Everyone gapes: the preppy cheerleaders who are taped into their dresses and the sluttier girls who are spilling out of theirs; the boys in tuxedos, adjusting their bow ties or tugging at their starched shirt cuffs; the Christian girls with their demure necklines and the nerds in their loud ties. The chaperones forget that they’re supposed to be in charge. The music comes to a jarring, uncoordinated halt as the band forgets to play. A glass hits the floor and shatters, punctuating the silence.
Wednesday Adams runs a single finger along her cheek and licks it slowly. Smiles.
“Pigs blood,” she says. “You shouldn’t have.”
They really shouldn’t have.