by Laura Preble
One day in the cafeteria, two unnamed cheerleaders manage to trip Elisa from behind so that her tray full of Cup-a-Soup and cheesy nachos goes airborne, and she plummets, facedown, onto the sticky linoleum. They pretend to help her get up, but I notice one of them rubbing some oily cheese sauce onto the back of her T-shirt. I scurry over, shoo away the zombie girls, and brush her off. “What was that about?” she asks, confused.
“I believe that was a terrorist plot to make sure you go hungry.” I turn her around and dab at the cheese sauce between her shoulders. “I think the Geek Prom is really pissing some people off.”
Becca continues to give out tickets, and since they’re free, even kids who normally wouldn’t come near us with a ten-foot cattle prod snatch up handfuls of passes. When I ask her about the obvious anger radiating from the Associated Student Body office, she shrugs and says, “It’s like that sports cream you rub on sore muscles. When it’s painfully hot, that’s how you know it’s working.”
“If it gets much hotter, we might actually need sports cream. And bandages, and maybe even a cast or two,” I mutter as we skillfully avoid a wad of nasty gum left purposefully in our path.
On my own, I practice driving with Dad after school, and armed with my learner’s permit (finally!) I am feeling confident that my scheme will work. One night as I’m putting the finishing touches on my fancy “real” prom dress (shiny midnight blue poofy dress, full-length, trimmed with beads), Euphoria watches, making disapproving mechanical sounds.
“Shelby, please let me try to talk you out of this,” she says for the millionth time. “It’s a crazy idea. You know it won’t work. Why do you insist on pushing it?”
She’s sewing Velcro into the seams of the dress, but doing it in such a way that you can’t see it. When she’s finished, I should be able to shimmy into it, slap the Velcro shut, and be on my way. Just as easily, I’ll be able to unfasten it, tuck it safely into the trunk of my car, and be ready underneath for anything the Geek Prom might throw at me.
“All right.” Euphoria sighs, holding up the blue dress. “I think it’s finished.”
I give her a hug. “Thanks, fairy godmother. Now let’s see if you turned the pumpkin into a golden carriage.”
She bleeps, puzzled. “Just try it on.”
With my extra cool, tight green dress underneath, I slip the blue dress on and run my hand up the part with the Velcro embedded in it. Looking in the mirror, it’s almost impossible to tell I have two dresses on, except that my boobs look a little bigger. Side benefit. “The straps on the green dress show, but I’ll wear a wrap, so no one will see them,” I say, draping a gauzy oversized scarf across my shoulders as I prance in front of the mirror. “I am a genius.”
As the magical day draws near, Fletcher calls almost every day, and so does Becca, even though I see both of them at school. “I’m really looking forward to the dance,” Fletcher says one night over the speakerphone.
“Yeah, it’ll be great,” I agree as I paint my toenails a deep burgundy.
He clears his throat. “So, how have you handled the whole Geek Prom thing with Becca? Isn’t she furious?”
I tip the bottle of polish over, and some of it drips on my carpet. Drat! “Uh . . . well, we just sort of compromised.” Lame answer.
“Compromised, huh?” He snorts on the other end. “That I find hard to believe. But however you worked it out, I’m really glad you’re coming with me. When should I pick you up, by the way?”
A cold stab goes through my heart. A flaw in my devious plan! Of course, guys always pick up their prom dates, give them dead flowers for their wrists and such. How could I forget such an important point? “Uh . . . you’re breaking up over there,” I say, trying to make my voice sound crackly. “Let me call you back . . . bad reception . . .” I flip the phone shut as if it’s made of hot coals.
As if to taunt me, the stupid thing rings again. The screen reads: “Becca,” so I flip it open. “Hello?”
“Oh my god, you will never believe it. We have now given out five hundred tickets—”
I nearly choke. “Did you say five hundred?”
“Yep.” She whoops into the phone, which isn’t a really pleasant experience for me. “People are getting on MySpace and asking how they can get in, people from everywhere! And I even saw them advertise it on E-Tube Television. This is amazing!”
“Yes, it is.” Amazing that I haven’t accidentally confessed to prom crimes real or imagined.
