The Real Prom Queens of Westfield High

by Laurie Boyle Crompton

  So I turned and fled—my flailing run emitting a flurry of embarrassing loud squeaks.

  But there’s really no outrunning an incident like that. Luke walked around school for the rest of the day with the damned dirty finger cot on his finger, and people couldn’t resist repeating Grace’s clever comment over and over. By the time school let out everyone was in on the joke and I’d been forever christened the Elf Ucker.

  The whole thing stayed in everyone’s minds, not just because it was wonderfully humiliating, but because it was a shining moment for Grace Douglas, a girl who I assure you does not lack shining moments. She’s so epically popular that, in spite of everything she’s done to me, even I wrote her in as number one on my Prom Queen Survey. Obviously some sick impulse to get a perfect score on my anonymous pop quiz.

  I think I maybe could’ve lived the whole Elf Ucker thing down if I was the type of girl to just get over it and pretend nothing happened. But for days afterward, I was so aware of people laughing at me that I couldn’t make eye contact with anyone. And then, just when I started to think things might go back to normal, the first elf showed up on my desk in homeroom.

  When I walked through the door, the creepy-looking thing was leering at me with his long green legs bent at odd angles. I actually screamed when I saw it. Some quick wit called out, “What’s the matter, Depola? Your elf hookup coming back to haunt you?” So then that story was the highlight of everyone’s conversations. It must’ve been a pretty slow week among the popular clan.

  After that, it became a solid running joke for everyone to sneak elves into my locker and backpack. The creepier-looking the better, and occasionally with added phallic appendages. Ick. The holidays were a freaking nightmare.

  Grace and one of her lackeys named Deena approached me by my locker one December morning and politely serenaded me with a Christmas Carol that had been rewritten called “We Wish You a Tiny Pecker.” They wiggled their pinkies at me the whole time they sang it and ended with “We wish you a tiny pecker, on an elf who’s not queer.” Despite the song’s obvious lack of creativity and hint of homophobia, it inspired widespread humming of the chorus wherever I went. Grace even managed to get it on the morning announcements.

  I still remember the way my big ears perked up when I heard, “This next message is for Shannon Depola.” I couldn’t believe it when the school’s a cappella group started humming a harmony of the tune over the loudspeakers.

  After the holiday break, I came back feeling hopeful that the teasing was behind me, only to be greeted by a floppy elf flung at my head as soon as I walked through the school doors.

  It was when the mocking surprise gifts started to include garden gnomes with drawn-on permanent marker penises that the brutal fantasies started.

  They began with a rather generic image of my hand slapping Grace Douglas across the face. Next it graduated to me pulling her shirt over her head and shoving her down the school’s stairwell. Eventually, in my mind, I was pretty much beating the shit out of Grace Douglas every day.

  Of course, I continued to submit to her in real life, practically bowing in reverence as she strode down the hallway. Hunky boyfriend, Luke, on her arm and an entourage of worshipers at her back. Grace Douglas was as untouchable as I became. Except her untouchable was in the holy sense and mine was more like what happens when you’ve got an extremely contagious disease.

  My friends started fleeing in acts of social status preservation that I really couldn’t blame them for. Marnie was the only one who never distanced herself. I started trying to look as plain as possible, since wearing something as simple as lipstick or a cute pair of shoes would instigate a fresh round of teasing. “Ooo, Depola,” I’d hear, “all dressed up for one of your special little friends?” It’s really no wonder I was driven to wearing aggressive footwear.

  The final straw was when some clown hacked my profile, changed my status to “in a relationship,” and photoshopped a creepy-looking elf with his tongue in my ear. It was really more than I could handle, and after I regained control of my account, I deleted the whole thing. I stopped existing online and escaped real life by disappearing into my daydreams as often as possible. It seemed like the more I got teased, the more disconnected and weird I acted. It became a vicious cycle.

