The Real Prom Queens of Westfield High

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  “All I want is a chance to make things up to him.” I start to panic as I scan the crowd. Where is he?

  Just then, my heart does this happy little flippy thing as I see him walk in from the foyer. He’s wearing a cool pale-blue retro tuxedo that I recognize as the exact shade of his eyes. Those eyes are scanning the crowd, and before I know it, they find me.

  Everything around us fades as we look at each other from across the room for what seems like forever. I feel a smile pushing at my lips. Rick squints in a way that I can’t read from here and…

  “Oh shit!” I spot a smiling Todd pushing his way toward me. I close my eyes and shoot down into a full squat behind Marnie and James. “Stall Rick,” I command. “But make sure he doesn’t leave, no matter what.”

  “I thought you wanted to talk to him!” James says. “What head games are you playing now, Shannon?” Through the sea of colorful dresses and black tuxes, I see Rick’s pale-blue pant legs with his matching blue sneakers moving toward me. But Todd’s black pant legs and polished shoes are closer.

  “Marnie, meet me back by the prep room,” I say as I squat-run away. I hope Rick doesn’t see me, because I’m pretty sure my squat-run is not flattering from any angle.

  I glance back and see Todd’s handsome face creased with confusion as he scans the crowd. I don’t see Rick. The girl wearing the headset who carried my garbage bag in is suddenly leading me by my elbow. “I thought I lost you. And where is your date?” I shrug innocently, and she drags me to the giant library that’s been partitioned off as a backstage preparation area. The scene is wilder than when people on a stranded island show finally get a tableful of real food.

  Deena and Kristan are huddled on one side, primping and fawning in front of a full-length mirror. Deena’s short hair is so glossy it looks plastic, and they have on similar black and silver beaded dresses. Deena fills hers out better, but Kristan’s seems to draw all the light from the room and reflect it off her perfect features. Meanwhile, Grace looks like she belongs in a prom catalogue with her classic pale pink. She’s even practicing cheesy poses.

  I move quickly to the other side of the room with my fellow Wannabes. Amy looks frightened but amazing in her red sequined dress that shows off her curves. Her lips are the same shade of red as her dress, and they’re so shiny I’m afraid they’ll shatter like glass if she moves them. She gives me a tense grimace, proving my fear wrong, and says, “I can’t believe this is it!”

  “Sure, you’re excited,” says Kelly. “This is your big public debut as an amazing singer. The rest of us are just appearing live! as a bunch of sellouts.” She wears a dark eggplant dress with an uneven hem that hints at her artsy side. Her hair has thick eggplant streaks that match her dress, and I can’t help but think it would look awesome with a tiara stuck on top. Not that she has any more or less of a shot at winning than the rest of us. Looking around I realize, based on the final few episodes, the race for the crown is fairly even. I wonder if, unlike the Miss Pennsylvania title, this thing may actually come down to talent.

  “Where’s your painting?” I ask Kelly.

  She shrugs. “I haven’t felt inspired to paint lately.”

  “But I thought this was your chance to show some of your work,” says Amy.

  Kelly’s small diamond nose ring glints as she flares her nostrils. “Our illustrious sponsor, Nőrealique, has paid a large fee to have my modeling ‘talent’ featured instead of my artwork. I’m having that walk-off against Grace after all.”

  “What?” I’m angry. “They can’t make you do that!”

  “They’re not making me,” she sighs. “We really need the money.”

  “Wait? You mean—” Amy starts.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Kelly says. “They just kept sweetening the deal until my inner-whore finally surfaced.”

  “How much did they—?”

  “Enough, okay?” Kelly’s head dips to the right, which in body language means she’s on the verge of getting emotional. “It’s enough for me to move my sister and Mom out of the trailer and into a house and for Mom to stop depending on the kindness of strangers who just want to get into her pants. It’s enough to make a difference and so I’m doing it. I took the money and now I’m going in front of America to sell a bunch of stupid clothes like the whore that I am.”

  “Oh, honey.” I pat her shoulder, and she looks at me with tears in her eyes. “Our dates are whores. You are not.”

  She groans and leans into me. “I miss Raul. And I can’t believe I’m banned from all contact with him until I turn eighteen.”

