The Real Prom Queens of Westfield High

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  “Be careful,” I warn him in case it’s the latter, and he shoots me a weary glare. “Oh, don’t worry about my stuff. It can go anywhere.” I flap my hand and laugh. “I meant be careful if you’re unpacking Kelly. She’s in a bit of a…mood.”

  “Kelly seems to live in a mood,” says Amy. Look at Amy, dishing it. I move into her room, thinking she may make a decent Prom Queen after all.

  “Great bedroom,” I say, a little envious I settled for my smaller one.

  “Yeah, like wow.” She pauses to take in the pink walls, full-length mirrors, and four-poster bed. As I watch her unpack, I decide it’s a good thing she got the biggest room, since she brought a crapload of stuff.

  “Didn’t they say not to pack too much?” I start poking around, opening drawers and sniffing bottles. “We’re getting new wardrobes and makeup and everything.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so.” Amy moves to take the diary I’m leafing through. “I just like to be prepared. They might not have stuff that fits me, you know?” She bows her head and smooths a hand over her belly.

  “I guess we’re all walking into this blind,” I say. “But today’s makeover should be fun.”

  “I can’t wait to see what they’ll do to each of us.” She bites her lower lip.

  “The makeovers are always the best part of these shows,” I say. “And I am seriously in need of a drastic one.”

  Amy grins at me. “This is going to be great!”

  ***

  “This is going to suck!” Kelly growls as the three of us walk down the stairs toward our future selves. “I like my hair like this. I like my clothes like this. I have no interest whatsoever in being the damn Prom Queen.”

  Ignoring Kelly, I think, This is it. Fairy godmothers come in all shapes and sizes, and mine just so happens to be showing up in the form of a squadron of beauty experts.

  We enter the large marble “ballroom” where an enormous floor-to-ceiling thick gold curtain covers one wall. There’s a huge Nőrealique Cosmetics logo in the center of it, complete with huge kissy lips. It strikes me as funny since the only thing big enough to leave kissy lip marks that giant would be a Tyrannosaurus rex. By the time Victoria finishes her pre-camera primping and we’re ready to start rolling, the image in my mind has developed into a group of kissy-lipped dinosaurs dancing in a music video. I push away the picture of their big dino butts swaying in sync as their itty-bitty arms pump the air and focus on what Victoria is saying.

  “Kelly, for you, we’ll be going shorter and layered, with some highlights in the front and soft wisps framing your face.” Victoria widens her eyes and pretends to pull invisible wisps of hair around her face. “Then we’ll bring your piercings down to no more than three above the neck. And that includes earrings.”

  She seems pretty excited. Victoria, I mean, not Kelly. Kelly looks grossed out. “You’ll be ditching the black kohl and getting a softer makeup look, using the Nőrealique Naturals line of cosmetics. It puts a strong focus on pink tones.”

  “Oh goodie. Pink,” Kelly says icily.

  “Cut!” Mickey shoots out from behind the kissy-lip curtain.

  She strides toward us, and Amy actually flinches. “Okay, girls. Kelly in particular.” Mickey glares at her. “I’m only saying this one more time. I realize the three of you are not the typical contestants whose one lifelong dream is to be on television.” She puts her hands on her hips. “But the show won’t work if we can’t get you to display some enthusiasm. You’re about to be treated to professional instruction from top makeup artists, hairstylists, nutritionists, and lifestyle coaches. You will have all the help you need for one of you to slap a tiara on your head and put One! Million! Dollars! in your bank account.”

  Kelly crosses her arms, and Amy looks like she’s trying to shoot enthusiasm out her pores. I’m still stuck on how strange it is to keep hearing “Cut!” in the middle of our “reality” show.

  “You know what you’d do with that money, don’t you, Kelly?” Mickey says. “Maybe help out your family?” Kelly drops her gaze to the floor. “Good,” says Mickey. “Now, we’re looking for lots of energy. I need strong reactions, girls. Get excited!” She turns away, pauses, and turns back.

  “And it’s okay if your strong reaction involves crying by the way.” Because girls crying hysterically over their hair makes good television. But I don’t care if they decide to shave my head; I’ll never be that girl. Of course, no one could think that giving my ears full exposure is a good idea.

