Prom Queen of Disaster

by Joseph James Hunt

  “Zo?” My mom knocked on my door. “Stay home. I’ll call the school”

  I opened the door and forced a smile on my face. “Mom, I’m fine,” I said. “I need to get back, keep my grades up, go to college, and forget it ever happened.”

  She walked in and sat on the bed, patting the spot beside her.

  “It’s not about forgetting,” she said. “Never forget what’s happened. That’s part of you. It’s your past sweetie; it makes you the person you are today.”

  I hugged her. “I get that,” I said. “What I don’t get, is why it happened to me. We were in love.” I clutched the swell in my chest. I tried to speak but no words came, only tears. “It—it—hurts, here, it hurts.”

  She kissed me on the forehead and rubbed the back of my neck. “I’ll drive you to school,” she said. “Only if you want to go. Stay home, I’ll make you cocoa.”

  “I don’t want to,” I lied. “I want to get things over with. I want to get over this.” I lied again. Mentally, I wanted to get over it, to grow stronger, but I knew it would hurt me so much more.

  “Dylan’s lucky your dad’s at work,” my mom said, smiling. “He’s not a forgiving person, even though that’s what the church teaches, we need to give people a chance to fix things. People should admit to what they’ve done to help heal.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not saying you should forgive Dylan, but allow him to tell you, it will help,” she said and tapped the left-side of my chest. “You’re a fighter. You’ve always been a fighter.”

  She was right. I always challenged myself and fought for what I wanted. I wasn’t a push over and I wouldn’t let someone hurt me like that. I took a deep breath and calmed myself before I could drive.

  Internally I created a list of what I needed to do. First I had to quit the cheer squad. The outfit was cleaned, pressed, and packed. The thought was freeing. I could focus on my art and school essays.

  My stomach cramped at the thoughts in my head.

  “Shit.” My entire college essay would have to be changed now, I was going for the cheerleading artist, and now I’d be the girl whose high school sweetheart got her best friend pregnant.

  I slammed my hands on the steering wheel, again and again. I stopped when someone parked up beside me. Mila looked over at me before knocking on the window. I rolled the window down.

  “Sorry about what happened,” she said, sticking her head in the open window. I nodded. “I never thought she’d do something like that.”

  “Me either,” I said.

  “If you need anything,” she said, “someone to talk to, advice, anything, I can help you. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

  I nodded smiled. Nobody else had reached out to me, especially the cheerleaders. All attention was on Char, as she liked it, she was pregnant, she was the one being asked how she was, and everyone who hated Char, was now a supporter of me.

  Mr. June’s office was beside the lockers. Char was already inside. I saw her through the frosted glass. She was with her mom, and every piece of my body wanted to walk away. Instead, I knocked.

  “One minute,” he called out.

  I pushed the door, swinging on a hinge as it flew open. I held the uniform on my arm.

  “Zoey,” he said. “One minute.”

  “No, Mr. June.” I stormed up to his desk and put the outfit down. “I quit. It’s not your fault. It’s hers. So I won’t be at practice, and you’ll only see me at scheduled gym period.”

  Before he could say another word. I left. I didn’t look at Char or her mom, although I imagined their bitter tongues ready to spit venom if I stayed for a response.

  As I sat beside Ava in first period, she reached for my hand. I pulled away but smiled at her.

  “I wanted to ask how you were,” she said.

  “Then ask,” I barked.

  Ava’s smile dropped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think she’d do anything like that.” She sighed. “I haven’t spoken to her either. I don’t want to take sides.”

  “There are no sides,” I scoffed. “Dylan cheated, Char’s pregnant. Everyone’s asking how they are, but nobody wants to know if I’m okay. Just because I’m not an easy lay, just because I’m not pregnant. But I’m probably the one hurting the most.”

  “Zoey Jensen,” Mrs. Jennings, the English teacher called out. “That’s quite enough.”

