Chapter Forty-Four
Fuck—such a powerful word. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t, but it was definitely useful. It was the type of word that one could insert to any fucking sentence and still make fucking sense. Sometimes, it was a verb. Other times, it was an interjection or adjective. For example: Fuck! I fucked my fucking cat! Currently, I was under the impression that it was also an emotion that described my life perfectly. Or maybe it could still be used as adjective, in the sense that my life was most certainly fucked up.
My knee involuntarily bobbed up and down as I prayed for failure for the very first time. There was nothing I wanted to do more in this moment than lose. I had always grown up being a “winner” and having the mindset that succeeding was the only option. Presently, that simply was not the case. I needed to lose.
“Don’t worry, Liz,” Eric whispered to me in a reassuring tone, “I’m sure we’ll win.”
“That’s exactly why I’m worrying,” I mumbled, unsure if he had heard me or not. Though Eric had practically skipped for satisfaction when he found out that I was in same, sinking ship as he, I wasn’t as gleeful. He thought that this was all a positive thing, when I knew it was the exact opposite. Well, at least for me.
I stared out at the crowd that had gathered before us—namely, the entire student body. Out of the vast range of beings, I knew about twelve. Well, more like eight, but I had talked to about twelve different people over the course of the year. There was Alice, Tara, and Lauren, Dylan, Eric, and Eric’s friends. Other than those people, I didn’t really communicate with others all too much. In fact, I wasn’t that social of person. This was a popularity contest, so, considering I barely spoke to people, there was no way I could actually win. It was impossible.
When I played basketball and an audience was present, it never seemed to bother me. I was doing the one thing I loved and was good at, so there was no need to be anxious. Basketball was equivalent to breathing (okay, maybe a little bit harder) to me, so people observing never seemed to spike my angsts. Right now, I was sitting in a plastic chair, on a stage, in front of quite a few suburban teens, beside Eric Wilson, my boyfriend, as I waited for the final verdict that would hopefully result in failure.
In the very front row of the auditorium I saw six of the people I conversed with regularly. They were lined up, all as equally restless and enthusiastic. I would give just about anything to swap places with any of them—even Brendon, who was currently the victim of all Tara’s built-up anxieties. His hand was captured in hers, and was serving as a stress reliever. It was probably numb by now with the amount of times Tara had squeezed it.
Then, in the middle of the slanted constellation of seats, amid the masses of rowdy adolescents was a smug looking boy who appeared as though he was openly enjoying my agony all too much. He wasn’t communicating with anyone around him—no, his eyes were glued to mine as we began a staring contest that served as yet another thing that I wasn’t too keen on winning. It felt as if he was mocking the situation I was in as his blue orbs seared into mine. If we had been in reversed positions, though, I couldn’t say that I’d exhibit any more sportsmanship than he.
My chest rose and fell as I allowed oxygen to seep into my lungs. It would all be over in a matter of minutes. I wanted to lose now more than I had wanted win anything in my life. Air escaped my parted lips again, and I began to feel slightly faint. I wasn’t about to black out, for I was a relatively healthy person, and didn’t rely on passing out as a way to deal with my fears. Nah, I much preferred staring them straight on, in public view of everyone with my trusty sidekick, sarcasm, to help me.
“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.
Still in a daze of bewilderment, I heard the principal announce something like, “Let’s hear it for the student council who arranged all this—” He was cut short by the ovation that echoed about, as I considered his words. So, the student council was to blame. And Lauren. Huh. Apparently, Madison High had a student council. Who knew? “And, with that, I’d like to wish you all a happy Valentines Day.”
Ah. There it was. That “fuck” feeling again. He just had to link this whole thing to the holiday created for consumers by companies, that happened to make single people feel like shit and be infected with the color pink. Why couldn’t “love” be associated with the color blue? Even purple I’d be fine with. Why did it have to be pink? The red aspect I didn’t mind, but why pink? Was it because it was the color of flesh? That didn’t seem all too romantic to me. I hated pink.
