Awkwardly Ever After

by Marni Bates

  So don’t start asking for refunds on your prom tickets yet, people!

  —from “Cancelling Prom?”

  by Lisa Anne Montgomery

  Published by The Smithsonian

  I sprinted for my car with my heart lodged firmly in my throat.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that this must be what it was like for a rabbit when a pack of bloodhounds locked in on the scent of fear. I wanted to tell myself that it was stupid to be afraid. That the worst that could happen with all those cameras rolling was that I’d be forced to shove strangers away from me. And then I would be stuck explaining to my parents, the school board, and anyone else who would listen that, No, I do not have violent tendencies.

  But the truth was that the cameras and the microphones couldn’t stop a bullet.

  And it would only take one crazy with a firearm to make it a very different news story.

  I unlocked the driver’s door, climbed inside with my head down, and mumbled, “No comment,” until those two words slurred together into something else entirely. Neither of the girls was close enough to notice. Instead, Jane and Mackenzie were doing their best to distract the paparazzi by taking some of the heat themselves. I knew it couldn’t have been easy for either of them to get involved with that level of craziness. Not when they had worked so hard to regain a semblance of normalcy in their lives after their own experiences with the press.

  But if Tim was serious about crashing prom and moving to Portland, all of us would have to adjust to receiving this level of scrutiny.

  My breathing hitched, so I rested my forehead against the steering wheel until it steadied. I could handle being photographed freaking out in my car. I didn’t like it—but I could cope.

  But if I barfed on the dashboard, the tabloids would mock me forever.

  I tried to distract myself by focusing on the fuzzy blue steering wheel cover that Jane had given me as a birthday present. It tufted and clumped in places, and I was willing to bet that within another month or two large patches of it would wind up caught in the lint tray of the dryer. Still, it was almost peaceful to sit there and imagine all the places the blue fibers could explore by clinging to my jacket.

  These reporters weren’t all that different from the fuzz.

  Except the steering wheel case didn’t have an agenda. It didn’t invade my privacy or try to interrogate me about my personal life. And no amount of lint would ever prevent me from leaving a parking lot by boxing in my car.

  But if you could overlook those tiny, insignificant little details . . . yeah, they were practically identical. Cut from the same cloth.

  It was a weak pun, but it gave me a reason to smile as I waited to hear the sirens of my approaching police escort. At this point, I was kind of surprised that the nearby station hadn’t placed a patrol car nearby to keep watch over the school at all times. It wasn’t like this was the first time the media had gotten out of control. Maybe they were simply waiting for my parents to either start homeschooling me or to ship me off somewhere. Either way, the local precinct would probably be happy.

  And . . . I might be too. There were times when starting over somewhere else sounded nice. I would miss Mackenzie and Jane, of course. But the same could not be said for the majority of the Notables who ranged the hallways, especially Alex Thompson.

  Although now that I knew Tim planned on relocating the band to Portland . . . well, that changed everything. I winced as I tried to imagine telling Tim that my living arrangements had changed.

  Hey, babe. So you know how you decided to switch zip codes for me because you were sick of the whole long-distance relationship thing? Well . . . I’ve decided to leave. It’s not you. Okay, it is you. It’s the paparazzi you bring everywhere with you. So, um . . . good luck in Oregon!

  If Tim’s diehard ReadySet fans heard even the barest whisper of a rumor about that conversation, I wouldn’t only have to worry about death threats coming from the homophobic sign holders of the world. Groupies would be sending me thousands of threats for breaking his heart.

  That wasn’t simply idle speculation on my part either.

  When Tim had come out of the closet and confirmed to the nation that he wanted to date me, I’d been inundated with messages that said, If you hurt him, I will end you.

  And those were on the sane end of the spectrum when it came to the letters.

  The weird ones included requests for pictures of Tim’s feet, or at the very least, that I pass on their cell phone number so he’d know exactly what he was missing by dating me.

  Oh, and there was one that simply said, I want your face.

  I wasn’t sure if that was meant to be a threat or a request for a plastic surgeon, but it definitely creeped me out.

  My breathing stabilized, even as restless anxiety began to well up inside of me. And the longer I sat motionless in the car, the more I wondered if Alex had lied. Given the way he enjoyed bullying people, I wouldn’t put it past him to make some prom-related hiccup seem like a sign of the apocalypse.

  But the media wouldn’t have flocked here if there wasn’t a story to cover.

  There was no way I’d be able to move my car until the police made their guest appearance, so I decided to check out the Internet headlines Jane had mentioned only minutes ago.

  There was no way the rumors could be worse on the page than all the possibilities that whirled around my head.

  I was wrong.

  Timothy Goff Opens up about Plans for Prom

  ReadySet lead singer, Timothy Goff, isn’t going to let anyone keep him from attending that special dance with his new boyfriend, Corey O’Neal. “I never experienced a prom of my own,” Goff admitted. “I was busy pursuing my career in music. So I’m really looking forward to discovering what I missed with Corey.”

  But this might be one party that won’t pull out the red carpet for Timothy Goff.

  Smith High School policy states that while their upperclassmen students are allowed to bring dates who do not attend that school, they do reserve the right to bar guests if they have reason to believe they might pose a threat to the student body.