  I rolled my eyes, reflecting on what I’d spieled off at Ava. Benny was suffering as well. I looked ahead but he wasn’t there. He was doing the sensible thing and taking a few days off, but I couldn’t, I needed to be back for my own sanity.

  I spent my breaks between periods and lunch in the art studio. My canvas was blank, and the longer I stared with Mrs. Galloway hovering over my shoulder, the more frustrated I became. My sweaty palms and itchy fingers wanted desperately to put something on paper, or at least drafted on canvas.

  “It’ll come Zoey,” she said from behind.

  She sat at her desk. I thought she was directly behind me, breathing on my neck, or I was that self-absorbed to think everything was suffocating me.

  “I—I—I can’t,” I said.

  “I know what’s happened, so I know you have it in there somewhere,” she said, standing. It was only Mrs. Galloway and I in there at lunch. She pulled a sketch book from a shelf and presented it to me. “My husband died over four years ago now,” she said. “A dark time, I never thought I’d get back to drawing, I thought everything I would do from then on would be dark and cold, but it gave me depth, it gave me a voice and a reason to get my butt into work—I wanted to inspire.”

  She was inspiring. I took a deep breath as she flicked through sketches she’d bookmarked with dates and places. They were cohesive pieces; all visually similar.

  “I get it,” I said. “They go together. They match.”

  She grinned. “That’s what I’m trying to get you all to do, push the feeling inside you that you’re not good enough. Stop censoring your feelings from class.”

  “I guess.”

  “Don’t guess,” she said. “The difference between someone having their work exhibited in the school auditorium and those in the gallery, isn’t a guess, it’s knowing the work you’ve put in has come from a real place of real emotion.”

  Mrs. Galloway continued mumbling to herself as she walked back behind her desk. I stressed myself to think on concepts, but everything was either dark, to the extent of channeling an inner massacre to the overly comic unicorns and smiles. I hated it.

  The bell rang and more people walked into the art studio to take their respective easels, standing quietly as they got to work. Nobody seemed to be struggling like me. I was mocking up designs and concepts, while they were on their canvases, throwing their base colors down.

  “In April, your works will be shown,” Mrs. Galloway said. “We need them finished for the end of March, and of course, they’ll be graded in March. That gives you three months. Each collection must have five pieces, exactly, no more, no less.”

  We’d already been given the briefing. One cohesive theme, five individual pieces, any size, and we had to present an essay behind the theme and the pieces, including why we’d chosen the canvas sizes, and any other decisions we’d made.

  I had a free period before the end of school, it would’ve been spent practicing, but as I’d given everything back and I wasn’t about to torture myself for another 50 minutes trying to pressure myself into being creative. I decided to go home.

  My name was called. There was nobody.

  “Zoey?” it came again.

  Mila poked her head outside a classroom door. My feet wanted me to keep walking, but my curiosity moved me.

  “Are you coming?” Mila asked.

  Mila, Heather, Kirsten, Delilah, and Brittany were sitting around a table. They appeared to be staging an intervention; their concerned faces and sympathetic eyes, they’d even prepared a whiteboard.

  This wasn’t a student body meeting; I knew ther
e were a few guys to balance it out. One of the requirements the school put in place to stop cliques taking over.

  “Take a seat,” she ushered me in, closing the door.

  I placed my bag at my side and looked around. They stared.

  Heather reached for my hand. “We feel for you,” she said. “You and Dylan were perfect.”

  “I personally believe if a guy does that, he should be castrated,” Kirsten said, snapping her fingers in the air. “And he got her pregnant.”

  “That’s her captaincy and prom crown gone,” Delilah laughed. “Hope she drops out.”

  “She can still run for prom queen, can’t she?” I asked.

  “She can,” Mila said. “If she’s showing, she probably won’t.”

  That was a thought. If she was keeping the baby. She’d definitely be showing, but to think she’d go through and keep a baby that would be half Dylan, hurt me. Right in the center of my chest, the shooting pain of that should be me hit.

  “Well, it is a popularity contest,” Heather said. “Let’s be real, how many people are going to support her after what she’s done.”

