Prom-Wrecked

by T. H. Hernandez

  “Catherine?” Mom calls up the stairs.

  I glance at my watch and realize it’s already six thirty. Where did the afternoon go? “Coming,” I call, slamming my physics book closed and bounding down the stairs.

  Mom kicks off her pumps and pulls the band out of her hair, letting her long blond locks out of their severe office bun. After taking off her blazer and draping it over the railing, she turns to me. “Do you want to give your dad a hand with dinner, please? It’s late.”

  “I know. Sorry, I didn’t realize what time it was. How was work?”

  “The usual. Corporate law and all that,” she says with a half grin. I know she secretly loves her job, but she likes to pretend she thinks it’s as boring as Dad and I do. She grabs her briefcase from beside the door and walks into the kitchen ahead of me, sticking her nose in the air and sniffing a couple of times. “What’s that?”

  Dad comes around the island to plant a kiss on my mom’s lips, and I turn away. Parental PDAs are never something I need to see. “I made corned beef and cabbage. I know we missed Saint Patrick’s Day, but it’s March, the official month of the Irish.” He grabs the oven mitt and takes the lid off a pot, peering inside. “It’s just about ready if you want to get cleaned up.”

  We missed Saint Patrick’s Day because Mom worked through the night on some big case. I don’t know why she thinks this is a life I want. She spends more time with her coworkers than she does with her family.

  Mom’s gaze finally lands on me with the scrutiny I’ve come to expect. “What are you wearing?”

  I glance down. “Um, sweats.”

  “Not for dinner you’re not.”

  Because Mom thinks dinners should be formal, even in our own home. I sigh, but head back upstairs to peel off my tank top and sweats and pull on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Dinner’s ready by the time I get downstairs, and I take my seat at the dining room table. Over salty meat, boiled potatoes, and soggy cabbage, we take turns talking about the events of our days. As usual, Mom has a difficult client, Dad shares about his painting adventures, and then the attention turns to me.

  “Prom was almost canceled, but Owen’s working on something to bring it back.”

  My mom sets her fork down and turns toward me. “What?”

  “Some kid named Tristan was heading up the committee, but he quit or something.” I shrug. “So, Slater called the whole thing off and said if we do have it, the school won’t sponsor the event.”

  “Principal Slater,” she says. “Why don’t you take over? Oh Catherine, what a wonderful opportunity to create the prom of your dreams.”

  What she really means is her dreams. “I don’t have time. You know how loaded my schedule is. But Owen said…someone might be stepping up and he thinks we should work on some subcommittees.”

  “Well, I guess that’s better than not being involved at all. When I was in high school…” She drones on about how she was head cheerleader, head of God only knows how many other things, Prom Queen, and more. I’ve heard it a thousand times, and I resist rolling my eyes. She’s always envisioned me as a miniature version of herself, grooming me to step into not only her corporate lawyer shoes, but also her Prom Queen stilettoes.

  When she’s finished, I open my mouth to bring up the musical Mrs. Perry mentioned, but before I can get a word out, she says, “Oh, I told the staff you’d be in on Monday, since it’s the start of spring break. No spring break for lawyers.” She laughs. “They’re excited to see you. Missy has some tasks lined up for you. This will look great on your resume when you’re looking for a summer internship.”

  Great. I guess I don’t get to sleep in like normal kids my age on a day off. And now, mentioning the musical is about as appealing as the gray glob on my plate that used to be a vegetable.

  Chapter Four

  Riley

  Seven weeks until prom

  I introduce myself to Tristan, who acts like he’s never seen me before, although we sit next to each other in AP Government and recently teamed up for a mock debate.

  “You think you can do a better job at prom planning? Good luck,” he says, shooting me a smug smile. He holds out a folder with scraps of paper falling out of it but refuses to relax his grip. Like he wants to play some messed-up tug-of-war with his bake sale receipts. “No one around here cares about prom.”

  “I disagree,” I say, yanking the folder out of his hand. Turns out, what’s inside is basically useless. Tristan Fleming is not a very organized person. And he’s done next to nothing to plan for prom. Maybe he thought all the arrangements would just fall from the heavens into his lap.

