The Princesses of Iowa

by M. Molly Backes

  He caught me, and the ground steadied. “Are you drunk?”

  “No,” I said. How much had I sipped from Jake’s flask?

  “Girl, are you crazy? They’re about to announce court.”

  “Screw court!” The pep band stopped and my voice was too loud. “Jeremy,” I said more quietly. “Lacey is spreading rumors that Mr. Tremont is gay! And she’s evil!”

  “Let’s get you some water,” he said.

  “I’m not drunk!” I said. “I mean, okay, maybe I’m a little tipsy, but it’s still true! Lacey will tell Dr. Coulter! She’ll get him fired!”

  “For what?” he asked. “For being gay? Honey, that’s illegal.”

  I shook my head. “Not in Willow Grove. You can’t be gay here. Everyone hates gays here.”

  Jeremy’s face shattered. “Oh really.”

  “Yes!” A muscle in his jaw jumped. It took my foggy brain a second to realize that he was furious — and another second to grasp why. “Oh. Oh! No — Jeremy . . .”

  “You know what, Paige?” He shook his head. “No, never mind. It’s not even worth it. I’ll see you later.” He turned and walked into the fray.

  “Jeremy, wait!” I called, but he was gone and I was alone. “Shit!”

  I’d have to fix things myself. Where was Mr. Tremont? He wasn’t standing with his legal pad where I’d seen him before. I had to find him. No, I had to find Jake! Find him before he said anything about Mr. Tremont. I’d distract him, pretend to fall, pretend to sprain my ankle, make him drive me home. But he was drunk. Maybe I would drive myself home. I wasn’t drunk. I was fine, I just . . . Shit.

  Mr. Tremont reappeared behind a group of bouncing freshman, and I headed for him. He was still writing, still watching the crowd, the fathomless clutter of colors and sounds, the squeal of clarinets and the thumping of the tuba and the tangle of faces in the flickering orange light.

  “Now, am I supposed to keep them from throwing themselves into the fire,” Mr. Tremont was saying, “or just pull them out after they’ve gone in?”

  The woman next to him laughed. “Did I ever tell you about the time a car spontaneously combusted in the parking lot of my high school?”

  I knew that voice! It was Padma, his friend from the reading! And she was a girl! My pounding heart slowed. Everything was okay. Mr. Tremont wasn’t gay.

  Mr. Tremont turned toward Padma, and the fire highlighted his profile. He was so beautiful. Of course he wasn’t gay. But so what if he had been. He was still the best teacher I’d ever had. He was still gorgeous. It didn’t change anything.

  “I’m sure you haven’t,” he told Padma. “That sounds like a story I’d remember.”

  I stepped forward until I was in his line of sight. Mr. Tremont saw me and waved. “Paige! I’m glad to see you!”

  “You are?” I grinned, but then thought of Jake’s accusations. Was it wrong for me to feel so happy whenever Mr. Tremont paid me a compliment?

  “Can you clear something up for us?”

  “I can try.” Up on the flatbed, Dr. Coulter tapped the microphone. There was a loud screech of feedback.

  “So, am I supposed to be preventative or punitive?” Mr. Tremont asked. “Keep them from going into the fire, or just give them detention once they have?”

  Padma punched him. “You cannot let children catch on fire, Cam!”

  I laughed, still giddy with relief. “As long as no school property is damaged,” I said, “you’re fine.”

  He pointed. “So I should probably go stop that kid?” Near the front of the blaze a kid from my Spanish class swung a textbook like a shot put.

  I shrugged. “It’s an older edition. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  Coach Wickstrom appeared out of nowhere and grabbed the book. “See?” Mr. Tremont told Padma. “The grown-ups have it under control.”

  “You are supposed to be one of them!” Padma said.

  He smiled at me and matched my shrug. “I’m not supposed to worry about it.”

  On the flatbed, Dr. Coulter tapped the microphone again and this time a thump thump reverberated across the gathered crowd. “May I have your attention please? Folks? Up here, folks.” The crowd ignored him. “People?” Next to him, Coach Ahrens blew his whistle into the mic, and its shrill tweet shot across the night, piercing our ears.

