLORIOUS EDIT. Y'all should know who made it by now. It was me. JK it was actually Liliana. BUT IT HAS COLORS AND TREES AND STARS and it's been my phone wallpaper for weeks now.

Second, sorry this is a day late! I wrote and rewrote the whole "asking to prom" scene at least four times and didn't feel like anything I came up with was in character. Then I realized that if I wanted her to go (which I do because important things take place there SO GET READY) she'd have to make the decision herself, on her own terms.

Also, that dream sequence is one of my favorite things I've written for this story so far. I wanted it to be longer, but dreams are never long, they just seem long when we're in them. #inception

Anyway, I know y'all are all busy awaiting today's The Famoux update (as am I), but if you do make time to read my story, THANK YOU.

ALSO I'M SEEING TAYLOR SWIFT TONIGHT SO THE SHOUT-OUT TO MY GIRL IN THIS CHAPTER WAS NECESSARY. And, of course, shout-out to @LilianaAra for putting up with me, and @Meow_Its_Andrea for always commenting and making me smile.