The Real Prom Queens of Westfield High

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  I’m intensely grateful, not just for her support, but also because now I’m not the only girl in a prom gown pawing about onstage. The two of us laugh together at the ridiculousness of our situation as we rip into the bag. Finally, we each latch on to an end and hold up my project together.

  I hear someone in the crowd gasp, probably some 4-H fanatic. Looking at the television monitor displaying my handiwork, I have to admit it is a truly beautiful quilt. The colors and patterns swirl together in a mesmerizing dance. The crowd actually seems somewhat impressed. At least the snickers stop.

  “The hobby that I love,” I say, “the one that I thought was more embarrassing than living with the nickname Elf Ucker…is quilting.” I pause, waiting for gasps of horror that never come. So I go on. “High school isn’t easy for any of us. We all have parts of ourselves we’re ashamed of and want to hide. Some of us are desperate to fit in. Maybe even dream of being voted Prom Queen. What a great concept for a reality show!” I mock, winning a few laughs.

  Glancing to the spot where Marnie emerged from the crowd, I spot James grinning at her. And beside him I see Rick, eyeing me skeptically. He’s still here! My heart starts beating harder, and I feel a renewed focus.

  I pull up the edge of my gown and wipe off my signature pink lipstick into a perfect lip shape. Holding it up I say, “I didn’t need Nőrealique lipstick to rescue me from being a wannabe. I was a little odd, maybe, but at least I was genuine. This show is what turned me into a Wannabe.”

  The camera’s little red light continues blinking as Victoria strides angrily across the stage toward Marnie and me. I hold the quilt up higher. “This quilt represents what I gave up to become popular,” I say. “It’s a friendship quilt for my best friend. Those of you at home may not recognize Marnie without a blur across her face.” To her, I say, “Thanks for signing that release.”

  Victoria pauses just outside the camera’s frame and gives me a warning glare. Gesturing to a patch on the quilt, I say to Marnie, “This is a chunk of the flannel nightshirt I wore for the sleepover when we made up hand motions to go with every song on your ‘18 hits from the ’80s CD.’” Marnie laughs and I point to another square. “This dragon appliqué represents our brief and embarrassing gaming phase.” Tears are forming in Marnie’s eyes. “And this tree is the big gnarly one behind my house where we’d sit and talk about our dreams for hours.” I look at the crowd. “I mean literally. We discussed what we dreamt about at night, for hours.”

  I look back at her and say, “Marns, I am so, so sorry for choosing some stupid popularity contest over our friendship. This quilt is my gift to you, I’ve titled it Warts and All, and it’s a promise that I’ll never let anything come between us again.”

  Our classmates applaud, and I’m glad to see Rick is standing in front still paying attention. Marnie glides over to me in her swirling, angelic, “sellout” prom dress and gives me a tackle hug. My eye catches Victoria’s look of relief at our heartwarming exchange.

  And that pisses me off.

  Victoria is the person who labeled Marnie a “popularity liability” and suggested I dump her.

  Turning back to the quilt, I flip it around to display the back side. It has an enormous Nőrealique lips logo with a giant buster sign slashed through it.

  “But this is no peace quilt,” I announce to the crowd. “This company is a bully who photoshopped the hell out of me for their advertisement.” Victoria immediately starts slashing at her neck for the camera to cut. “Transform your look? Transform your life? How about transform the WORLD?”

  Victoria moves in front of me, and Marnie shouts, “Makeup companies bully us into feeling insecure so we think we need to buy all their crap to be beautiful! We are all uniquely beautiful!”

  “Okay, thank you for that Shannon and Marnie,” Victoria laughs as if we aren’t at all serious.

  “Schools should be an ad-free zone!” Marnie shouts. “Nőrealique has hijacked our mindspace!”

  I love watching Marnie get her public protest on. Victoria shifts to stand in front of her, trying to deliver a singsong wrap-up over Marnie’s rant.

  So it’s up to me to start up the chant, “Nőrealique is a tool of the man!” Marnie immediately joins in and we lead the crowd punching the air.

  “Nőrealique is a tool of the man!”

  “Nőrealique is a tool of the man!”

