by Maurene Goo
“You age me, every day,” he said, smacking my leg with the dish towel. “Go set the table.”
I grabbed some plates and headed over to the round dining table tucked into a small nook in the apartment. Flo finally came out of hiding and rubbed against my legs.
“Anything as epic as my prom-queen nomination happen for you today?” I asked him.
“No.” He paused. “Well, actually, kind of.”
I pushed piles of bills and mail aside. “Oh yeah, what?”
“Vivian can’t work the KoBra this summer—she got an internship at a production company or something.”
“Bummer,” I said, moving another pile of mail out of the way.
“Yeah, have to find a replacement. I wonder who?” His voice took on a singsong quality.
“Please.”
My dad sighed. “Worth a shot.” Ever since he first started running the KoBra, my dad had been trying to get me to work on it. But the idea of being stuck in a hot, cramped truck for hours on end literally made me want to die. Although my dad had turned his life around from former-punk-kid to man-with-a-dream, I was happy to be kept out of it.
“Good luck, though,” I said as consolation. Then a colorful postcard caught my eye.
I picked it up, already knowing who it was from. The front of the card had a photo of a bustling outdoor market filled with beautiful baskets and textiles. When I flipped it around, the familiar handwriting made me smile. Large, loopy, and scrawled:
M’dearest Clarrrrrrrra,
You MUST come with me on my next trip to Marrakech. It was INSANE. The hotel we stayed at—oof! Like, fountains IN MY ROOM. Tiles were bananas. I got you a few trinkets that will look GORGEOUS on you. Also, hello, the men there are no joke.
I miss you, filha. But see you SOOOOON! Tulum awaits!
X x x X x x x x X
Mãe
The contrast between my mom’s life and my own was never more sharply in focus than when I got a postcard from her travels while the smell of frying fish wafted over me. She was a social media “influencer,” paid to traipse around cool destinations.
“Why is August so far awaaay?” I whined as I tucked the card into my back pocket. My mom had invited me to Tulum this summer, and ever since I got the invite I had been counting the days, minutes, seconds. Because my mom traveled so much, it was really hard to pin her down. The last time we saw each other, she was in town for twelve hours at some launch party for a purse at the Chateau Marmont. I’m not kidding.
My dad made a noncommittal noise, not looking up from cooking. While most people thought my mom’s globe-trotting life as an Instagram influencer was glam, my dad had little patience for her. Probably had something to do with the fact that she had left him to follow her dreams. First it was fashion school, which she dropped out of. Then modeling, which my dad persuaded her to quit when she started struggling with an eating disorder. And now it was having four million followers while she traveled the world looking like a babe.
Sometimes I wondered if my dad was so cautious with everything because, if you thought about it, his relationship with my mom was a big failure. And that failure had repercussions that were wide and deep for our family. My dad had been a mess for a while, overwhelmed by raising me when he was almost a kid himself. In my opinion, the level of investment needed to share your life with someone was insane, and knowing the aftermath of how it came crashing down on my young parents? I always viewed it as a cautionary tale.
“Move your butt,” he barked, walking by me with the sizzling pan of fish. Placing it on the worn-out blue trivet, my dad glanced over at me. “Did you make sure your passport’s not expired?”
“No, but I will tonight!” I said as I sat down at my seat.
I couldn’t wait. It was going to be the best two weeks of my life.
CHAPTER 3
I pinned one of Patrick’s handmade buttons onto my prom dress. It was huge, round, and filled with rainbow glitter, and featured a drawing of a tampon with the words VOTE WITH YOUR OVARIES, VOTE CLARA.
We were milking the tampon moment for all it was worth.
It was the night of the junior prom, and the past couple of weeks had been spent hard-core campaigning. There were about one billion other things I should have been focused on as my junior year came to an end, but …
Weren’t there always more important things you could be doing instead? I chose to live in the moment.
And at this moment, music was blasting in my cluttered bedroom, pink twinkle lights casting the room in a warm glow. I stepped onto the pukey purple-and-brown woven rug that my dad had bought for me when I was ten years old. The reflection in the full-length mirror bolted to my bedroom door startled me, and I covered my mouth. Oh my.
