The Real Prom Queens of Westfield High
Read The Real Prom Queens of Westfield High Online
Authors: Laurie Boyle Crompton
Copyright © 2014 by Laurie Boyle Crompton
Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Christian Fuenfhausen
Photography by Jon Zychowski
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systemsâexcept in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviewsâwithout permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Fire, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Contents
For Trinity, the reigning princess of my reality.
Preview Teaser
Not even the producers of the show could've predicted it would end with the biggest reality-show bitch-fight in history. Just picture six girls wearing prom gowns going at it. I'm talking hair pulling, lipstick smearing, manicured-claws clawing as the television cameras gobble up the bloody chaos.
If you had tried to warn me that a year ago Westfield High's prom would be the scene of such violence, I would've said that despite your obvious insanity, you seem like a very nice person.
And if you'd told me last year that I'd find myself smack-dab in the middle of that battle with a freaking tiara on my head, I would've pointed out that your being crazy won't necessarily stop you from living a long and fulfilling life.
But if you had considered mentioning that I was about to destroy my best friendship, lose my chance at true love, and be utterly and completely humiliated on national television, I have just one thing to say to you:
Where
the
hell
were
you
a
year
ago?
PART ONE
Westfield High Wannabes
We are closing in on the last day of junior year, and I'm physically in trigonometry but mentally sunning myself on our deck. Mr. Mortimer would be happy to know at least my daydreaming is somewhat mathematical.
Let
x
equal
my
SPF
number. If the sun is positioned overhead at an 80° angle, and the temperature is 78 degrees Fahrenheit, what is the ideal value of x to achieve maximum tanning without risking melanoma as I bask in my tankini?
My calculations are interrupted when an anonymous underclassman knocks on the door and hands Mr. Mortimer a yellow slip. Without a pause in his monologue on inverse trigonometric functions, Mr. M walks over and hands me the “Report to Guidance Office Immediately” pass.
I quickly pack my books and give my best-slash-only friend, Marnie, a shrug. I realize it's pathetic to feel special over being summoned to the guidance office, but I feel like a kite, cut free after straining against my string all day.
Soaring toward the door, I try to float smoothly past Grace Douglas's desk, but of course she can't just let me pass in peace. She hums a few bars of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” just loud enough for me to hear. I hang my head in shame, wishing I could disappear. You'd think Grace could at least give the mocking Christmas Carol a rest on days when the temperature rises above seventy. But her cruelty is like the number Ï. Constant and irrational.
Hugging my books, I watch the hallway tiles as I shuffle my thick black boots past endless classrooms. Students-slash-inmates sit in submissive rows, their bored heads swiveling toward me as I slump by. Classroom by classroom, they all turn back to their droning wardens once they see it's just me. A few kids from Grace's clan actually point and laugh as if I'm their walking punch line. Which, of course, I am.
I'm sure Grace gets a whole different reaction when she walks by
. I imagine entire classes standing up and clapping as she stops in each doorway to pose and shake her glossy hair. The only people who ever wave to me are Marnie and “the dweebs,” aka James and Rick.
Rick's study hall is coming up on my right, and I slow down for my shining opportunity to act like I'm popular. I peer through his open doorway, a smile heading for my lips.
When I see Rick, my smile drips into my throat and turns bitter. I swallow it.
There he is, sitting right in the absolute center of the classroom, withâget thisâhis
socks
hanging on his ears. That's right, I'm talking one puffy white sock on each ear as he casually writes in his notebook. Two girls in the back row are pointing and laughing, but only Rick Shuebert could get away with acting so perpetually bizarre without getting in trouble. Teachers love the guy, and this one is sitting at his desk as if he can't even see the obvious footwear dangling from the sides of Rick's head.
I stand in shock and disgust until Rick must sense my twitching eye daggers and finally looks up. As usual, he seems happy to see me. I clench my teeth and silently hiss, “What the hell are you doing?”
As if his behavior isn't bad enough, Rick is actually the one who helped initiate the incident that turned me into a punch line. No, I'm not getting into that right now, but you can trust me when I say it was awful. In fact, I'd be totally justified in hating Rick's guts forever. But my best friend, Marnie, has been secretly in love with his best friend, James, since grade school, and I just so happen to be an excellent best friend.
