Prom Dates From Hell

by Rosemary Clement-Moore

  Her brows lifted. “You got actual dirt on Brandon Rogers?”

  “Yeah. Snapped a really unflattering picture of the prom queen front-runner, too.”

  “You didn’t hand them over, did you?”

  “No. I deleted them from the camera last night after I downloaded them onto my computer.”

  “Smart thinking. The camera is school property, like the lockers, with no expectation of privacy. Well done, my Padawan apprentice.”

  I tucked my hair behind my ears and tried to get back to work. I wasn’t very successful, because I was now thinking about Halloran and bullies instead of Swift and Lilliputians.

  “Why do you suppose Halloran wanted the pictures?” I mused aloud. “He likes good ol’ Biff. Why would he want incriminating evidence on him?”

  “To take it away from you, of course, and make sure it never sees the light.”

  “But I have copies.”

  “You ought to put them in an envelope marked ‘Open in the event of my mysterious death or disappearance.’”

  “Gee thanks, Lisa. I would never have thought of that. How handy to have a criminal mastermind as a friend.”

  “I prefer Evil Genius. And you’re welcome.” The class began gathering their books. There was no visible signal, just the action of the collective unconscious. Lisa and I rode the wave.

  “See you in civics,” she said as the bell rang.

  I had journalism next. The class was supposed to be separate from the lab where we worked on the school’s weekly newspaper, but by this time of year the structure was pretty fluid. I turned in my article on the Spanish Club and gave Mr. Allison the pictures of the basketball game. He whistled when he saw the jump shot. “Great photo, Maggie! You really caught the motion.”

  “Thanks.” Sports and action photography took a knack and a bit of luck. I think I’d been more lucky than anything else, but I was still proud. “May I have a pass?”

  “Where are you going?” he asked, reaching for his pen.

  I didn’t think “To the Coke machine” was going to cut it, so I said, “To the auditorium. Big Spring Musical is this weekend, and I thought I’d interview the cast.”

  “Good idea. Phillip was saying we could use something to round out the edition. Think you can have it ready tomorrow?”

  “Just a fluff piece? Sure.” Phillip was the student editor and he had a gift for knowing exactly how many inches of story the edition lacked at any given moment. Mr. Allison tore the pass off the pad, I took it with a cheery “Thanks!” then grabbed my backpack and headed to C Hall where lay the Band Hall, Choir Room, auditorium, and, not coincidentally, several vending machines.

  Finally! Sweet liquid ambrosia of caramel-colored, high-fructose, caffeinated bliss. With the carbonated burn coursing down my throat and the sugar rushing through my veins, interviewing the Drama Club seemed a small price to pay.

  Mr. Thomas, the drama teacher, was a harried-looking guy who didn’t seem long out of high school himself. “All those things need to be organized on the prop tables, stage right and left. How are we coming on costumes? People! We open in less than three days!”

  He might have been addressing the air for all I knew; there was no discernible change in the chaos in the auditorium, where there seemed to be an awful lot going on, but very little getting done. I coughed to get his attention and he turned his wild-eyed stare on me. “Hi. I’m Maggie Quinn, from the Avalon High paper. I was hoping I might interview a few of the cast members.”

  “Excellent! I’ll introduce you to our star.” He called toward the stage at a volume that made me jump. “Jessica! Have you got a minute?”

  Boy, this day just kept getting better and better.

  The model thin blonde who turned at her name was not, thankfully, the Queen Jessica—the Jessica Prime—though I did recognize her from the Jessica chorus in the Incident with Stanley on the Breezeway.

  She joined me at the edge of the stage with a distinct air of noblesse oblige but no sign she knew who I was, other than paparazzi, and therefore a necessary inconvenience. That suited me fine. I flipped open my notebook and donned the armor of professionalism.

  “Why don’t you start by telling me what made you interested in Drama Club.”

  “First of all”—she tossed her blond hair—“it’s not the Drama Club. It’s the Thespian Society.” She mistook my blank expression for a sign that said Yes, thank you, I would love a generous helping of condescension. “Named for the Greek god Thespis?”