I was wearing a floor-length peach satin gown with thin spaghetti straps and a cinched-in waist that I had found at Goodwill. Given that I was a whole five feet two inches tall, I looked like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes. The dress pooled around my feet, so I stepped into my white platform boots. There, much better. My hair was twisted into a bizarre-looking updo with curled tendrils grazing my cheeks. I reached over to my desk—littered with makeup, books, and Sanrio pens—for a tube of drugstore lipstick in an old-lady coral shade. I applied it in two big sweeps.
Perfect.
I grabbed my faux-leather jacket with faux-fur trim and tossed it on before heading downstairs. My dad was sprawled across the sofa watching a baseball game in his lucky black Dodgers cap. He looked up at the sound of my clomping footsteps.
“Meu Deus,” my dad blurted, nearly falling off the sofa laughing.
“O-M-Deus is the effect I was going for,” I said with a twirl. My phone vibrated with a text. Patrick, Felix, and Cynthia were here.
“Enjoy your evening, Father. Wish me luck!” I called out as I grabbed my skateboard by the door.
My dad waved from the sofa. “Good luck, Shorty. Don’t stir up too much trouble.”
I opened the front door. “I will!”
* * *
The first person I saw when we got to the dance was Rose Carver.
She was greeting everyone at the cafeteria door and handing out little slips of paper. Rose looked every part the prom queen—wearing an airy dress in dark blue with fluttery sleeves and a deep V-neck, showing off her sculpted dancer’s shoulders. The length was short and her legs were endless in her strappy gold heels.
When I reached her, she held up a piece of paper. Her lips pursed. “You’re definitely going to need this.”
I tilted my head, looking at it for a second before taking it from her. “What bribery are you attempting at the eleventh hour?” When I glanced down, I saw that it was a coupon code for a ride share.
“So people don’t drive home drunk,” she said flatly, giving me and the rest of my group a meaningful glance.
Cynthia let out a snort of laughter. I smiled. “What a helpful citizen. It shall be a privilege to be your prom queen.”
Patrick reached over and took another flyer from Rose. “Just in case,” he drawled.
Her deep fuchsia lips turned down. “People do drive drunk, you know. It’s, like, an actual problem.”
“Thanks!” I said cheerfully, lifting up my skateboard before hiding it under my dress to head into the cafeteria.
The rest of prom was mind-numbingly boring, as expected. If I saw another guy dancing along to Bruno Mars in a sexy fashion in front of his date, I would torch him. And for some reason, the theme of our dance was 1001 Arabian Nights, which I found offensive. It just manifested in colorful scarves draped around the cafeteria and rugs tossed on the floor.
We passed the time by taking Snapchats of people making out or groping one another on the dance floor.
Then it was time for prom queen and king announcements, and the lights dimmed before Rose stepped on the stage. Everything was dark except for a spotlight on her and the flickering LED candles hanging in decorative Moroccan-style lamps. “Good evening,
junior class of Elysian High!”
Everyone cheered. Except for Cynthia, who booed. Always the subtle subversive, that one.
“It’s the time you’ve all been waiting for! The prom king and queen announcements!” More cheers. Someone yelled, “CLARA!” I waved from my slouched position.
Rose opened up an envelope dramatically. You’d think this was the Oscars. “Drumroll, please!” she commanded. We thumped the tables with our hands, Felix and Patrick doing it with gusto—making the table bounce.
“Elysian High’s junior prom king is Daniel Gonzales! And the prom queen is … oh. Clara Shin.”
There were some audible gasps and then roaring cheers. I stood up, pumping my arms in the air before giving Patrick, Felix, and Cynthia high fives. Patrick handed me my skateboard from its hiding spot under the table, and I stood on it with Patrick and Felix on either side of me, pushing me toward the stage. Slowly making my way, I waved my right hand like a beauty-pageant contestant, smiling widely. Daniel Gonzales and Rose were waiting for me, him awkwardly wearing a crown and her glaring at me.