I tolerate Rick for Marnie's sake but socks-on-ears is a new low. I shake my head disapprovingly, and he shakes his back at me, his goofy sock ears flopping back and forth. I suppress the urge to laugh and ignore his happy wave as I stomp out of the doorframe and on toward the guidance office.
Rick is constantly coming up with new ways to be antisocial. Marnie thinks he has an “I'll reject you before you get the chance to reject me” complex, but I think he's just the most clueless smart person I know. He's not even all that awful to look at. I mean, he has nice hair anywayâbrown and wavy. His nose is a bit off-center but he could potentially be a semihottie under different circumstances. For instance, if he took his damn
socks
off his
ears
.
The guidance office is in a separate building, so I have to go out the cafeteria doors and down a short walkway to get to it. When the warm outdoor air hits my face, it reminds me what a crime it is to be stuck in school on such a beautiful day. It's much too warm for my black combat boots, but I like the way they make me feel protected. My
I-don't-give-a-shit-kickers
.
I squint up at a fluffy, white cloud trying to get my attention. It seems to be gesturing with its billowy arms. Sailing ahead, it dares me to follow it to the cornfield where the smokers meet. But then, skipping school isn't really my style. Besides, I'm not even close to cool enough to just
show
up
in the cornfield without an invitation or a nicotine addiction.
With a sigh, I drag open the door to the guidance office. After my brief fling with glorious sunshine, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim waiting room. The guidance secretary gives me her patented consoling smile as I wait for her to finish her phone conversation. Which, from the sound of it, is a personal call.
I look around at the cheap wood-paneled walls covered in posters of mountain climbers with “ambition” and kittens “hanging in there.”
This
place
is
so
depressing
. No wonder our guidance staff has such a high turnover rate.
When the secretary hangs up, I slide my yellow slip across her desk.
“Oh yes, Shannon Depola,” she says brightly. “You're the last to arrive. Number three.”
“So, this is some sort of group thing?”
“Oh, they wouldn't tell me what they're doing with you. But judging by the pair running this thing, it's something
ritzy
. Go ahead, straight down the hall, last office in the back. The ladies went searching for a
real
cup of coffee but should be back in a minute.”
As I shuffle past, she leans over and whispers, “And maybe you can give me a hint once you know what's happening.” She grins, showing long teeth bursting out of her gums. “They've been
awfully
secretive.”
I nod noncommittally.
Incurable
gossipâwhat a darling quality to have in a guidance secretary
.
I move down the dark hallway, passing the rainbow-postered offices of the counselors who haven't given up on us yet.
I never knew the guidance department even had a back room. It smells of fresh paint, and I blink as my pupils readjust to the ultra-white walls and million-watt fluorescent bulbs crowded along the ceiling.
“Told you,” says a gruff voice on my right. I look over to see Kelly Marco glaring at me through layers of eyebrow rings and eyeliner.
“I suppose you're right,” a soft voice answers from my left. I snap my head toward it and see Amy “The Whale” Waller sitting in an orange plastic chair with the attached desk pressing into her ample stomach. Amy drops her head, and her mousy hair drips forward.
“What theâ¦?” I try to figure out why the three of us are being grouped together. Kelly may be flunking out of something or other, but Amy has passing grades and I'm in advanced classes. Amy may have some sort of depression-thing happening, and Kelly has her pharmaceutical issues, but I'm pretty average in the category of teenage angst. I mean, aside from being a social pariah and allâ¦
And
BAM
âit hits me.
The
prank
. At least, I'd assumed it was a prank.
It
totally
had
to
be
a
prank
. During homeroom last week, we were handed out a questionnaire. Everyone murmured and laughed and assumed it was some sort of test to see if teachers even read all the crap they pass out to students.
The survey had only two questions. The first one asked us to write down the three girls “most likely to be elected Prom Queen next year.” Which, okay, was not the most ridiculous question ever posed to a group of high school students. Premature and idiotic maybe, but not completely ridiculous. We do have our three solid front-runners already in place. It was the second question that had everyone murmuring. It asked us to list the three “
least
likely to be voted Prom Queen, ever.”
For me, it was the “ever” that really screamed
prank
. As if unworthiness of becoming Prom Queen is a permanent condition.
It
had
to be a prank.