  I hated when people did that, went up at the end of a statement when the only question they were asking was “Don’t you realize I’m smarter than you?” Especially when they didn’t even know that Thespis was not a god, but just some ancient Greek whose life must have sucked so bad that he had to write a bunch of plays about it and call it “tragedy.” Sort of like a preteen with a blog, only with less Avril Lavigne lyrics.

  “O-kay.” Professionalism, Maggie. “Why don’t you tell me what made you interested in the Thespian Society?”

  “Actually, I’ve been performing for a long time. Ever since I won the Little Miss Princess Pageant when I was six years old. And maybe you’ve seen my television work? The commercial for Calaway’s Quality Used Cars?”

  “Oh really?” My response wasn’t strictly necessary. Thespica was used to an audience that didn’t talk back.

  “Honestly, I really didn’t have time for the musical this year. After all, there’s cheerleading tryouts—I’m an officer, so it’s a big responsibility, choosing the next squad—and the Prom Queen Nominating Committee. But when Mr. Thomas begged me to audition, I knew I had an obligation.”

  “Your dedication is truly awe-inspiring.” Maybe I would invent a society named after the Greek goddess Sarcastica. “Talent can be such a burden.”

  She sighed, completely without irony. “I know. You’d be surprised how many people never realize that.”

  I had to leave then, or bust a gut laughing.

  Back in C Hall, I breathed deep of the unpretentious air outside the auditorium. I didn’t feel like walking all the way back to class for the five remaining minutes, so I ducked into the nearest restroom. It wasn’t entirely unjustified. I had, after all, gulped down that soda.

  I took care of business and was straightening myself back out when a whiff of something half-remembered made me pause. Obviously, there are plenty of odors in the school bathrooms, none of which I wanted to investigate too closely. But the sickly sweet smell tickled the back of my throat, and brought back a not-quite-clear memory of smoke, flame, and…

  Pot. Someone had lit up a joint in the boys’ room, and the smoke was seeping through the vent.

  The door to the bathroom opened, and I heard familiar voices. It was the unholy triad of the ruling class, Jessica Prime and her two most senior handmaidens—Jess Minor, and my new friend Thespica, who was briefing the others on our meeting.

  “I cannot believe that Quinn actually asked for an interview with you.” Jess Minor was the queen’s permanent shadow, copying everything she did, but not quite as well. The result was a tweaked stunt-double resemblance and a slightly desperate air of tries-too-hard. “What a loser.”

  “It’s pathetic.” Jessica Prime’s voice, when not shrieking like a banshee, was sugar sweet and slightly husky from years of yell practice. “Does she really think that sucking up to you is going to do anything for her social credibility?”

  “Maybe she thinks I’ll be her friend. You should have heard her fawning all over me.”

  From my hiding place, I rolled my eyes. It was wishful thinking that they would conveniently go into the other stalls and allow me to escape. I guess girls as perfect as the Jessicas never had to pee.

  Instead, they planted themselves in front of the sinks, applying powder, lip gloss, and venom. They went on about me for a while, talking about what a loser I was, then numbering me among all the other people they considered geeky, poor, fat, unfashionable, or otherwise beneath contempt, and
how they’d rather die than be any of the above.

  As fascinating as this insight into the bitch psyche was, the smoke was getting stronger and making me slightly nauseated. Granted, I didn’t have a lot of basis for comparison, but this had to be the worst smelling weed ever.

  “What is that?” Prime’s voice held such horror, I figured she smelled it, too. “Jess, is that…” She seemed to be having trouble even saying it. Not the smell, then. I edged forward, peering through the gap in the stall to see Jessica Prime staring at Minor’s purse as if something slimy were crawling out of it. “Is that a…knockoff!”

  Lip gloss wand suspended in midair, the lesser Jessica looked baffled. “No. My mom bought it for me at Saks when I was staying with her on spring break.”

  Prime laughed, making me think about D&D Lisa, and the important distinction between laughing with and laughing at. “You didn’t get that at Saks.”