Before I got up onstage, Patrick leaned over and whispered, “It’s all ready.”
I nodded. “Wait until I say honor before dropping it.”
Rather than take the stairs to the stage, I hoisted myself up, hiking up my dress enough to get a few catcalls. I flipped my middle finger in their general direction, then walked over to Rose. She placed a tiara on my head, every part of her resisting—like a ghost was trying to wrestle the crown away from her.
She also handed me a pink satin sash, her fingers extended toward me with distaste. Instead of taking it, I bowed my head forward, waiting for her to place it on me. She muttered something unintelligible as she tossed it over my head.
Everyone cheered as I faced the crowd, and I soaked it all in, closing my eyes like a complete weirdo. Then I glanced at Daniel. “Do you have a speech?”
He made a face. “A speech? No.”
“Okay, good.” I faced the crowd again and stepped up to the microphone. “Dear wonderful classmates. I can’t believe I’ve finally become the queen of your hearts. I’ve dreamed, nay, prayed for this moment since I was a little girl.” Several people laughed. Rose cleared her throat loudly behind me. I kept going. “I promise you, that in my reign as queen for the next two hours, I will keep things interesting. Things will not be boring.” I looked over at Felix by the side of the stage, nodding slightly. “It will truly be an honor.”
As soon as the word was out of my mouth, something cold and wet doused the top of my head, knocking my crown off into my hands. Within seconds, I was covered head to toe in blood.
Some people screamed, a few laughed. I blinked, the fake blood dripping off my eyelashes. When I glanced to my right, I saw Felix immediately dart off. Excellent. I smiled, and I could feel the red liquid slip over my bared teeth. My head turned toward everyone slowly, and I raised my arms. The laughter turned nervous.
And now for the finale. Dramatically holding up my crown, I opened my mouth to let out a scream, but before I could, someone shoved me so hard from the left that I toppled over, slipping in the blood.
I wiped off my face and saw Rose Carver towering over me, her gold heels planted on the bloody stage somewhat precariously. What in the WORLD? Before I could react, she bent over and snatched the crown from my hand.
She pointed it at me, as if brandishing a sword. “You. Little. Freak.” The word was picked up by the microphone, and it reverberated throughout the cafeteria. You could hear a pin drop.
Laughter bubbled out of me, uncontrollable. This was going so much better than planned! I knew Rose was uptight, but this was new levels of cray. I pushed myself off the floor, my hands slipping a little. I could see a few teachers headed for the stage. “You’re totally going to get suspended for that,” I said gleefully.
The fireballs in her eyes were growing huge. “You think this is funny? Is everything a joke to you? You ruined prom!”
I rolled my eyes, reached over, and snatched the crown from her. “Get a life.” I was about to place it back on my head when Rose’s hands grasped for mine.
I held on to the tiara, enjoying watching her struggle to stay balanced. But then one of those beautiful heels slipped, and she knocked into me. We crashed onto the floor, me backward, and a sharp pain shot up my back as she fell on top of me with a surprised oof.
“Get off,” I screeched, feeling panicky—being smashed by a five-foot-nine ballerina made of pure muscle was on my top ten list of nightmares. I struggled to push her off.
“I’m trying!” she screamed. But she punctuated that by kneeing me in the stomach.
“OW!” I yelled.
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
But it was too late. I grabbed a fistful of her short hair. “I’m sick of this!” I yelled. She screamed again, grabbing my wrists. We were both covered in blood, so it was hard for her to hold on to me.
“Clara! Rose! Stop this immediately!” Mr. Sinclair yelled, his voice sounding far away.
Someone grabbed hold of Rose’s shoulders, but she shook them off, still holding on to me fiercely. My breathing quickened, and my heart pounded so hard that I felt its vibrations in my jaw. “I can’t breathe!” I cried out.
“I don’t care!” Rose growled as she let go of one of my wrists to take another swipe at my crown. The crown was smushed behind my head at this point, poking my scalp. Everything was starting to hurt, and my panic was rising.
