Prom Queen Geeks

by Laura Preble

  “Bald robots aren’t believable. Let’s go, Aunt Effie.” Snatching the car keys from the hall table, I go outside, and Euphoria follows. I quickly lock the door, check for snoops, and dash to the car, open the passenger door, and shove back the front seat to give me better access.

  “Watch my arms!” my robot squeals as I try to cram her quickly into the Volvo. “I’m not unbreakable, you know.”

  “I know, I know,” I say, as I fluff her wig, reset her hat, and pull the little white net attached to the hat down past her eye lights. “There. Now you look totally comfortable.”

  She grunts in response. Well, nobody said she had to like being the accomplice of an evil genius.

  I toss my blue dress, extra shoes, handbag, and a sweater into the back seat, scurry around, and slip into the cool interior. Hands on the wheel, I realize that this is a great moment: I am about to assert my independence, and simply grab life and swing it around my head like a dead cat. Or something.

  “Here we go,” I mutter as I back down the driveway. Euphoria pulls a harmonica out of her bag and starts playing that jail song everybody plays in the movies. “How can you play a harmonica? You don’t breathe.”

  The tune stops. “Preprogrammed sound files. It’s simulated.” She goes back to pretending to suck and blow into her jailhouse harp. “Nobody knows the trouble I seen . . .” she sings.

  I navigate the Volvo through the streets of my neighborhood, feeling for the first time like an adult. Driving alone! Well, almost alone. Alone in the sense that I’m the only living person in the car. I realize at that moment, though, that I don’t know how to get to the drive-in. I’ve never driven there. “Euphoria, I need directions.”

  She stops singing long enough to shoot me an electronic raspberry, minus, of course, the spit.

  “That’s not very nice,” I mutter. “C’mon. Just tell me where to go.”

  “That’s very tempting, but I’d rather not.” She plays the annoying harmonica tune again.

  “Do you want us to end up in Tijuana or something? Tell me where to drive!”

  She hums and whirs for a minute, then says, “Get on the I-5 North, get off on Hawthorne Street, go three blocks, right on Boyed Avenue, left on Busby, two blocks down and a dogleg on Lovett Road, two more blocks south past the Sasaki Business Park, do a U-turn at Darrin Street, and you’re there.”

  “Are you serious? You expect me to remember that? And it sounds like you took me the long way around, too.” I do manage to get on the freeway and head north. I’ll figure the rest out as I go.

  Driving on the freeway in California is a little like a ride at Disneyland, except that there are no machines or cheery operators to keep you from slamming into someone else. The lines are just about as long, what with traffic jams and all, but on the plus side there are no costumed mice trying to get in your face. It’s just at the end of rush hour, so the traffic isn’t horrible, but merging onto the freeway requires a lot of faith and constant mirror checks. A near miss with a huge steroidal pickup truck nearly costs me a bumper.

  “You have to watch those merging lanes,” Euphoria says matter-of-factly.

  “Like you’ve ever driven,” I mumble as I pass a wobbly, plywood-sided truck full of yard waste.

  I manage to maneuver around the various speed demons, road-rageaholics, and bass-thumping stereo mad doggers and follow Euphoria’s confusing but complete directions and steer the Volvo up the gravel-crunch path to the Springbrook Drive-in. I stop short of the ticket booth, which is tonight unmanned, but I realize I have just discovered Complication Number Four: It’s very tough to drive out of a drive-in without being noticed.

  “Dammit!” I mutter.

  Euphoria perks right up. “Is there a problem?”

  “Well, of course there’s a problem. How can I secretly leave the Geek Prom if my vehicle is parked inside the Geek Prom?”

  I probably imagine it, but Euphoria sounds almost gleeful at my impending doom. “That is a pickle, all right.”

  “Can you help me figure out what to do?” I whine.

  “I’m fresh out of good ideas.” She practically chortles with glee. Robots should never chortle.

  Think, think, think, traitorous brain. You got me into this, you must get me out. Then, like a drink of cold water on a desert-dry day, the idea washes over me: Park somewhere else. Not that profound, I know, but it does the trick. I slowly reverse down the gravel drive and back onto the street, cruise about half a block away, park, and turn off the car. “Ha!” I chortle. (It’s okay for me to chortle, because I’ve earned it.) As I lay out my blue outfit in preparation for my swift escape, Euphoria sighs and starts to play some dramatic movie theme music.

