Prom Queen Geeks

by Laura Preble

  “I didn’t know we were lost.” Becca digs aggressively into the ice-cream dish. I don’t think she’s very pleased that we’ve been discovered just as she was about to hatch her next Big Plan.

  Carl and Fletcher pull up chairs and scoot in next to us. “Did you think about what you want to do about prom?” Fletcher asks, getting straight to the point.

  You see, two weeks ago, he asked me to go with him to the huge, overbloated excuse for spending your parents’ money that is called the senior prom. I don’t know why they call it “senior prom” because any junior or senior who can afford the ticket can go. Oh, and it’s not a ticket. It’s a prom bid. Like they’re auctioning antiques or selling mail-order brides or something.

  Since Fletcher asked me, I’ve been really wrangling with what I want to do. Of course, if I were going to go, I’d go with him; but the question is, do I want to go? Becca and I have been discussing it off and on since Fletcher asked, and Carl asked her pretty much right after, so we both have the same basic problem.

  Becca twirls caramel on her spoon, staring at it as if it will give her some wisdom. “We’re not totally sure we want to go.”

  Carl, whose huge frame makes him look like a wire sculpture bent uncomfortably onto the little café chair, has tipped back so far that the chair goes over, taking him with it. “Oops,” he rumbles from the floor. “I’m okay.”

  Becca shakes her head and reaches down to help him up. “We need to get you a car seat for life,” she says. “That’s the third time this week you’ve fallen off a stationary object.”

  “The stool in science doesn’t count. Melanie Flick kicked me.” He dusts off his jeans, eyes the offending chair with determination, and sits cautiously.

  “Back to prom,” Becca continues as if nothing has happened. “It’s too expensive. And it’s just this big excuse for everybody to party and get a hotel room and waste a bunch of money on fancy dresses they’ll never wear again.”

  “I, for one, will not buy a dress I’ll never wear again,” Fletcher says decisively as he eyes the menu board. “I will get a malt, though. Carl?”

  “Sure.”

  “You just sit. I’ll get it. I don’t want any further injuries.” Fletcher pulls out his wallet and saunters up to the counter to order.

  “I just think it would be fun,” Carl says, folding his arms to avoid knocking anything off the table. “I know it’s expensive, but I can afford it. It’s no big deal.”

  “It’s a big deal to me,” Becca murmurs.

  I try to table discussion of the prom for the moment. I know the subject won’t be dropped; Becca doesn’t drop anything once it’s entered her field of vision. “So you came all the way down here just to harass us?” I ask.

  “And to buy malts.” Fletcher sits back down, slurping like he’s a vacuum cleaner.

  “It’s going to be kind of tough for me and Fletcher if you all won’t go to the prom,” Carl blurts out.

  “Tough for you? Why?” I ask, knowing I won’t like the answer. So much for tabling the discussion.

  Fletcher squirms uncomfortably. I can tell that he wishes Carl hadn’t brought this up again, but Carl doesn’t really have the ability to keep things to himself. He also can’t read people, especially girls. For someone who studies particle physics as a hobby, he can be kind of dense.

  “I think Carl is talking in terms of the king/queen issue.” Fletcher leans back in his chair and sighs. “Since I was on the football team, and Carl is a basketball freak, we’re sort of natural picks for king. And then, if we get picked, we have to go. And if we go, we sort of have to have dates.”

  “So you’re saying that if you get chosen to be the big prom king, you’ll take someone else if Shelby won’t go.” Becca’s blond hair spikes seem sharper than usual. Probably just my imagination. “You don’t see that as a problem?”

  “Let’s not call it a problem,” Fletcher says smoothly. “It’s a challenge.”

  Now, just for the record, I never said I wouldn’t go. In fact, part of me was looking forward to it. I’m a sophomore, and prom is one of those things that most sophomores don’t get to do. I suppose it’s sort of superficial, maybe even conformist, but the idea of getting dressed up and having a nice dinner and dancing with Fletcher seems appealing to me.

