Prom Queen Geeks

by Laura Preble

  “What’s that?” I am shocked—shocked!—that she’s parted with her Palm Pilot. “Where’s your buddy?”

  Elisa doesn’t even look at me. “Times change. Affections change. I had to move on. This is Wembley II, complete with wireless Internet and video capabilities.” She presses a few buttons and hands the device to Evie, who presses more buttons as the other girls hover around like bees waiting to suck on a flower.

  “Look,” Evie says triumphantly, handing me the Wembley II. On it, her MySpace is crammed full of comments and messages from people all over the world, people giving the details of how the amazing and seemingly impossible virtual prom will be made real.

  “Wow,” I say weakly as the other Queen Geeks chant Evie’s name as if she’s some virtual goddess. I, on the other hand, feel like hiding in a utility closet until it’s all over, preferably one with no Internet access.

  By Thursday, Becca is a nervous wreck. P-Day is Saturday, and she’s given away more than six hundred tickets, but the Mardi Gras prom is starting to look pretty cool. “At least if people come to our event, they’ll still be able to eat for the rest of the year,” Becca grumbles as she pokes a finger at one of the posters announcing Only $80 per couple! Includes soft drinks!

  Friday, the Queen Geeks gather for a last-minute huddle and pep talk. The room takes on the feeling of a football team strategizing before a big game, or a bunch of Christians waiting to be cleaned and dressed and sent out as a lion entrée. “Stop talking!” Becca shouts over the chattering. The conversations die down immediately.

  “Okay, ladies. Tomorrow is the big day. E-Tube will be broadcasting live from Geek Prom, and who knows how many surprise Hollywood guests might show up? It’s going to be a fantastic night, and it’s all thanks to you. And let’s give a big hand to Evie, the one who made the virtual prom part all possible.” Becca beams at her as the other girls clap and cheer. “Make sure you show up early so you can get a good seat for the movie. Now, we do need help setting up the tables and chairs, putting up decorations, and such.”

  The conversation drifts into the nuts and bolts of running an event like this: when the food will be delivered, napkins, knives, cups, plates, crepe paper. I sort of tune out; my biggest concern is not with the decorations for the dance, but whether or not I can get to two events at the same time. My mind spins out into horrible scenarios: I drive to the regular prom, and my shoe gets stuck in an elevator; I drive to Geek Prom and get electrocuted by a stray neon light whose wire falls carelessly into my punch cup; I drive with Euphoria in the car, get stopped by the police, and have to explain why my aunt Effie has electrodes instead of warts.

  The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch, and girls file out, all animated with the excitement of tomorrow’s event. Becca hangs back, and grabs my arm. “Just a minute.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you coming over to my house to ride in the limo?”

  “Uh . . .” This would, of course, totally sink my plan. “No.”

  “You’re not? Why?” Becca looks disappointed. I think she wanted to show off her dad’s disposable money.

  “I . . . want to do some stuff before Geek Prom. Secret stuff.” Oh, that’s brilliant. Now I’ll have to figure out what the secret stuff is so I can tell another lie later on. I realize I’m digging myself a huge hole, but at some point, there’s so much dirt all around you that you just sort of get used to it, I guess.

  “Secret stuff. Right.” She walks out with me into the rushing stream of kids racing to class. “Let’s go get PE over with, and then we can relax for the weekend. I can’t wait till tomorrow . . . it’s going to be amazing. And E-Tube! Can you even believe Dad pulled that off?”

  “Not really,” I mutter as I follow in Becca’s wake across campus.

  After school, I race off campus as if a rocket is strapped to my rear. I do not want to talk to anyone about anything. If I can get home, I figure I still might be able to make the whole thing work, but if I talk to Fletcher or Becca or anyone, I have a feeling I’ll spill my guts and ruin everything.

  Unfortunately, Dad is home when I get there. He’s swinging on the front porch again, which means he’s depressed.

  “Hey, Dad,” I say as cheerily as possible.

  He grunts and salutes me with a cup of coffee.

  “Having a bad day?” I park next to him on the swing and move into the rhythm with him.

