That afternoon, after school, I descended into hell—my kind of hell, not a normal girl’s kind of hell, but most definitely mine.
I was shopping for a prom dress, and I still stunk. I knew I looked a nightmare—bags under my eyes. I’d gone through three energy drinks, and I’m talking the big-ass ones, not the little cute can ones. So I was half acting like I was on something too, which maybe I was.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Seeing it was Cross, I answered. “Hello, my penis.”
Silence.
I pulled the phone away, checked to make sure it was him, and prodded, “Cross? Hello?”
“Did you just call me your p***s?”
I kept moving down the line. How many colors of black were there? Off black. Midnight black. Lead black. Jet-black. Onyx. And I wasn’t even looking at the different cuts of the dres