  “So what did you want me for?” I asked, cutting to the point.

  “Okay.” Mila nodded. “We want to help you get back at her.”

  Shaking my head, I thought on it for a moment. I was all about letting go and doing my thing, but nobody was offering to help me before. “What do you have in mind?” I smiled. “Like, let’s not be crazy,” I said, “I don’t want to throw her in front of a bus, but I wouldn’t mind taking her from the top of her pyramid.”

  “How would you do that?” Heather chirped up.

  “Physically?” Mila laughed. “Or, do you want to go for the one thing she’s wanted for so long?”

  “A cheer scholarship,” I snorted.

  “If she keeps the baby, that’s already ruined,” Kirsten said.

  “I’m thinking of prom crown,” Mila said. “We can make you prom queen. We watch those ballot boxes on prom night.”

  A smile touched my cheeks. It was the only thing she’d wanted. I stood, and grabbed my bag. “I don’t have a reason to trust you yet,” I said. “It sounds great, in theory, and who doesn’t want to be prom queen. But I feel like I’m being set up to take a fall here.”

  “What?” Mila asked. “Why?”

  “Any of you could do this, for yourselves,” I said, raising my hands in the air and shrugging. “So, why do you need me?”

  I could see them fumble for a moment over the question. They looked to each other. I wanted to be prom queen more than anything, not because it would hurt Char, but my mom was, and I always grew up believing I would. I guessed that wasn’t a good enough reason. First world problems.

  “If any of us are crowned, Char will be pissed, yeah, but if you’re crowned, she is going to lose her shit,” Mila said. “I’m all for her being pissed, but the AV kids are filming it, and if they get her on camera, sure, it’ll go viral, but think of how it will ruin her life.”

  “She’s ruined my life already,” I said.

  “You promised yourself to Dylan,” Brittany said. “And she knew that, even before the promise ring. I know you, Zo, I know how much you loved him, and how much she hurt you.”

  Before I left. I hesitated over the door handle. “Okay,” I said. “Tell me what you need, embarrassing pictures, I’ve got them, texts she sent bitching about everyone, got them too. She’s got it coming.”

  Their faces lit with joy, gleaming eyes and wide grins. In that moment, as I left, I had the idea I was looking for. The pain, it was there, and I was only scraping the surface. The heat inside rose to my face, forcing tears.

  My idea was based on prom, the crowning of prom queen, a cutthroat competition the world would never know, unless they were a female high schooler. Thoughts of Miss America, but instead of people you only known in passing, you were up against friends, and that’s why Char would never have been friends with us after Senior year.

  Prom wasn’t until May, but I was excited. Not only did I want Char to break down on stage in front of everyone, I wanted Dylan to show up on her arm, another reason to hear the satisfaction of a slap against his face.

  “Zoey!” I heard his voice. My heart thumped in my ears. “Let me explain.”

  I wavered on my feet as I powered through the hallway. I dropped to the side of my locker and took a deep breath, unlocking it with the combination in my sweaty fingers. I blocked out his face with the locker door.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. The words I would’ve begged him not to use. He repeated, like it would help change things. “I didn’t mean it. It was a mistake.”

  I closed my eyes. “A mistake?” I said, behind the locker door. “Don’t say that, a mistake is writing in blue ink when they ask for black, a mistake is walking into third period when it’s fourth period, already.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” he said.

  I slammed the locker shut to see his face, lopsided with a black eye, all purple and bruised. I smiled. “You deserved that,” I said. “And fuck your excuses, Dylan.”

  Storming off out of school, I fumbled for my car keys. I sat inside the car and stayed for a moment as tears boiled over. Thankfully I had tissues on the dashboard, I blotted my face with them, glancing at myself in the mirror. The tiny stroke of mascara on my bottom lashes was now a watercolor down my face. I wiped it away before reapplying, I shouldn’t have, but I needed to make sure everything looked normal.

  Kaleb was already home. He was on the porch, checking his phone. I’d hoped I’d be alone. He smiled when he saw me, brushing himself off as he stood.

