“Well, I’m dressed for my special occasion too. School.”
“You look cute no matter what you wear. Besides, you did get dressed up. You matched your shoes to your shirt and they’re not mismatched today.”
I squint, looking down at my tight yellow Elvis T-shirt, black jeans, and two yellow sneakers. “You’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Maybe you were thinking that since you’re almost a legal adult, you should stop wearing two different shoe colors on Fridays?”
“Nope, that’s not it. It was definitely a mistake. Too much of your Baby Promma Drama on my mind.”
“Yeah right. I think you’re trying to sex it up since you-know-who was practically all over you in class yesterday.”
The warning bell rings, leaving me just enough time to squeeze Kallie’s hand and beg her not to make a big deal out of it in class.
“Of course not, I’m cool. I got your back.”
We jog down the hall together and I tell her if I don’t catch her in-between classes, I’ll see her in last period where we’ll await her fate and my demise.
During Business Math, I chastise myself for getting so wrapped up in things that shouldn’t matter. Like how Dad used to get all worked up over a hall light being left on. I feel like an idiot for worrying about these nominations when I want to be the kind of girl who’s above all this stuff. But here I am worried about Kallie getting in, who she would or wouldn’t be in with, and of course I’m worried about myself. Sure, I’ve daydreamed about the high I’d be on if by some apocalyptic miracle I’m nominated, but I know it’s highly unlikely. The other stupid thought churning through my head is how to act when my name is not announced. It’s like the MTV or Academy Awards when the camera cuts to the losers. All those awkward stretched smiles accompanied by courtesy hand clapping. I’ll have to pretend my ass off that it doesn’t matter and I forgot I was a contender anyway. All day I imagine different scenarios and practice my nonchalant look.
As the bell rings to start Language Arts, Mr. Norderick almost closes the door on my sneaker. “Just in time Ms. Hughes, just in time.”
I do a quick sweep of the class to check for Kallie and Sean. Score. I walk over to the seat with Kallie’s notebook on it. She whisper mumbles something to me about thanking God and moral support.
“Seat’s taken,” says Justin in a southern drawl. I can’t place it but I know it’s another cheesy movie line. I roll my eyes and face forward.
Justin flicks my hair with a pencil. “Your hair smells so good today Jennaaay, like a box of chocolates.” Oh. Forrest Gump. He really needs to start watching some movies from this century.
Kallie leans into the aisle. “Dude, if you can smell her hair from your desk, I’m filing a restraining order.”
“Another thing, Justin, I forgot to give you the memo. My name’s Bree and Jenny’s dead. Your horrible old movie quotes have pushed her into an early grave.”
“Actually,” says Justin, “she died of AIDS, which is still a serious problem facing the youth of today.”
“You,” says Kallie, “are the serious problem facing the youth of today.”
Kallie and I stifle our laughs as Mr. N. clears his throat and starts talking about a new series on poetry, with weekly assignments.
Kallie’s foot taps her desk leg. I know she isn’t listening to any of this. She’s probably wondering when Nord’s going to hurry and announce the court names.
Looking ahead, I stare at Sean’s ears, which offer me the perfect distraction. The sun peeks in through the window shades, a ray hitting his shoulder. I take a deep breath in, and get a whiff of Sean’s foresty cologne and wonder if he’ll be at any of the parties by the docks at Lake Crystal this summer. Maybe he’d be leaning against a tree jamming on the same guitar he played during the Homecoming Pep Rally. My teeth gnaw the inside of my bottom lip as I copy poetry notes and conjure up my image of Sean outside of school. With his shirt off. I wonder if it’s weird for him to be playing the guitar with no shirt, and if I should ditch the half-nudity for a white T-shirt or his football jersey, but realize it’s my daydream. So no-shirt Sean stays. With the image of him in blue trunks, hanging low on his hips, his muscles suntanned and sweaty, I make a vow. If there are parties at the lake this summer, I, Bree Hughes, solemnly swear—
“Excuse me?” Shandy Kissass’s screechy voice pulls me back into class. I straighten my back against my chair. Shandy waves as if Mr. N. can’t see her right there in the front row.
“Mr. Norderick? Are you announcing Prom Court today?”
