by Marni Bates
—from “Courting the Vote,”
by Lisa Anne Montgomery
Published by The Smithsonian
I agreed to drive Mackenzie back to school in the dead of night.
Well, okay, it was more like eleven o’clock by the time we got there, but it felt a whole lot later. Maybe because we had spent hours bedazzling every inch of the posters. They still looked like the work of amateurs to me, but I was hoping that would win over the “nonconformist” kids at our school.
I didn’t really see anything nonconformist about wearing lots of black and trying to out-indie their friends by listening exclusively to bands they had found from low-budget movie soundtracks. But it was entirely possible that they would be the swing vote that determined who’d get the crown.
Which meant that it was essential we kept our identities a secret. Mackenzie’s plan would only work if voting for Chelsea seemed like an obscure prank that the out-crowd was pulling on the current batch of Notables. So even though Smith High School was pretty much the last place on earth I wanted to be on a Thursday night—or ever for that matter—I patiently taped a sign that read, CHELSEA HALLOWAY MIGHT NOT DESTROY YOU . . . BUT WHY TAKE THE CHANCE? to the outside of the cafeteria.
“Are you sure about this one, Mackenzie?” I asked, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice.
Mackenzie admired our handiwork. “Definitely. I think it strikes just the right amount of fear.”
“I thought you were against underhanded tactics.”
Mackenzie shrugged. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from politics, it’s never to underestimate the power of blowing a valid concern way out of proportion. And when it comes to Chelsea . . . they should be afraid. Very afraid.”
I burst out laughing. “Well, it’s definitely more original than the fliers Patrick and Steffani handed out yesterday. Did you know they were dating? I only found out when I saw them acting all couple-y by the ticket booth.” I gestured at the glossy poster of the Notables that was taped only inches away from Mackenzie’s creation. “Maybe I should make a little addition?”
Mackenzie crossed her arms and examined Patrick’s pearly-white smile as if she were in a modern art museum trying to make sense out of a particularly bizarre exhibit. “What do you have in mind?”
“We could always adjust their tag line,” I suggested. “Let’s Make Prom Better Together seems like faulty advertising to me. Let’s Make Prom Bitchier Together, on the other hand—”
She shook her head regretfully. “As lovely as that sounds, I want to beat them in a fair fight.”
I shrugged. Maybe my willingness to draw a mustache on Steffani’s upper lip meant that my moral compass was skewed. But after all the crap those two Notables had put my friends through, I didn’t really care. As far as I was concerned, the jerks had it coming. “Your call, Mackenzie. But keep in mind that prom voting will begin”—I glanced down at my watch—“nine hours from now.”
“I doubt anyone is buying into their Abercrombie and Fitch ad campaign. So I am way more curious about the money trail.”
“The what?”
Mackenzie pointed at Steffani’s face. “This picture has obviously been retouched, airbrushed, and professionally Photoshopped. Considering that they weren’t even dating two days ago, that’s a pretty tall order for a photographer. Jane told me that Scott was impressed with the quick turnaround. So how exactly did they afford it?”
I couldn’t stop myself from rolling my eyes. “They’re Notables, Mackenzie. I’m sure their parents agreed to foot the bill.”
She didn’t stop staring at the poster as she considered my explanation. “I don’t think their parents are loaded. Remember when Patrick accused me of being a gold digger for liking Logan instead of him?”
“Yeah, because when I think of you, ‘gold digger’ is totally the first adjective that comes to mind,” I scoffed. “That guy is an idiot.”
“No debate here. But if his parents would pay for a huge expenditure like this, why would he ever consider money as a factor?”
That was Mackenzie; always trying to find a reasonable explanation for everything. Even when the answer couldn’t be any more obvious.
“You hurt his manly pride.” I thumped my chest with a closed fist. “We’re a whole lot more sensitive than we like to let on.”
Mackenzie rolled her eyes. “I refuse to dignify any of that with a response.”