  “I did!”

  “Jess!” She grabbed the bag and pointed to the metal insignia on the front. “It says Conch. You didn’t buy a purse, you bought a type of fritter.”

  Thespica peered at the name. “It does say Conch, Jess. I’m afraid you’ve been had.”

  “Did you buy it off the back of a truck or something? Maybe your mother did.”

  “No! She took me to the store!”

  “It’s okay, Jess.” Prime patted her shoulder in a consoling, condescending way. “Everyone gets taken sometime.”

  Jess had dropped the lip gloss in the sink and grabbed her purse with both hands, reading the metal tag. “It says ‘Coach.’” She sounded like a lost little girl. “You two are making fun of me.”

  I never thought I’d feel sorry for a Jessica; her confused hurt almost made me forget she was one of them. That was one of the most loathsome things about the breed. The pack could turn on its weakest member just as quickly as on an outsider.

  Queen Jessica finished applying her makeup, pressed her lips together, then studied the effect of her pout. “Don’t worry, Jess. As long as you hide that thing in your locker, we’ll still let you eat lunch with us.” While Jess Minor continued to examine her bag with a bewildered expression, Prime stepped back and studied her own reflection with the slightest frown. “Does this skirt make me look fat?”

  “Of course not,” said Thespica, completing her own toilette. “I wish I had your figure.”

  As far as I could tell, she did. I was so sick of their nonsense that I was ready to burst out of the stall and take my lumps. Whatever had possessed me to stay hidden in the first place? At this rate I’d be well prepared for a job with the National Enquirer.

  Finally, they left. I barely stopped to wash my hands before I vacated the place myself. There was an intolerable stink in that bathroom, but it had nothing to do with the toilet.

  4

  my phone buzzed in my pocket only a moment after the bell rang. My father, according to Gran, is not eligible to have The Sight because he is a man, but Dad’s timing often makes me wonder.

  “Are you free for lunch?” he asked when I said hello.

  “Where are you?”

  “Parked out front. Come eat with us.”

  I didn’t know who “us” was, but I wasn’t going to turn down an excuse to get out of the building. We have an open campus, so I zipped out the door with the other parolees. Dad waved from beside his Saturn and I galloped down the stairs to meet him.

  My steps slowed as a complete stranger unfolded himself from the shotgun seat and held the front door for me. Dad had brought a friend. A young and handsome friend, with a tall, lean build and a lopsided, Han Solo sort of smile. He wore an oxford shirt and khakis and his dark hair was cut conservatively short.

  “Maggie,” said my dad, “this is Justin MacCallum. He’s a student in the history department. You don’t mind if he comes with us, do you?”

  “No problem.” I was suddenly rather glad that Aunt Joyce’s shirt had been the only thing clean.

  I got a bit of a Boy Scout vibe from the guy, which was confirmed when he held the door for me. Dad put the car in gear and asked, “Where do you want to eat?”

  “I don’t care.” My stomach was pretty excited about the idea of food, though, and growled loudly. I tried not to blush. “Not too heavy, though; I have P.E. right after this.”

  “Are you still swimming?” Dad laughed when I groaned an affirmative. “Maggie doesn’t like the water,” he told Justin.

  “Dad!” Bad enough I was treating us to a gastric symphony. I didn’t need all my idiosyncrasies trotted out for the Embarrass Maggie Show.

  Justin looked amused in a “laughing with you” way, only I wasn’t laughing. “Not even to drink?”

  “I don’t like to get in the water,” I explained, shooting daggers at my father.

  “She does take showers,” said my oblivious parent, “as you can tell by the fact we don’t have to roll down the windows.”

  “Dad!”

  “That’s interesting.” Justin leaned his elbows on our bucket seats. “Most people love the water. It’s natural, ingrained. Reminds us of the womb.”

  “I must have been a really seasick fetus.”

  That got a chuckle. Score for me.

  “What’s the criteria, Mags?” asked Dad. “Has to be shallow?”

  “I have to be able to see the bottom.”

