The Girl Who Wore Jordans

Chapter Forty-Four

      “And Madison High School’s forty-fourth winners for prom king and queen are…” the principal announced from behind a podium. In his hand he held a piece of paper that would dictate my mood and level of anger for the next, undetermined span of time. I felt my hand being placed in that of another’s, as the man slightly hidden by the mahogany stand decided to test everyone’s (or maybe just my) nerves to their lethal limit. Seconds felt like days as he extended the pause as long as he could. The entire time, I was staring at a certain blue-eyed boy as my boyfriend’s fingers were knit with mine. Finally, the torture stopped—momentarily—only to begin once again as our dear principal, Mr. Hughes, decided to stop elongating the instant, and conclude with, “…Eric Wilson and Elizabeth Turner!”

      And there was that emotion again: fuck. As the entire room broke out into melancholy applause, and rose-colored confetti shot out from somewhere (as promised by Alice), a whole slew of words not socially acceptable to use in a daycare center began to gush through my mind. Why did I have to be a winner? Why not a loser? There was absolutely nothing wrong with being a loser. They were perfectly respectable people (depending on who they were, of course). Shit. I fucking won. Lauren was so dead for entering my name into that dumb competition. I’m talking twelve feet under dead.

      Honestly, though, how did I even win? As stated previously, I was barely social unless if needed to be, and if I couldn’t name one in every two people, then how could they even begin to know who I was? Seriously, it was insanity. It was rigged. It had to be. There was no other plausible explanation for why I wasn’t wearing a sash that said “LOSER” in big, bold letters as opposed to the one that was somehow now on my being that read “Prom Queen” in a swirly font with pink glitter. Pink. Fucking. GLITTER.

      Vaguely, I registered that Eric had dragged me over to where the principal was situated, only to have a silver crown—a tiara, if my narrow scope of terminology was correct—put on my head. I felt like a lunatic. A fucking tiara. I had won medals in the past, but those were earned with actual abilities and talents. The piece of plastic that now lay on my head was nothing more than a symbol of popularity, which was odd, bearing in mind that I wasn’t popular, but rather the opposite.

      Cheers continued to radiate around the room, and all for what? Because two people had received the most votes in a fucking popularity contest. Sometimes, America truly disgusted me. It was all bullshit. I still couldn’t believe that I wasn’t able to retract my nomination. Hell, the first day I found out that Lauren had entered my name, I marched up to the office and demanded that they give some other delusional girl my spot. Evidently, at Madison High, it didn’t “work” like that. I was stuck in the fucking competition, and there was nothing I could do about it.

      Sometimes, I seriously wished that I could just move to Canada. I was almost positive that Canadians didn’t have these problems. The only issues they encountered were moose, snow, polite people, Justin Bieber, and hockey. Such a nice country. America sucked. Well, where I was it did. Maybe it was just New York—all the Yankees fans. Yeah, that must’ve been it.

      “Congrats, Liz,” Eric whispered into my ear, not that it really mattered about the volume level of his voice. Even if he had screamed it, the school was in a frenzy, and his words would still be drowned out so that only I could hear.

      “Uh, thanks,” I acknowledged, unsure of what exactly he was congratulating me on. I didn’t do anything. All I did was sit on a stage and pray to lose. Honestly, why did I deserve felicitations? I didn’t fucking do anything!

      I would have returned the form of praise, but I didn’t understand what I would have been commending him on, so chose to not. Eric played football really well. To me, extoling him on something like his incredible athletic aptitudes made complete and utter sense. Doing the same because he now had a cheap coronet of a gold tinted plastic on his head was not, however, logical in the mixed up makings of my mind.