  Now here I am, officially elected as a hopeless loser who couldn’t be voted Prom Queen ever. I guess I deserve it. Between my scuffed-up I-don’t-give-a-shit-kickers and my frequent breaks from reality, it seems like I was sort of campaigning for a bottom three position without even knowing it. In retrospect, I maybe should’ve joined the Future Homemakers of America alliance with Marns when she begged me to. Or maybe at least the left-hander’s club.

  I can’t imagine why the guidance office is getting involved in my loser status, but I’m starting to think I should’ve run off through the cornfield chasing that fluffy little cloud after all.

  In fact, right now, any escape from reality will do.

  Chapter Two

  The door swings open and two women stride purposefully into the room. One looks city-like with a crisp business suit perfectly tailored to her sharp angles. Her black hair is short and slick, and it seems likely her pale skin would combust if it came in contact with direct sunlight.

  The other woman wears a low-cut dress and is pretty in that showy way that clearly requires a lot of maintenance. Nobody’s hair falls naturally into the long, loose waves that are happening on her head. She reminds me of an older version of Victoria from season six of Make Me a Model. My sister, Josie, made me watch it with her, and I remember Victoria getting slammed by the judges for doing pageants and being too “commercial” even though she was the prettiest contestant that cycle.

  The women are both way too thin to be local. Pinned to each of their chests are big sets of lips covered in pink rhinestones. I recognize those lips as the Nőrealique Cosmetics logo and wonder why some makeup company would be involved in our “popularity intervention,” or whatever this is.

  “Hello, girls!” announces the one with the slicked-back hair. “I’m Mickey, and this is Victoria.”

  Victoria flashes a smile, and my eyes widen as I realize she is that pageant girl from MMaM.

  The silence stretches on as the two of them analyze us with narrowed eyes. Amy starts rocking back and forth again, and Kelly crosses her arms on her desk and drops her head on top of them, which is her usual desk-sleeping position. I try to cover my ears with my shoulders. An uncomfortable stretch of time passes as the women whisper to each other. I want to go home and bury myself in bed for a week until the safety of summer vacation arrives.

  Finally Mickey smiles. “Well, congratulations to you all!”

  What? I grin. We totally jumped to the wrong conclusion. I blame Kelly for all the panic and hear Amy grunt beside me.

  “Yeah, thanks.” Kelly lifts her head to glare at them. “I’m thrilled to be lumped in with these losers as the toxic ooze of our junior class.”

  Mickey’s eyebrows jump, then she concedes, “I assume you’ve figured out this little meeting is related to the preemptive Prom Queen election that we had here the other day.”

  Amy whimpers and my heart sinks.

  “Duh!” says Kelly.

  “And by the looks on your faces,” Victoria says, “you probably know you three were voted least likely to become Prom Queen.” Her expression conveys talk-show-worthy concern, which strikes me as odd since she was a stone-cold bitch on MMaM.

  “I understand this comes as a disappointment,” Mickey says sternly. “But I assure you, what we are about to tell you will make you realize this is actually the best news of your young lives. You will look back on this day as the beginning of all the good things that are to come.”

  Victoria gestures to us with open palms. “How would you girls like to become reality television stars?” Her smile is so huge I instinctively look behind me to see who she’s grinning at. All that’s back there is a poster of a puppy resting his head on an enormous
bone with black letters commanding us to DREAM BIG.

  “We’re proposing the most unique unscripted show ever conceived.” Victoria raises her arms as if forming an invisible billboard and announces, “From Wannabes to Prom Queens!”

  Kelly mocks, “Cause The Greatest Loser is already taken, right?”

  Ignoring her, Victoria goes on, “You girls will be treated to full makeovers during your six-week stay at Prom Queen Camp, which is being set up at this very moment in a top secret location. Then, your new Social Advisement Coaches will help guide you up, up, up the social ladder while hidden cameras capture your rise to success!”

  Mickey seems more businesslike. “The show will be exploring the factors that control a girl’s level of popularity at any given point in her high school career. The complete average-ness of Wakefield High makes it perfect.”

