Prom-Wrecked

by T. H. Hernandez

  I scan the names, but most of them are cheer specific—local bow makers, gymnastic centers, ballet and hip-hop studios—not places that would have much to gain from having their names on a banner at prom, although a few may be willing to donate something to the prize pack.

  My phone dings with a text, and I shove my notebook aside to find my phone buried under my prom binder.

  Hunter: Sup?

  Catherine: Trying to figure out which businesses to hit up for prom donations

  Hunter: Boring. Let’s talk about Simone

  I send her an eye-rolling emoji.

  Catherine: Of course. How goes “operation prom date Simone”?

  Hunter: What do you think about leaving a series of notes in her locker? Like one a day for a week.

  Catherine: I don’t know. What do the notes say?

  Hunter: That someone likes her. Wants to ask her to prom but isn’t sure how.

  Catherine: That’s a really horrible idea.

  Hunter: WHY????

  Catherine: Because. She’ll wonder who it is. And what if she hopes it’s someone other than you?

  Hunter: Oh. Yeah. Didn’t think about that.

  Catherine: Keep at it. Something will come to you.

  Hunter: My mom is yelling at me. Gotta go.

  She adds a handful of hearts and kissy emojis before her texts stop coming. I fall back onto my pillow, tucking my phone beneath it. I wouldn’t want to be in her shoes, not knowing who I’m going to prom with. On the other hand, the excitement of asking someone or being asked, the thrill of that chase, I’ve never had that. Since our first date was arranged, which also happened to be my first high school dance, there wasn’t any fear of having to ask someone or the chance of being turned down.

  I’ve never experienced the anxiety of wondering if someone I really liked was into me, too. But I’ve also never had that rush, either, the avalanche of emotion you read about in romance novels when the guy you’re crushing on finally makes it clear he likes you.

  Imagine Dragons blasts “Radioactive,” jarring me out of a disturbing dream in which Owen forced me go to the Wicked audition, but he wouldn’t let me get dressed first. I fumble around for my phone and find it on the floor beside my bed.

  Shutting it off, I roll out of bed, still in yesterday’s clothes, stumbling over my books and binders on the floor where I must have kicked them off last night. I toss my messenger bag onto the bed and begin stuffing everything back in before heading to the bathroom for a shower.

  When I’m ready, I grab my bag off my bed and head downstairs, where the low rumbling of male voices comes from the kitchen. I drop my bag by the front door, noticing Owen’s backpack is sitting on the floor. Dad is laughing at something Owen said when I join them at the breakfast bar.

  “You’re early,” I say, glancing at the clock to make sure I’m not actually late.

  “Woke up early this morning.” He rubs his hands together. “Figured we could talk about Morp.”

  I glance between Owen and my dad. “Okay.”

  “What’s this mor-thing?” Dad asks, setting a plate of toasted bagels in front of us beside a tub of cream cheese.

  “Morp. It’s prom spelled backwards. We’re planning an alternative prom for our senior year.” Owen slathers a thick layer of cream cheese on a bagel, smashes the top into the gooey mess, and shoves it in his mouth. Guess he doesn’t have his mother harping on him about gaining weight or a team of cheerleaders reminding him that flyers need to be small.

  Dad grins. “Well, you kids have fun. I need to get to school and prepare for this morning’s pop quiz.” He drops a kiss on my head before walking out of the kitchen.

  I grab the bottom half of a bagel, add a very thin layer of cream cheese, and find some smoked salmon in the fridge to go with it.

  “What’d you find out about sponsors?” Owen asks around his breakfast.

  Swallowing first, I set my food down and wipe my mouth. “I found out we need a new list of businesses. I don’t know how many of my contacts really care about sponsoring a prom.”

  “We’re really counting on you to come through for us.”

  I press my lips together to keep from jumping on him. He knows the last thing I need is more added pressure in my life. After taking a sip of coffee, I force my voice to remain light. “Yeah, I know. I’m not giving up. Just letting you know it could take longer than I originally thought.”