  Smith High School principal John Taylor declined to answer questions but did make the following statement, “Smith High School takes the safety of all its students very seriously. The school board needs to determine whether it is appropriate to allow a legal adult to attend a dance where minors are present.”

  Many outspoken LGBTQ activists are calling this simply a screen intended to obscure blatant discrimination based on Goff’s sexual orientation.

  “For years people have drawn an unfounded correlation between homosexuality and pedophilia,” said one advocate who prefers to remain anonymous. “The idea that Timothy Goff poses a risk to the safety of minors is blatant homophobia.”

  My disbelief as I stared at the tiny screen of my cell phone was soon eclipsed by rage. The very notion that Tim would ever hurt anyone made my hands shake with fury. I knew from firsthand experience that he wasn’t as perfect as some people thought—he could be thoughtless and ambitious, and he believed that he could bring everyone around to his way of thinking eventually—but he also possessed a bone-deep core of integrity. My life would have been so much easier if he was a danger to random high school students.

  Because then I would be able to tell him that I wasn’t cut out for life in the spotlight without the breath-stealing certainty that breaking up with him would be one of my biggest regrets. I could move on without hating myself for bailing the second the “for better” part of our relationship took a turn for the worse.

  Not that I ever pictured marriage for us.

  Mostly.

  Still, my insecurities didn’t make it acceptable for my high school to act as if he had appeared on a special celebrity episode of To Catch a Predator—and not as the host. So there was a slight age gap between us. Nobody would blink twice over a junior bringing a freshman to the dance . . . if they were straight. Okay, and as long as the guy was older than the girl
; otherwise, she would be on the receiving end of snide cradle-robber comments.

  Apparently the idea of having two boys show up together was out of the question. Too risky. It might even give impressionable students the idea that it’s okay to be gay, or transgender, or asexual, or whatever felt most like them—and the school couldn’t be seen doing anything that controversial. Oh no. It was a much better idea to pretend that teenagers were incapable of understanding the consequences of their actions whenever their opinions differed from the perspective of the administration. The school could even claim that according to science our brains weren’t developed enough for us to really see the delicate nature of the situation.

  It was discrimination, plain and simple.

  Except there was nothing clear-cut about my reaction to it. Anger, obviously. Indignation, mostly on Tim’s behalf. And yet there was a tiny part of me that was almost . . . relieved.

  Because if the school administration forbade Tim’s attendance, then I could go with my friends. I could pretend to be normal for a night. I wouldn’t be the center of whispers and controversy. No screaming or crying fans would try to bulldoze a path through me in order to reach Tim.

  I could experience a thoroughly typical prom without being the jerk who asked his boyfriend to stay home. Tim might’ve been fine letting the world document our every move, but it actually made me miss the privacy we’d had when he was in the closet.

  At least people hadn’t openly speculated about my sex life in the tabloids back then.

  My phone vibrated and I nearly tossed it onto the back seat without so much as glancing down to identify the caller. The whole if I don’t see it, it never happened knee-jerk reaction was a childish one that I probably should have outgrown, but lately the impulse had only grown stronger.

  I had always been willing to pull the covers up over my head and keep repeating, The monsters are not in the closet. I repeat, there are no monsters in the closet, until I could almost believe it.

  Speaking of coming out of the closet . . .

  I glanced down at the phone and wasn’t surprised to see Tim’s face looking back at me. I had snapped that particular picture when Mackenzie and I had joined the band for an impromptu trip to Los Angeles. Tim looked exhausted in a wrinkled shirt that he had picked up off the floor and tugged on without even a moment’s consideration. There was a coffee stain on the bottom left side that wasn’t visible in the photo but that made me smile because I knew it was there.

  That’s also why I refused to change the photo even when Tim had gotten a glimpse of it and wrinkled his face in distaste. He didn’t look like America’s hottest rock star, and that smile wasn’t meant to make thousands of tweenage girls buy out his concerts.

  It was a private look meant just for me.

  I answered the call. “Hey, Tim, are you—”

  “I’m fine,” he said before I could even finish the question. “I’m headed over to you now. Are you home or at school?”

  I glanced at the paparazzi still swarming my car. “I’m sort of stuck in between.”

  Which described my life in more ways than one.

  “Okay, I just scheduled a meeting with Principal Taylor. Your parents are on their way, right? It never hurts to have a lawyer or two present.”

  “Funny, most people would not agree with you,” I quipped weakly.

  “Most people also aren’t going to press charges of sexual discrimination against a high school. I’m not opposed to their legal advice.” He sounded so focused and determined—if he’d been discussing how much he wanted to spend some alone time with me, it would have raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Too bad lawsuits didn’t get my heart pounding.

  “Are you sure you want to do that?” There was a burst of static over the phone and I wasn’t entirely sure he heard me. “Maybe we could just, y’know . . . stay home? And by ‘home’ I mean go to a hotel room?”

  “See . . . Taylor . . . Soon . . . Bye!”

  Great. So that was a big fat no to the hotel room plan and a huge new complication to add to my life.

  Because apparently my high school life wasn’t crazy enough already.

