The Real Prom Queens of Westfield High (10 page)

“That's because you have enough fat stores to survive all summer,” Kelly shoots.

“Hey, I'm cranky too,” I say, “but you don't have to take things out on Amy.”

“Oh, you're cranky?” Kelly spits, “Try spacey! It's a good thing they finally matched your hair color to your dingbat personality.”
Ouch
.

There's silence before Kelly gives a quiet, “Sorry.”

“I can't believe we're doing it already.” The two of them look at me. “I mean it. Girls on reality shows always end up fighting and I know this is supposedly a
competition
, but hating on each other already? What breed of bitches are we?”

The three of us fall into an awkward silence.

“I'm really sorry, guys,” Kelly sighs. “I just want a damn cigarette. I know you're not dumb, Shannon. And that was a really cute mushroom joke you told last night, Amy.”

“And your voice is amazing!” I add, which makes Amy blush. “You should totally try out for
Top
Pop
Idol
. I mean, after this show's done.”

“Your makeovers look really great,” Amy says shyly. “I especially like your Per-style-ality™, Shannon.”

I grin. “The school is going to
freak
when everyone gets a load of us.”

“Come on,” Kelly says. “Do you honestly believe new threads and a little lipstick will change the way the rest of the school sees us?”

“Will any of this even make a difference?” Amy asks.

My imagination must be on the fritz because as hard as I try, I can't picture how people are going to react to the changes in us.

PART THREE

The Reveal

When Amy, Kelly, and I walk down the hallway of Westfield High on the first day of our senior year, it's like we're the end result of one of those shows on the baking channel. You know, where some cook mixes a bunch of goopy ingredients in a bowl but then sets that mess aside and pulls this gorgeous finished cake from the oven.

Here we are. Hot out of the intense oven of Prom Queen Camp. And we're gorgeous.

The three of us are doing our best runway walks down the newly renovated hallways, and I have no doubt when this scene is aired, we'll be in slow motion with dramatic music playing in the background.

Our classmates cup their hands and whisper to each other as we strut by. Nobody even seems to recognize us as the gooey cake-mix losers from last year. Amy and I glance at each other in amazement.
Go
us
. Kelly keeps pace between us, quietly chanting, “I'm-a-whore, I'm-a-whore,” with each stride.

The heady feeling of having everyone's attention actually makes me giggle. Then I remember Larry's body language training, or “brainwashing” as Kelly calls it. I shake my blonde hair, tilt my chin slightly upward, and smile in the inviting way I've practiced all summer. As we move smoothly down the hall, eyes widen and feet point toward us. In body-language speak, that means everyone is interested in knowing more.

It's no big surprise either. We look amazing. I'm wearing perfectly tailored clothes with pink pumps that show off how excellent I am at walking now. My slumping shuffle is gone, along with the
I-don't-give-a-shit-kickers
. Victoria wasn't kidding about burning them. We had a big, dramatic campfire scene where we each burned items that were holding us back. It started out okay, with Kelly's pack of cigarettes and Amy's Amish-looking dress, but we had to evacuate the area quickly when a huge toxic cloud emanated from my melting rubber soles.

Most of Kelly's piercings have closed up, and she looks beautiful, but with enough edge to save her from being plastic. The boys are falling over themselves to watch us walk by, but I suspect their focus is mainly on her. I've gotten to know Kelly well enough to know she's barely resisting the urge to shout, “What the hell are you lookin' at?” as we pass clumps of gawkers. But Amy and I are loving all the positive attention.

Amy is by far the most changed of the three of us. She has embraced the exercise and diet regime dictated by Perky and even went through with a “touch” of lipo, which, yes, I know is wrong and dangerous and antifeminist and
everything
, but let me tell you, it does look good on her. She didn't go too extreme, and her sexy curves compliment the fiery red hair that's actually been tamed into a striking accessory.

But it's Amy's personality that's completely unrecognizable from last year. Instead of being so painfully shy it makes everyone around her uncomfortable, she's now the epitome of open confidence. Rather than biting her bottom lip, she holds her mouth in a relaxed smile. And she even learned a trick to stop herself from blushing all the time. When she feels her cheeks heating up, she actually tries to make herself blush harder. The first time Larry had her try it, I was a little nervous she would melt her own face off, but amazingly it seems to work.