  I send a Q-Chat message to Owen, keeping him up to date on the new prom committee efforts, led by me. He responds enthusiastically, cheering me on, and my heart soars. Knowing he has my back gives me a surge of confidence I might not have found on my own.

  After days of begging, pleading, and nonstop texting, the new prom committee springs to life. Owen asks Catherine to help with the planning, because he must think I need a reminder of how she destroyed our friendship, kicked me out of her “BFFs 4 life” group chat, then shunned me from her lunch table by inviting one of her cheerleading sidekicks to take my spot for the second half of eighth grade. When I gathered up the courage to ask her about it, she said that we “didn’t have anything in common anymore” and okay, yeah, she was absolutely right, but still…we could have just quietly drifted apart.

  After we spent hours in each other’s bedrooms, dreaming of our futures as movie actresses, doctors, or very important business executives, the sudden end of our friendship made me look at the world differently. I realized you could pour your heart out to another person and they could still dump you without a second thought. And while Catherine seemed to easily move on after everything ended between us, my life completely changed. I lost the one person I trusted with all my secrets, and it hurt. A lot.

  When high school started, Catherine’s star seemed to shine brighter while mine dimmed. In a freshman class filled with new kids, I turned into background noise, never standing out, never quite fitting in.

  Until now. Like it or not, prom will force me to stand out. To be someone who counts.

  After Owen and Catherine sign up for the committee, I call in a few favors to round up more volunteers. I force Desmond to join, too, because he pushed me into talking to Mr. Slater and helped convince me to lead this last-ditch prom effort. He needs to share my pain.

  “I found three potential event sites,” I tell Mr. Slater when I stop by his office on Monday morning for our status update. “All of them cost less than the country club. I plan on checking them out soon. And I scheduled a committee meeting to pick a theme. We also have a fund-raiser in the works.” Technically, nothing is in the works, but I’m thinking about it, so that counts, right?

  “Impressive,” Slater says, pressing his thumbs and fingers together to form an isosceles triangle. “I’ve got to tell you, Riley, I never thought you’d pull this off so quickly.”

  A smile tugs at my lips. I won’t bother mentioning that I haven’t slept more than four hours a night in the last week. “So, is Project Morp a go?”

  His eyebrows take a nosedive. “Did you say Morp?”

  “Sorry, that’s our secret code name. It’s prom spelled backwards. Now that the students are taking over the event, we want to rearrange a few things, if that’s okay.” When he starts to protest, I rush to add, “Nothing bad. We’re just trying to make our big night unique and memorable.”

  Principal Slater looks concerned. He likes to play by the rules. “I’d suggest you line up chaperones, too. Even though it’s not an official school-sponsored event, you should have some type of adult supervision.”

  “Working on it,” I lie, mentally adding this item to my ever-growing to-do list. Though I know two adults who won’t be attending. No way in hell are my parents dragging their cameras within a ten-mile radius of my prom. They’d make me pose for a million pictures and plaster them all o
ver their website.

  Mom claims it’s all about marketing, but I suspect she’s trying to record every last second of my life in Hamilton because she knows when I leave for college, I’ll likely never return. Why come back to a town that’s branded you as insignificant? A year or two from now, I doubt anyone will remember my name. Which is exactly what I want most out of high school. To escape with my dignity intact and never look back.

  …

  Saturday morning, I storm into the cafeteria and take my place at the podium in front of the lunch counter. With my shoulders back and chin lifted, I default to the confident pose I learned in debate class. Still, my eyes dart wildly left and right, betraying my inner panic. Less than half of the people who signed up to help with Project Morp have shown for our first meeting. Owen and Catherine stroll in, holding hands, and take seats at the table in front of me. Desmond sits behind them, waiting for Carrie, who wrote her name on the list but never appears. Jane shuffles into the room, her red hair thrown into a messy bun, pushing her glasses farther up her nose. I sent her a message last night to remind her about the meeting, because as Student Council President, she needs to be here, if only to oversee the Prom King and Queen voting. In a minute of panic, I’d begged her to take over the committee, but she laughed me off, saying she was too busy. Since I couldn’t convince her to be in charge of this disaster, the least she can do is offer moral support.