  He sighs and drinks some coffee, which smells like it’s been in the cup for a while. “Not really a bad day,” he says. “I’m just taking stock of my life.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s important,” I say with very little enthusiasm. “By the way, you’re still going to spend the weekend in Santa Barbara for the robotics conference, right?”

  He yawns. “I guess. I’m not that excited about it, though. Maybe I should take Euphoria along as a sidekick.”

  “No!” I say too loudly. He stares at me, puzzled. “I mean, she probably wouldn’t do very well on such a long trip. Delicate circuits and stuff.”

  “Yeah,” he says, still studying my face as if he’s checking for hidden information. “Anyway, I wouldn’t want to leave you alone all weekend. She can keep you company.”

  Euphoria rolls out onto the porch. “Oh, Shelby, you’re home.” Her tone seems a bit frosty, but that could just be a change in humidity or temperature. I try not to read anything into it. “Were you mentioning my delicate circuits?”

  “Uh . . . yeah. Anyway, Dad is going to that conference in Santa Barbara this weekend, you know, so it’s just us girls.”

  Euphoria snorts. “Just us girls. Oh, Shelby, isn’t your big Geek Prom event this weekend?” If I could’ve reached her, I’d have kicked Euphoria. Instead, I have to pretend that I haven’t been dwelling on that very thought for the past month.

  “Oh, you’re right, it is. Tomorrow, in fact.” I glare at her behind Dad’s back. I don’t know if she can see me, but I pretend she can.

  Dad stretches, scratches his salt-and-pepper hair, and yawns again. “Geek Prom, huh? Your club’s little slap in the face of the establishment? Sorry I won’t be here to see that. Maybe I should stay home.”

  “Oh, no need for that Dad,” I say as calmly as possible. Dad staying home would totally sink my plan, of course. “I’ll be fine with Euphoria.”

  “How are you going to get there? Do you have a ride or something?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Well, that’s not technically a lie. I do have a ride.

  Dad kisses the top of my head in a very dadlike way. “I’m proud of you, honey. You’re really standing by your friends even though you don’t necessarily agree with what they’re doing. That takes courage.”

  The bottom falls out of my stomach, and a looming gray cloud of guilt and dread churns up inconveniently. What can I say to that? Well, Dad, as it turns out I’m a big fat liar and I’m double-crossing my friends, my boyfriend, and you. In fact, I guess that makes me a triple-crosser.

  That night, I have violent dreams involving earthquakes, police cars, and huge intelligent taffeta dresses that chase me through alleys and streets until I finally end up back at my house. In my dream, Dad is sitting on the porch swing, smoking a pipe, and then he turns into the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland smoking a hookah. “Whooooo are yoooou?” drones my dad, the caterpillar, as he blows a ring of blue haze from his mouth.

  “I’m not totally sure. I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then. And now I’m just a dirty rotten triple-crosser.”

  “What do you mean by that?” the daderpillar says. “Explain yourself!”

  “It’s confusing trying to please everybody in a single day,” I say, looking down at my prom gown, which has morphed into a sky-blue dress with a prim white apron. “I’m not doing a very good job.”

  “No, you’re not. I think you should go to your room, lock yourself in, and fall down a rabbit hole so you don’t ruin the lives of all those who trusted you.” He t
akes one more huge puff of blue smoke, exhales, and says again, “Whooooo are yoooou?”

  “I wish I knew,” my dream-self answers as a huge swirling wind comes through, lifts me up, and flies me over my house, the town, the drive-in, and everything else I’ve ever known, leaving me sweating and awake in my bed, in the dark.

  Euphoria, who always knows when I’m having a nightmare, has no sympathy. “Told you,” she says mockingly. “No good will come of this.”

  “Shut up.” I bury my head under my pillow, hoping to shut out any further fairy-tale characters who see fit to criticize my way of life.

  Saturday morning. P-Day. I awaken before the sun comes up, my adrenaline pumping in overdrive. I hear Dad banging around in the kitchen, getting ready to leave for the airport, so I wander in, hoping against hope that he isn’t smoking a hookah. He’s not.

  “Hey, it’s the big day,” he says as he pours coffee into two mugs and hands one to me. “Excited?”