But now, here we are a week later, the three of us collected in one room. The obvious choices for the bottom threeâthe recluse, the druggie, and me. Amy is busy studying her desk belt, so I turn to Kelly. “We're not theâ¦?” I can't even say it out loud.
Her face jingles with piercings as she snarls. “Well, we're certainly not the damn Prom Queens.”
No, no, no
! I say in my head. “No, no, no!” I say out loud as I slide into the desk beside Amy. If anyone hears about the survey results, I'll be humiliated all over again.
I
don't think I can take any more
. “This can't be happening!”
“Relax, kiddo,” says Kelly. “You're upsetting the whale.” I look over and see that Amy is rocking her entire desk back and forth. “Sheesh,” Kelly says, “you two thought you were maybe gonna
be
Prom Queen?” She starts laughing. Or more accurately, she starts cackling-slash-coughing thanks to her pack-a-day habit.
Kelly is a burnout druggie who doesn't socialize with the other recreational drug-users at school. They seem like a rather inclusive group, but Kelly keeps to herself. She has a ton of piercings all over her face, which gives the impression her head is perpetually wrapped in barbed wire. It also helps to emphasize her “keep out” attitude.
With a groan, I look over at Amy. As usual, her hair hangs askew as if she's had some tawdry run-in with the hair gel. She's biting on her lower lip, a constant habit that creates pink impressions of her teeth below her mouth. Amy isn't the fattest girl in our class, but she's the one who's the most weighed down by her size so she gets singled out for abuse.
And here I am, the school's resident social exile, sitting between them where I belong. We're the bottom three. I close my eyes and moan. “Maybe the guidance counselors are staging a popularity intervention.” Leaning over my desk, I tuck in my stupid black boots and pull my brown hair forward. My breath seems amplified inside the little personal hair-corral I've created. I feel my enormous ears poking out and try to smooth my limp hair over them.
It may surprise you to know that my stringy brown hair and largish ears are not the main reason I'm socially null and void. I was actually doing just fine for myself, before the Elf Ucker Incident.
Unless you go to Westfield High, I'm sure you're wondering, “What the hell is an Elf Ucker Incident?” Well, let me tell you, it is something terrible. And now my mind can't stop replaying it like the
Twenty
Most
Shocking
Reality
Show
Moments
my sister was watching in the living room last night.
I might as well tell you, since nobody who knows me will ever forget the story anyway. I'm talking, I could become the first female pope who builds a homeless shelter on the moon, and folks around here will still remember me more for the Elf Ucker Incident.
It happened last year during gym class. We were playing co-ed dodgeball, and the wooden floors had just been redone, so the game was extra squeaky. The smell of polyurethane was strong, which was handy since the hormone fairy had been a little heavy-handed in adding the stink to everyone's sweat. I was one of the final four players still in the game.
I'm not all that athletic, but over the years I've developed this dodgeball strategy where I fall back, unnoticed, for the entire game. Once nearly everyone's out, I grab a ball, charge forward, and usually get taken out pretty fast. But every now and then, I get luckyâone of the really good players is distracted with some other really good player, and I manage to nail them at close range. Then everyone cheers for me like I'm some sort of rock star. It gives the impression I'm a much better player than I actually am.
So anyway, there I was, having the best dodgeball game of my life, completely oblivious to my impending doom. I waited patiently then leapt from the shadows and bumped off Luke Hershman, the most gorgeous of our notably attractive football players and an accomplished ball hog. As everyone was still reacting to my surprise attack on Luke, I dove to the floor like some action-adventure chick, avoiding a firebomb from my left.
The damned thing must've fallen out of my pocket when I stood back up, and of course I was too busy grinning like an idiot at my cheering fans to see it. I didn't even know I'd dropped it until Rick Shuebert (yes,
that
RickâMr. Socks-on-ears) pointed to the spot on the floor where I'd just gotten up and practically shouted, “What the heck is that?”
I looked over and my heart dove into my sneakers because I remembered sticking it in my pocket that morning, and
there
it
was
for everyone to see. A finger cot. Now, you may be asking: 1) Why was I carrying a finger cot in my pocket? and 2) What the hell is a finger cot, anyway? Well, 1) it's something that's used for a very embarrassing hobby that I'm not ready to tell you about, and 2) it's a rubber thing that looks, well, exactly like a tiny condom.