“Yes, Ms. Silvers, I’ll be announcing the names for your little Prom contest, after I finish the lesson and assignments for today.”
Shandy slouches back in her seat. Staring at Sean’s neck, I want to dive back into my daydream, or reach out, run my hand straight up the back of his neck, and feel his hair in-between my fingers. Instead, I quietly tap my pencil’s eraser against the desk, trying to drum a beat slower than my heart, which has picked up the pace. I’m not sure if it’s because the nominations will be announced soon or that I still have a vision of swim-trunks Sean in my head.
After a half hour and a couple pages of poetry terms and recommended reading, Mr. N. tells us to watch ourselves and that he’ll be right back with our court list. He then gives Shandy a wink and tells her if anyone gets out of line she has permission to use her cell phone to call the police.
Sean turns and faces me. “Did you understand any of that poetry stuff? I have to ace these next assignments to get my grade back up. I bombed the last few essays.”
Our eyes meet for a second and I have to look away because I am gone. Laser beams just shot through my body. Well, not actual lasers but close. It’s a wave of heat that knocks me slightly off-kilter. I look down at my desk, searching my notes for the answer to his question, mainly so he can’t see my face getting hot.
“Umm, well, alliteration is actually, um, it says that … or maybe if you start right here with the free-writing stuff you can …” I stop, realizing I can’t even hear myself. My heart is on a treadmill right now.
Sean squints and cocks his head to the side.
“I’m sorry,” I crinkle my lips together. “Um. I’m not making any sense. Sorry. Do you want my notes?”
“Sure. You mind if I copy?”
“No problem.” I tear out two pages, push them into his hands and he turns back in his seat. My chest caves with the pressure of a highly anxious swoon and I’m grateful for the break from his piercing eyes.
Nord walks back into class, waving a piece of paper as if it’s a winning lottery ticket. He says to make sure we bring our first poem in on Monday—no rules except it has to mention or be inspired by an animal.
“Is a chupacabra considered an animal?” Justin asks without raising his hand.
“You bet,” answers Nord as Shandy turns and casts Justin the kind of look I usually save for the d-baggy guys who catcall girls in the hallway.
“Without further ado,” Mr. N. continues, “here are the results you’ve all been waiting for, with bated breath and wild anticipation, please do not fall off the edge of your seats. In no particular order, Brian Wang, Todd White, Justin Conner, Sean Mills, Chris Monroe, Molly Chapman, Kallie Vate, Laura Rose, Jane Hulmes, and Maisey Morgan.”
Even though the names came out fast, a lot happens. Shandy scribbles the names into her notebook just as fast as they fly out of Nord’s mouth. Justin gives himself a high five and does one of those chicken neck, arm flapping, booty shaking football-end-zone victory dances. He ends it on bended knee, head down into his elbow and says, “Thank you little eight-pound six-ounce newborn baby Jesus.”
Kallie’s got the biggest smile anyone could have while trying to keep their mouth shut. If she was any happier, she’d be wiping away tears. She slides her hands into her bag and starts rummaging around rhythmically. Definitely texting Todd the news.
Maisey barely responds to her name. Slinking lower into her c
hair, her head hangs over her desk, as she scribbles indifferently into her notebook while the class half-asses an attempt at subtlety. Over half the class fake coughs, giggles, and snorts into their hands and the crooks of their elbows.
Over the roar, Justin says, “You were robbed—Mouse stole your spot!”
I roll my eyes, lean over, and squeeze Kallie’s hand. “I’m so excited for you.” The little pit that sinks to the bottom of my stomach surprises me. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want anyone to think I care or because I actually do.
Sean spins around with a grin and fist pounds Justin. His eyes hit mine, cranking the heat in my face but dissipating the pit in my stomach. “Too bad you’re not on the court,” he says. “It would’ve been fun.”
“It’s gonna be rough, but I think I’ll make it,” I say, sounding way cooler than I feel.
Sean shakes his head and laughs. “Well, hey, I didn’t finish copying these notes so maybe I could keep them and give them back to you this weekend? Here’s my number.” Sean doesn’t really let me answer before he starts writing his phone number on my black and white comp book.