  Mickey disappears behind the Rex-Lips curtain, and Victoria starts describing Kelly’s makeover from the top. Kelly must’ve gotten Mickey’s point, because she reacts by saying, “Oh really?” in an exaggerated tone. “Shorter hair? Fewer piercings? I sure didn’t see that coming.” Her sarcasm is barely veiled, but Victoria seems unfazed as she describes the rest of our makeovers.

  The swarming team of hairstylists must have gotten a peek at my goofy ears because my hair is staying long. Victoria tells me I’ll be going blonde, blonder, blondest and I don’t need to fake my excitement. I’ve always sort of wanted to be a blonde in the same abstract way I’ve always sort of wanted to be Prom Queen.

  “You’ll be treated to the Nőrealique Elite Diamond line of premium cosmetics,” Victoria tells me. “Think rich heiress celebutante meets girl next door.” She pauses a moment and glares at my I-don’t-give-a-shit-kickers before adding, “And those boots are getting burned.”

  Amy will become a shoulder-length redhead. And not just any redhead. She’ll be a dramatic, fire-breathing redhead, “forced to stop playing wallflower.” Amy grins maniacally but there’s terror in her eyes.

  “You’ll be wearing Nőrealique Glamour products,” Victoria explains. “Think diva, with an extra splash of Va-Va-Voom.”

  Victoria also casually offers Amy gastric-bypass surgery, which I find obscenely rude. I mean, sure, Amy’s overweight and all, but as she points out, she isn’t a whole hundred pounds overweight.

  “You might not officially qualify for the surgery yet,” Victoria tells her cheerfully, “but you can probably put on a little quick weight to make yourself eligible.”

  “That sounds healthy,” Kelly says.

  “I’ve done research on the procedure.” Amy dips her head. “I think I’m still too young to consider something so drastic.”

  Victoria looks disappointed a moment then brightens. “How about a little lipo?”

  “Um, well…” Amy stammers and blushes so hard her face turns purple.

  “Butt, abs, chin, thighs—whatever you’d like.” Victoria acts as if Amy should feel grateful rather than insulted. “That goes for the rest of you, as well. We’ll be putting you all on a strict diet and exercise regimen, but a little liposuction can be a girl’s best friend.”

  I look to Kelly in amazement. I’m pretty average-sized, but she’s downright skinny. “Nobody told us we signed up for Fat Camp,” she grouses.

  Amy still seems taken aback by the news that she might need major surgery to fit into a tiara.

  “We are not officially recommending you undergo any procedures,” Victoria says. “We’re merely making options available. Anything you’d like, rhinoplasty”—I grab my nose—“breast implants”—I grab my chest—“tooth veneers”—I hold my hand across my mouth. “We can even get those ears of yours pinned back, Shannon.” I slam my hands over them but can still hear her. “There’s no shame in giving Mother Nature a little help, ladies.”

  My heart beats hard and fast. Making fun of my own goofy ears is one thing. Having some beauty queen suggest I have them surgically altered is something else entirely. I imagine myself as one of those makeover show freaks lying on the operating table with my eyes taped shut and my blood everywhere.

  “And don’t forget, even at your age, Botox can be a girl’s best friend.” Victoria gives a creaseless smile.

  “I thought you said liposuction was a girl’s best friend,” Kelly says.

  “Let’s just start with hair and
makeup, shall we?” says Victoria brightly. “You three think about what other beautification procedures you may wish to have while you’re here.”

  “In case we want to look as plastic as you?” Kelly asks with mock innocence.

  Victoria’s face reddens behind her thick foundation. Insulting her looks is a low blow and, to be honest, I don’t think she even looks all that plastic. She calls out, “Cut, cut, CUT! I don’t need this abuse!”

  “It’s fine.” Mickey has reappeared. “That will all be edited out.” I hope that includes the part about my ears. “Let’s take five and then we’ll move forward with makeovers. This scene will be all about a fun day in the salon.” She takes two strides away before twirling back and commanding in a deadly tone, “Have fun with it!”

  She flings the curtain back with such force I catch a glimpse of a whole separate room behind it. It’s filled with electronic equipment, rows of television screens, and at least a half a dozen people dressed all in black. I shouldn’t be surprised there’s a behind-the-scenes staff, but for some reason it chills me. I think a lipsticked dinosaur wearing gold lamé hot pants would’ve been slightly less disturbing.