  “It’s Westfield,” Victoria corrects under her breath. She pushes her shoulders back and asks perkily, “What factors turn an otherwise normal girl into a social liability?” She looks around as if this isn’t a rhetorical question, then answers herself. “Looks. Social skills. Boyfriends. These are things we can give you!” She holds her arms out toward us, and I glance behind me again. The puppy has made no progress on his bone. “This show is an amazing opportunity.” Victoria practically explodes with joy. “It’s part hidden-camera reality show, part makeover show, part competition! It has everything!”

  Kelly leans back in her chair, crosses her arms in front of her chest, and rolls her eyes so hard I’m afraid she’ll strain her eyeballs. But Amy has stopped rocking and appears to be listening.

  “At Prom Queen Camp, the three of you will receive complete and total, head-to-toe, physical and mental makeovers,” Victoria says. “Your classmates are going to go crazy over how you look when you walk into this school building in September. And our hidden cameras will catch every head as it turns to watch you.”

  “With our team of professional experts guiding you from behind the scenes,” Mickey says, “we are confident any one of you can meet the steep challenge of winning that ultimate badge of popularity and acceptance—being crowned Prom Queen!”

  “Count me out,” Kelly deadpans. “I’d be mortified to be the Prom Queen.”

  This whole thing feels too surreal for me to speak, and I cram my shoulders more deeply into my ears. Mickey gives Victoria a nod, and Victoria’s eyes start dancing. In a totally obnoxious game-show-host voice, she raises her hands over her head and announces, “The girl who is voted Prom Queen will also win…”

  Mickey joins her in shouting, “One! Million! Dollars!”

  Amy lets out a small laugh and doesn’t bother shutting her mouth afterward. Even Kelly uncrosses her arms and leans forward. My head just echoes one-million-dollars-one-million-dollars-one-million-dollars. Teenage millionaires do not exactly exist in our town. It could offer me a whole new thing to be known for.

  The women look smug. “So, are you girls ready to turn this school’s social order upside down?” Mickey challenges.

  “Are you wannabes ready to become Prom Queens?” Victoria calls out, in a way that makes me suspect we’re already being taped.

  The screen in the front of the room flashes to life with, From Wannabes to Prom Queens, written in giant pink letters.

  Mickey turns all business and begins pecking at a laptop as Victoria lays out the production plan. After the two-hour premiere highlighting our six weeks at Prom Queen Camp, there will be twelve episodes documenting our status rise over the course of the school year that will be recorded via strategically hidden cameras placed throughout the school.

  The footage will be edited and ready for the show’s debut next spring, which will require signed permission slips from all our classmates who appear on camera. Mickey glances up from her computer to assure us that collecting signatures won’t be a problem. “We’re professionals at getting consent.”

  Victoria explains that everything will build up to the big finale, “which will be taped live! at the prom where one of you will *fingers crossed* be crowned queen and win the One! Million! Dollars!” Her voice goes so high it actually squeaks on “dollars.”

  So basically they’re planning to construct a miracle so they can televise it. And let me tell you, there are easier miracles to pull off than turning the three of us into potential Prom Queens. Kelly keeps laughing, and I have to admit, the whole thing would be hysterical if it weren’t so mortifying. I wonder if maybe this is some new version of the show Gotcha! where instead of pranking celebrities, they now prank total nobodies. It doesn’t sound like a very good show.

  The screen in front flashes with beautiful headshots of Grace Douglas, Kristan Bowman, and Deena McKinnley.

  “You must know thine enemies,” Mickey says ominously, and Kelly gives a hiss in response.

  Victoria says, “These are the three girls voted most likely to become Prom Queen next year.” My hand balls into a fist as I glare at Grace’s image. “If any of you hope to win the crown and the One! Million! Dollars! you must displace these girls from their positions at the head of the social hierarchy.”

  “I’d love to displace their heads,” says Kelly.

  “Hey, it’s up to you how far you get,” Mickey says. “Just remember, this is a competition. For One! Million! Dollars!”

  Yeah. We heard.

  ***

  Kelly, Amy, and I each have a catalog-sized questionnaire to fill out. It asks everything from our favorite color to our most embarrassing moment. Mine was definitely the Elf Ucker Incident before today. In the answer space, I write,

  Being voted least likely to become Prom Queen, ever.