  Victoria lunges for me angrily, and with a grunt, I toss the quilt over her head. Running to the edge of the stage where Rick is standing, I call, “I’m sorry for acting like such an idiot all year.” His face is unreadable, but he uncrosses his arms.

  A disheveled Victoria finally frees herself from the quilt, and her heels clack on the hard wood of the stage as she barrels toward me.

  “This is the real me, Rick!” I yell dramatically as I dodge the charging ex–beauty queen. Taking a deep breath, I do a perfect swan dive toward Rick as everyone watches, including the cameras. It’s a magical moment. The crowd lets out a whoop. This is really good TV.

  Except for here’s the thing—I got sort of used to being held by Luke, a football player…who lifts weights. Luke made me feel as light as a feather. Rick, on the other hand, is a science geek who lifts glass beakers. I am not as light as a feather. I’m a teenage girl who is suddenly barreling through the air at full speed.

  Bless him, he does seem to try to catch me with his scrawny little science-y arms.

  Instead—he breaks my fall. There’s a loud cracking noise that sounds suspiciously like bones snapping. Oh my God, I broke him! We are nose to nose and I have a closeup view of his expression of pain. The entire room is silenced by my eager display of affection gone awry.

  “I’m so sorry!”

  Rick is in obvious agony as he says, “Well, that was a different way of campaigning for Prom Queen.”

  I’m sprawled on top of him, glowing green material wadded around us. “That wasn’t about votes,” I say, leaning in toward him. “That was about this.” My heart beats strong and fast. This is it…

  “Um.” He winces. “Can you maybe just shift a little off of my right leg?”

  The crack I heard must’ve been his thigh bone.

  “I am so sorry!” I leap off of him and am horrified to see a red stain moving quickly over the light blue pants of his tuxedo. “Are you bleeding?!” I scream, “Holy crap! We need a doctor!”

  “Paramedics!” Victoria calls gleefully from the stage.

  “It’s not blood,” Rick says. “But…”

  Before he can say anything else, I’m shoved roughly aside and the paramedics move in. One of them places an oxygen mask over Rick’s face, successfully killing any chance of me getting a kiss.

  He struggles to push the mask away, and I feel myself being pulled back. Rick’s arms flail as his body is strapped down and wheeled away on a stretcher.

  “I’ll wait for you,” I call out with all the melodrama I can muster. Which looks perfect on the monitors as Victoria announces the number for people to call if they want to vote for me for Prom Queen. Because nothing says “Prom Queen” like a crazypants chick stage-diving her crush and breaking him in half.

  “The call-in lines are now open!” Victoria announces as she smooths her hair. Suddenly, Kelly rushes onstage, calling out to the cameras, “Raaauuul! Meet me on the rooftop at midnight on my birthday!” She waves her arms as Victoria uses her skinny body to try and block her. “I love you!” Kelly yells into the camera as she continues wrestling Victoria until the monitors finally cut to a commercial.

  “That didn’t exactly go as planned,” I mumble to Marnie as we fold up her quilt.

  “That was awesome!” Marnie says, and I can see she’s still high from our spontaneous protest.

  “Yes, it was.” I can’t help but grin at her. “But I’m afraid Rick is going to be on crutches for a while.”

  “He’ll be fine,” she says. “That was probably just a beaker of formula that broke in his pocket. He was all excited about some bre
akthrough he had in the lab this afternoon, and he brought a sample to show James.”

  “So the two of them were working on a science project here at the prom?” I laugh.

  “Science geeks,” Marnie shrugs. “Got to love them.”

  “Yes, I guess we do.” But now I wonder if the only reason Rick even came to prom was to share his breakthrough with James.

  Marnie hugs our friendship quilt as she looks over to where her science geek is grinning at her from the edge of the stage. She pulls her eyes back to me. “Thank you for all of this, Shannon. The quilt is beautiful. And the flash rally really made my—”

  “Go on, and get over there,” I scold. “James is waiting. And our friendship will always be here.”

  Giving a happy squeal, she hugs me with the quilt between us and heads over toward her boyfriend. She stops, and James gives me a thumbs-up before easing her and the quilt gently off the stage. So that’s maybe a better way to get down for a kiss.

