Five weeks of campaigning for prom court, and if you get selected, one more week to campaign for king and queen specifically. Five weeks to take myself from “Liz Lighty: Unapologetic Wallflower” to “Liz Lighty: Slightly More Apologetic Prom Queen Contender.”
Everyone begins clapping, and I chance another look at Jordan and his teammates. This time, my eyes meet his. I’m so mortified to have been caught staring like a creep, I snap my head forward so quick I swear I hear the girl next to me giggle. If my skin weren’t so brown, I’m sure I’d be beet red. But because I’m a glutton for punishment, I cheat my eyes in his direction again.
“Excuse me, Madame Simoné?” Rachel Collins’s hand shoots straight up, her pastel-pink manicured nails wiggling in the air. “I just have a question about the scoring process.”
Madame Simoné, clearly annoyed with having been interrupted before asking for questions, tells her to continue before she “cashes out her pension.” Or at least I think that’s what she’s saying.
“Okay, well, I just wanted to make sure there isn’t going to be any funny business going on with the scoring process. Like we’re not going to have to deal with an”—she turns around to look pointedly at me—“affirmative action aspect, perhaps?”
Here’s the thing: Rachel and I have never liked each other. We’ve been battling back and forth for everything since the second grade: spelling bee champion (I won), field day distance winner (I’m not an athlete, but my legs are incredibly long—I beat her by half a second), and now valedictorian (all mine, baby). And this victory, having the highest rank in our class, has made this a rivalry with the likes of Burr versus Hamilton. I’m half convinced that she’s going to challenge me to a duel at graduation.
But she’s never said anything like this to me before. Anything this obviously racist. I cycle through like eight different emotions before I settle on a combination of rage and embarrassment.
The voice beside me pipes up immediately.
“Actually, Rebecca, before you start concerning yourself with skewed scoring, you should probably know that the biggest beneficiaries of affirmative action are white women.”
The girl’s smile is cloyingly sweet as she stares Rachel down. A couple of people laugh and “Ooh, she got you!” after she speaks. When I look around, Rachel is narrowing her eyes and mumbling, “It’s Rachel,” under her breath loud enough so that we can still hear it from where we are.
“Ah yes, now, if that’s all, I think I’ll continue.” Madame Simoné nods at the girl and finishes her speech. “While court is decided by your civic engagement, your king and queen are decided by popular vote. By the sheer will of the people.”
“You didn’t have to do that, you know—respond to Rachel,” I whisper to the girl without taking my eyes off the stage. “She’s been like this since we were in elementary school.”
“Of course I did.” I can feel her looking at me, but I can’t bring myself to make eye contact. My heart is beating faster than I know what to do with, and I’m not sure why. I’m used to Rachel saying shady stuff, but I’m not used to people outside of my friends jumping in to defend me. Especially not beautiful girls I barely know. “I have rules.”
I look at her then—I can’t help myself.
“What kind of rules?”
“Well, for one”—she smiles at me with a flash of something that looks like trouble in her eyes—“I never let terrible people get away with doing terrible things. And two, if something is wrong, I say something about it. Always.”
“Aren’t those pretty much the same thing?” I’m smiling too, because there’s just something about how sure she is, how secure in those ideals, that makes me happy.
“Maybe. But terrible people aren’t always the ones doing something wrong. Good people mess up too, but that doesn’t mean we should let it slide.”
I swallow and nod.
“Now, if everyone will just bring up their Declaration of Intent and Petition to File, I will give you your calendrier officiel of both the mandatory and optional events for this week.” Madame Simoné pushes her wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose and puts her hands on her hips. “And I will leave you with this advice: Do not think pour un moment that the next month will be a walk in the park. I expect all of you to take this seriously.”
When everyone gathers their stuff, I stand quickly. I look at the new girl, who smiles at me brightly.
“This should be a lot of fun,” she says, tucking her board under her arm. “I’ll see you soon?”
I simply nod, even though a part of me wants to keep talking to her. As she waves and heads toward the stage, I realize I’m more than ready to get out of the auditorium, back home, and to my music. I can’t wait to close the door, put in my headphones, and turn up Kittredge’s new album so loud I can’t focus on anything else. Some sort of escape from thinking about how in the world I’m supposed to do any of this, with these people, for the next month of my life.
I’m practically a zombie in school on Monday morning. The prom meeting ran long. Way longer than I thought it would. Even after Madame Simoné finished her speech and we handed in our forms, there was at least another half hour of waiver and photo release form-signing to be done.
With all the papers and signatures and talk of photoshoots and public appearances, I felt like Beyoncé’s personal assistant (because I’m sure Queen Bey doesn’t have to actually use her holy and precious time for that sort of thing anymore).
I went home to finish my homework and practice my solo for the spring concert but ended up helping Granny cook dinner and then debriefing on the phone with Gabi about who was at the meeting and what was said for two hours afterward instead. By the time I finished my lab report for AP Chem and the rough draft of my paper for AP Lit, I was almost too tired to run through my music, but I forced myself through it anyway. I barely got any sleep.
So believe me when I say I’m definitely too tired for the fifth-degree interrogation I’m currently getting from Gabi.
“I told you that I never actually got her name.” I grab my case from my locker in the back of the band room as Gabi grabs hers. “I just know that she’s new and she seems to be … different. But, like, in a good way?”
“Well, I don’t like it one bit.” Gabi tsks as she sits down and adjusts her music stand. “Do you think she’s an agent of Rachel’s sent to scope you out? I wouldn’t put it past her. You know she’s wanted to find a weakness in you since the day you beat her out for line leader in the second grade.”
I pause. “Let me just get this straight. You think the new girl’s … a spy?”
Gabi looks at me with her carefully plucked eyebrows raised to her hairline. “You kid! But I’m telling you, watch out. Remember: There are no real allies in war, only people who are valuable enough at the moment to delay the inevitable destruction they will eventually face at your own hands.”
“I can’t tell if you’ve been reading The Art of War again or The Hunger Games.”