  Mickey gives us thick release contracts to sign, which Amy does happily, right then and there, on account of her being eighteen already. Apparently, her parents decided to hold her back from starting kindergarten for a year to give her an edge over the rest of us. Looking at her, I can’t help but think they made a perilous miscalculation. Any developmental benefits were canceled out by the fact that, even in grade school, Amy was a little on the large side. She’s been Amy Whale-r for as long as I can remember, and it isn’t because she loves Moby Dick.

  Since we’re under eighteen, Kelly and I have to get our parents to sign if we’re going to do the show. Mickey and Victoria are coming to our homes to meet with our families and answer any questions, but they stress that it’s up to us to sell our folks on the idea first.

  “They’re your parents, and you girls have been negotiating with them your whole lives,” says Mickey. “You’re the ones in the best position to convince them to sign.”

  “This is your big chance,” Victoria adds. “Don’t let the ’rents stand in your way!”

  I shuffle my boots. I hate it when adults try to use slang like that. And the persuasive techniques Mickey suggests don’t exactly thrill me either. She wants us to stress the One! Million! Dollars! as much as possible and maybe act as if it has always been our secret dream to be voted Prom Queen. Kelly scoffs at that. “Yeah right, like I’ve privately been trying on tiaras in my closet.”

  The image of Kelly sitting in her closet with a sparkly crown on top of her burned-looking hair makes me giggle in spite of being in shock. She glares at me through her heavy black eyeliner, and I cut off mid-giggle.

  I’m dying to escape this room and discuss the show with Marnie, but I’m not even allowed to tell her about it. The entire thing has to be kept secret for the whole school year due to the candid premise. If we spill to anyone outside our immediate family before the show airs, we’re disqualified and lose our shot at the One! Million! Dollars!

  Instead of following us around the school with handheld cameras, which would be a definite tip-off to our classmates, they’ll be using super high-tech hidden cameras to capture nearly every move we make. I imagine getting caught doing something gross like scratching my butt, and the thought makes my bottom itch. I cross my legs.

  “Shannon?” Mickey says sharply, making me realize
she’s been talking.

  “Huh?” I click back to the present.

  “Do you think your folks will sign off on this?” Mickey asks, possibly for the third or fourth time, judging by the controlled impatience in her voice.

  “My mom,” I correct. “Not my ‘folks,’ just my mom.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Mickey sifts through papers. “I don’t see any indication of a divorce here in your file…”

  “It happened a long time ago. Now it’s just me, Mom, and my little sister, Josie. She’s fourteen.” I don’t add that Josie is the polar opposite of me. She has friends coming out of her butt. In fact, she’s already on a trajectory to be the damn Prom Queen her senior year. But the look on Mickey’s face makes me afraid to draw us severely off topic. On top of my daydreaming, I have a tendency to pull conversations on tangents. It’s a gift. Marnie and I even do a little hand signal, palm to the side as we call out, “Tangent!” when I do it.

  “Um, so yeah,” I say, “I think my mom’ll sign. I mean, free clothes and a shot at a million bucks, right?” I smile weakly. “Who wouldn’t sign?”

  Except for, here’s the thing—no way is my mother signing anything.

  Raising two girls by herself has made my mom really tough. She’s suspicious too. Tough and suspicious add up to her reading over every fine-print item placed in front of her. It may be one of the reasons she decided to become a contract lawyer when she went back to graduate school. Mom hasn’t been a lawyer for very long, but legal speak is pretty much her second language. People literally hire her to write ironclad agreements. Getting her to sign this book-length television contract will take a minor miracle. And I’m not even sure it’s a miracle I’m interested in attempting.

  Mickey and Victoria send us off, bulging paperwork in our arms, with the reminder not to tell a single soul about any of this. “At least school’s almost out for the summer,” Victoria says brightly. “Just think, if everything goes well, the three of you will be at Prom Queen Camp in less than two weeks!” She sounds so happy, I wonder what sort of twisted summer camp she went to as a teen.