  He reaches over and places his hand on top of mine, giving me that sweet grin of his, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “I know, Cat. Sorry, that didn’t come out the way I meant it.”

  I give him a small smile in return. Guess I’m not the only one under too much stress at the moment.

  Chapter Six

  Riley

  Six and a half weeks until prom

  Every day, my prom to-do list grows, and other than checking out possible locations with Owen, nothing’s getting done. In homeroom, Mrs. Lam hands me a note from Mr. Slater saying he agreed to turn over Tristan’s fund-raising money for a deposit on the barn. After classes end, I swing by the administration office and pick up a manila envelope from Mrs. Whyte. Tristan somehow scored five hundred dollars washing cars and selling stale cupcakes. I’m hoping to run it over to Mrs. Cleary, the owner of the barn, to save the date. She’s started hinting about another school being interested in booking the barn for their prom, though I truly wonder who else would be desperate enough to fight Hamilton High over this particular location. Maybe they just looked at the pictures online and didn’t bother to drive out and take a look at the place in real life.

  “What did Slater want?” Jane asks when she spies me juggling my backpack, my purse, my laptop bag, and my prom file along with the cash-filled envelope.

  “He handed over the money Tristan managed to raise for prom. It’s barely enough for the barn deposit, but at least we’ll have a venue.”

  Behind her glasses, Jane rolls her green eyes. “Ugh, Tristan. He comes to student council meetings and falls asleep. I’m surprised he raised ten cents.”

  “He tried,” I say, not wanting to disrespect his efforts. “I think maybe prom is more work than he thought he signed up for.”

  “His mom baked the cupcakes, and he spent most of his time at the car wash on his phone,” Jane says. “I was there, standing by the roadway, flagging down cars. I know. So, what’s on the prom menu?”

  I trip over a slippery spot on the floor. “There’s supposed to be a menu?” I kind of wish I’d gone to last year’s prom. Except for a bunch of high school movies, I know nothing about the actual event. In my mind, I picture Project Morp turning out to be somewhere between Carrie (the new version starring Chloë Grace Moretz), High School Musical 3, and the zombie prom from Wizards of Waverly Place.

  Jane adjusts her glasses and shoots me a superior smile. After four years on student council, three as president, she’s all-knowing when it comes to school functions. “There’s always, always, always food at prom. No one eats it, but you still have to have it.”

  We pass through the Phys Ed wing, and Catherine appears, heading into the girl’s locker room with her cheer friends. As I struggle to keep up with Jane’s hurried pace, my prom file slips out of the bundle of stuff weighing me down. With a quick move, she grabs it and pushes it back in place. “Since our code name is Project Morp, maybe we can go with the backwards theme and eat dessert first.”

  “Jane! That’s genius!” Possibilities churn in my brain. Blue and gold cupcakes, followed by a traditional prom feast, whatever that is, ending with chips and dips at midnight. “We need to pick a main course.”

  “And find a caterer. Unless you plan on cooking.”

  My shoulders sag under the weight of responsibility. “Hopefully Catherine comes through with some big-time sponsors to help pay for our meal. Do you think we need a real caterer to officially qualify as a real prom?”

  Jane throws me a sidelong glance. “I’m not an expert on prom etiquette, but you should
probably plan on something more than the usual school-dance-big-bowl-of-popcorn.”

  I mentally recalculate our budget. “Even with the fund-raiser money added to our expected ticket sales, we barely have enough to pay for the barn and decorations.”

  “Then you should make sure Catherine understands that she needs to do something, or she’ll be crowned Prom Queen on an empty stomach. Or ask Owen for help. You two are tight, aren’t you?”

  I keep my expression blank, though every time someone mentions Owen, my heart falls out of rhythm for a beat or two. “I wouldn’t say tight. He’s only helping out because Catherine wants the Prom Queen tiara. When are we voting, by the way?”

  “After I’m sure prom is really happening,” Jane says, flipping her long auburn braid over her shoulder. “Are you stopping by International Club?”