“So, you’re going in the limo with us, right?”
“Huh?”
“Melvin rented us a huge limo. All you have to do is be at my house about two hours before the dance and we’ll all drive over in style. Of course, we’ll be spending the day getting the place ready, but I figured everyone can come back to my house to shower and whatever—” I don’t even hear the rest of what she says, because I am stuck on the giant-sized limo that will be waiting for me.
“Oh, I gotta go, Becca. Dad’s calling. Hang on, Dad!” I yell to make it sound convincing. “Call you back.” I slam the phone shut again, senselessly taking out my frustration on wireless technology.
I throw myself onto the bed and bury my head in the pillow, hoping that I will be swallowed alive and never return to face the hideous mess I’ve made. But no matter how tightly I close my eyes, I’m still in my room.
Euphoria, who has been blessedly silent, says, “I believe I said something like this would happen.”
I throw a pillow in her general direction but aim to miss.
About a week before prom day (or P-Day as I take to calling it because of similarities to the disaster of World War II), things at school start to turn nasty.
I keep getting dirty looks from jocks and prep girls, and people are tripping me for no reason in the halls. When I see Becca, she looks as if she’s been suffering the same treatment. Evie trails along behind her a pace, like a secret service agent looking for would-be assassins. Or spit wad throwers.
“It’s because the student government is mad that we’re cutting into their business,” Becca says, scoping the crowd during passing period for any likely foot trippers.
“Why is that, exactly?”
Evie elbows in between us. “It’s probably because of the global presence.”
“Huh?” I frown at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that we now have kids from several other countries who are going to be attending the prom virtually,” she says, grinning. “Why would anybody pay a lot of money to wear tight shoes and go to a normal, boring hometown dance when they can party with people from around the world for free?”
Becca steers me by the elbow away from a mess of banana peels left purposefully in my path. “Student government hasn’t sold a lot of tickets, and it’s because of our event.”
“Maybe it’s because their event isn’t as spectacular as ours,” Evie murmurs as we reach her classroom. “Okay, see you all later. Watch your backs.”
I thought that the lack of “regular prom” success would make me happy, but actually, I feel kind of bad about it. Maybe the whole thing was kind of a bad idea after all. But now, of course, it’s too late.
They have voting during homeroom period for prom king and queen, and they show the court hopefuls on Panther TV. Each one has a chance to speak and explain why they would be so honored to wear a fake crown and cape and rule over meaningless high school rituals for a night.
While only half watching the monitor, I hear Fletcher’s voice coming out of the TV screen. “Hi, I’m Fletcher Berkowitz. If you’d like a cheap alternative to expensive fuel, vote for me for prom king. Plus, my date, Shelby Chapelle, is exceedingly hot, so you should vote for me just so you can get a look at her in the spotlight.”
My cheeks ignite and I try very hard to disappear, but my stupid, thankless molecules do not comply. Kids all around me laugh and poke me, and make silly noises while the teacher tries to shut them up.
Carl is next on the screen. He still looks
sad. “Hi, I’m Carl Schwaiger,” he rumbles. “Please don’t vote for me for king. I don’t have a queen and I’d rather just sit in the corner alone drinking myself into oblivion with Hawaiian Punch.”
Everyone sort of squirms uncomfortably. Nobody likes to hear a guy threaten suicide by high fructose corn syrup.
What Fletcher says on Panther TV nearly blows my whole plan out of the water when, at lunch, Becca storms up to me and demands, “What’s this about someone’s exceedingly hot date, Shelby Chapelle?”
“Uh . . .” I stammer, hoping something brilliant will present itself. Something does.
Amber runs up and grabs me around the shoulders. “That was so amazing!”
“Uh . . . okay,” I say, trying to shove her Gothness off me.
“I mean, how Fletcher talked about you on Panther TV. Everyone knows you’re going to Geek Prom, so now they’re all talking about how delusional the student government people are, how desperate they are to make us look bad! Isn’t that awesome? How did you get him to do it?”