I grinned. “You’re overthinking this. Patrick wanted to get back at you for turning him down. That simple.”
“I guess . . .” Mackenzie looked far from certain. “It’s weird that he’s trying this hard to be voted prom king, though, right?”
I burst out laughing. “You are trying even harder to get Chelsea Halloway elected prom queen!”
“Yeah, but that’s different.”
“Newsflash, Mackenzie: Not everyone lives in fear of big social events. Some people even look forward to them.” I pointed at the smarmy smile on Patrick’s face. “Case in point.”
“What about you, Corey? Do you want to be crowned prom king?” The laughter on Mackenzie’s face vanished when I didn’t immediately answer. “Holy crap. That honestly didn’t occur to me until right this second. I am the worst friend ever.” She grabbed my arm and began pulling me toward the deserted parking lot. “If we go back to my place right now, we can make half a dozen posters for you before school starts. I can also—”
“Wow, Mackenzie. Calm down, okay? I don’t want to be crowned prom king.”
She stared up at me intently, searching for any sign that I might be lying. “Are you sure about that, Corey?”
I pictured the big romantic scene featured in most high school movies, the majority of which involved a staircase, a spotlight, and a stunning ballgown. The dress didn’t do anything for me, but the thought of that one perfect moment—yeah, I wanted it. I could picture it too. Having my name called out . . . climbing the stairs onto the podium . . . spotting a beaming Tim standing right next to Mackenzie and Jane. And yeah, in real life, I’d probably hear Alex Thompson snarl, Who voted for the homo? while everyone else pretended not to notice.
But what really sucked was knowing that even if I landed the crown, I wouldn’t be allowed to dance with my boyfriend.
I shuddered. “Positive. Now can we please get out of here? This place gives me the creeps.”
Mackenzie glanced around the empty school and a mischievous twinkle sparkled in her eyes. “Do you think it’s haunted by the ghosts of unhappy high school students?” She raised her arms and altered her voice to make it sound more otherworldly. “Corrreeeey! I am coommming for yooooouuuu!”
I knew it was stupid, but I scrambled to put more space between us as I headed for the car. “Very funny, Mackenzie.”
“Whoooo issss thisssss Mackenziieeee?”
“I hate you right now.”
“Ammm I offfennnding yooooour mannnnnly pride?” Her voice cracked with laughter on the “manly,” but that only made it sound creepier.
I briefly considered lying, but decided to go with the truth. “Absolutely. If you keep this up, you’ll be finding your own ride home.”
“Okay.” Mackenzie instantly dropped her arms back to her sides. “Would now be a good time to mention that I’m thinking of dipping into my college fund for a car?”
I raised an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“I was kind of hoping I could practice my driving. In your car. What do you think, buddy?”
I burst out laughing. “Never going to happen. Not until you can tell your left from your right without thinking about it for fifteen minutes.”
“I’m not that bad.”
I pretended to seriously consider the request. “True, you’re worse.”
She shifted back into her zombie pose and I gave up on all pretense of manliness by sprinting for my car as Mackenzie snickered at my retreat. I couldn’t shake the feeling that someday I’d think back to my time in high schoo
l and this chilly night, dodging my best friend while we acted like complete idiots, would be one of the few memories I’d recall without fighting the urge to cringe.
The real question was whether prom would make that list too.
Chapter 8
Okay, we get it already! Some delusional, artistically challenged people at Smith High School want Chelsea Halloway to be crowned queen. It’s not going to happen.
So get over it!
—from “No Way, Chelsea!”
by Lisa Anne Montgomery
Published by The Smithsonian Online Edition
“Oh, Chelsea is going to love this.”
I glanced from last night’s handiwork to the amused expression on Jane’s face as she whipped out her cell phone and snapped a photo. “She swears that she has nothing to do with it, but she might just be covering her tracks so I’m not tempted to slip it into the school paper.”