  Shaking my head, I turn toward the senior hallway. “I really need to drop off the deposit as soon as possible. Let me know if I miss any good recipes at the South American tasting.”

  We pass by a group of baseball players still in their game uniforms. Jeremy Davis looks away from the guys and smiles at me.

  “Wow, look who noticed you now that you’re prom committee chairperson,” Jane remarks, clearly impressed by Jeremy’s attention.

  “Maybe he wants to offer to help out?” Because I’m sure Jeremy has no real interest in me beyond that. He must really be looking forward to prom. Despite all the bags, files, and folders in my hands, I attempt a small wave before dropping my eyes back to the floor, realizing I’m actually searching for Owen, though not expecting to find him. But when Jane sets off for International Club, I turn in the opposite direction, and he’s there, standing alone in the hallway, staring into the black void of his locker, dressed in a muddy baseball uniform.

  He startles when I call his name and shoots me the low-wattage version of his smile. “How’s Project Morp going?”

  I press my shoulder into the metal locker next to his, struggling to maintain my grip on the pile of stuff in my arms and still look cool. “Jane just reminded me that we need food for our Morp, which adds to our expenses. Did Catherine come up with any sponsors?”

  Owen pulls a notebook with a torn cover from his locker and shoves it in his backpack. “She’s working on it. I’ll remind her when we talk later.”

  “Thanks. Apparently, I need to find a caterer soon. I’ll make some calls after I drop off the deposit for Mrs. Cleary.”

  Owen’s grin widens. “Another barn trip?”

  “Yeah. Mrs. Cleary keeps calling me about it. She even mentioned something about another school wanting to book the same date for their prom.” I glance down at my empty hand and realize what’s missing. “Oh no.” I let everything in my arms fall to the floor and drop to my knees, combing through files and bags, frantically tossing papers and shaking out notebooks. Owen’s baseball cleats edge into the corner of my vision as he stands there, hands on his hips, watching.

  “Everything okay?”

  “The deposit. It’s gone! How did I lose it? I only had it for ten minutes.” My hands start to shake. This can’t be happening. I glance up and down the hallway, searching for a manila envelope filled with cash.

  Owen crouches beside me. “Take a breath and chill for a second. If you can’t find the check, we’ll go ask Slater to replace it.”

  “It was cash. Bake sale cash. Not a check.” Tears sting my eyes. “I can’t march in Slater’s office and announce the money’s gone. He won’t help us, anyway. He said prom is our responsibility this year, remember?”

  Owen starts rubbing circles on my back, comforting me. Through a cloud of misery, I register the heat of his touch.

  “I’m sure we’ll find it,” Owen says. “How much was the deposit? Fifty bucks? Seventy-five?”

  An incredulous laugh hiccups out of me. “Try five hundred.”

  Owen unsuccessfully tries to hide his shock. “Can you call Mrs. Cleary and ask if she’ll wait another day for the deposit?”

  “And lose our only affordable venue to another school?”

  Owen must hear the panic in my voice, because the pressure of his touch increases. “I’ll help you retrace your steps back to Slater’s office.”

  Before I answer, the squeaky soles of a herd of cheer sneakers approaches. When I look up, I see Catherine with Jessa Chang, Hannah Smith, and Natalie Ruiz, wearing matching pom squad uniforms. Owen’s eyes flick from Catherine to me. His hand drops away from my back like he realized he was touching a flaming tower of bricks.

  “Owen?” Catherine asks. “What’s going on?”

  I shoot him a pleading look.

  “Uh, Riley just lost her Morp envelope, I mean prom file. Temporarily misplaced. But she found it, right?”

  Owen is not a good liar.

  “Yes, sorry, just a minute of panic, but I’m fine.” I sweep my folders, papers, and backpack into my arms and rise to my feet. A yellow highlighter falls from my bag and clunks on the floor, rolling toward Catherine. She bends down and picks it up, then hands it to me. With narrowed eyes, she stares me down until I suddenly get a clue. The cool people are here, and they’re waiting for me to leave so they can plan their next party together or talk about whatever popular people discuss in private.

