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The scent of damp wool and teenage desperation hangs thick in Highland High's hallway as Blane McDonnagh tries to vanish into his locker door. It slams shut to reveal Andie Walsh standing there, cheeks flushed not with embarrassment but righteous fury. Her fists clench around her textbooks like grenades. "What about prom, Blane?!" Her voice cracks across the tiled corridor, bouncing off lockers where Duckie Dale leans with theatrical sympathy, Steff McKee smirks beside Benny, and a dozen other students freeze mid-stride.
Blane's throat clicks dryly. He sees Duckie’s protective scowl, Steff’s cold amusement. "I... asked someone else," he lies, eyes stinging with unshed tears. "A month ago. Forgot to tell you." The words taste like copper pennies.
Andie steps closer. Her thrift-store sweater brushes his letterman jacket. "Liar." She spits it low, venomous. "You’re nothing but a liar."
She spins away, sprinting down the hall where fluorescent lights bleach her pink-streaked hair pale. Duckie lunges forward, but Blane grabs his arm—too late.
* * *
After the final bell, Duckie corners Steff near the bike racks. "Call her ‘nada’ again!" Duckie shrieks, wiry frame vibrating. "Say it!"
Steff just laughs, smooths his silk tie, and slides into Benny’s BMW without a glance back. Duckie kicks gravel, muttering curses about rich boys and their lizard blood.
* * *
In Andie’s attic bedroom—wallpapered with Siouxsie posters and fabric scraps—she rips bolt after bolt of Pepto-Bismol pink taffeta. Duckie watches mournfully from her bed, nursing a Coke. "He ain’t worth it, Ands."
She ignores him, pins jutting from her mouth as she drapes yards of fabric over her dress form. The creation blooms hideously—ruffles stacked like rancid cake layers, sleeves puffed like infected wounds.
"Prom’s dead anyway," Duckie adds weakly.
Andie snips the thread with teeth clenched.
Blane’s living room smells of stale popcorn and neglected dreams. He’s sprawled on the corduroy couch in ratty sweatpants when Steff arrives unexpectedly at 7 PM. Steff’s wearing a midnight-blue Armani suit, hair slicked back, smelling of expensive cologne—as if he’d stepped off a GQ shoot onto Blane’s mustard-yellow shag carpet.
"Here to mock me?" Blane rasps, gesturing at his own dishevelment. "For getting tossed by the trash?"
Steff tosses him a silver flask. "Thought you needed distraction." He slots a VHS tape—Slaughter High: Revenge Runs Deep—into the player. They sit in silence as grainy static floods the TV. The first kill comes fast: a buxom blonde impaled on a chemistry beaker.
Steff points lazily. "Kate."
Blane nods, unscrewing the flask.
Next victim: a bespectacled boy electrocuted in a bathtub. "Duckie," Steff announces.
Blane swallows cheap bourbon. "Smart girl?"
"Andie." Steff’s tongue flicks over his teeth. "The jock getting chainsawed? Benny."
Blane leans forward. "So… Joe Shmo and the gay guy left?" He smirks, ready to launch into Steff’s usual brand of cruelty.
"I’m Rick," Steff says flatly.
Blane chokes. Rick was the theater kid—flamboyant, knife-dodging—who’d flirted with the killer. "B-but that’s the gay dude." Blane fumbles. "You got... are you—"
"Coming out?" Steff takes the flask back. Sips. "Yeah. Don’t let it stroll ‘round school."
Blane stares at Steff’s sharp jawline, the suit that costs more than his dad’s car. "Why’re you dressed for prom," he deflects, "if all we’re doing is this cheap date?"
Steff’s eyes flash—a predator momentarily blinded by headlights—but neither corrects the phrasing. Blane grabs the flask again. On screen, Benny’s chainsawed counterpart screams into crimson static. Steff settles deeper into the couch, their elbows brushing as Rick dances nervously across the carnage.