  “You could say that.” Pulling my legs up under me on the kitchen chair, I huddle in my ratty blue bathrobe; I’m freezing, even though it’s spring. Must be the icy coldness of guilt.

  “Do you need some money?” He fishes his wallet out of his pocket and pulls out two twenties. “Just in case. I don’t like to leave you with nothing.”

  I reluctantly take the money, fold it into little tents, and study it to take my mind off my stomach, which is roiling and churning like a hurricane surge. It’s not too late to confess, Good Shelby, angelic in soft white linen, whispers in my ear, her halo shining gold. This could stop right now, she says. You know it’s wrong. Be brave. Do the right thing. Evil Shelby, in her red corset and checked micromini, clubs her like a baby seal, boots her off my shoulder, and giggles. Are you kidding? she says, horns glowing red. This is the perfect plan. You’d be an idiot to ditch it now, just when you’re within sight of the end. That goody-goody is just jealous anyway; she never gets invited to anything.

  Just to prove that I do know right from wrong, I flick Evil Shelby off my shoulder, too. But I do follow her advice.

  Dad’s shuttle arrives within the hour, and I have the house to myself. To bolster my confidence, I put on soul-shaking loud, loud, loud rock to drown out my better judgment.

  My cell vibrates; it’s Becca. “Hey. So, are you coming over or what?”

  “Or what.” I am drying the fantastic polish job I’ve done on my nails, so the hair dryer drowns her out a bit. “What did you say?”

  “I said, how are you planning to get to the drive-in?” Annoyance colors her voice.

  “I have a ride, don’t worry,” I say breezily. “I’ll be on time to meet the food people.”

  “Who do you have a ride with?”

  Oops. Complication Number One: Where do I leave the car and Euphoria once I arrive at either event? The real prom, at a large generic hotel, is less difficult, but everybody’s going to recognize the Volvo when I pull up at the drive-in. Drat. More complications. “Uh, I have a ride with one of the girls. You don’t know her.”

  “I don’t know her?” Becca shouts. “Are you nuts? What’s really going on?”

  Complication Number Two: Compounding lies on lies. At least things match that way. “It’s a surprise. I got my license. Happy now? I was going to spring it on you tonight, but whatever. Thanks for ruining it.” I try to sound as pouty as possible to pull off my newly minted fabrication.

  “You got your license.” She sounds like she doubts it, but could possibly believe it. “Well, that’s great. Of course, you can’t drive any of us, right?”

  “Uh, no, not yet. State law. Trial period.” I figure I should hang up before I tie myself in more linguistic knots. “So, I’ll see you there, right? What time are you getting there?”

  “Probably about four o’clock. The limo is picking us up at three, but we’re going to drive around for an hour.” The tone of doubt has faded; now she just sounds excited. “Oh, and Melvin says the E-Tube people are already setting up, and all the video screens are up, the light show is hooked up, everything’s ready. It’s going to be awesome.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it will be. Okay, gotta go.” I hang up the phone and wiggle my fingers, hoping the polish is dry.

  No sooner do I flip the phone shut than it buzzes again. “Hi, Fletcher.” I’ve moved on to my toes, which are harder to do while talking on the phone, but I manage. “What’s up?”

  “What time am I picking you up tonight for dinner?”

  Oops. Complication Number Three. “Dinner?”

  “Uh, yeah. People always go out for dinner before prom. We talked about it, right? We’re going with Carl and a few of the other student government kids at five.”

  Gotta get out of that. “Well, look. I really hadn’t planned on dinner, to be honest. I . . . I didn’t want to tell you, but I did say I’d go over and help Becca set up Geek Prom before I headed over to the dance with you. I hope you’re not mad.” Oooh! Sprinkle a little truth in with a lie, and suddenly, you have a soufflé of almost-believable fluffiness.

  “Oh.” He doesn’t even hide the disappointment in his voice, which is, I guess, a compliment. “Well, I guess if that’s what you want . . . we’ll miss you. You’ll meet me at the hotel? How will you get there?”

  And back we go to the previous lie, which is strengthened the more I use it. “I got my driver’s license. Aren’t you proud of me? I aced the test, too. They said I got a perfect score.” Wow. The more I lie, the easier it gets. Now I’m lying for no good reason. Next I’ll be robbing convenience stores and stealing used lottery tickets.