That was part of the reason Mackenzie and I had decided to keep our mouths shut. If some crazy gun-wielding maniac came at me, I could easily imagine Jane shoving me to the ground and taking the bullet. But secret keeping wasn’t exactly her forte. And ever since she had created the school’s fiction paper, The Wordsmith, I began pinpointing the real-life inspiration behind her stories.
It was best for everyone if the creator of Chelsea’s posters remained a mystery.
“It’s definitely . . . something,” I said lamely.
Jane was too distracted by an incoming text to notice my uncharacteristically bland response. “Chelsea says she’ll see me tonight at prom. Apparently she’s bringing Houston with her.” A wide smile spread across her whole face. “Is it wrong to hope that she has a showdown with Fake and Bake there?”
“Nope, I think we should make a betting pool too.”
Jane snorted. “What idiot wouldn’t put their money on Chelsea? Just because she doesn’t go here anymore doesn’t mean she’s any less”—Jane flapped her hands as she searched for the right adjective—“Chelsea-ish. Speaking of prom . . . are you going with Tim? All I’ve heard are rumors.”
I hoped that any second now the bell would ring and I’d have an excuse to leave all prom-related questions unanswered.
No such luck.
“The guys have agreed to perform at prom. That’s all I know.” I shrugged, but the tension in my shoulders made the movement stiff.
Jane looked worried. “Well, the cops have created a barricade to prevent the press from mobbing you here. Hopefully there will be added security at the prom too.”
I ruffled her mop of red hair. “I’m going to be fine, Jane.”
She instinctively rose up on tiptoe and pulled me into a hug. “I know. I’m just sorry you have to deal with all of this craziness.” We both heard the distinctive click of a camera, and Jane automatically released me and stepped back. “This is not a moment you need to capture, Scott.”
Her boyfriend merely grinned. “I disagree, Grammar Girl. It’s definitely a Hallmark card waiting to happen.”
She groaned and shot me an apologetic, I’m sorry my boyfriend is bothering you look.
“Corey might not appreciate having you take his photo without any warning, Scott. Especially since the paparazzi are all waiting in the parking lot for him to make his exit.”
And wasn’t that just going to be a blast for everyone. I still couldn’t believe I’d managed to sneak away to Mackenzie’s house unnoticed yesterday. I was willing to bet that the only reason I’d managed to get a temporary reprieve from being in the public eye was because everyone expected me to make it to the Rose Garden for Tim’s show.
After all, what kind of boyfriend doesn’t show up to watch his partner deliver an amazing performance to a stadium full of people?
The kind who was too busy putting glitter onto prom court campaign posters, apparently.
“Sorry,” Scott said, as if it hadn’t really occurred to him that either of us would object. “But the shot was too good to pass up. I’ll send you a copy later.”
The bell rang before I got the chance to tell him, Thanks, but I’ve seen more than enough pictures of myself lately—usually plastered on magazine covers. I’m going to pass.
“Catch you later, Corey.” Jane slipped her hand into Scott’s right before both of them strolled toward their English class. I couldn’t move. I stared transfixed at their retreating figures.
They made it look so . . . easy.
The handholding, the way they looked at each other with their emotions right on the surface for anyone to see—all of it was totally out in the open.
No hiding. No fear.
No shame.
I wanted that kind of freedom with Tim. To walk down the hallways of my high school, or a street, or even to go to a freaking ice skating rink without having our every move scrutinized. Mackenzie’s words from the night before haunted me.
If you can’t handle the rock star lifestyle, there is no shame in that.
It doesn’t mean you don’t love him.
Some freshman kid I’d never met snapped a photo of me on his phone before he turned and walked away. He didn’t even acknowledge me with so much as a nod. It was as if I ceased to exist once he had the picture.
“And a Merrrry Christmas to you!” I hollered after him, just because it felt good to yell something. “Have a Happy freaking Hanukkah!”
