“Hear me out. Prom court will be announced first thing Friday morning. If I can stay home for two more days, this whole thing will blow over and when I go back to school, everyone will be talking about prom court.”
Clem looks up from her phone. “He’s not wrong.”
Dad looks to Mom, who eventually shrugs.
“Two days,” he says. “No more.”
“And no more fake sick days,” Mom says. “The only way you’re missing any more school after this before graduation is if you’re on your deathbed.”
“Morbid,” I say. “But deal.”
I spend the next two days trying and failing to make homemade facemasks out of eggs and avocados after reading a BuzzFeed article titled “30 Ways to Make Self-Care Happen on the Cheap.” I do, however, try and succeed in finishing what episodes I had left of The Great British Baking Show. Mom and Dad also put me to work cleaning out the pantry and organizing Mom’s extensive collection of Tupperware. It’s not the glamorous two days chock-full of indulgence and mindlessness that I’d imagined, but it’s better than the alternative. And I manage to elude Clem and her Very Important Discussion about Our Future. I’m so angry with her. I want her with me always and I want to push her a million miles away all at once.
When I finally go back to school, I walk in with my head held high, flanked by both Hannah and Clementine. I may not know Hannah very well, but I’m thankful to see her waiting for us in the parking lot.
Deep breaths, I tell myself, prepared to face Patrick Thomas at any moment, but Hannah and Clem walk me all the way to Mr. Higgins’s class without a single incident. There is some pointing and staring, of course, but by far the worst of it is making eye contact with Tucker Watson when I walk into class and remembering the sting of his disgust the other day. Like it’s not enough for someone to not like you—they have to be disgusted by you too. Is it because I’m fat? Gay? What is it, Tucker? Whatever. He’s just another person I’ll leave behind one day when I get out of this town.
I sit down, this time as far as I can get from Tucker, and moments later, Alex settles in next to me.
“Oh my gosh,” he says. “Are you okay? Kyle said you didn’t respond to his texts.”
“Is he surprised?” I ask, not bothering to hide how annoyed I am.
Alex nods and it’s the closest I’ve ever gotten to an admission from him that he also thinks Kyle is a little bit awful. “Kyle can be . . . eager,” he says. “You have to know, though, that he didn’t post that video for it to get the kind of attention it did. Accidents like that happen all the time on the internet. Remember that time Jenna Martinez accidentally posted a picture of a wart on her you-know-what on Instagram? People eventually got over it.” He sighs. “Kyle was just . . . he was so excited when you said you were auditioning and . . . you know, he would kill me for saying this, but he always talks about what great friends you two were through elementary and middle school.”
“It doesn’t matter what his intention was, Alex.” My voice cuts, and I hate talking to Alex like this, but I also want it to sting enough so that somehow Kyle will feel it too.
For me and Kyle, history will always be divided into two distinctive chunks of time. BWL = before weight loss and AWL = after weight loss. And Alex isn’t wrong. If you can even imagine it, Kyle and I were actual, genuine friends. But after he lost the weight, I couldn’t handle the way he talked about his former fat self with hate and disgust. It felt like he wasn’t only talking about himself. He was talking about me. Then, before I knew it, his whole world was Alex and the end of our friendship came all too naturally.
Being fat is hard enough without adding gay guy to the equation. The only gay guys anyone fawns over online are ripped with like twelve-pack abs or whatever. I know it’s plenty difficult for other people too, but when you’re straight and big, everyone is fine with you as long as you can be the person who lifts heavy stuff or fixes things or protects people. But when you’re gay, if you want to be the object of anyone’s desire, you better have washboard abs and a phone full of thirst traps. So in a very small way, I feel for Kyle, but mostly being near him hurts.
“Good morning, future adults. Welcome back, Mr. Brewer,” says Mr. Higgins as he settles into his office chair and props his feet up on his desk before turning on the TV. “It’s that time,” he says.
Everyone likes to pretend they don’t give a shit about things like prom court, but I can sense the electric energy in the air as that familiar intro plays on the TV.
Millie sits at her desk with Miranda Garcia, student body president, and Kyle Meeks, her vice president.
“Hello, CCHS student body. I’m here live in-studio with two very special guests,” Millie says with a giggle.
Kyle and Miranda awkwardly wave, the both of them not sure exactly where to look.
“We’re here today live to announce your prom court. Miranda, I believe you have our list of students in the running for prom king.”
Miranda nods and offers a stiff smile. I swear, you turn a camera on and people (even stupid, charming Kyle) turn into robots. At least the two of them showcase how charming and relaxed Millie is on camera.
“We have four nominees for queen and four for king,” says Miranda. “Your nominees for homecoming king are Mitch Lewis, Bryce Dooley, Tucker Watson—”
The whole classroom erupts in cheers and a few guys lean over to bro-grip Tucker’s shoulder and offer their congrats.
Well, Tucker is on my shit list. Bryce is a piece of work, and even if he weren’t, he would be by association thanks to his dad. Mitch is cool at least.
“And Hannah Perez?” Miranda finishes.
The room rumbles with whispers as Miranda leans over to Kyle and says, “Isn’t that a girl?”
What is going on? Is this some kind of joke?
Kyle looks perplexed. “There’s no rule saying that only male-identifying students can be nominated for king, so . . .” He turns to Millie. “We will, um, we will be speaking with our faculty adviser and double-checking the ballots on this one. I’m sure it was a misprint.”
On-screen, Millie grins, though she’s obviously a little perplexed, and blows into a plastic noisemaker. “Congratulations to the nominees! Can’t wait to see who takes the crown.” She turns to Kyle. “Take it away, Kyle.”
He holds up a sealed envelope and tears into it. “These results were tabulated by our treasurer along with several faculty volunteers, and on behalf of the student body, Miranda and I would like to thank them for their service. Now for the results.” He reads them quickly and his brow furrows for a moment. “Your nominees for homecoming queen are Bekah Cotter.”
No surprise. She came out of the womb with a crown on her head and a baton in her meaty baby fist.
“Melissa Gutierrez.”
Captain of the Shamrocks, the school dance team. Tucker’s ex-girlfriend. She could give Bekah a real run for her money.
“Callie Reyes.”
Former mean girl and former Shamrock, which should make for some good drama.
“And . . .”
Say Millie. Say Millie. Say Millie. We could use a wild card. That would change the news cycle, for sure. And give me someone to root for.