  “What are you playing?” I smooth the wrinkles out of my skirt and check my eye makeup in the rearview mirror.

  “Main theme from Liar, Liar,” she says, then continues filling the Volvo with the strains of what I guess she feels is the tragic soundtrack to my misguided life.

  “Thanks for the support!” I say, snapping at her as I slam the car door shut. She just waves from the passenger seat window.

  In my heels, I trudge up the dusty gravel path, hoping my gorgeous green dress doesn’t look gray by the time I get inside. I don’t have to worry, though; once I get past the vacant ticket booth, the place is transformed into something other than the dusty shell of film glories past and the home of psychotic dancing popcorn. Inside, the huge movie screen is covered with slow-spiraling swirls of varicolored light; the walkway to the dance floor and food tables, lit tastefully with warm gold and pink lights, is covered with a red carpet that looks like it might actually be velvet. Huge speakers are set up in front next to the screen, and in a temporary booth erected over the former snack shack, a team of black-clothed techies works on getting the sound balance just right on a popular dance tune.

  Most of the Queen Geeks are already here, as evidenced by the gaggle of girls twirling each other on the sprawling hardwood dance floor as the music plays. Becca sees me, and waves, her face dazzling with the happiness that comes with impending total success. “Shelby!” she shrieks as she runs to me, her cotton-candy pink dress flowing behind her. She’s a vision in a poofy-skirted fifties throwback, her platinum hair (still in its new, slicked-back do) tinged just slightly with the same pink shade. As she gets closer, I notice her shoes: new pink and purple tennies spangled with pink and white rhinestones, and on the side, they read Queen Geek.

  “Isn’t this fantastic?” Becca, eyes shining, surveys her queendom. “Melvin really came through this time. Look, there’s the E-Tube people!” She gestures toward a film crew set up to the side of the dance floor. Several huge cameras are mounted and ready to capture the action, and a couple of overly beautiful anchor types wait impatiently, getting powdered every couple of minutes or so by their makeup minions.

  “It’s really great. Congrats.” I glance at the food table, and don’t see any food. “Hasn’t the caterer shown up yet?”

  “They called. They’re on the way but running late. I was hoping maybe you could watch for them, and then help them get set up?” She grins, fluffs my hair, and says, “You look so pretty. I almost wish Fletcher and Carl were here.”

  I don’t reply to that. “I’ll go out and watch for the caterer,” I say, checking my watch. “What time are they supposed to be here?”

  “They said seven. It’s 6:45 now. Thanks for dealing with it. Gotta go check in with E-Tube!” She dashes off, a streak of flamingo bathed in amber.

  Perfect. For once, things are going my way. Waiting for the caterers is a perfect excuse for hanging outside and jetting over to the regular prom. I saunter outside as casually as possible, then burst into a sprint when I hit the gravel drive. Euphoria is still parked in the passenger seat, in sleep mode. “Wake up!” I yell as I yank open the driver’s door. “We’re rolling!”

  “Oh. So soon?” She simulates a yawn. “I thought you’d be at least an hour. Trying to break the sound barrier, are we?”r />
  I start the car and pull away from the curb as quietly as possible; I don’t even turn on my headlights. Euphoria begrudgingly gives me directions, and it takes us about fifteen minutes to zip onto the freeway and jet toward the Hyatt. Its glittering lights beckon me from the highway, and as I cruise down the exit ramp, I realize that I have to allow time to change into my blue dress.

  “Hang on, Euphoria. We’re taking this one on two wheels.” Squealing my poor dad’s Volvo into the bayfront Hyatt parking lot brings me to Complication Number Five: parking fees. I take one of those automatic tickets and the gate goes up, but I realize I’ll have to pay to get out, which could be a challenge. I think I stashed the twenties my dad gave me in my teeny girl purse, but it may not be enough judging from the outrageous parking fees posted.

  I park as far to the back as possible, and awkwardly pull on the blue dress. “How do I look?” I ask Euphoria.

  “Like someone who’s desperate. Have fun.” She shuts herself off. Rude robot.