  “Thank you, uh, Coach Ahrens,” Dr. Coulter said. “Before we announce the members of this year’s homecoming court, I have a few announcements to make. . . .” The crowd murmured and Dr. Coulter raised his voice. “First of all, please remember that we have a zero-tolerance policy at this school. Any student caught with alcohol, tobacco, or any other restricted substance will be suspended, no exceptions.”

  Coach Ahrens grabbed the mic. “And I will not hesitate to search backpacks and persons, so don’t think you can sneak anything past me!”

  I shivered and rubbed my arms. If anyone caught Jake . . .

  “Are you cold?” a voice whispered, and I turned, expecting to see Jake, as if he’d heard my thoughts and come to find me. But it wasn’t Jake.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, fighting goose bumps that had nothing to do with the cold.

  Ethan smiled. “It was dead at work, so they let me go.” He took a step closer, and I could feel the warmth of his arms, just inches from mine. “You’re shivering.”

  “I’m fine.” I locked eyes with him and shivered again. “Hi.”

  His voice was quiet. “Hi.”

  There was a loud crash as Dr. Coulter managed to wrench his mic back from Coach. “Uh, thank you for that reminder, Coach Ahrens. As I was, ah, saying. Second, Nikki Rosellini, the members of, uh”— he glanced down at his notes —“of her group D-I-E-D-D, and the members of the student council have asked me to remind you to drive safely tonight and every night.” He gazed out over the student body as if he could gauge how seriously we were taking his warning and, seeming satisfied, nodded and went back to his notes.

  “Third, the Bee Boosters are selling hot chocolate, cider, and popcorn as a fund-raiser to continue to support our teams. They can be found, uh”— he looked up and pointed —“at that table over there.”

  “This is agonizingly uninteresting,” Shanti said, appearing on the other side of me. “Why did we come, again?”

  “It was your idea,” Ethan told her.

  “Yeah, but that was before I knew you’d have to ditch work to be here,” she said.

  Ethan blushed. “I didn’t ditch. They let me go. It was very slow tonight. . . .” As they talked, he moved infinitesimally closer to me until the fabric of his jacket was skimming across the skin on my arms.

  “Riiiiight,” she said. “Well, I’ve seen enough. Wanna go?”

  “Paige is about to be named to homecoming court,” Ethan said.

  “But we don’t care about that,” Shanti said. “It’s just part of the hierarchical high school bullshit that perpetuates stereotypes and poor body images. Right, Paige?”

  “Be nice,” Ethan said. I felt like I could hear his heart beating. I resisted the urge to move just an inch closer.

  “Paige doesn’t care about the announcement.” Shanti grinned at me. “I bet she’d come with us if we asked.”

  Ethan looked at me.

  “I . . .”

  I was saved from answering by the sound of Dr. Coulter clearing his throat. “And now it is my honor to announce the members of this year’s homecoming court.” The crowd immediately shushed, and I felt a sudden impulse to head up to the flatbed and find Lacey, to stand next to her and weave my fingers through hers, squeezing in excitement at each name. My hand actually reached out looking for hers, and I balled my fingers into a tight fist at my side to keep it in check.

  “The five senior boys on court will be Tyler Adams, Jake Austin, Chris Jensen, Brian Sorenson, and Randy Thomas.” No surprises there. One by one, the boys hopped up onto the trailer, making a sloppy line behind Dr. Coulter. In front of us, a group of sophomore girls squealed and clutche
d at one another’s arms. “Oh my God, he is soooooo hot!”

  “Which one?”

  “Does it matter? They’re all hot!” Giggle giggle giggle, squeal shriek snort. I wanted to vomit.

  “Congratulations, boys,” Dr. Coulter said. “Now for the girls.” A warm hand covered my fist, and for a hallucinogenic moment, I actually thought Lacey had come back to prove that no fight would get in the way of who we’d always been to each other. I glanced down in surprise, but of course it wasn’t Lacey’s hand. Shanti smiled at me. “What? I can hate the populocracy bullshit and still root for you.”

  “The five senior girls on court will be Jenna French, Katrina Hoffman —”

  I blinked in surprise. Katrina and Jenna were much like Nikki, Lacey, and I, but they each had one fatal flaw in the eyes of Willow Grove’s elite: Katrina’s family was poor, and Jenna’s mom was a black Haitian immigrant. She’d met Jenna’s dad when she was cleaning his office. I wasn’t sure if it was the black thing or the cleaning lady thing that irritated Willow Grove. Jenna accepted Jake’s offered hand, but Katrina leaped lightly onto the trailer, unassisted.