  This is, of course, a huge change from last year, when I practically ran away at any hint of a serious relationship. Fletcher really tried to win me over, too; we had a romantic dinner, he called when he said he would, he even sang karaoke, but I messed it up. I guess I was scared. After a terrifying moment where I was forced to wear an Indian sari and sing in front of an audience, Fletcher sang, too, saving me from abject humiliation. We patched things up, and he gave me a beautiful silver bracelet inscribed with the title of our song, “Always Something There to Remind Me,” and things worked out great. Why not celebrate? And nothing says “celebration” like a few sexy yards of copper satin and cheaply made crab cakes.

  Obviously, Becca has other ideas on this. “Prom is like Valentine’s Day. It’s just something someone made up so they could make a lot of money selling dresses and tuxes and corsages and stuff.”

  “It’s tradition!” Carl rumbles. “People have been going to proms since . . . since the fifties!”

  Becca replies snidely, “People in the fifties also ate live goldfish and crammed themselves into telephone booths for fun. And don’t even ask me to wear a poodle skirt. Not gonna happen.”

  Fletcher senses defeat and grabs Carl by the collar. “Let’s go. I think they want to be left alone.” To me, he says, “Anyway, could you just think about it?” Becca snorts as if that’s the last thing she’ll do. “I’ll call you later,” Fletcher says as the two scramble out the door.

  “That went well.” I sigh, scraping the last of the sticky sweetness from my dish.

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about.” She throws her spoon onto the table. “They want us to go to this stupid prom because they want to look ‘normal.’ We could all have a much better time playing video games or watching a movie. Why would we want to spend a lot of money on something so obviously lame?” Then suddenly her eyes sparkle with something I’ve seen before: the signature of an off-the-wall idea that will bring me nothing but misery, pain, and probably a major time commitment. Jumping up from the table, she exclaims, “I have an idea!”

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” I mumble as I follow her out of the store to find my chauffeur, dear old dad.

  Even though I turned sixteen in January, I can’t drive yet. This is grossly unfair, but my dad insists that my frontal lobe is not developed enough for a stick shift. Instead, at my sixteenth birthday party (which was held at a bowling alley and featured a cake in the shape of an actual bowling ball), Dad gave me a little Hot Wheels Corvette, blue to match my eyes. He’s such a sentimental guy. I wanted to kill him.

  Becca’s birthday is also in January, so she also turned sixteen, and she also cannot drive because her flaky mother, Thea, says her natal chart advises against it. That’s astrology stuff. What I say is that if Thea’s natal chart tells her she should drive, that’s proof right there that the whole thing is a lot of crap. Thea is possibly the worst driver on the planet. Oh, and for her birthday, Becca got a zebra-patterned Hot Wheels Jeep. Our parents thought that was hilarious and wanted us to race our cars to see which one was fastest. Psychos.

  I suppose I should mention that my dad is a single parent, not by choice, but because my mom died several years ago. It’s really weird when other kids complain about their mothers (especially Becca, although I totally see why she complains because her mom is nuts). I mean, there are days when I would give anything to have my mom back and to be able to talk to her about the stuff that goes on in my life, especially guy stuff. Dad just doesn’t understand, plus he’s got that overprotective father thing happening.

  But another really disturbing thing is that I can’t always remember what my mom looks like. I keep a picture of her in my room
, and I try to look at it every day, but more and more, it almost seems like it’s a picture of a person I don’t even know, almost like a picture of somebody out of a catalogue. I hate myself for even having that thought; what kind of hideous person forgets their mother? I try not to think about it.

  Thea and Dad are pretty good about transporting us to various places. Dad usually drops us off at the mall and then cruises through the electronics and computer stores, looking for cheap deals he can buy and turn into something superior; he’s a true electronics and robotics genius. Today he’s waiting in the parking lot, frowning over some technical manual. For him, that’s light reading.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say as I yank open the door of the Volvo wagon. He jumps a bit, obviously not expecting anyone to ruin the page-turning suspense of Robotic Circuitry: New Frontiers.

  “Back already?” He runs a hand through his wild, salt-and-pepper hair, pushes his glasses up (he reads through them like a blind librarian, with the frames perched on the very tip of his nose), and he grabs his seat belt. “How was the movie?”