“Okay, yeah, no problem.” I can barely pull my eyes away from his number as the bell rings.
Everyone rushes into the hall to join everyone else in a feast of gossip, disbelief, and high fives over underclassmen regarding the nominations. Todd, in a pink bow tie, cuts between Kallie and me belting his arm around her waist.
“Babe, this dress should be illegal. If I don’t get locked up for being your accomplice, we’re going to rock the Prom as King and Queen.”
I smile, letting them walk off into their own world, as if I have a choice. My eyes skim the crowd for Sean but he’s lost in the sea of everyone rushing to get their weekend started.
When I turn the corner, a loud voice bellows toward me, “Mousey Morgan, will you go to Prom with me?”
I turn and Maisey slams into me and my armful of books.
“Sorry,” she mumbles to my forearm, then tucks a clump of copper hair behind her ear, lowers her gaze even farther and rushes past me. Her shoulders hunch beneath her backpack as she ducks beneath the laughs and through the bodies mazed before her.
I frown as she disappears into the crowd until I catch a glimpse of Chip Ryan, my ex-boyfriend pushing his way toward me from the left. His shaggy hair swings over one eye while the other meets my eyes for barely a millisecond. I do the same thing I’ve been doing all year. Look away and try to stop my breath from catching in my throat. I push through the same path Maisey blazed. The Maisey Mouse song rings out at least twice among the Prom gossip and Friday night plan snippets before I’m hitting the double doors to the parking lot.
At home in my bedroom, I jump into sweatpants and peel off my wet-pitted Elvis shirt. Talking to Sean and dodging Chip can have that effect. My whole drive home from school was me pep-talking myself into longer breaths and a million repetitions of “just relax.”
Bummer of the day had to have been Sean Mills saying “too bad.” I don’t want him feeling sorry for me. He almost made it sound like if we got on court together, we’d have been hanging out, eating pizza, and engaging in secret Prom activities. But being around Jane and Molly and their clique would’ve been awkward. And I’d have to fake like hell that it wasn’t. It’s probably for the best that my name wasn’t called.
I once read or heard Oprah talking about being nominated for an award years ago. She was so stressed about how she looked that she didn’t want to get up in front of everyone. I can’t remember if she won and she was embarrassed about winning or if she lost and was relieved she didn’t have to be on stage in the end. Either way, I know what she meant. I’m fairly confident this year about my looks, but sometimes I still feel like my best isn’t good enough. Girls on Prom Court like Molly and Jane look like they stepped off the set of the latest teen movie. Getting my braces pried off last year and accepting that my hip bones will never shrink did cut down on mirror critiquing time, but it didn’t do much to bump up my social rank at school.
Sean’s face flashes in my head so I grab my backpack and fish out my notebook to make sure his phone number is still there. It’s slightly smudged but still legible: Sean 612–555-8000.
I snap a picture of it and message it to Kallie.
This actually overrides the whole “sorry you weren’t nominated” bit. Sean giving me his number means something. Guys don’t go around giving their numbers to girls they want to be friends with. Not guys like him. Nope. A voice and smile like his are not hard up for a study partner with no credentials other than “seat behind you” stalking. If only I was cool enough to wait until Monday to see if he says anything about me not calling him, but I don’t have that type of willpower.
To text or not to text. Texting in a situation like this is usually something I’d avoid since there’s always the chance my words will come off the wrong way and I’ll be in a mess until I construct forty more lines to explain myself. It can be a time suck. Sometimes it’s the chicken shit way to go. So that’s why I might text. I’m worried about my voice quavering on the phone and don’t want Sean to hear my nerves.
I pull the phone to my ear and pretend to call: “Hey Sean, it’s Bree. From class. Hughes, Bree Hughes.” Then I get carried away. “Yes, Bree with dark brown hair and blue-gray eyes. Five foot five and a quarter. I like shows and movies about zombies but serial killer movies freak me out. And you’ve never seen it, but I have a Massachusetts-shaped birthmark on my stomach and some cellulite on my thighs. Language Arts is my favorite class but your neck is very distracting. Sorry, but it’s true. And now you know that, you might as well know that I’ve been passive aggressively stalking you this whole semester …”
Buzzzz. My text alert goes off and I jump, hoping it’s Sean. Oh, wait. He’s the one who gave me his number. I check the screen.