  Chapter 5

  Even though former queen bee Chelsea Halloway now goes to school in Portland, leaving Smith High School behind in her rearview mirror, our administration must not have gotten the memo. Her name is on the voting ballot for prom queen. This is a joke, right?

  —from “Chelsea for . . . Prom Queen?”

  by Lisa Anne Montgomery

  Published by The Smithsonian

  I debated driving off into the sunset by myself.

  All I had to do was press the horn and start backing up my car. If the paparazzi didn’t move out of my way . . . well, the consequences wouldn’t necessarily weigh on my conscience for very long. They knew the risks when they swarmed me. If they refused to consider my safety, I wasn’t going to become overly invested in theirs.

  But instead of bolting, I watched the police start flashing their badges as they pushed the press far enough back that I could open my car door without getting a microphone to the face. They escorted me to Principal Taylor’s office, hustling me inside past all the gawking students and away from the sympathy radiating from Mackenzie and Jane.

  I was a little too distracted by my armed guard and my upcoming face-off with my school principal to do more than wave halfheartedly at my friends. I knew they wouldn’t take it personally. Not when I also had a pissed-off rock star and two outraged parents to reassure. Still, it was hard to refrain from snidely pointing out that Principal Taylor’s office had become my own personal homeroom. I probably spent more hours bouncing between this office and the guidance counselor’s room than all the other students at Smith High School combined.

  Exempting Sam, of course.

  That girl managed to get more face time with every member of the administration than their spouses probably achieved. So comparing our track records was like listening to a hoarder protest that his home wasn’t a health hazard . . . yet. Maybe it was true, but the bar was set so low most people could trip over it.

  The beleaguered administrative assistant, Sally Murphy, gave me a little finger-wave when I walked into the office and offered a smile that looked strained around her eyes. “Hi, sweetie. He’s expecting you.”

  I nodded, then paused with my hand on the door handle. “I’ve got it from here, guys,” I told the police officers. “But thanks for the assist.”

  “No problem, kid. We’ll wait out here for you.”

  Yeah, I wasn’t surprised that the bearded man with the slight paunch was already moving around the coffee table and heading straight for Ms. Murphy’s desk. His partner seemed perfectly content grabbing a copy of People magazine and settling in to wait. By the time they frog-marched me away from school, he’d probably be caught up on all the most salacious rumors about me.

  I strove for an air of nonchalance as I opened the door. “Principal Taylor, we’ve got to stop meeting like this,” I said, instantly noting that Principal Taylor looked every bit as exhausted as his administrative assistant. There was no way he could’ve been prepared to take the helm at Smith High School this year. I could picture him on a golf course with his friends, bragging about his plan to ease into retirement.

  Instead, he had been saddled with America’s Most Awkward Girl and her misfit group of friends. It almost made me pity the homophobic jerk.

  Almost.

  “Hi, Corey,” he said. “I’m sure your parents will be here any minute. Would you care to take a seat before—”

  The door jerked open and Tim strode in, looking every inch the rock star who graced the covers of magazines. His hair was sexily disheveled, as if he had raked his hands through it a few times.

  “Thanks for making time in your schedule to see me, Mr. Taylor,” he said smoothly. “I’m so glad we’re getting this taken care of right away.”

  “As I was just saying to Corey”—Principal Taylor gestured at me and
Tim spun around and shot me a sizzling smile that had adrenaline racing through my system—“we should really wait for his parents to arrive.”

  Tim glanced disdainfully at the mountain of paperwork stacked on the nearby chairs. Or maybe it was the empty bag of potato chips crumpled on the ground that earned his disgust.

  It was kind of funny coming from a guy who could live in squalor for weeks at a time on a tour bus. But if it was a ploy to distract Principal Taylor into tidying up while he mouthed, “Are you okay?” to me, it worked.

  I nodded, unable to put into words everything I was feeling.

  Confusion. Stress. Panic. Nervous anticipation. A tingly rush of excitement at his presence.

  There was no way to admit any of that in front of Principal Taylor without being forced to hear his not-so-subtle recommendation for homeschooling. Again. That would make his job so much easier. Then he wouldn’t have to think about . . . oh, I dunno, hiding his blatant homophobia from the public eye.

  No gay, no problem.

  And okay, it wasn’t like I was the only member of the LGBTQ club on campus. Just the one most likely to make national headlines.

  The anger that had surged through me in the cafeteria reignited.

  “Shouldn’t we have the rest of the school board on speaker phone?” I suggested. “That way we can get a clear ruling right now.”

  Principal Taylor paused in his halfhearted cleaning efforts to adjust his tie. “I don’t think that’s necessary yet.”

  Maybe he picked up on my barely leashed outrage, but Tim crossed the room to stand at my side. “So . . . this might not improve your parent’s impression of me, Corey.”

  I laughed in spite of myself. “You’ve already met them and they loved you.”

  “Yeah, but that was before I landed their son in the principal’s office.”

  I grinned, slipping my hand into his, as I tried to ignore the way Principal Taylor flinched at even that small display of affection. “Don’t forget about all the paparazzi that swarmed my school. Or the death threats that have been mailed to my house. Or the—”