  “Don’t think you’re off the hook, miss,” Victoria yells after me as I head backstage. “You are going to pay for what you’ve done.”

  I reach down and grab the hem of my asymmetrical skirt. I hold up the perfect impression of my wiped-off lips burning pink on the fluorescent green fabric. “Hey, Victoria?” I pull it up and use it to make kissy stamp marks on my butt. “You and Nőrealique can both kiss my ass.”

  Chapter Twenty

  By the time we come back from the commercial break, all the Wannabes and Queens are sequestered in the library, and the huge Nőrealique television onstage displays all six of our faces, each with a red bar above it that tracks the number of call-in votes we get.

  The Nőrealique commercials are all plugging their tagline: Transform your look, transform your life, with Nőrealique Cosmetics. I smile when the monitors blast with the sound of the crowd in the ballroom calling out, “Transform the WORLD!” over that last part.

  The camera pans the ballroom when the commercials end, and I can’t help but search for Rick even though he must be at the hospital by now. I seriously hope the only thing I broke was his beaker.

  To distract myself, I check out the scores on the monitor and am surprised to find I’m not totally behind. In fact, all six of our quivering little red bars are fairly even.

  From the stage, Victoria happily narrates a collection of commemorative clips documenting our journey. Watching, I can’t help but notice they show us Wannabes joking around together and seeming relatable intercut with shots of the Queens snipping behind each other’s backs. Nőrealique must be angling for a Wannabe to win so this whole reality show becomes one huge drama-mercial for their brand.

  On the other side of the library, Kristan squirms as she gradually drops into last place. Amy grabs my hand as the three Wannabe scores inch into the lead. I don’t know about the power of lipstick, but the power of editing to sway opinion cannot be denied.

  Kristan Bowman yells, “That’s it!” in a voice so evil there’s no way it could’ve come from that beautiful face. “That crown’s been mine since the sixth grade, and you bitches wrecked everything!” With that, she launches herself across the room and tackles Kelly.

  What the…? I see Deena closing in on Amy, who ducks just in time to avoid getting punched in the face. Deena screams, “Liposuction is violence against women! Love your body! Embrace your curves, bitch!”

  The next thing I know, all the girls are wrestling with each other on the floor, and I start laughing at how ridiculous they all look. Hair and makeup and sequins blend into a swirling mess of screams and swearing.

  Then Whammo! I land right on top of the pile.

  I look up in time to see Grace Douglas, straddling me in her pink gown, as she swings her fist at my face. “You stupid Wannabe slut!”

  I duck her punch and laugh. “Wannabe slut makes it sound like I’m just a slut-hopeful. Like I’m not really a slut…”

  Grace doesn’t get the joke. “This is for stealing my Luke!” she yells, and everything goes white as my nose explodes in pain. Using the back of my hand, I swipe it and see there’s blood. A lot of blood.

  “Oh, come on!” All of my past fantasies of attacking Grace Douglas come together in my mind, and I throw a punch that lands directly on her high cheekbone. So that’s what that feels like. I use the hem of my dress to wipe the flow of blood from my nose as my knuckles scream in pain.

  The cameraman’s red light flashes, and his face shines greedily. The monitor shows the live! onscreen version of our battle with shots of ripping tulle, clawing French manicured nails, and angry, makeup-smeared faces. I hear Victoria’s voice narrating, “The Prom Queens and Wannabes are backstage, literally battling it out as they fight for that crown. We did not expect this level of hostility, folks.” She sounds more excited than genuinely surprised.

  I roll out of the way as Grace launches toward me again, and I hear her thud belly-first onto the floor. The cameraman can’t help but laugh out loud at that. Wobbling, Grace stands up and grasps the neckline of her pink gown with both hands. “My bras are contoured, not padded!” she shouts and gives a violent tug on her neckline, exposing the top portion of her breasts. “I’m proud of my ta-tas!”

  I stand up and grab her hands before she can display any more. “Put your girls away,” I tell her, blocking the camera with my body. “Don’t give these bastards the satisfaction.”

  Looking around, I can just picture how the six of us look. Going at it on TV sets and computers all over America, clumps of processed hair flying, mascara running, and spittle soaring in slow motion. Our dignity stripped for the sake of entertainment.