  “Why are you home?” I asked, getting the front door key ready.

  “I quit,” he said, like I was supposed to be impressed. “So, I had a free period.”

  “Okay,” I said, opening the door. There was a security alarm once the door was open. Kaleb punched in the numbers. I hadn’t realized he knew what they were.

  “Have you seen Char?” he asked. “Nobody’s spoke to her. Ava said she doesn’t want to get involved.”

  “The perks of being Switzerland,” I laughed. “I wish they’d grow some balls and have an opinion. They did it behind my back, nobody should be on their side. They shouldn’t even have a side.”

  “All Char wants is attention,” he laughed.

  I raised my eyebrows at him. “Clearly, she wanted my boyfriend as well—ex-boyfriend,” I huffed. “Either way, I’m sure she’s happy.”

  “Think she’s gonna have it?”

  “Not if she wants to fit in the prom dress she’s been eyeing up for the past six months,” I said. “Either way. She’s not going to win after what’s happened.”

  It felt nice to vent, spit the same bitter words Char would, and like her in my shoes, she wouldn’t get away with it. Neither of them would.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After the first day back, I decided to keep to myself. I went about the same routine, spending break and lunch in the art studio, at least then the only person bothering me was Mrs. Galloway. I sketched my project in my book and mixed colors out on palettes. I was almost ready to mark the canvas out.

  “Aren’t you going home?” Mrs. Galloway asked.

  I stared up at her like a deer in headlights.

  “What?”

  “It’s Friday.” I hadn’t realized how fast this week had gone by. “Yeah, I’m feeling inspired.”

  “Bottle it up,” she said. “Because it’s the weekend now.”

  I rinsed the paint brushes off and hung a sheet over the canvas, taking my time. I was in no rush to get home, back to reality. Once I was home, I stayed in the driveway and collected myself.

  My mom stood at the door with her hands nestled into her apron. “How was school?”

  “It’s been good,” I said as she guided me inside.

  The table had already been set. “What’s for dinner?” I threw myself in a seat.

  “Your dad’s not home, so Maddie decided,
” she said. “Homemade burgers.”

  “Need help with anything?” I pulled my phone out my pocket and turned it on.

  “It’s all ready.” She wrapped an arm around one shoulder and squeezed. “You okay?”

  I touched her hand. “Yeah. Focusing on school work.”

  She kissed my forehead. “If you need anything, I’m here.”

  Maddie and Kaleb sat around the table. The smell of burgers on the grill traveled through the house. I had cheese and ketchup on mine. I’d never comfort ate before, but now I’d eaten several large chocolate bars and gallon tubs of ice cream in the past week alone.

  “What happened to cheer practice?” my mom asked. I shrugged off the question. “Didn’t see your uniform in the wash.”

  “I quit,” I said, glancing up at her.

  She stroked my back with a smile on her face. She wouldn’t admit it, but she was happy.

  “I quit too,” Kaleb said. “In support of you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I didn’t ask, but it’s nice you did.” I pressed my lips into a smile.

  I ate with them, scoffing down three burgers before heading to my room. Oreo laid peacefully until I disturbed him, then he scratched at the door frame to get out. I didn’t let him. I pulled him into my chest as I read aloud from a Nicholas Sparks’ book. It gave me a reason to cry.

  Buzz! Buzz! My phone had been going off for the past few minutes. I didn’t look, I couldn’t stomach anymore questions about whether I was okay or not, even asking what I was doing. I put Oreo and the book aside to grab my phone.

  Text messages flooded the screen. Group chats were blowing up, followed by strings of omg and have you seen? I unlocked my phone to check social media. It was there, staring at me, right at me.

  I threw my phone across the bed, my hands were shaking as I let go, sputtering a couple breathes. It was a picture of Char and Dylan, engaged to be married. One picture was a group photo and the other a picture of the ring on her finger. I was beside Dylan in the group picture, we were together then. I grabbed my phone.