Ah. So now I’ve supposedly hypnotized Fletcher into saying I was going with him, only I’m not, and by mentioning me, the student government looks bad because they don’t have the people they thought they’d have at their dance. I’m in so deep there is no way out, so I just stuff my mouth full of whole-grain crackers and pretend to choke.
13
DRIVING MISS CRAZY (or A Girl and Her Robot)
P-Day looms, and I want everything to go smoothly, so like any good evil genius, I need to rehearse my dastardly scheme. One afternoon when Dad has carpooled to a meeting with another geeky scientist, I make Euphoria go with me on a practice run.
Getting her into the Volvo is no easy task. For one, she’s not so hot at the bending-at-the-waist thing, and you’d be surprised how necessary that is for getting into a car. We’re in the driveway, and I’ve dressed her up in her Aunt Effie outfit: an old gray wig and purple pillbox hat (with a veil to cover up her eye lights), a large lavender caftan I found at the Salvation Army thrift shop for a Halloween costume a couple of years ago, and some elbow gloves trimmed with ostrich feathers.
“I gotta say, you’re a vision, Euphoria,” I tell her as I try yet another way to shove her into the front passenger seat. “Maybe we need some Vaseline or something to get you past the door.”
“That would ruin my gown,” she says haughtily. All of a sudden she’s like the Queen Elizabeth of robots. Great.
“Yeah, well,” I grunt as I push again, “something’s gotta give.” I adjust the front seat again, sliding it all the way back, and Euphoria tumbles into the car, legs askew. “Oh, and we probably need some shoes. If a cop stops us, he might be disturbed by your . . . prosthetics.”
“I’d like a nice pair of flip-flops. I hear they’re comfortable.”
“You have to have toes to wear flip-flops, though. Maybe we should go with fuzzy slippers.”
I pile into the front seat, and for a moment consider strapping Euphoria in with the seat belt, but then realize she’s not a living person, so any auto crash would result in a trip to the body shop rather than the hospital. I, however, am a very careful driver, so I buckle up.
“Shelby, I really must object one more time,” she says, her drawl getting thicker with the increased anxiety. “This is a foolish plan. If you’re caught, we’ll both be punished.”
“Don’t be an old lady, Aunt Effie. We’re just going around the block.” I back the car down the driveway, straighten it, and head down the street, feeling the sweet taste of freedom.
Euphoria has stabilized, and is able to look out the window. “My goodness, I’ve never ridden in a car like this before,” she says, her voice full of wonder. “There are so many things to see. What are those devices poking out of the ground?”
“Mailboxes,” I answer. “They’re not devices, exactly. You just put letters in them, and you get bills and stuff.”
As we drive past a two-story white house with black shutters, the smell of fresh-cut grass clippings fills the car, and the drone of a lawnmower becomes louder. Suddenly, Euphoria shouts, “Stop! Stop the car!”
I obey, since for all I know her super sensors have picked up a stray cat or an old lady walking across my path. “What is it?” I anxiously scan the street.
“Oh, Shelby.” Euphoria’s voice is full of sadness. “It’s Eugene. Or part of him, at least.”
Eugene was a failed project of my dad’s, a lawnmower constructed to have a semi-functional processor and voice command. He was sort of Euphoria’s dream man, but he never quite worked. It was kind of like her being in love with an institutionalized mental patient. A mental patient with rust.
The lawnmower that plows across our neighbor’s yard is, indeed, partially Eugene. When he failed, Dad parted him out to various people, and I guess at least a few pieces stayed in the ’hood. “Oh, Eugene,” Euphoria says, moaning softly. She turns away and says, “Drive on, Shelby. We can’t dwell in the past.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I floor the car and we peel away from the site.
I take the car around the neighborhood a few more times, and start to feel pretty confident in my driving. “Now, the only challenge is really to navigate between locations. But you can help me with that, right? You’re like a GPS satellite and nagging driving coach all rolled into one.”
“Hmm.” Euphoria sounds miffed, but I ignore that. By the time I pull the Volvo into the driveway, all is forgiven. “I just hope your father never finds out,” she says as I struggle to free her from the car. “He’ll gut me like he did Eugene.”