  I clip-clip on my little blue heels toward the bayfront Hyatt’s marble-trimmed entrance. As I approach, I see two of the school’s security people, all dressed in evening wear, guarding the door like a couple of well-dressed pit bulls. Complication Number . . . ah, I might as well stop counting.

  “Ticket?” one of them asks, extending a well-manicured hand. I look for a Taser, see nothing, and smile my most dazzling, persuasive smile.

  “My boyfriend has them.”

  They look at each other. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

  “Uh . . . he’s meeting me here.”

  One of them shrugs and begins to tell me I can’t go in, when a voice from inside calls, “Shelby! Shelby!” Fletcher comes dashing out the door and grabs me around the waist, twirls me around, and sets me gently back to earth.

  “I assume this is your boyfriend?” one of the security guys says, chuckling. Fletcher flashes my ticket, and the guard says, “Go on in.”

  “I’m so happy to see you!” Fletcher squeezes my waist, then pushes me back a bit and studies me. “Yes, I think it’s true. You’ve never been more beautiful.” He kisses my hand, making me blush profusely.

  “Hi, Shelby.” Carl looms above Fletcher, a sad giant in a too-tight tux. “How are you? You look great.” God, he sounds just like Eeyore in the Winnie the Pooh cartoons. Eeyore in formal wear.

  Fletcher walks me into the ballroom, followed by Carl and a half-dozen student government kids. “Look at the decorations!” He flicks his hand through some hanging green, purple, and gold metallic streamers, then points to the centerpiece of the whole event: a Mardi Gras float in the middle of the dance floor. “Isn’t that cool?”

  “It sure is.” I check my watch as subtly as I can. 7:20. “So, good crowd?”

  Fletcher scans the room; I can tell that he’s a little bit disappointed that more kids aren’t here, and I feel a stab of guilt. “I think it’s great. The kids who did show up really are having a good time. But it would feel more like a real school event if there were more people here, I guess.” He focuses on me again, all smiles. “It means a lot to me that you wanted to be here, Shelby.” He pulls me closer, and my heart starts to pound with that crazy hormone adrenaline rush I get whenever I can smell him. He gently takes my right hand, puts his other arm around my waist; I gravitate toward him like a hopeless, mindless planet flying out of orbit and into the sun. He nuzzles my neck as we sort-of dance, and I sort-of forget that I’m supposed to be planning my escape.

  “Hey,” he whispers. “Remember the time at my house where you kind of attacked me?”

  I blush violently; thankfully, he probably can’t see it since his face is buried in my hair. “Um, yes. Yes, I believe I do remember that.”

  He chuckles, slow and husky, just a breath of suggestion swirling like an intoxicating perfume at my ear. I feel my legs going wobbly, but he catches me before I trip over myself and fly headlong into the crab dip. “I never told you, but I was secretly hoping you’d win that fight.”

  I gulp with great difficulty. “Oh?” I whisper, choked up.

  “I mean,” he says a bit more loudly and seriously, “I’m glad nothing happened, of course, and I know it’s not really the right thing, but . . . I just wanted you to know. It wasn’t just you.”

  My dresses, both of them, might just spontaneously combust, and my hair might catch fire. Must find some distraction . . . if I don’t, I’ll never get out of here. Food! Glorious food! It’s always good for a munch and a misdirection. “Maybe we should get something to eat. Oh, but you guys just ate dinner, huh? I’ll just go by myself, no problem.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Fletcher offers, grabbing my elbow and walking me toward the elegant crystal punch fountain that pours sugary goodness into a reservoir of drink, which, at this point at least, has not been spiked. “What do you want?”

  “Maybe just some punch.” He ladles some into a little crystal cup and hands it to me. We turn and watch the other kids dancing, swirling awkwardly to avoid the big float in the center, which features a grinning oversized head and three gigantic feathered masks. I gesture toward it and ask, “Where did you get that?”

  “We made it, if you can believe that.” He snatches a mini-quiche from the table and downs it in one gulp. “I’ve been up for three nights in a row gluing feathers on that head. I’ve got feather burns.” He tries to pop a quiche into my mouth. He even has sexy fingers! Not fair!

  What I say is, “I’m not really hungry.” The truth is, I have to get out of here before I change my mind and decide to marry him right there on the spot. What can I do to escape? Ah. Every woman’s best defense. “I think I’ll just go powder my nose.”