  Amy wraps her arms around both of us and squeezes tight.

  “Um, Amy, a little personal space?” says Kelly, and we all laugh as we detangle.

  “Okay, people! Let’s save the emotion for when the cameras start rolling!” Mickey strides in and stops to examine me. “Dress looks great, Shannon, but you need serious help with hair and makeup.”

  I just smile and say, “No thanks, I’m fine.”

  Mickey snaps her fingers and points at me, and I’m immediately ambushed from three directions by makeup brushes. “Keep it natural looking,” I command as I try to block a mascara wand.

  “And finally.” I feel lipstick being applied to my lips. “Shannon’s Sugar Bliss. Your signature shade for your big moment.” But now my hot pink war paint feels too heavy on my mouth.

  “Okay, ladies, this is it,” Mickey commands. “Ready to fight for that crown?”

  Kelly claws the air with her eggplant manicure and gives a nasty “Grrr!” It makes the Queens look a little nervous. I laugh and then say, “Ouch!” as my hair gets pulled by a hot iron. Mickey looks pleased. She explains that the show will begin with us performing our talents and then the voting lines will open for the second hour of the live! show. Shots of us enjoying our prom as well as highlights from the past school year will be aired as voters call in.

  The huge-lipped Nőrealique television that’s been on display in the school lobby has been moved onstage in the ballroom. It will display a running tally of our scores, and at the end of the show, Victoria will crown one of us the winner. Or, more accurately, Victoria would be de-crowning all the losers, since it’s much more dramatic and humiliating to give us all tiaras and line us up onstage, then, one by one, rip the crowns off our heads.

  Mickey says. “Remember, this is your final reality-show moment, girls. Be sure to make it a good one.”

  I intend to.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I spot Marnie at the door to the library-turned-dressing-room, arguing with a man in a headset wearing all black. She points to me as she pleads with him, but he shakes his head and keeps his hand up, blocking her way. I rush over to the door and say, “It’s okay, she’s with me.”

  “Nobody but Prom Queens and Wannabes in this room,” he says gruffly.

  “Fine.” I take Marnie’s hand and head out.

  Mickey calls after me, “We’re about to begin, Shannon. You need to stay here.”

  “Gotta pee! Real bad! Right now!” I pull Marnie down the hallway to the extravagant marble ladies room.

  “Is Rick still here?” I ask as soon as we’re inside.

  “For now.” Marnie admires the fabric of my dress again. “We’re doing our best, but I don’t think he’ll hang around all night.”

  “Argh!” My frustration echoes off the marble walls, and I take a deep breath of perfumed toilet air. A few female prom-goers are milling about the bathroom, each admiring my dress. Then one of them points to Marnie’s one-of-a-kind green Day-Glo creation and covers her mouth, snickering.

  I grab Marnie’s hand off the skirt of my dress and tell her, “We’re trading.”

  “Wha…?”

  “I mean it, Marnie, please trade me prom dresses.”

  “Come on.” She shakes her head. “There are about a thousand dropped stitches on this thing and you’re going up onstage.”

  “Yes, I see the dropped stitches, but Marnie I would be so ho
nored if you’d please allow me to wear the dress that you sewed.”

  She eyes my dress. “Who’s the designer?”

  “Okay, so it’s some fabulous new guy working exclusively for Nőrealique Fashions. But not that awful one who says he won’t design clothes for fatties. And anyway, this is a chance for you to rescue me from my sentence as an unwilling on-air promoter of their fashion products.”

  “So this is a case where not boycotting will make more of a statement,” she says.

  “Shannon! Are you in here?” A desperate-sounding voice echoes off the tiles as the clicking of heels grows closer.

  Marnie and I dive into separate stalls.

  “Shannon?” It’s the frazzled girl with the headset.

  I balance my crystal slippers on either side of the toilet seat and hold my breath.

  “I saw the bottom of your white dress, Shannon.”

  I sigh and step down off the toilet. With a flash of inspiration, I lift my dress and move my shoes into position. “I must be nervous or something because my stomach is a mess,” I call out.