Even Westfield High has gotten a full makeover. The sparkly new hallways are about five hundred watts brighter, and the light fixtures have a thick black border with Nőrealique written in white block letters. I recognize the font from the Nőrealique Metrosexual men's line, which is kind of hilarious to see in such a rural school. I picture James wearing a light coat of ivory foundation on his face as he rides around on his family's tractor.
And
perhaps
a
bit
of
arm
bronzer
to
accentuate
that
farmer
tan?

I notice the new locker numbers are on little silver plates shaped subtly like Nőrealique Lips. Of course they're also fitted with hidden cameras in strategic locations.

The show can't actually air any of the footage they're shooting until releases are signed. Come April, if our classmates refuse to sign consent forms, the show will feature the three of us surrounded by a bunch of blurred-out faces. But as Mickey has pointed out, it's not our job to worry about any of that. Our job is to become as popular as humanly possible between now and then.

Kelly, Amy, and I arrive at the bank of lockers that's been strategically reserved for us. Located at the axis of student flow, we are offered maximum exposure plus given the opportunity to make deliberate eye contact with our public as often as possible.

Across the crowded intersection, I spot Grace, Deena, and Kristan.
The
competition.
They're busy smiling and hugging each other as if they didn't just spend the whole summer posing at the pool together. Victoria devoted two full days of Prom Queen Camp to studying their weaknesses and suggesting ways we can overtake them. It's part of our Popularity Plan of Attack, and as Victoria says, it's nothing personal. Those bitches just need to be taken down a notch or three to make room for us at the top.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to burying Grace Douglas. “Just look at them,” I whisper to Amy, as she hangs a mirror inside the door of her locker. “So full of themselves.”

“And to think”—Amy purses her lips at her reflection—“we can be just like them by the end of the year.”

“Yup.” Kelly's busy drawing twisted trees and fairies on her locker door with a thick black marker. “You chop the head off the beast that is popularity in this hellhole, and a new one grows in its place. Or in this case three.” Her teeny diamond nose ring glints prettily.

“Don't forget what Victoria said,” I warn.

“I'll act
pleasant
.” She spits the word. “But this is just us.” She glances up to the ceiling tiles where cameras are hidden and adds, “Oh, right…aaand the rest of America.”

Just then I see Deena glance in our direction and raise her finely arched eyebrows. The universal symbol of unguarded surprise. She whispers something to Grace, and Grace's eyes shift about before latching onto the three of us.

“Don't look now, but we've been spotted by enemy forces,” I say.

“Bring it on,” Amy growls in a way that makes me wonder if it's really okay to starve a girl for over two months. She looks ready to attack, and I point out that her body language is bordering on aggressive. She relaxes her shoulders and turns her left foot outward to appear more open and friendly. “Thanks, Shannon,” she whispers.

I can read by the Queens' stances they're agitated by our presence. Victoria predicts there's no way they'll ever embrace our new status but claims there's a chance they may invite just one of us into their clique in order to enforce their dominance. If that happens, our Social Advisement Coaches will direct us how to proceed, but for now, our best strategy is to stick together as a hot new clique of our own. I secretly hope to get invited to join the inner sanctum of the Alpha Queens. It seems like a lot less work than inventing our own faction from scratch.

As I watch, the Queens decide to flex their supremacy by ignoring us for now. Those who've been watching in hopes of witnessing a confrontation go back to milling around the hallway and openly staring at us. We'll all just have to wait to find out the official royal response.

The three of us stand tall together, smiling and holding our cores open for approach. I've been considering using my middle name, Elizabeth, and constructing a whole new identity. One that nobody would ever in a million years associate with the Elf Ucker. Glancing in Amy's mirror, I tell my reflection, “Nobody will even guess I'm…”

“Shannon!”

The cry comes from behind.
Someone
recognized
my
back?
That makes no sense. Besides my blonde, over the summer I dropped about ten pounds against my will.

I turn and see it's Marnie, of course. “Holy crap. Look at you!” She gives me a huge hug. “You look amazing! Did your Mom win the lotto or something?”

All of my Prom Queen Training dissolves. I feel like my old self, happy to see my best friend after a long summer apart. Kelly clears her throat, reminding me that my curved shoulders and enormous goofy grin go against Prom Queen Code. I've been the one enforcing “camp rules” all morning and here I am breaking them big time.

“But it's
Marnie
,” I whine, and Kelly clucks her tongue.

“Shannon? What's going on?” Marnie squints at Kelly. “Do I know you?”