“Um . . . I’m pretty sure you’re either really late or ridiculously early for that.” I twisted around and saw Isobel smiling at me. “But don’t let that stop you.” She pitched her voice louder. “Enjoy Kwanzaa while you’re at it, jerk!”
I burst out laughing, which was probably her plan from the beginning. “Want me to walk you to class?” she offered, before nervously shoving her glasses higher up her nose. “I was already planning on tracking you down. I’ve got a question for you.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip as we began to move with a tide of other students. “Well . . . how big a deal is this whole prom thing? I bought tickets before I really considered the dress code.”
“You do realize that being gay doesn’t automatically make me fascinated with fashion, right?”
Isobel burst out laughing. “Of course! That’s why I’m not asking everyone in the gay/straight alliance to fill out a questionnaire. I’m asking you. Now . . . some people wear sneakers, right?”
I stared at her. “Nobody wears sneakers.”
“But . . . let’s say, hypothetically that someone were to wear them, would that be, y’know, terrible?”
“Terrible? Compared to what, exactly? Famine?” I fought a losing battle with my laughter and Isobel’s mouth quirked up into a self-deprecating grin.
“Definitely famine. I’m thinking sneakers are better than sex trafficking . . . hate crimes . . . sitting next to Fake and Ba—Ashely and Steffani—at the Notable table. All of the above, really.”
“How can you even joke about sharing a meal with those two!” I went heavy on the sarcasm. “They can ruin anyone’s appetite.”
“So . . . what do you think? About the sneakers,” Isobel prompted when I looked at her blankly. “Do I have to wear heels or not?”
Her expression was deadly serious, which made no sense because I had never once seen her express any interest in dressing up. To be fair, most of my friends looked at makeovers as the worst fate in the world. Mackenzie had blanched when I’d tried to update her wardrobe, and Jane had inched toward the exit when she received a similar treatment. But Isobel was in a whole other league; she practically lived in her sweatshirts.
And I couldn’t shake the feeling that if she wore anything else, she’d spend the majority of her time adjusting her glasses and trying to convince herself that she hadn’t made a huge mistake.
“I don’t think you need my advice, Isobel.”
“I kind of want to surprise Spencer.” She lowered her voice as if there was something excruciatingly embarrassing about that confession. “We’re not really da
ting. I mean, okay . . . we’re kind of dating. Maybe.”
“Well, that clears things right up,” I said dryly.
“We’re friends who . . . okay, we really like making out.” She squirmed uncomfortably. “No judgment, please.”
I raised my hands defensively. “Hey, no judgment here! I think it’s great. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think you need heels.”
“Really?” Isobel looked so relieved I tried my best to silence my inner fashion critic.
“Absolutely. You might want to consider finding a cute pair of flats . . . but if sneakers make you feel confident, who cares what anyone else thinks? Be yourself.”
Isobel looked relieved. “Okay. Thanks, Corey. I’m not sure what to expect.”
I smiled back at her. “You’re probably going to be one of only a handful of freshman there. Mackenzie and Logan will be doing their whole I can’t take my eyes off of you thing, while Jane and Scott sniff out a story for The Smithsonian. So if at any point you find yourself needing some backup, count me in.”
“Thanks, Corey.” She lifted her chin proudly. “I doubt either of us will need it, but the same offer goes for you. I’ll see you later, okay?”
She disappeared inside a classroom and the rest of my day passed without any surprises.
Mostly, I sat in uncomfortably hard plastic chairs while I pretended to listen to lectures, although I managed a jaunty wave for the paparazzi waiting outside to swarm me despite the police barricade before I drove home. I pulled right into the garage where my parents used to park before my personal life became breaking news, and headed for my room. I could have called Mackenzie and sought refuge at her place again, but I’d probably be stuck listening while she tutored Logan in American history.
Even knowing that Mackenzie wanted me to throw the vote to Chelsea, I’d still felt kind of disloyal selecting her for prom queen during second period. Not that any of it should matter, considering that this wasn’t even our senior prom.