  “That’s right.” He glanced at Justin, who was still hanging between us. “I remember when Laura, her mother, tried to put her in a bubble bath one time. She screamed bloody murder until the bubbles went away.”

  There ought to be a law against naked baby stories in front of strangers. I changed the subject. “You have class with my dad, Justin?”

  “Yes. I’m doing some research on folklore, actually, and Professor Quinn was nice enough to introduce me to your grandmother. I wanted to hear some of her stories from the old country.”

  I glanced sideways at my father. “The fairy stories?”

  Dad kept his eyes on the road. “And some family history.”

  My eyes narrowed. “What family history?”

  “You should go see your gran after school” was Dad’s random answer. “If your day doesn’t improve.”

  “Martians could invade and it would be an improvement on my day. What does that have to do with anything?” Justin and Dad exchanged glances in the rearview mirror and my suspicions flared. “All right. Cut to the chase. Why were you there? And for that matter, why are you here?”

  Justin cleared his throat. “Your grandmother says that you—your family, that is—share a gift. She sensed that you were having a rough morning, in fact.”

  I stared at my father, disbelieving and betrayed. “You told him? You told a perfect stranger?”

  He took a placating tone. “It came up in the conversation. Your grandmother is not shy with a receptive audience.”

  I scowled at Justin. “What, exactly, are you studying?”

  “Well, my major is history, but I’m doing an independent study on the history of the occult in different cultures, from folk tales to high magic….”

  “Stop the car.”

  “Oh, Maggie,” said Dad. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Stop. The. Car.”

  He slammed on the brakes. It was a good thing we were only going twenty-five miles an hour and everyone was wearing their seat belt.

  I turned to them both. “I am not some kind of freak. I don’t see things. I don’t know things. And even if I did have…whatever…I sure don’t want to be someone’s research project.” I opened the door and climbed out, hauling my backpack with me, which made my wrathful dignity a little harder to maintain.

  Dad leaned across the gearshift. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m walking back to school. It’s not that far.” I slammed the door. Dad argued with me through the open window for a while but I took a shortcut between two houses and left them behind.

  By the time I got back to school I was still hot under the collar, but most
ly from lugging my gargantuan book bag for five blocks. The angry churning in my stomach had time to die down, too, until I remembered it was time for P.E., and the pool.

  It wasn’t that I couldn’t swim. I could keep my head above the water and move from place to place with all the grace of a Labrador retriever. I’d made it through the past five weeks by stubbornly moving down my lane in a sort of combination dog paddle/breaststroke so I could keep my eyes on the bottom of the pool, and anything that might be sneaking up on me from below.

  The other problem with swimming in P.E., which had nothing to do with my fear of the water, was the difficulty of embarking on this exercise without, at some point, being completely naked in the locker room. Most of us changed in the shower stalls. But even so, to stand there in the buff, for even a transitory moment, while your classmates lurk on the other side of a very flimsy curtain was fifty kinds of vulnerable.

  I had done extensive experiments in changing in stages: Remove pants. Slip suit on while shirt hides important bits. Wiggle arms out of sleeves while keeping shirt down around other bits, then contort out of bra and into remainder of suit.

  Having worked up quite a sweat this way, I bundled up my clothes and bent to pick up my shoes. Gran’s cross swung lightly against my collarbone as I straightened. I’d forgotten about it until then. I debated for a moment, then unclasped the chain and stuffed it into my shoe.

  We made our way out of the locker room and into the cavernous aquatics gym. The administration was always telling us how lucky we were to have a pool. Only they called it a “natatorium,” which is an old-fashioned term for “really expensive indoor swimming pool.” I hate that word. It’s too much like “crematorium” and I have enough liquid issues as it is.

  Some sadist at the health department had decreed we had to shower before getting in the pool, so we trudged through the spigots then stood dripping in our swimsuits while we received instruction from the girls P.E. teacher. Coach Milner had the whipcord-lean frame of a long-distance runner. She’d competed in the Boston Marathon for ten consecutive years. Her age was difficult to determine, because her fitness regime clearly did not include the vigorous application of sunscreen.