This is late.
But hey, as of this morning I am in high school! Fun fun fun fun.
May 30 – Some of us, especially those of us in the trailer park, have possibly been dreading this day: prom. But, rumour has it that Gwyn Marillo’s going to finally give Pauline Henderson what’s been coming to her for the past four years – that might make it worthwhile showing up. Semi-formal dress, unfortunately. Although I did hear the Goodwill had some good dresses from the last decade that might be passable…or maybe Curly’s got something stored away?
You know when you actually feel really beautiful?
I feel that all the time, by the way. Because I kind of am. But every once in a while you need something, or someone, to affirm that for you. And when I walked in the room, head held high, dangling on the arm of some eye candy senior I barely knew, they held their breath and I smiled and it was So. I was a goddess, a good witch, a bouncy-curled princess in a pink taffeta confection that fulfilled their plebian desires for a local Barbie.
So for once I held my smirk and instead I smiled and waved like Diana. There wasn’t a need to make my point, to tell them with the rhinestone tip of my salon quality fake nail and pretend it was a gun. Because they were all under my spell.
And though I did not know him, he was beautiful, I had to admit, an angel faced boy for me to slide up close to when we danced to the slow songs. Underneath the paper streamers I could tell that he liked me like that, and so to thank him for being the perfect frame to my portrait I let him kiss me, carefully to not mess up my lipstick, and draw me in a little tighter.
When they announced the winner I grinned on the stage and bowed for my crown and raised my scepter. Pauline and the jealous girls scowled at me and to them I blew a kiss. Hilary Crispin, Prom Queen. I liked the sound of that. My king, of course, was a nameless jock with perfect dimples. And he was lovely, sure, but he didn’t want to stay and hold me behind the punch bowl. His date was Peggo the Preggo, simpering like the bimbo she was in a dress that didn’t look cheap. Not as expensive as mine though. But still, I stuck my tongue out behind her back for having a faithful date.
Around eleven o’clock I puked my spiked punch into the toilet bowl. Maybe I was drunk, but I didn’t feel bad at all. In fact, I felt even better. In the mirror I was perfect, crown perched on my head, sash around my dress, scepter crushed in my fist. I ignored Pauline Henderson as she called me dirty words, and barely felt it as her fist met the back of my hairspray-shellacked head. The world was dizzy but I liked it.
Outside of the gym my head was spinning and I found a dark-haired boy, an older boy, and I got my hands around his neck and we lunged at each other. My hair fell down and he stole my tiara and I was too drunk to care. But the boy ditched me when I found my date. We had barely even kissed.
Then somehow I got home and I cried for hours because I was such a bad girl.