  Hunter Davern strolls in behind Jane and sits with Catherine and Owen. She pulls a mint green crocheted beanie off her head and runs a hand over her dark curly hair. Her glittery eyeshadow accentuates her hazel eyes and brown skin. Hunter’s an artist, which is obvious by the way she combines flowery dresses with heavy boots and still manages to look like she stepped out of the pages of a teen magazine back-to-school fashion spread.

  Next to Hunter, Catherine’s blond locks are straightened and framed around her face, while my hair is pulled into a ponytail. Hunter assumed the role of Catherine’s BFF at some point during freshman year. I’m not sure how she’s managed to keep her position as long as she has, but if Catherine’s not with Owen, chances are she’s hanging out with Hunter, talking or laughing at a private joke.

  Hunter waves and flashes me a wide smile before leaning in, saying something to Catherine in a low voice. They both start to giggle, and immediate discomfort pipes through my chest. After she kicked me out of her group chat in middle school and made it obvious that I was excluded from her newly formed social circle, I can’t help but think she’s still laughing at me whenever we’re stuck in a room together.

  My knees soften, and I tilt the upper half of my body forward, gripping the sides of the podium, wondering if I should just admit defeat and pass over the committee to anyone willing to step up. In search of a sign of encouragement, I try to catch Jane’s attention, but she’s captivated by something on her phone. Owen doesn’t know me at all if he thinks I can do this. Before I get a word out, Jordon Oswald sneaks in the back door of the cafeteria and takes a seat behind everyone else. Though he’s known around school as the guy who sings like Charlie Puth, Jordon’s quiet when he’s offstage. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever talked to him. He doesn’t really seem like the rah-rah, let’s-go-to-prom type.

  As I look out into the sea of faces, which is actually more like a pond, a nervous tremor ripples through my chest. Jane rolls her eyes and points to the clock on the wall, telling me to get on with it. Catherine studies her fingernail polish as she listens to Hunter, who’s still whispering and laughing.

  “Hi, everyone. Welcome.” I stumble over the first line of my kick-off speech and forget everything I planned to say. My eyes drop to the papers in front of me. “We’re here to organize the Hamilton High Senior Prom. I agreed to set up a committee, but if anyone else wants to take the lead…” My sentence dangles helplessly in the air while I cast a pleading look over everyone in the cafeteria.

  Before I continue, the door slams open and Jessa Chang saunters in with her current boyfriend, Bryan Stevens. She makes a show of lowering herself into a chair and crossing her long, tan legs before flipping her straight black hair over her shoulder. “What’s the status?” she asks, as if she’s in charge. Actually, she’d be a perfect choice to take over the committee.

  “We’re looking for someone to run the prom committee. Tristan decided he, um, he’s no longer with us.” Someone gasps, and I hurry to add, “I mean, he’s alive. He’s just not on the prom committee anymore.”

  Jessa smooths an unseen wrinkle on her skirt, not bothering to make eye contact. “Sorry, not my scene. What’s the color scheme? I vote for something that complements my skin tone.”

  “I’ll make a note of it for whoever wants the job,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. I glance around the cafeteria. “So, do I have any takers?”

  Silence. Complete and utter silence.

  “Looks like it’s all you, Riley,” Owen says when it’s clear no one is volunteering. For now, I’m stuck running the show.

  Okay. Moving on. I drag a shaky breath through my lungs. “In that case, I thought we’d start with a checklist.” I reach for a stack of papers sitting on the front table and pass them to Owen, who takes one and hands them to Catherine. She passes the entire pile to Hunter without even glancing at it. “If anyone wants to sign up for a specific item now, let me know and I’ll pencil you in. I’ve also created an online document we can access and update as tasks are completed.”

  No one speaks.

  Bryan folds the form into a paper airplane and launches it across the cafeteria. Jessa giggles her approval.

  “Does anyone have an idea for a theme?”

  Nothing.

  “Fund-raising suggestions?”

  Blank, empty stares. My shoulders fall.