  I check to see if the other girls have spotted our hidden company, but Kelly is already gone. Probably outside for a cigarette since smoking is not allowed inside the mansion. Amy has inched over to Victoria. “I think I’d like to see the consultant about some possible liposuction,” she says softly, which visibly rejuvenates Victoria. Putting a toned arm around Amy’s waist, she says, “Thank goodness at least one of you knows what’s good for her.”

  ***

  I realize outpatient surgery isn’t the worst thing Amy could experience here at Prom Queen Camp when I see the blazing orange extensions they are weaving tightly into her hair. Her bleeding scalp might not be so bad if the extensions looked great, but they’re horrific.

  On the other hand, the makeover squadron does Kelly a huge favor by making her processed hair magically healthy-looking and replacing her thick black liner with more subtle makeup. I had no idea she was actually pretty underneath all those piercings.

  When the team moves in on me, I look back and forth between the beautiful nymph Kelly has become and the wreck that is Amy and want to scream and start slapping them away. Mickey would love that.

  I lean back, and my head is quickly engulfed in eye-watering bleach. I blink against the sting as I submit to my makeover.

  After my fairy godmother squadron finishes pulling and tweezing and forming me like a claymation figure, I’m ready for my Moment of Truth. Slowly, I face my reflection, camera lens in my face, ready to capture my reaction.

  “Eeeeeeee!” I squeal, and I can tell you, I’m not a squealer. Looking in the mirror is an out-of-body experience. My lips are hot pink and lush-looking, and my eyes shine, but the thing that absolutely mesmerizes me is the glimmering honey-blonde shade of my hair. I’m instantly obsessed.

  Even after everyone else has gone to bed, I stay glued to my bathroom mirror. I hope the show has us walk through giant paper “before” photos of ourselves at some point, because my transformation is so “Holy shit!”

  Not even Marnie is going to recognize me. The new blonde me. The blonde me who is being watched by all of America. Remembering the hidden cameras helps me suppress my newfound inner narcissist. I drag myself away from the mirror, turn out the light, and flop onto my bed.

  My scalp is itchy from the bleach, but I resist the urge to scratch. Best to not seem lice-infested on camera. I fan my new blonde out prettily on the pillow and tell myself to sleep very still so I’m not all mussed in the morning. Josie drilled it into me that one of my top priorities is to avoid looking ugly on camera. I may have to resort to sleeping in a sitting position.

  I’ve just closed my eyes when I hear what sounds like an animal whining in the next room. I sit up, thinking maybe Amy has smuggled in one of her cats. That girl has “crazy cat lady” written all over her future with a big black permanent marker.

  As I listen, I realize it isn’t a cat sound after all. It’s muffled sobs. I lay back down, staring at the dark ceiling as the crying noises rise and fall. Maybe Amy’s weave is making her upset. She certainly wouldn’t be the first girl on television driven to tears over a hair weave.

  The sobbing gets so loud, I finally climb out of bed, and with a flip of blonde, I head toward the hallway. When I get there, I realize the sobs aren’t coming from Amy’s room at all. Kelly’s door is slightly open, and the sound is clearly coming from inside her witch’s cave.

  I tiptoe closer to Kelly’s door and am startled when somebody places a cold hand on my back. “Eep!” I jump and the sobs cut off. I spin around to see Amy waving at me sheepishly. She’s wearing pink flannel pajamas, and there’s a tan bandage across her nose.

  “You got a nose job already?”

  “No.” She covers her nose with her fingertips. “There’s nothing wrong with my nose. It’s a BreatheRight strip. I snore.”

  “So you think wearing this on national television is less embarrassing than snoring?” She bows her head, and I feel bad for insulting her ugly tan snore strip.

  Kelly’s voice shoots through the dark, “What the hell do you two want?”

  I move toward the open doorway, and Amy moves in behind me. I lean forward, and she matches my movements exactly. I pause and Amy pauses. It’s like I have a chubby shadow with a frizzy orange weave glued to my back. I turn and give Amy a few sissy slaps. “Would—you—please—stop—that?”