“Euphoria! Don’t say such a thing. He’d never do that to you.” But then I think about it, and I consider that not only might he do it to Euphoria, but he might even do it to me if I get caught. I vow to be doubly careful.
On the Geek Prom front, Evie has turned into an evil computer genius tapping away on my computer until she has to go back to Briley’s house for fear of being locked out. Her eyes are starting to take on the sallow look of somebody overexposed to pixels and pop-up ads.
One evening, she’s tapping away while I’m making a lame attempt at homework, and she jumps and screams. “What’s wrong?” I yelp, almost falling off my bed.
“Look at this.” I scrape myself up off my carpet and scramble to peer over her shoulder. On the computer screen, her MySpace page comments are displayed, and one large one with a Japanese flag and a photo of a smiling girl has one word printed on it: YES! It’s on!
“Does that mean that we have kids in Japan who are coming to our virtual prom?” I almost whisper. “Does that mean you actually did it?”
“Yes!” She jumps up, almost upends my desk, and we jump on my bed like we’re two years old, screeching and whooping like we just won the Super Bowl. Euphoria rolls in, snaps a towel at me with deadly accuracy, and emits a sound equivalent to an air horn at a football game. It effectively stops our jumping and screeching.
“Did a herd of wildcats get loose in here?” she drawls.
“Sorry.” I climb down from the bed. “We just managed a hookup with Japan for the Geek Prom. It’s just sort of an accomplishment.”
“Sort of!” Evie snorts. “It’s taken years off my life trying to set this up. I’ve had to help people scavenge machinery half a world away, get commitments from people I’ve never met, and work out the logistics of hooking up satellite signals from places I’ve never even seen. Sort of an accomplishment!”
Euphoria sniffs self-righteously. “Well, if you keep it down to a dull roar, I’d appreciate it.” As she rolls out the door, she mutters, “You’d think no one had ever plugged anything in before, my goodness . . .”
I try to avoid Fletcher at school because every time I see him, he says something about prom. During passing period, he jumps out at me from an English classroom and says, “You’re looking at the king of decorations. I’ve delegated every job to underlings, and now just have to look at the greatness of my genius. Oh, and did you like the interview on Panthe
r TV?” he asks slyly as we change classes.
“Well, if you mean did I like you referring to me as hot, then I guess, yeah. But it was kind of embarrassing. And Carl’s was just . . . well . . .”
“Pathetic?”
“Yeah.”
He nods and squeezes my shoulders. “I’m glad we’re not in that situation. I mean, he really cares about Becca, but she is so stubborn and wants her own way so much that she’s ruined a good thing. Luckily, you have a much better head on your shoulders.” He stops, leans over, and catches me in a deep kiss that causes other kids to make rude noises. “And it’s a much better-looking head, too.”
Dizzy from the kiss, I just sort of sway in the wind, hoping I don’t fall over. But the functioning part of my brain is nagging at me, reminding me that I’m just as stubborn as Becca, just a better liar with a Volvo.
Green Pines is caught up in Prom Frenzy for the week. The theme of the regular prom is Mardi Gras, so everything at school oozes New Orleans charm (or at least what the mass producers of prom decorations think of as New Orleans charm). Purple, green, and gold trinkets seem to hang from every light pole and tree, and colorful posters featuring a masked woman on a white horse advertise a Night to Remember right next to our homemade Geek Prom fliers, which now look pretty homely.
Evie, Amber, and Elisa run toward me with a herd of geek girls at break one day, and I’m tempted to duck, but they’re too fast. “Guess what, guess what!” Amber squeals. I’ve rarely, if ever, heard anything close to a squeal coming out of our dark poet, so it must be something squeal-worthy. “We got Scotland, Sydney, South Africa, and Canada. Can you believe it?”
“Are we talking about a game of Risk or what?” I ask, confused.
“No, doof. Evie got hookups for all those countries for the virtual prom!” Elisa grabs my arm and flops it up and down. It is unresponsive. “Look.” Elisa pulls Wembley out of her pocket, but it doesn’t look like Wembley. It’s a shiny new device with a keyboard and a video screen.