This morning, I had woken up like any other day. I got dressed, ate a crap load of cereal, and then ventured into Eric Wilson’s car, only to find out that my ordinary day wasn’t so ordinary after all. It was Valentines Day, of course! Call in the National Guard! Oh, boy! What a day! It started out by Eric shoving a bouquet of red roses in my face, which, knowing my mom and me, would probably die in my house within the next thirty-six hours. He then proceeded to give me a heart-shaped (not atomically correct, of course) box, the contents of which happened to be a variety of chocolates. Shocker.
Now, don’t get me wrong, it was all amazingly sweet, but I felt awkward because I didn’t have anything to give him. After voicing that thought, Eric assured me that the only thing he needed from me was a kiss. And kiss we did. We completely missed homeroom with the amount of time our lips spent converging in my driveway. It was nice. Kinda.
The day was an absolute blur of a bore. Classes were normal, except for the fact that every half hour an announcement would be made over the loud speaker, quoting some sappy poem about love. First, they told me that I wasn’t allowed to resign my nomination, and then some genius decided spear the ears of Madison High students with jumbled words of a amorous relevance. I was really beginning to hate those ladies in the front office.
And then there came the assembly. Eric and I, along with all the other idiots who were actually invested in this thing, got to leave class ten minutes early so that we could review how the rest of the afternoon would work. They gave us the whole “There are no losers, only people who aren’t winners” crap and then forced us on the stage, facing everyone.
The drama club (another thing I wasn’t aware Madison High had) did a quick and rather embarrassing piece on love and what it meant. I wasn’t really paying attention because I was too focused on losing, but—based on the crowd’s reaction—I had a hunch that it was no Shakespeare. It was overly dramatized and went on for too long.
Then came the waiting game. Our principal made some B.S. speech about whatever (I think he may have slipped in something about not abusing drugs, alcohol, and using protection), and then began the torture. It was a memory I would sure to store in box labeled “BURN” in my mind.
“So, can I take you out for dinner, Prom Queen, or are you going to stick me up for another guy?” Eric joked, jerking me to reality as people began to hurriedly file out of the immense room.
“What? Yeah, dinner sounds nice. Let me go get my stuff, though,” I gulped, feeling slight light-headed. Prom Queen. Of all the titles… I hadn’t even attended Madison High for a full year, and already I was leaving behind a false legacy: New Girl Turned Prom Queen. Well, this was great.
As I exited with the horde of teens, I felt a vibration coming from my butt. I extracted my phone from within my back pocket and glanced down at the caller: Monica “Mom” Turner. Knowing that my day couldn’t possibly get any worse, I decided to answer like a civil person, wondering what she could possibly have to add to my wealth of knowledge.
“Hello?” I answered cautiously, continuing to walk with the masses.
“OMG! ELIZABETH ABIGAIL TURNER! I AM SO PROUD OF YOU!” she screamed into the receiver. Sometimes, I seriously thought that my mom was a sixteen year old girl trapped in the body of a forty year old.
“And why would that be?” I asked, already having a hunch as to why. This was Monica I was talking to, after all.
“Because Tara just texted me and said that you won freaking Prom Queen! Liz, that’s so awesome! I didn’t even know you were running! Eric won Prom King, right? Of course he did! That boy was practically born one…” she let out a short laugh. “Anyways, have you let the fame get to your head yet or are you still processing everything?”
“Why are you Tara now ‘texting buddies’?” I questioned warily, ignoring just about everything else that she had said. “Oh, and I wasn’t ‘running.’ Nope. Absolutely no physical activity was involved in Lauren entering my name because she thought I was ‘like it.’”
“The last time Tara was over our house she mentioned something about wanting to go into design, so I gave her my number and Twitter, and now we’re, like, best friends! Have you seen her work, Liz? Her designs are beyond her years. She’s got talent,” my mother praised, as I could practically see her nodding her head along to her words. “Well, I’m so glad that you won. That’s really great!”
“And why is it so great?” I sighed, seeing my locker come into view.