  She finally moves out of my personal space, and I peer into the moonlit room. I can barely distinguish Kelly’s silhouette sitting up in bed.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  There’s complete silence. I shrug and turn back, only to step on Amy who’s directly behind me again.

  “Ow, ow, ow!” she hops up and down, holding her foot inside its fluffy white slipper.

  Kelly shoots, “Will you both please quit the knuckleheaded- sidekicks routine?” After a pause, she sighs and adds, “You can come in if you want.”

  Amy and I bustle across the room and sit on the edge of her bed. “What’s the matter?” I ask. “Is it your hair? Because it looks great.”

  “Yeah, you should try dealing with itchy orange clown hair.” Amy slaps at her scalp.

  “It’s not my hair,” says Kelly. “As if I’d cry over something so stupid.”

  Amy stops slapping her head, and the silence grows and spreads.

  “It’s this whole thing.” Kelly sounds like she’s about to cry again. “I mean, Shannon, I know you need to ditch the Elf Ucker thing.” I draw my breath in sharply at the name, but Kelly goes on, “And, Amy, it’s obvious you’re hot for that stupid tiara, but me? I’m only doing this for the money. I’m the biggest hypocrite, letting them turn me into something I despise. I hate all this shit.”

  “But, Kelly,” Amy soothes, “you look fantastic.”

  “Stop it!” she snaps. “I know I look great—you honestly think I didn’t know how to apply makeup? I’m an artist, for shit’s sake!”

  Amy says, “So why haven’t you…?”

  “Because! Okay? Just because!” Kelly sits, breathing heavily in the dark. When she speaks again, her voice is calmer. “Have either of you ever seen my mother?”

  I say, “I don’t think so.”

  “I’ve seen your older sister picking you up at school a few times in the rain,” says Amy.

  “No, no, no! My sister’s only twelve. That’s my mother.”

  “Wow, your mom’s hot,” Amy says.

  Kelly sighs. “Aaaand that’s my problem.”

  “Your problem is that your mother is hot?” I ask.

  “Yes! I mean, no. I mean…” Kelly takes a deep breath. “The problem is, my mother is obsessed with her looks. All she cares about is finding the next boyfriend of the week.”

  “So, your problem is…your mother acts slutty?” Amy asks, and I shove her.

  “What?” she defends. “She said it.�
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  “I’m saying my mother has a screwed-up value system, where beauty matters more than anything. I’ve always rejected that, and now here I am, letting these freaks turn me into a damn fashion doll.”

  “But you look so great!” Amy says.

  “You’re not getting it.” Kelly sighs. “I’m acting just like her, using my looks. I’m a complete sellout.”

  “Well, looking pretty is the weirdest way of selling out I’ve ever heard,” I say. “People have done much worse.”

  Kelly chuckles and leans in. “Ever hear the joke about the guy who propositions the pretty blonde in a bar?”

  “Oooo, I love jokes,” Amy says. “I have a good one about a mushroom.”

  “This better not be one of those dumb-blonde jokes.” I fluff my hair. “I’ll be utterly offended now.”

  Kelly goes on, “So, anyway, this guy sits on a barstool next to the blonde and asks if she’ll have sex with him for one million dollars.”

  Amy says, “There’s a barstool in my joke too.” We just stare at her in the dim light until her grin fades. “Sorry.”

  “Anyway,” Kelly goes on, “at first, the blonde is shocked and offended, but then she thinks about the way that kind of money could really change her life. So after some thought, she tells the guy she’ll sleep with him for one million dollars. The guy smiles at her and asks, ‘So, will you sleep with me for forty bucks?’ She slaps him in the face and says, ‘What kind of a girl do you think I am?’”

  Kelly pauses. “So the guy responds, ‘Oh, we’ve already established what kind of girl you are. Now we’re just negotiating a price.’”

  Amy gasps, and I give a short nose-laugh then don’t know what to say. The three of us sit silently in the moonlight.

  “I’m a whore!” Kelly shouts, making Amy and I jump in surprise. “I’m a whore. Willing to do anything for one million dollars. I’m establishing what kind of girl I am. I’m a freakin’ WHORE.”

  And with that, she flops back down and slams the covers over her chest.

  “At least you look pretty,” Amy says helpfully.