  “DJ? Band? Any preference?”

  Maybe I should talk to the ceiling. At least one of the overhead lights is responding by buzzing and blinking.

  “All right…that’s all I have for now. See you next week.”

  Without a word, everyone gets up to leave. Desmond throws me a sympathetic glance on his way out.

  That was a complete and crushing failure.

  I’m stuffing my notes into my backpack when Owen returns to the cafeteria, without Catherine.

  “Hey, Riley,” he says. “I wanted to help you out, but I was waiting for Cat to sign us up for something.”

  “Could you talk to her about it?” I swing my backpack over my shoulder. “I can’t do everything by myself.”

  He falls in step beside me. “I’m free now. What’s at the top of your to-do list?”

  “First up? Finding an event site.” I’m tempted to ask why he’s not driving Catherine home, but I’m smart enough to know that’s a conversation I should probably avoid. We break through the cafeteria doors, heading out to the parking lot. “Slater suggested the Elk Lodge, but I was hoping for something a little less…geriatric.” An old blue car the size of a small boat rumbles past us, the engine so loud that I pause until it pulls into traffic. “I was thinking about checking out one of the potential locations right now. It’s a restored barn outside of town. The space is what I’d call rustic. But it’s big enough to hold our entire class, plus dates. Do you think it might work?”

  As he listens to my rambling, Owen watches the blue car disappear around a corner. “Rustic, huh? I thought you’d go for romantic.”

  “Ew, gross,” I say, but my smile betrays me. “That’s more Catherine’s speed, isn’t it? Hearts and flowers? Rainbows of happiness.”

  “She likes some flowers, but not others,” Owen says. “She used to text me pictures of her favorites, and I kept them on my phone.”

  “She’s lucky,” I say, wishing I could stop picturing Owen buying flowers for me. “I’m no expert on romance, but I think any girl would love to be with someone who keeps track of which flowers she likes.” I feel myself starting to blush and switch back to my original question—about the prom site. “Anyway, if we don’t
like the barn, the banquet room at Lonny’s Catering is available. That’s option B and probably more on the romantic side. Puffy window treatments from the eighties and crystal chandeliers, that sort of thing.” I continue listing prom locations as we head toward my Kia, parked next to his Jeep.

  “I’ll go with you.” Owen interrupts my overly detailed discussion on banquet room decor. “You might need a second opinion.”

  My shoulders do a freaky up and down dance, like I’m not sure if I should say yes or no. Finally, I come up with, “Sure!” Way too cheerful. I’m such a hot mess right now. Then I add, “I can drive. I just filled up this morning.”

  He raises an eyebrow. “You’re turning down a chance to ride in my Jeep?”

  My laughter sounds like wind chimes. “I already Googled the directions, so I thought it would be easier…but you can drive.”

  “Nah. The Jeep’s running on fumes.” He stops in front of my car and taps the hood. “This is you, right?”

  “You’ve spotted my getaway vehicle around town?”

  “Sometimes I drive behind you on the way to school. When Catherine catches a ride with Jessa or Natalie, I don’t need to cross through town.”

  I click my remote, and we duck inside. Owen tugs the seat belt across his chest, stretching it up and back twice like he’s a safety inspector.

  “I’ll try not to give you whiplash.” I turn on the engine, shift into reverse, and brake. Owen throws out his arms and presses his palms against the dashboard like he’s bracing for impact. For a minute, I flash back to fourth-grade Owen, who was always doing ridiculous things to make me laugh. A nervous giggle escapes me, and I check the rearview mirror before shifting into drive. He’s so close that my elbow accidentally bumps his. We both pull away at the same time.

  Driving to the barn, we analyze the success of our latest Immortal Quest strategy. Owen wants to build a new safehouse and stockpile our gold and weapons, which would allow us to travel light. We argue over which of the new monsters should be taken down first and try to guess which rewards will be transferred to us when we capture them. Quest is our secret world, with no Catherine, no prom committee, and no school pressure. Somehow, after everything that happened between me and Catherine in middle school, Owen managed to stay friends with both of us, mainly keeping in touch with me through the game.