  Fletcher has decided not to be mad at me, I guess in order to preserve the harmony of the evening and increase his chances of making out (which were really good anyway. All this dangerous living makes me feel frisky). “You got your license, huh? That’s great. I guess you’ll be able to chauffeur me around town now.” Awkward pause, and he waits for me to say something, which I don’t. “Okay then. See you at the dance. Bye.”

  “See you there.” I click the evil phone shut, throw it at my handbag, and hope it doesn’t ring again.

  Euphoria has been listening to my various verbal contortions and she is not happy.

  “Shelby, you are digging yourself a mighty hole.” She’s whipping up a quiche for lunch/dinner, so I can eat early and not be too bloaty for my dress. Dresses. “When you lie to people who care about you, it always comes back to haunt you.”

  I dance around her, giddy in my new criminality. “That’s true most of the time, Euphoria. But today, the world is mine. I cannot be defeated!” She groans.

  I spend the rest of the morning watching old sci-fi shows on TV, eating bits of quiche, and ignoring Good Shelby, who keeps trying to annoy me. Bad Shelby has her stuffed into a white metal locker, and although she makes an awful noise as she bangs the door to get out, we are both totally able to pretend she’s just a cranky washing machine with an imbalanced load.

  The afternoon fades away, becoming golden and promising. Euphoria obediently allows me to dress her up in her Aunt Effie costume. She is a vision; if I saw her in the front seat of a car in the middle of the night, I’d think . . . well, I’d probably think I needed to be medicated, but if you don’t look too hard, she’s pretty lifelike.

  “Oh, Aunt Effie,” I croon as I carefully dab on my makeup, “you are so wonderful. Thanks for being my chaperone this evening!”

  In my mirror, I see Euphoria/Effie shaking her metallic head. Her wig goes a little askew, making her look like a metal pedestal for a drunk Pekingese dog with the mange. “It’s not too late to call this whole thing off,” she says. “We can just stay home and watch a movie.”

  As I finish coating my eyelashes with mascara, I laugh. “This night is going to live forever in history. I will tell my children, they will tell their children, and their children will tell their children—”

  “You won’t be having children if you spend the first twenty years of your adult life in jail.” Euphoria picks up a makeup
sponge I’ve dropped on the floor and pitches it into the trash can. “But I’m through lecturing you—”

  “Good!” I do a quick twirl on my chair, and show her my fantastic makeup job. “Do I look spectacular?”

  “Yes,” she says grudgingly.

  I pick up the green Geek Prom dress and slink into it, sliding it up over my stocking-covered legs. I don’t usually wear panty hose, but since I’m going to be active all night, I need something slick on my legs to help me slink like the snake that I am. I look good; in fact, it looks as if I’ve lost a bit of weight, and the dress over the sexy capris fits even better than it did when I bought it. “Now, help me with the blue one.”

  Euphoria wordlessly picks up the blue gown in her claw, drapes it over one arm, and presents it to me as if it’s the funeral shroud of a fallen angel. “Should I help you into it?” she asks mournfully.

  Nodding, I turn to slip my arms into the straps of the blue gown; Euphoria pulls it on, fastens the Velcro in the back, and voilà, I am transformed into a vision in classic taffeta. Turning in front of the mirror, it’s almost impossible to see the lines of the green dress underneath, and although the blue looks a teeny bit bulky, it’s not bad. Glad I dropped that weight. I take off the blue dress and fold it carefully.

  Finishing touches: lip liner and lipstick in a deep pink shade, a little glitter spray for the shoulders, fluff of the hair and a spritz of hairspray, and then I grab my two pairs of shoes— one pair of blue satin heels, one pair of green Converse tennies.

  It’s nearly six, and it’s time to get to Geek Prom. In my mind, I hear that trumpet-heavy music that’s always in war movies, and I move in slow motion, going out to fulfill my destiny. “Come, Euphoria,” I say, scanning the sunset horizon for possible obstacles to our mission. “It’s time.”

  She sighs, and rolls toward the front door, clutching her hat and wig. “Why do I have to have hair?” she complains.