  “Why do girls even say that? Nobody even uses powder anymore,” he points out as he dips another cup of punch from the bowl.

  “Maybe I will.” I give him a deep, satisfying kiss that is long enough to attract the attention of a vice principal. I head off to the bathroom, aka the parking lot, despite the intense ringing in my ears and the difficulty breathing, which could land me in the emergency room with an irregular heartbeat. At least I know I have a heart.

  Dodging out a door marked “exit,” I find myself next to a very odiferous Dumpster that is full of the remains of someone else’s great party. From the smell of it, the party was over quite a few days ago. I do have the presence of mind to jam a big piece of a discarded wood pallet inside the exit door to hold it open so I can return the same way I left. I hold my breath and step over the piles of trash, setting my beautiful satin heel down squarely in a tray of grease. Needless to say, I end up on my butt, one with the trash.

  Great! I try to dab at the grease and gook as I stumble into the parking lot and walk unsteadily to my car, my refuge. “I guess I could explain to Fletcher that I wanted to do a costume change, like they do in Vegas shows,” I rationalize to myself.

  When I get into the car, I immediately start peeling off the offensive rags. “What is that smell?” Euphoria asks, sniffing resentfully.

  “You don’t even have a real nose, so just shut off your sensors,” I snap. “I danced a little too close to a grease trap.”

  I throw the blue dress indignantly into the backseat, slapping Euphoria with one corner of the greasy hem, and wipe my hands on a few restaurant napkins that Dad left in the glove compartment. I adjust the green dress, switch out the shoes, and I’m ready to go. “Money, I need money,” I mutter as I dig through the purse and produce a twenty.

  At the parking kiosk, I check the time again: 7:35. The trash encounter cost me precious minutes. Some old guy is ahead of me in the line, and is apparently paying for his parking ticket with pennies. Pennies from the Civil War era.

  Finally, we get out (after paying the outrageous amount of ten dollars to the vampire parking attendant). Maneuvering back onto my designated route, I start to feel a bit more calm. “I’m getting the hang of this,” I mutter as I screech to a halt at a stop-light right before the freeway on-ramp.

&nbs
p; “Fuzz at three o’clock,” Euphoria mumbles.

  “What’s fuzz?” I check my lipstick in the rearview as Euphoria emits a series of high-pitched beeps. “Cut it out, that’s annoying.”

  “Fuzz!” she hisses. “Authorities! Police! Coppers!”

  I stare straight ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Think mature thoughts. Taxes. Politics. Urinary tract infections. What do old people do in cars? Uh . . . not the radio, no, never. Adjust the mirror? No, should have already done that. I feel the cold, calculating eyes of the police officer boring into me, a laserlike beam of truth trying to melt my lies. Don’t look. Don’t look. But I can’t help it. I look.

  The cop is drinking coffee and talking on a cell phone.

  The light changes and I realize something: I will never have a life in crime.

  14

  PROM QUEEN GEEKS (and The Boys Who Love Them)

  We make it back to Geek Prom by 7:50. I park near my previous spot, check as best I can in the dark for telltale Dumpster smears, and dash for the abandoned ticket booth.

  When I walk in, things are in full swing. I mean, full swing. The place is crawling (or hopping) with kids in various forms of formal weirdness. One guy is sporting a kilt with a green brocade vest and cummerbund, his long, red hair plaited with leather strips down his back. A girl caught in one of the amber spotlights is wearing a satin sheath that’s half black and half white—divided exactly down the middle and topped off with elbow-length fishnet gloves and black leather combat boots.

  Music thumps from the speakers, so loud it hits my breastbone and echoes inside my ears, against my teeth. I’d guess there are maybe four hundred kids here, maybe more. I try to mingle, act as if I’ve been here the whole time, and sidle over to the snack area, acting as if I’m straightening napkins and plates and such.

  Amber trots up to me, but at first I don’t know it’s her. She’s in an aquamarine cocktail dress, knee-length, and her hair’s swept up into this French-looking movie-star style. Her makeup is not the usual Goth/Cleopatra stuff; it’s elegant and sophisticated, and she looks like she’s about twenty-one. And on her feet she’s wearing, what else? Her turquoise high-tops. She’s a vision. Hanging on her arm is Jon, her partner-in-Goth, tonight all done up in black leather and what looks like aluminum foil.