  I make a farting noise with my mouth on my forearm and Marnie joins in from the stall beside me. “That’s awful!” she says. “What crawled up your butt and died?”

  Trying not to laugh, I continue mimicking flatulence and let out a couple of convincing groans. “Oh, yeah. That’s better,” I say between fart sounds.

  Finally the assistant calls, “I’ll just wait outside. Please hurry.”

  “You betcha,” I say and pull the white dress over my head. Standing on the toilet, I look over the divider into Marnie’s stall. She’s laughing hysterically as she claws her way out of her asymmetrical creation.

  “Too bad the cameras weren’t rolling for that.” I toss my white dress, and it floats down to her. Then she heaves her wadded-up Day-Glo green ball over the divider in my direction. “And don’t worry, I’ll make sure breaking your boycott is totally worthwhile.”

  With a smile, she finds the label in the back of my dress and tears it out. “Some sacrifices are easier than others.”

  “Careful,” I tease. “That was the reasoning that led to me dating Luke Hershman.”

  I hear her laugh as I pull her green dress over my head.

  Marnie looks so heavenly when she emerges in my white dress that I can’t help but think I’d make a pretty decent fairy godmother myself.

  I give her a hug just as the freaked-out assistant reappears in the doorway. “Ugh!” The girl wrinkles her whole face. I sniff the perfumed air and then realize she’s referring to my dress. “What are you wearing? We are about to go live!”

  “I’m ready,” I tell her and give Marnie a wink as I lead the disgusted girl out of the bathroom.

  When we reach the library, my wardrobe switch is met with gasps of horror. Fortunately, we’re out of time and there isn’t a spare gorgeous designer gown lying around.

  Gathering my garbage bag from the dusty corner where the assistant-wench stuffed it, I squeeze between Kelly and Amy on the custom Nőrealique-lip-shaped couch with my project on my lap. Marnie’s dress is big on me, and her rough seams scratch a bit, but I smile, thinking about how beautiful and happy she looked in my white one. Patting down my huge plastic-covered heap as best I can, I feel the anxiety in the room swell as the television monitor counts down from ten to “Action!”

  Victoria stands onstage and launches into a recap of how this whole spectacle is the “most unusual reality show ever conceived.” The camera pans to the crowd, showing our classmates grinning and nodding energetically. Suddenly, the monitor shifts to the same view I’m facing in the library. I look over my shoulder to see a longhaired cameraman zooming in on the Queens posing and primping. He smoothly swings the shot over to us Wannabes sitting on the lip-shaped couch. Kelly and I are mostly obscured by my black garbage bag, and Amy is making unflattering warm-up shapes with her mouth.

  “You girls ready back there?” Victoria calls from the front stage.

  We nod dumbly at the camera, and Kristan gives a loud “Woo!”

  “Well, okay then!” Victoria practically squeals. “Performances will begin right after this commercial break!”

  The monitor flips from Amy, Kelly, and I sitting like lumps on the lips couch to the commercial the three of us shot earlier in the season. “Okay, runway girls, let’s go.” An assistant herds Kelly and Grace toward the door.

  “Hey, Kelly,” Grace shoots. “Don’t pull a Shannon and fall on your ass.” The shot of me sprawled on the ground is one of the most-played clips of all time, so Grace’s comment is pretty funny. But it’s also a really stupid thing for her to say. Kelly straightens up like she’s just resolved to win the whole stupid walk-off.

  Which she does. Grace looks like amateur-modeling-day-at-the-mall compared to Kelly’s fierce runway strut. Watching their “fashion show” on the monitors, it’s obvious. Grace should head straight for the after-prom.

  When they’re done, Victoria goes in for a congratulatory hug, but at Kelly’s glare, she reroutes and gives a feeble handshake to Kelly’s forearm. “Remember,” Victoria says to the camera, “when the polls open, you can vote for Kelly by dialing or texting 888-555-5401, that’s oh-one to vote for Kelly.” She glances over, and I think she actually expects Kelly to hold up a giant foam finger or something. But Kelly just stands with her hands on her hips, looking ultra model-esque. Victoria puts an arm around Grace’s shoulder and recites her voting number next. Grace holds out two wiggly number fingers and smiles pleadingly at the camera.