“Oh yes, how rude of me. Marns?” I gently hook my arm in hers. “You remember Kelly. Marco?” I gesture in mock ceremony. “And
this
is Amy. Waller.” Marnie's eyes widen in surprise.

“Wow. I overheard someone say something about three hot new girls in school,” Marnie says. “Talk about reinventing yourselves.”

“Yeah, we've got everyone all a-tizzy,” Kelly says darkly.

Ignoring her, I tell Marnie, “We hung out this summer and sort of started this self-improvement thing.” Thankfully, camp has helped me get
way
better at lying.

“Well, you guys look amazing,” Marnie says. I read her open stance and the way her smile goes all the way up to her eyes—she's genuinely happy for me.

I want to tell her all about Prom Queen Camp and learning to read body language and Amy's amazing singing voice. Not to mention
I'm going to be on television!
In fact, we're
all
going to be on television and are being taped at this very moment. I have to get Marnie talking about herself, quick, before I spill my guts. “How was your summer helping the homeless?”

“Amazing. Sad. Hot. So much work.” She frowns. “Is that a lips logo on your shirt? And why did my emails bounce back saying you were unavailable all summer?” Leave it to Marnie to be the only person on the planet who doesn't want to talk about her own good deeds.

“Who did you get for science?” I try again, but Marnie just laughs and calls
“Tangent
,” as she aims her palm to the right.

“But speaking of science, Rick was so bummed he couldn't hang out with you over the break.”

“You talked to him?” I'd love to say I've stopped thinking about the way he looked at me through my rearview mirror by now, but just the mention of his name gets me going. I look around, hoping to glimpse his poor posture. He'll probably be wearing his traditional first day of school uniform—old jeans with his dirty white BlackSpot sneakers.

“He and James were meeting Mr. Hoovler early this morning,” Marnie says. “They're determined to rock the State Science Fair for senior year, and today's the first day they can officially present their project idea to their advisor.”

“Science geeks unite,” Kelly proclaims. I'm surprised she's still interested in my conversation with Marnie, and for a flash, I worry she's looking for a way to sabotage me in the competition. Then again, the summer
has
changed her. She and Raul have gone from smoldering glances to flirty banter to bonding over how ridiculous reality television is. Kelly confessed to Amy and me that it's the closest she's allowed herself to get to any guy. Amy thinks Kelly is starting to get over her mother issues, but anyone can see Raul is just healing her with his Latin hotness.

“Excuse me.” A girl who I think I recognize as a junior is standing way outside my personal space in a classic show of respect. “We're trying to figure out…weren't you Josie Depola's big sister?”

“Why, yes.” I turn my smile on full power. “I'm Shannon. And you may also recognize Kelly Marco here, and
this
is Amy Waller.” If I can't have a new identity, nobody gets a new identity.

Junior girl's body language indicates she's fighting off physical shock. Marnie puts an arm around her waist, ready in case she needs assistance. Nodding dumbly, the girl scrambles off to her waiting cluster of friends. They dip their heads together as she talks animatedly, then collectively they turn to stare at us with gaping expressions. I imagine their dramatic reactions being played over and over when the show airs.

I close my locker smoothly, give Marnie an air kiss with a loud
mwaaa
, and head to my first class, confident news of us will spread school-wide by third period.

Or
sooner.

***

“Well, if it isn't Shannon Depola.” The slick voice slides over me as I put my first-period books in my locker. “What'd you do this summer? Rob a bank?”

I turn to see Grace Douglas scanning my expensive outfit up and down. I face her and give my best practiced smile, showing my teeth evenly and allowing my eyes to crinkle just enough to seem genuine.
Maybe
I'll be chosen to join the Alpha Queens
.

Grace wrinkles her nose. “Too bad you couldn't accessorize with a new personality.”
Or
not
.

I spread my stance and put my hands on my hips, fingers forward, showcasing my crotch. I know it sounds silly, but it's a clear way to display power and aggression. “Too bad you're not fooling anyone with those knock-off Limano pumps.” Prom Queen Camp taught us a thing or two about spotting designer knock-offs, and it turns out Grace has been fooling folks for years with her imposter-wear.

She stands with her jaw slack enough to part her lips. Evidence of astonishment. I'm pretty shocked myself. We practiced bitchy put-downs over the summer, but I had no idea I was capable of zinging Grace Douglas so effectively. I suppress the urge to giggle as a few gawkers stop to watch.