  You know how sometimes you’ll tune in to a reality show and find people in the middle of throwing drinks or pulling weaves or acting all in a way that can only be described as cray cray? You watch these battles and you wonder, Where do they find these people?

  Trust me, with enough pressure, under the right circumstances, you could be one of us. You could catch yourself screaming, throwing books, and scratching at eyes.

  And if you’re like me, you might stop and look around and ask yourself, How the hell did I end up here?

  “This is insane!” I jump up on the Nőrealique-lips couch, whistling loudly. “Listen up! Is this going to be our fifteen minutes of fame? Or our fifteen minutes of shame?” I point into the camera. “We shouldn’t be fighting each other. This stupid show has been manipulating all of us this whole time!”

  The bitch-fight slows down as I tell them about my mother’s fake boyfriend, Charlie, and the modeling gigs they paid for Kelly to get.

  “I know someone sent a phony text to break Luke and me up.” Grace is nodding her head at me. “I always figured it was you.”

  I laugh. “The Elf Ucker didn’t exactly have the Alpha Queen’s cell phone number, did she?” The girls begin to disengage from the fight, looking like a bunch of drunk celebrities ready for their mug shots.

  Deena says quietly, “I’m willing to bet they’re the ones who made that…video of me.” Amy limps over to put her arm around Deena consolingly.

  Glancing at Kristan’s face, I see one beautiful eye is swollen shut. Deena’s dress is ripped, displaying a left shoulder that’s probably going to need stitches, and Kelly is groaning about a cracked rib. Amy rubs her head and accuses, “Hey! I’m missing a chunk of my weave.” Sure enough, there’s a wad of orange frizz lying on the floor.

  I jump off the couch and stride toward the cameraman who is happily capturing our group meltdown. I see myself on the monitor, blood smeared underneath my nose and Marnie’s glowing green creation in shreds. It actually looks a little better.

  “Viewers at home, please stop calling and texting in votes,” I say into the camera. “Obviously none of us deserves any type of crown. Nőrealique has suckered you into watching us behave badly so they can sell you lipstick. This show is an ad wrapped inside another ad.”

  Grace moves in behind me and I flinch. But she just turns to the camera and says, “Nőreal
ique sucks! That garbage made my face breakout.”

  Kelly joins us, looking all tousled, and adds, “Yeah, Nőrealique is shit!”

  “This is more like it,” I say. “Declaring war on our manipulating sponsor instead of each other.”

  Amy and Deena move into position beside us, looking like a couple of Prom Queen zombies. Amy’s orange weave sticks out in every direction, and the side of Deena’s head shows a swirl of scalp-tattoo where she’s lost a tuft of hair.

  Lastly, a one-eyed Kristan steps into the camera’s frame. She holds out four fingers and wags them solicitously, imploring viewers at home to vote for her. The rest of us turn toward her, and she raises her hands in surrender. “Just kidding?”

  The monitor shows they’ve cut away to Victoria onstage looking very uncomfortable. The giant television displays our votes, which have taken a huge jump, particularly mine. In fact, I’ve pulled ahead of the pack. Apparently, insane pleas asking viewers to stop voting has had the rebound effect of making me the crowd favorite.

  I can’t believe I allowed myself to get so sucked into this stupid contest that I nearly lost Marnie and may have lost Rick for good. And here I am possibly winning the damned thing? Hell. No.

  Onscreen, Victoria announces, “It looks like Shannon Depola is in the lead. Unless something drastic happens in the next fifteen minutes, I think we can predict who will be crowned Prom Queen and winner of the One! Million! Dollars!”

  I look around at the girls. “Come on! Let’s go make something drastic happen!”

  With that, we shove past the surprised cameraman and are nearly out of the room before I remember. “Wait! Girls! Grab your tiaras!” We all rush to the mantle where our color-coded crowns are waiting. Slamming the diamond tiara on my head, I see Kelly considering her amethyst-encrusted one with a look of contempt. Finally she plunks it on top of her disheveled hair. “I suppose I’ve earned this son of a bitch, huh?”

  “I think we all have,” I say.