  Dr. Coulter cleared his throat again, and I had a sudden, vivid flash of a world in which the next three names he called weren’t ours at all, but some completely random girls’, and all of Lacey’s scheming was for nothing.

  “Lacey Lane —”

  I sighed. The real world was so mind-numbingly predictable.

  “Nikki Rosellini —”

  A part of me was relieved that my mother had been wrong. Maybe our school was more forgiving than she thought. Lacey and Nikki moved to the front of the trailer, and Jake and Randy leaned over, reaching arms down to help pull them up onto the flatbed. The crowd applauded, and Nikki blew kisses while Lacey leaned on her cane with a huge Miss America smile.

  “— and Paige Sheridan. Congratulations, girls.”

  The girls in front of me bounced like popcorn under a hood. “Woo, Paige!” Shanti shouted, throwing her arms around me. Behind us, I thought I heard Mr. Tremont laugh. Shanti released me, and Ethan extended a fist toward me.

  “Um, princesses don’t fist bump,” I said, jokingly disdainful. And before I knew what I was doing, I was hugging Ethan, my arms wrapped around his neck, my body flush against his.

  He spoke so only I could hear. “Congratulations.” I closed my eyes.

  “Paige!” I jumped and pulled away from Ethan. “You have to go up there!” Shanti said.

  “So it’s all bullshit?” Ethan asked her.

  “Shut up,” she said, shoving me. “Go on, Paige!”

  I made my way through the crowd slowly, wondering at the utter lack of excitement I felt in this moment. This was it. This was what we’d been working toward since forever, what we’d talked about and planned every single autumn since junior high. This was supposed to be the pinnacle of my high school career. And yet in my head, where there should have been fireworks and party horns, there was just the fuzz of static between radio stations. My mother’s voice cut through the static in my head (Smile, you never know who might be falling in love with you!) and I fixed an obligatory smile on my face.

  Where was my mother, anyway? I realized I hadn’t seen her anywhere, not standing with the huddle of parents near the Bee Boosters booth or clutching a cup of hot coffee near the front of the crowd, determined to catch every detail. The only thing that could keep her away was Stella Austin and her hundreds of raffia-wrapped napkins and centerpieces. I imagined a call from Stella — The bride changed her mind; they want burnt umber and merlot raffia, not cinnamon and crimson! — and my mother, alone in her workspace, surrounded by rolls of brown and red string. I felt a momentary stab of sadness at the thought.

  When I reached the trailer, Jake leaned over to help me up, and he didn’t let go of my hand as we walked back to the line. Lacey’s eyes were icy, and almost unconsciously I leaned closer to Jake.

  “This year’s homecoming game will take place next Friday night, October first,” Dr. Coulter announced. The trailer bed vibrated with his voice. “And the homecoming dance will take place the next night, Saturday, October second. Voting for king and queen will take place at lunchtime during the week.” He glanced down at his notes and back at us. “And, uh, congratulations again to the members of the Willow Grove High School homecoming court.”

  The crowd applauded and quickly turned its attention back to itself and the fire, while on the trailer the girls hugged one another and the boys shook hands. Jake pulled me to him and kissed me, in front of the whole school. I blushed and pushed him away. “People are watching,” I whispered.

  “Fuck them,” he said, and kissed me again, hard and boozy. Whiskey fumes stung my eyes.

  “Get a room,” Randy said, and Chris said, “Hey man, party at my place afterward, okay?”

  “Of course,” Jake said, wrapping an arm around my waist.

  “Party?” Coach Ahrens interrupted. “What kind of party?”

  Chris stood straighter under his gaze. “Just a small group of friends, sir, mostly just the court and a few dudes from the team.”

  “No alcohol?” Coach asked, and Chris put a hand across his heart, a vow.

  “Of course not, sir, not during season!”

  Coach Ahrens folded his arms. “I didn’t think so.”

  Randy leaned over and whispered something in Jake’s ear. Jake nodded and turned to me. “Hey, I left something in this fool’s truck. Meet me in like ten minutes?”