The line went silent for a moment, but I knew that she was still there, merely trying to formulate her thoughts so that they didn’t sound too insensitive. “Because, Liz, it’s nice to see that my daughter is a well-rounded person. Pretty, smart, athletic, and well-liked. Every mother wants her daughter to excel, and you becoming Prom Queen is just another base covered,” she finally decided upon saying. “Besides, now I have something to brag about in the office besides your amazing jump shot!”
“So, was this call just to recognize that I won?”
“Oh, that and also Eric called earlier and told me that you too were going out to dinner. I’m not supposed to tell you, but you’re going to some cute Italian restaurant! He’s a such a sweet boy!” Not that I ever had even an ounce of doubt, but at least I knew that my mother approved (more than approved) of my boyfriend. “Be back by ten. Or eleven. It’s a school night. Try to be back before midnight, okay?”
“Okay, mom,” I shook my head, for I had set my curfew at ten long ago. On this particular issue, Monica was surprisingly indecisive. She didn’t want to give me too much freedom, but also didn’t want me to feel as if she was smothering me with rules, so allowed me to set my own deadline on what time I got back home at night. I chose ten, for it was neither too late nor too early. She continued to encourage me to “do something crazy” and stay out later. Ten was my go-to time.
“Have fun, Liz, oh and use prot—” Before my mother could finish that lovely statement, I felt the need to cut her off.
“Bye, mom.”
“Bye, Liz,” she laughed as I hung up, slipping my phone away as I came to my locker.
Quickly, I dialed in the combination, the metal door swinging open with the greatest of ease. I took the dumb thing that was occupying the space on my head off, in addition to the idiotically thick ribbon I was wearing, and stuffed them into the disarray that was my locker. Finally, I felt as if I could at least partially breathe. No prom queen memorabilia came even close to touching my body (except the remnants of glitter that would, unfortunately, never go away). Air. I could feel it.
“Aw! Taking the tiara off so soon, princess?” cooed an annoying voice belonging to a boy of whom I had for some reason grown rather fond.
“Actually, I’m a prom queen, not a princess,” I corrected him with as much dignity as I had left, scowling.
“Well, excuse me,” he let out a single drop of laughter, which soon became an entire geyser, his whole body consumed in the act of finding the situation “humorous”—at my expense, of course. There was nothing fucking funny about this. Nothing.
“Stop!” I whined, grabbing my backpack from within the three-walled storage unit. “It’s not that funny!”
“You’re kidding, right? Lizzie, this is fucking hysterical! You: Madison High Prom Queen. I was laughing so hard when Hughes said your name that I almost had a heart attack!” he snorted.
“You’re not the only one,” I muttered, more to myself than to the dark-haired boy before me.
“So, how does it feel, Lizzie? Prom Queen. Must be crazy, right?” he smirked.
“Considering I don’t talk to people, and I somehow got enough fucking votes to win, then, yes, it’s definitely crazy,” I remarked, truly flabbergasted. It had to be the reverse form of a miracle or something. The universe could just have hated me, too. Yeah, that was probably it. The universe was out to get me. Seemed legit.
“Oh, that’s easy to explain,” he said lightly.
“Is it?” I didn’t say more, indicating that continuing with the statement would be in his best interests.
“Yeah,” he nodded, “I put two hundred votes for you in the box thing. Was that wrong?”
“Dylan Fucking Collins! What the fuck?” I demanded, swinging my bag over a single shoulder.
“Watch your language, and I’m just kidding. Chill, Lizzie! Now, do really I look like the type of guy who would screw with the glorious voting system of our student council?” he questioned, a tinge of innocence to his voice, though masked by smugness.
“Yes, actually, you do,” I affirmed after thinking about it.
“Oh, Lizzie, that hurts!” he placed a hand on his chest. “I’m surprised you would think so lowly of me! Student council? Seriously, those kids losers—and that’s coming from me. Screwing with them would seriously be a waste of my precious time on this earth.”
“Assuming that you’re not fucking with me, if you didn’t screw with the voting, then who did?” I pondered aloud.
“That, my dear Prom Queen, would be the devious work of the student body as a whole,” Dylan said with a smirk.
“So, everyone’s out to get me?” I leaned my back up against my locker, recognizing that, though I was more than slightly aggravated with the world (and the boy with whom I was conversing), I actually enjoyed talking to Dylan. There was no B.S. between us. I could be real with him.