  “We didn’t watch anything.” Becca straps herself in, but doesn’t even tell my dad about her fantastic battle with the movie theater manager. That means she’s definitely snagged some idea that has her totally occupied.

  “I thought I saw Fletcher and Carl,” he says as he maneuvers out of the parking lot.

  “Yeah, they came by to harass us about going to prom.” I look over at Becca to see what kind of reaction she has to that. It’s probably only my imagination, but it seems to me that little tiny devil horns poke out amongst the blond spikes. She says nothing.

  We get to my house without much conversation; she’s clearly deep in the plotting stage of something. When Dad pulls into the driveway, she has her seat belt off and she’s bolted out of the car before he even has it in park.

  “Wow,” Dad comments. “She’s on fire about something.”

  Inside, I track her to my room, where she already has my robot, Euphoria, engaged in conversation. Euphoria is sort of my electronic nanny and sound system. My dad built her after my mom died a few years ago (I told you he was a genius). She helps around the house with chores, like doing dishes, vacuuming, and reprogramming our satellite dish when necessary. She’s also intrigued by human behavior, so any time she can be in on one of our schemes, she’s ecstatic.

  “Shelby, quick! Close the door!” Becca commands. “Euphoria is going to help us.”

  “Help us do what?”

  Euphoria, who bears a striking resemblance to the Rosie the Robot maid in The Jetsons, beeps excitedly, and says in her pseudo-Southern accent, “Becca was just telling me about her idea.” She swivels on her wheels a bit and shakes her claws, looking for all the world like a mechanized Elvis. Well, if Elvis had worn an apron and had blinking electrode terminals. “I want to be part of your special night!”

  “What special night?”

  “Here’s the beauty idea. Brace yourself.” Becca puts her hands in front of her, as if to calm the excited masses, which don’t exist at the moment. “Geek Prom.”

  “Okay.”

  “Shelby! Aren’t you amazed? Isn’t this like divine inspiration?”

  “Well, if you’ll explain what you’re talking about, I’ll let you know.” My stomach sort of flips over; I’ve had this feeling before. I usually get it when Becca comes up with a crazy scheme that is going to put us in the spotlight and cause a lot of work, and possibly force us to wear weird costumes. I’m sure that doesn’t sound likely, but trust me, it’s happened several times since I’ve met her.

  “Okay. Picture this.” She drags me down to sit on the bed next to her.

  “I can see it!” Euphoria bleeps enthusiastically.

  “You can’t see anything yet, Euphoria. She hasn’t even started to describe it.” I hate to rain on everybody’s parade all the time, but I have to be the voice of reason. It’s not a fun job, but somebody’s got to do it.

  They both ignore me. “The popular kids do their whole prom thing. They advertise some trite theme, sell their stupid bids, buy their overpriced poofy dresses, hire a crappy DJ, and rent their useless limos. Why do people go to this obviously substandard event? Why, Shelby?” She stares at me expectantly.

  “Because . . . they want to?”

  “No!” she screeches. “Because they have no other options!”

  Euphoria pipes up, “Because they’re all a bunch of lemurs!”

  “I think you mean lemmings,” I point out. Euphoria still has some trouble with slang and sayings and such.

  “So.” Becca stands, and starts to pace my room like a general mapping out a plan of attack. “We give them an option.”

  “Okay. And what is that option?”

  “As I said”—she takes a deep breath—“Geek Prom.”

  “As I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Geez, do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “Apparently, yes.”

  Becca beams at me. “I don’t have all the details worked out yet, obviously, but here’s my vision: We find an alternative location, we advertise to the whole school, and we make our prom way cooler, and cheaper, than the other one. Then we’ll lure the kids to ours instead of the big, fat expensive prom.”

  “And how would ours be different?”

  She licks her lips. “I don’t know yet. But it will be geek formal. We’ll wear formal dresses and all, but with our tennies, and instead of corsages, we’ll all carry . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “Laser tag equipment!” Euphoria squeaks.