  “You what?” I asked, but he was already following Randy, jumping off the trailer like it was a skateboard ramp, and jogging off across the parking lot. Jenna caught my eye and grinned.

  “Are you going to Chris’s?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Apparently.”

  “Cool,” she said. “We’ll see you there.” She and Katrina stepped lightly off the trailer, leaving me alone with Nikki and Lacey and the principal.

  “I, uh,” I said, and realizing I sounded just like Dr. Coulter, I spun around and jumped off the trailer bed. Behind me, I heard the principal ask, “Do you know ‘There’s No Beer in Heaven?’” and just before I plunged back into the crowd, he said, “It’s a song.”

  I ended up back where I’d been, standing with Ethan and Shanti and Mr. Tremont and Padma. “Princess Paige!” Shanti cheered, and Padma gave me a hug. “Are you so excited?”

  “I guess,” I said. The pep band started up a surprisingly accurate rendition of “Poker Face,” and the handful of people dancing turned into a mob.

  “Oh my God.” Padma laughed. “This song takes me right back to senior year of college. Remember?”

  “Did you go to school together?” I asked.

  Padma shook her head, her eyes sparkling with reflected light. “No, we met in the workshop, but we’re almost exactly the same age.”

  “She’s three days older,” Mr. Tremont said. He looked at Padma. “You want to go dance, don’t you?”

  “Nooooo,” she said, trying to suppress a smile. “Yes. Totally.”

  “So, go ahead,” Mr. Tremont said.

  Shanti stepped forward. “I’ll join you.”

  Ethan looked at her in surprise. “You’re going to dance?”

  “Always keep them guessing.” She cocked an eyebrow at him. “You wanna come?”

  He shook his head. The three of us stood and watched as Shanti and Padma made their way into the jumping fracas. Mr. Tremont said, “I hope that’s not too weird.”

  “It’s a little weird,” Ethan said. “But so what. No one’s paying attention anyway.”

  “She was really excited about coming tonight,” Mr. Tremont said. “She’s the one who should be teaching high school, not me. I’m totally out of my element.”

  “You can’t tell,” I said, and Mr. Tremont smiled at me.

  “Thanks, Paige.”

  Ethan gestured toward Mr. Tremont’s legal pad. “What are you writing?”

  Mr. Tremont tilted the pad so it caught the light and skimmed a f
ield of small black lines. “Just notes about the whole bonfire, homecoming court, pep-band-in-a-truck thing. Padma wants me to do a sonnet cycle about high school. She thinks it would be funny.”

  “Ah,” Ethan said, “but what do you want to write about?”

  Mr. Tremont laughed. “Nice,” he said. “Very wise. If I’m not careful, you’ll take over my class for me.”

  Ethan seemed to color slightly, but it might have just been the firelight. “No way. I could never . . .”

  He sounded so earnest it almost hurt me. Normally such reverence in any other person — for any other person — would disgust me, but this I understood. Mr. Tremont was on a whole different level than the rest of us. Logically, we knew that he was only a few years older than we were, and a student as well, but intuitively we knew that he was so much more than a mere substitute teacher or grad student. He was real in a way that most adults weren’t.

  “Oh boy,” Mr. Tremont said suddenly. We followed his gaze to see a kid pointing a bottle of hair spray at the flames. “I should probably —” he started. The noise of the crowd carried the rest of the sentence away as he pushed through bodies toward the firebug, leaving Ethan and me alone.

  We were quiet for a moment, just standing together, letting the floods of noise and light wash over us. I caught sight of Jeremy in the crowd, with a group of kids from the paper. My heart clenched when I thought about what I’d said to him. I’d find him on my way out, apologize, explain that I’d just been panicking. I’d just wanted to protect Mr. Tremont. And okay, maybe I’d been a teeny bit drunk. But I hadn’t meant it.

  “So, you’re a princess,” Ethan said.

  “Apparently.” I was a princess, Lacey and Nikki were princesses. . . . Despite everything that had happened last spring, this summer, even these last few weeks, everything had turned out just as we’d always planned. I could see Lacey, still standing up on the flatbed, her blond curls blown slightly back, like a photographer was carrying around a wind machine just for her.

  The wind shifted directions, blowing the warmth of the fire away from us and pushing at my bare skin. I shivered.