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” I screamed. There were a few people onstage now, dragging us apart. Just as I was freed from Rose’s death grip, my right foot got tangled up in some cables on the floor. Rose took that moment of vulnerability to lunge toward me again, pulling herself away from a couple of teachers who were holding on to her. Her arms were stretched out, and one of them got caught in the dangling chain on a lantern.
The lantern crashed onto the floor. We both looked at it momentarily before a stage light also came crashing down between us. I froze and Rose hopped back from it. The glass lens shattered and sparks flew—into the fake blood surrounding us. Then the blood caught on fire. No way.
People started to scream, and Mr. Sinclair ran over to the flames, taking his blazer off in one swoop and batting at the fire.
An English teacher named Ms. Leung ran up to the mic and cried, “Everyone remain calm but slowly start making your way to the exits in an orderly and—”
The stampede of feet and people screaming drowned out the rest of her words.
I was headed down the steps when the dark blue curtain hanging to my left burst into flames. I jumped back and yelled, “Good God!”
Someone pushed me toward the stairs. “Hurry, you idiot!” Rose screamed from behind me.
We both scrambled off the stage with the teachers behind us, including Mr. Sinclair, who had left his blazer up onstage, now a little ball of fire surrounded by burning fake blood.
I took one last glance before being rushed out of the cafeteria, the cool night air hitting my face at the same time I heard the sirens.
CHAPTER 4
The principal’s office was far enough away from the cafeteria that it didn’t smell like smoke. Instead it smelled like stale coffee and a barfy cinnamon pumpkin Yankee Candle.
I sank deeper into the green fiberglass chair facing Principal Sepulveda. She frowned from behind her desk. “Clara, you’re getting blood all over my chair.”
The chair squeaked when I sat up straighter, another smear of blood appearing as the sleeve of my jacket rubbed the armrest. I looked at her with a shrug. “I think it’s a lost cause. You can hose them down later, right?”
“Or you can just sit like a human being,” Rose muttered next to me. She was perched on the very edge of her seat, her back straight, chin held up high, and her ankles crossed like royalty. A very bloody royal. There was a smear of blood on her cheek, bloody handprints on her neck, and her dress was an abstract study in blues and reds.
“Shu
t it, you two,” Principal Sepulveda snapped. “I don’t want to hear anything out of your mouths until your parents get here.” The stern tone was at odds with her appearance—she was wearing a fleece vest over a thin floral-print nightgown. When the fire department had called her an hour ago, she had been home in bed watching true-crime shows.
The fire was out now; luckily the firefighters got to it before it spread beyond the cafeteria. Everyone had gone home, but Principal Sepulveda had shown up with guns blazing and had trapped Rose and me in her office. Mr. Sinclair sat in the corner, trying hard to stay awake. She wanted him there as backup, I guess.
“Principal Sepulveda,” Rose started with that bossy tone of hers, “wouldn’t it make more sense to discuss this on Monday? We’ve had quite the scare.” What the heck, who talked like that. Did grown-ups really fall for this act?
“No.” The word sliced through the air like a knife.
I smirked. “Nice try.”
Rose ignored me, looking down at her cuticles. Oh, so now she was above it? Where was all this poise when she was losing her mind attacking me onstage? When I looked at her, resentment oozed out of my pores—she was the reason for me being stuck in the principal’s office at midnight. I couldn’t believe Rose had gotten me into this crap again.
Because in ninth grade, Rose Carver got me my first suspension.
It was the first time I had smoked. As I nervously lit up the cigarette in the bathroom stall, I heard someone come in and froze mid-puff. A second later, the door I’d forgotten to lock slammed open—and there was Rose. She ran out to tell on me before I could stop her. First cigarette, first suspension.
After that I had a reputation for being someone who got into trouble. At first it worried me—did I want to start high school with this label? But it stuck before I could really do anything about it. My teachers had low expectations, and I, well, I went with it.
It was easy and almost always more fun than actually trying. I saw old friends from middle school get sucked into that rigid college track. The more we drifted apart, the closer I got to Patrick and Felix, who were way more on the same wavelength as me.