  I spin around, walk halfway down the hallway, and break into a run.

  After spending an hour retracing my steps, searching for the cash, and picking up the same piece of scrap paper three times, I admit defeat. Desmond storms out of the band room, a frown on his face as he lugs his tenor sax case.

  “Rough practice?” I ask.

  He mutters something about a digital tuner misfiring, knocking the entire brass section out of sync.

  “Hey Des, did you find a DJ for the prom?” I don’t mean to brush off his problems, but I need good news right now.

  He breaks into a huge smile, the band disaster forgotten. “Oh, Riley. Forget the DJ. We have live music. My grandpa’s band offered to do a gig for us.”

  “Your grandpa’s in a band?”

  “Yeah. They’re called the Golden Eighties Guys.” He wiggles one eyebrow up and down. “Great idea, huh? We’ll go backwards in time. Fits with our Morp theme.”

  I gnaw on my bottom lip, unsure. “Better check with Hunter. She’s in charge of decorations. But, possibly backwards in time is taking the idea a bit too far?”

  Desmond huffs. “If Owen wanted a band, you’d say yes.”

  Though I’ve never allowed myself to admit my crush on Owen out loud, apparently, I’m more transparent than plastic wrap. “Let’s schedule an audition and make the final decision as a committee. Me, Jane, Catherine, Hunter, and Owen, too. Can you set something up?”

  He sets his saxophone case down and pulls his phone from his pocket. “Let me check my schedule, but we gotta do it right after school. Grandpa only stays awake past seven on the weekends.”

  At home, I push aside my worry over the missing deposit money long enough to ransack the internet for catering menus, only to be interrupted by an SOS message from Owen.

  HOL: I need you, ESG. Now.

  ESG: Some things are more important than video games.

  ESG: Deleting your last message and pretending I never saw it.

  I close my prom file and log in to Immortal Quest, where I set Evil Skater Girl loose on a city of zombies and flesh-eating monsters. Owen’s nowhere in sight. When I rack up enough points to go shopping, I direct Evil Skater Girl into the virtual store to pick up a new sword and a long, black cloak, because I’m tired of looking at my boobs hanging out of the basic body armor. An alien jumps out from behind a rack of weapons and challenges me to a fight. I raise my sword just as a message notification from House of Lock pops up on my screen. I type a command to open Q-Chat.

  HOL: What’s with the new coat? Does it have magical powers?

  ESG: Nope. Just liked it. Got a cool new sword too.

  I return to the action. With one swift hit, the alien-dude goes down. Another notification
beeps on my screen.

  HOL: Killer move. Did you find the cash?

  ESG: Negative. Sad face.

  HOL: It’ll turn up.

  ESG: Did Catherine find any sponsors?

  HOL: I’ll call her. Right after this game.

  ESG: Game over. I’ll take care of the guy who just slipped around the corner while you rescue Project Morp.

  HOL: On it.

  Before he clicks off, House of Lock darts over to Evil Skater Girl and starts to do a funky chicken dance. I laugh, though Owen can’t hear me. HOL throws his arms out and somehow manages to pick ESG up in the air. They twirl around until Owen’s guy sets my girl back on her feet, before he disappears from the screen.

  What the heck was that?

  Chapter Seven

  Catherine

  Still six-and-a-half weeks until prom

  The sultry tones of Ed Sheeran singing “Thinking Out Loud” come from inside my purse. Owen’s ringtone. I turn to Jessa, Hannah, and Natalie, who are talking excitedly about shopping for prom dresses. “I’ll be inside in a minute.”

  Jessa swings her long black hair over her shoulder as she pivots, yanking open the door to Starbucks. “Don’t be too long. I have to pick up my little brother from karate practice soon.”

  “If you need to leave without me, I’ll ask my dad to pick me up,” I call as I fumble around in my bag until my hand lands on my phone.