“Do you not know how popularity works?” he scoffed in disbelief. What was he even doing here? Seriously. His locker wasn’t even on this floor… I was quiet for a moment, hoping that he would go on, because, quite honestly, I wasn’t sure what to say next. “Lizzie, you’re, uh, dating,” he paused to grimace, “Eric Wilson, who happens to be, though it makes me physically sick to say, popular. The dude’s the quarterback, has a shit load of admirers, a nice face, friends, good grades, the highest social status known to man, because, apparently, he doesn’t act like an asshole to everyone, and now the perfect girl.”
“I’m not perfect, and I’m still not understanding,” I creased my brows together, displaying my puzzlement for the world to see.
“You’re perfect to me, Lizzie,” he said barely above a whisper, shielding his eyes under his long lashes so that I couldn’t gaze into them. He let out a cough, pretending he hadn’t uttered the words, and resumed his justification. “You’re dating the douche, which makes you popular by association. Oh, also, those bitches that you call your ‘friends’ happen to be popular too, along with Eric’s homeboys, for reasons that will remain unknown for quite some time.” He glanced back up at me, a thinking expression present on his face. “Campbell is the only douche I can actually understand being popular.”
“I like Alex,” I voiced.
“Everyone does,” Dylan snorted, as I was strangely reminded of having the exact same conversation (or one pretty damn near close) with Eric. “I hate the guy, but I understand why people like him. He’s social and talks too much for his own good. He was always a great guy…” I swore I saw a sliver of remorse pass his features, but was probably just imagining it.
“What happened?” I questioned as Dylan approached me, inclining against another sheet of metal beside me.
“We’re playing the question game again, are we?” he chose to not directly answer, though, in reality my inquiry had been on the relatively ambiguous side.
“Sure,” I confirmed.
“You ask one, I answer, and then I ask one, and you have to answer,” he set up the basic regulations. “Do we have a deal?”
“Yeah,” I said slowly, contemplating how to phrase my query precisely. “Dylan, you and Alex—Campbell, of course, were best friends. What happened?”
“Wilson happened,” he replied aloofly. “When all the bullshit between Wilson and my sister was going on, Campbell was left in the middle. He had to pick a side, and, after some shit, chose Wilson. It’s crazy that the three us used to be best friends…”
“Almost as crazy as me winning fucking Prom Queen,” I commented.
“Almost,” the edge of a smirk surfaced. “My turn to ask something. Lizzie, have you told Wilson about our passionate make out session in the park yet?”
“It wasn’t a ma—” I began, though the universe decided to throw a curveball into my life. I wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse with the type of interruption with which I was presented.
“What the hell is going on here?” Eric’s demanded, his voice filled with ire.
“Hey, Eric,” I said calmly, seeing nothing wrong.
“Liz, why the hell are you talking that…that loser?” he inquired harshly, pointing an accusing finger at Dylan.
“He’s not a loser. He’s my friend,” I said simply.
“Liz, he is a loser. Just, like, don’t talk to him,” Eric glared at a semi-amused Dylan.
“Look, Eric, I know you two have your issues with one another, but that doesn’t involve me. Dylan’s my friend, so I’m going to continue to talk to him,” I stated firmly.
“Ugh! Let’s just go!” Eric shook his head as he grabbed my hand, pulling me from my resting position.
“Bye, Dylan!” I bid with a smirk.
“Wait, Lizzie!” Dylan called out before Eric fully drew me away. Forcefully, I stopped where I was, causing Eric to halt too as I waited for what Dylan had to say. “Just answer my question, please!”
I looked down at the ground—regret filling me. Though the majority of my life at the moment was a lie, it felt as though the truth I was keeping from Eric was a teensy bit more substantial than my epic basketball skills. Or maybe I was just too overwhelmed with the sudden news of my becoming royalty to gage importance. The latter was probably it.
Avoiding making eye contact with Dylan, I allowed Eric to tow me away, as I called out a faint yet distinct, two-lettered answer, “No.”