KALLIE VATE.
Call him now! That’s WAY better than Prom Court. But still SORRY u didn’t get in!!!! : ( Thx for nominating me tho LUV U. I’ll call u tmrw!
An out-of-nowhere rock drop feeling assaults me, from the top to the bottom of my gut. My best friend feels sorry for me, too. Ugh. And, as usual, she’s hanging with Todd tonight. Weekends are so much easier when your best friend is single or you have your own boyfriend. Chip was the last guy I dated. And since that turned out so shitty, I haven’t been actively searching for a replacement. Just dreaming of one. If I can step it up a notch, maybe Sean could be the next guy.
It’s probably time to follow Kallie’s advice and call him before I overthink myself right into Monday. Sean’s number stares back at me as I suck in a deep breath while reciting his digits in my head. I tap them into my phone and then do a half-dancy jumping jack to get myself into “operation call hot guy” mode. It rings twice and I hope for voicemail while my nerves kick harder. Fourth ring and yes. Voicemail.
“It’s Sean—say something important or funny.” BEEEEEP.
His deep drawl followed by a superfast beep throws me off and I almost hang up. But I can’t. I have to leave a message or he might wait for me to call back. Or he won’t see my missed call. Or he might not know it was me and think I’m some salesperson trying to sell printer ink or pet insurance.
“Hi Sean, this is Bree. From Language Arts and um, Bree Hughes, so I was calling since my notes, um, because you have my—” And then I do something beyond stupid. I’m so nervous that I decide to re-do my message and hope to God his phone has that option like most voicemails do. So, I tap the star button key but nothing happens. Just air. I hit the pound sign. Still nothing. Oh Shit. I can’t hang up because that would be totally lame, so out of desperation I drop the phone then pick it back up. The cat clock on my wall grins at me like I’m a total idiot. “Omigod I’m so sorry, my cat just jumped in my lap and knocked the phone out of my hand. Sorry! Anyways, as I was saying it’s Bree from Language Arts and you have my notes so if—”
BEEEEEP. An automated robot lady says “Thank you” and hangs up
on me.
I press pound and star again, but nothing. My heart punches my chest. I am horrified.
I throw my iPhone. “Screw you robot lady.” It lands with a thud on my shaggy blue carpet. For crap sake, I can’t call back. Two messages would sound pathetic. Defeated, I pick the phone back up and send a text.
Hey Sean its Bree Hughes from Lang Arts If u need to, u can have my notes til Mon or I can get whenever
I press Send right away so I don’t overthink and mess this one up too. Before I can conjure up a story of how I became the proud owner of a nonexistent cat, my mom breezes through my door, asking if I want to go out for dinner instead of pizza, the usual end of the week meal. My face contorts as I worry about looking uncool hanging with my mom on a Friday night.
“C’mon hon, it’s been a long week. Let’s get outta here.”
“Okay. Fine. Can we go to Azumi?” She agrees and tells me to be ready in about an hour. I pick Azumi because yes, I like Japanese but mainly because it’s not a typical hangout for anyone in our school. On Fridays most everyone goes to a movie or just hangs out in the parking lot at the strip mall and eventually ends up at 24/7, Belmont’s only diner. The funny thing about 24/7 is that it closes at three a.m. Since I’m not a morning person, I don’t know what time they open. I make a mental note to check the opening hours next time I go.
A few minutes after Mom leaves my room, my phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Is Bree there?”
“Yep, it’s me.”
“Hey, it’s Sean from class, but I know you know that since you just called and texted me … Um …”
“Oh hey, how’s it going? Crazy day right?”
“Yeah, all the Prom stuff, blehhhh.”
“Really? I thought you were into that,” I say. “Aren’t you the one who said it was going to be fun?”
“Oh, right. I did say that, huh? I guess in a way it’s fun and dumb. Does that makes sense?”
“Yeah, actually that does make sense.”
“It’s crazy that they actually nominated Maisey. I bet she wins too. Molly Chapman would probably—”
Liars and Losers Like Us Page 2