  I put my head in my hands. See? Weird costumes. I knew it.

  2

  BREAKFAST SERIAL (or Pancakes and Panic)

  Sunday morning, my phone rings. Euphoria, who also serves as an answering service, picks up the call. Unfortunately, she’s plugged in in my room, so I hear the conversation whether I want to or not.

  “Good morning, Chapelle residence. May I ask who’s calling?” Her metallic Southern drawl grates on my consciousness. A pause. Then she says, “One moment. I’ll connect you.”

  Then she scoots over to the bed, and tickles my neck with a feather duster. I slap at her as if I’m still asleep, moaning incoherently for effect. “It’s Fletcher,” she whispers. Her whispers don’t exactly sound like whispers, either; her voice just gets raspier but not softer, so it’s a cigarette-smoking garbage-disposal sort of sound.

  “I don’t want to talk. I am unconscious.” I roll over and cover my head with my pillow. She won’t leave me alone, though. The traitorous toaster grabs my pillow and throws it across the room. “Hey, what was that for?”

  She says nothing, just hands me the receiver.

  “Fine.” I grab it. “Hello?”

  “Good morning.”

  “Well, it’s morning.”

  “Don’t be cranky.” He hums into the phone, which really bugs me.

  “Did you call for some reason? I mean, other than to hum at me?”

  Fletcher stops humming. “I want to talk to you about this prom thing.”

  “Awww,” I groan. “Let me wake up first! Why do we have to talk about it right now, Fletcher?”

  “Because Becca was at the copy shop at midnight running off hot pink fliers advertising something called Geek Prom. Do you know anything about that?” He sounds like one of those crime show guys interrogating a murderer. But the only thing killed here is my nice, peaceful morning.

  I sit up, resigned to the fact that I’m not going to get to go back to sleep. “Fliers?”

  “Yeah, fliers. John Bitner works at Copy Shack, and he saw Becca last night. He told Jeff, who told Naveen, who told Carl, who told me.”

  “And you guys say we gossip,” I mutter. “Why is everybody all upset about fliers anyway?”

  “What is Geek Prom?”

  “Geez, you wanna wait till you can get me in a windowless room with a naked lightbulb? Don’t I get to consult my lawyer or something?”

  He li
ghtens up a bit. “I’m not interrogating you. I just want to know what’s going on, and mostly I want to know if this is going to interfere with our going to the real prom.”

  Real prom. These words really bug me. “Why is the school-sponsored thing the only real prom?” I ask snottily. “What’s wrong with a little healthy competition?” Okay, so now I’m defending something that a) I know very little about and b) I’m not even sure I actually support. Why am I doing this? Simple: I do not like being backed against a wall. And when I have to choose between my boyfriend and my best friend, that’s a pretty uncomfortable wall.

  He sighs. “Okay, maybe ‘real prom’ is the wrong thing to call it. But here’s the thing: I think I’m going to have to go.”

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and feel for my slippers. “Besides, why would you have to go?”

  “Well, you know, in case I get in the prom court or something,” he says breezily. “And so, I’d have to go. And I’d need to have a date.”

  “I’m not even a junior,” I say. “I couldn’t even go.”

  “You could if you’re my date.”

  “I don’t want to spend my college money on a dumb dress. And I don’t want you to spend all yours on tickets to an event with crappy food and crappy music and tinsel,” I say.

  “Couldn’t we just do both? I mean, couldn’t there be a geek prom and a re—I mean, traditional—prom, too? On different nights. Then we could both go to both events, thus solving our very sticky problem.”

  I can almost feel him smiling smugly over the phone. But then I think to myself: Do I really want to fight with him? I spent a lot of time thinking about this very question earlier in the year, and I came to the realization that I do, in fact, almost love him. I say almost because I am not willing to admit that I truly love any guy at this point in my life. But if I were going to love one, it would probably be him.

  Which leaves me again with the problem. I am feeling pushed against that wall, but rather than run, maybe I should try to work out some compromise. Then we can all be happy, right? “Okay,” I say to him. “I’ll talk to Becca. Maybe we can have it on a different night.”