  Victoria announces, “After the break, we’ll see Wannabe Amy Waller performing with our other two Original Queens!”

  My arms are sticking to the plastic garbage bag, and I realize the other girls must be headed to the stage already because I’m alone in the giant library. I look at the ornate light fixture on the ceiling and take a deep breath. The show is going much faster than I’d imagined, and I’m not sure I’m ready for this. I look around at the old books lining the walls and have a sudden urge to snuggle up with one of them and be left alone.

  “Depola!” a headset-wearing assistant barks. “You’re on standby in five. Better move stage-left with your, er…parcel.”

  I stand, staggering awkwardly under the bulk of my black plastic bag, and make my way to the side of the stage where I’m hidden from view.

  The music starts pulsing, and Amy and the girls charge through a cloud of smoke. I can feel the energy of the crowd rising from where I stand watching. Kristan and Deena are really great dancers, and it turns out those dresses they’re wearing are very stretchy. They perform mirrored leaps that slide into splits and high kicks that show they’re both wearing sparkly shorts underneath their gowns.

  Amy’s singing is totally rocking the whole room, but the other girls don’t give up trying to grab the spotlight. The two of them go off-routine with growing enthusiasm, and before long they’re both gyrating back and forth trying to out sex-face each other. Finally, Deena “accidentally” whacks Kristan in the head with a high kick and sends her sprawling. The crowd absolutely loves it.

  I want to abandon my big black yard bag and run flailing from the prom. There’s no way I can follow this high-octane performance.

  Wild applause explodes as the song ends. Victoria announces the call-in numbers and all three girls do their cheesy number-fingers. For the eternity of another commercial break, I carry my bag toward the middle of the stage, shuffling my feet and wishing I were wearing my old boots rather than these clear crystal pumps.

  The monitor in front of the stage shifts to a ridiculous shot of an enormous wad of levitating black plastic. Marnie’s asymmetric florescent green hem peeks out from the bottom, and Victoria’s voice comes from offstage. “And lastly, we have Wannabe Shannon Depola with um…her act.”

  Crowd energy? Gone.

  The silence stretches out until someone coughs uncomfortably. I drop my plastic bundle in front of my feet with a splat. Looking at the camera, I laugh nervousl
y. Off to one side, I notice a small team of uniformed paramedics standing by, probably hoping I pass out right now. They may get their wish.

  Victoria is twirling her finger around in a circle, indicating I need to start doing something before she forces the cameras back on herself.

  The crowd of my peers stretches out before me, watching with open pity. I’m doomed. Then I spot Marnie. She looks downright angelic in my white dress, and I’m filled with hope as she grins at me encouragingly. My swirling thoughts stop. No more tangents.

  With a deep breath, I point my finger in the air, displaying an item that shocks the prom-goers into a collective gasp.

  “This,” I announce, “is a finger cot!”

  The murmuring starts as I’d expected. “I dropped one of these in tenth grade gym class and was given the nickname…” I shout, “The Elf Ucker!”

  Victoria gasps, laughter breaks out, and this time, I laugh right along. “Yes, that’s right. It’s me, the Elf Ucker.” I give a small curtsy, and the room quiets down to see where I’m going with this…where am I going with this? Oh yeah. “The reason I never explained about the finger cot is because I use it for a hobby that I thought was super-embarrassing.” The murmurs start up again, this time sprinkled with a few Ooooo’s. “Okay, okay. It’s not actually that embarrassing.”

  I lunge for the bag at my feet. Crawling over it, I rip off the black plastic in giant strips, wishing I’d used a much less durable trash bag—or at least thought to wear stretchy shorts underneath my gown. I feel a side-seam give a little and steal a glance at the monitors where I see myself sprawled awkwardly with my enormous Day-Glo green butt in the air.

  Snickers start erupting from the crowd as I step on a corner of the trash bag. My crystal pump slips on the plastic and I fall forward onto the bag. Nice way to bookend my reality show experience. At least the cameras won’t cut away as long as I continue humiliating myself.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of white floating toward me. It’s Marnie. James is giving her a boost onstage and she moves to help me.