Aware of our status as Invisibles, Emily and I clung to the edges of the gym and took a seat at the table farthest from the entrance. I tried to talk to her (maybe we’d become real friends!) and asked all the questions I could think of—What bands do you like? Have you seen any good movies? Do you like math? I was treated to monosyllabic answers and gave up. Emily chugged Hawaiian Punch and manically nibbled Chex Mix, one piece after another, like a starving mouse. I occasionally offered a comment, no matter how banal, just for the sake of making it look as if we were talking. Not that anyone was checking.

“Check out Mr. Severy’s tie!” I said, laughing, though his tie was perfectly normal. Emily didn’t respond.

Chances were, we both looked unstable. Neither of us cared.

The Cheetos hadn’t arrived yet. Prom had already been going on for more than an hour, and they’d probably spent that time getting drunk or high. Until then, everyone (except the freaks like Em and me) had been having a pretty good time, dancing, talking, the girls a little nervous in their finery, the boys awkward and sweaty.

Then the doors opened, and in they came—Amy, Darby, Carmella, all so hatefully beautiful, so fake-tanned, their teeth bleached too white. I’d have sold my soul to look like any of them. They were like beautiful, exotic birds in their bright dresses and sparkling sequins. Sullivan, Brett, Lars and Luke trailed in after them, aware that prom was really for girls.

And then I saw Lily—oh, Lily, she was the most beautiful girl in the world. She was Snow White—pure and lovely and perfect, and I couldn’t help the surge of pride and love that flooded through me at the sight of her.

My sister, though she belonged to the group, was not technically a Cheeto—her skin was ivory, her hair black and shiny, its natural color, cropped short and chic when all the other girls in our school, including me, kept theirs long. Her dress was a one-shouldered black gown, full skirt with some kind of silky, sheer fabric over the skirt, so it looked as if she were floating. I didn’t know when or where she got the dress; she well may have stolen it, but no matter the case, it was ethereal, making my royal blue dress seem as cheap and common as it was.

For once, Lily’s makeup wasn’t overdone, making the Cheetos look like RuPaul on performance night. No, my sister was simply stunning. She was Audrey Hepburn. She was Anne Hathaway. She was Lily Stuart, the most beautiful girl in Maine. In the world.

And she was with Luke, who already looked sloppy, his tie askew, his gait crooked.

“That’s your sister,” Emily said flatly.

“Yes.”

“You don’t look anything alike.”

I didn’t dignify that with a response. The truth was, I couldn’t take my eyes off Lily. Everything about her was flawless. She seemed both to absorb the light and reflect it, and I felt such a rush of tenderness for her, the same as when we were little and she’d fall asleep, and I’d just stare at her and stroke her hair until Mom told me to stop.

Then Lily bumped into a chair and burst into wild laughter, and the spell was broken.

My sister was high. That probably wasn’t new, but it was the first time I’d seen it so blatantly. I stood up, the metal chair screeching behind me. Lily was lost in the crowd of Cheetos and their dates. Sullivan and Amy were dancing, I noted, their foreheads touching. He could do better, I’d always thought.

I made my way to the dance floor, alone, moving like a silent hippo through the crowd, who parted reluctantly for me, a few castigating looks from girls at my dress, my hair, which was coming out of its bun, my ordinary sandals. I didn’t care. I wanted to get my sister home.

Her pupils were dilated, her voice shrill. “Shut up, Brett!” she said, giggling wildly. “I did not. Not yet, anyway.”

This caused a roar of laughter and some jostling among the boys. Whatever Lily hadn’t done yet was sexual. I wasn’t stupid.

“That’s not what Conrad says,” someone said.

“So what? It’s no big deal,” said Darby, trying to steal the attention from Lily. “I already did it.”

“So did I,” said Carmella.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Brett said. “Come on, Lil. Have some more.” He offered her a flask.

“Lily,” I said. “Hey.”

Silence fell over the little group. “Hey, Nora,” Luke said. After all, this was junior year, before he realized I might threaten his future.

“What are you doing here?” Lily asked. “Oh, right! You came with that girl! Are you a lesbian, Nora?”

Another roar of laughter. “Lily, come with me a second, okay?” I said. I took her arm and started dragging her to the bathroom. She struggled for a second, but, hey, I outweighed her by at least seventy pounds.

“Everything okay?” Luke asked, trailing after us, blinking too much. Stoned, I guessed.

In my instant fantasy, he’d be sober. I would tell him someone gave Lily drugs, and he would be furious. It would be Brett, and Luke would whirl around and punch Brett in the face and take Lily and me to Stony Point Lookout (I had no idea why). Lily would fall asleep in the back seat, and Luke and I would talk and talk, remembering good times at the Math Olympics and Robotics Club in seventh grade. He’d say something like “Nora, you’re so funny.”

And that would be enough. That would be the world to me.

But in reality, I knew better. “We’re fine,” I said.

I got Lily into the bathroom. “What did you take?” I asked, future doctor that I was.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’m great. Where the hell did you get that dress, by the way?”

“Lily. Do you know what you took? What it looked like?”

“Nora. Do you know how you look in that dress? Like a fifty-year-old housewife crashing the prom, that’s how.”

Anger and hate and love wadded in a ball in my throat. “You are such a bitch, Lily,” I hissed.

It was the first mean thing I’d said to her...ever. She looked at me for a second with those clear blue eyes, shocked.

Then she heaved forward into a stall and started puking.

Oh, God. And yet, good. She’d get it out of her system, whatever it was. Ecstasy or a roofie or painkillers.

I crouched next to her and put my hand on the back of her neck, the way Mom used to when we had a stomach virus.

“Nora,” she said, glancing up at me. Her eyes were streaming, and I was undone.

“It’s okay, baby,” I said. “Get it all out.”

She vomited again, and then again, and then there was nothing but dry heaves. I stroked her cropped hair until she stilled, her sleek little otter-like head resting on that skinny arm.

“Come home with me, honey,” I whispered. “Let’s go home and watch TV, okay?”

She turned her head and looked at me. “You don’t understand, Nora,” she said, closing her eyes, and her voice was so weary and old my eyes filled with tears. “You just don’t get it.”

“No, and I don’t want to. Not if it means being with them. They’re so hateful, Lily. They’ll use you up.”

“I don’t have any other choices, do I?”

“You do. You can come home with me.”

She almost laughed. Didn’t open her eyes. “Yeah, right. If I’m not with them, then what am I? How do you think I’d survive if I wasn’t popular?”