Prom-Wrecked
by T.H. Hernandez & Jennifer DiGiovanni
Copyright © 2019 by T.H. Hernandez & Jennifer DiGiovanni. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
Chapter One
Riley
Prom Night
Eleven P.M.
The worst thing about being in jail is the stench.
I breathe in the scent of sweat and puke and a bunch of other random bodily fluids, which sets off a nauseous rocking in my stomach. With forty of us crammed into this cell, the temperature rises. Hot air presses into my chest, making it hard to breathe. And my dress is ruined—not that I really expected to wear it again.
The second worst thing about being in jail is probably the fact that hey, I’m in jail. Locked up. Stuck in the slammer.
The door slides closed with a clankety-clank. There’s no way out. It’s like the time my fourth-grade class went on a field trip to the police station and a cop let eighteen of us stand behind the bars. Back then, we laughed. Tonight is a lot less funny.
In a quiet corner, Jessa is crying her makeup off, her gold dress torn. Her prom-styled hair resembles an espresso-colored bees’ nest or something rats would call home. Sitting on the bench, his long legs stretched out in front of him, Owen stares off into space as his blue eyes fog over like a steamy glass window. Catherine’s blond locks managed to escape unharmed, but her face is paler than usual as she stands near the front of the cell, consoling a distraught Hunter, who’s missing one of her high-heeled sandals. Behind her glasses, Jane’s eye makeup is smudged, and mascara runs down her cheeks as she studies the burn mark on the hem of her dress.
Meanwhile, Jordon stares at Catherine with wounded puppy-dog eyes. Desmond’s probably seeing stars after the hit he took. When he slumps against the wall, fingers pressed to his temples, I loosen my chest with a long sigh.
So much for a triumphant end to high school.
The third worst thing about being in jail is that if I want to go home, my parents will need to bail me out. And before they do that, they’ll want to know how I ended up here with my prom-wrecked friends on what was supposed to be the best night of our lives.
Chapter Two
Riley
Two months before prom
Today is what I’d call a Mango Monday. My little Kia chugs happily along, almost driving itself on the familiar back roads of Hamilton, Ohio. A yellow-orange glaze brightens the sky as the sun rises above the rooftops of the small town just north of Cincinnati. I open the windows and breathe in deeply, half convinced the almost-spring air carries the scent of tropical fruit. It’s unusually warm for March, and all signs of the gray slush coating the shoulder of the roadway disappeared over the weekend.
I soak up my last mile of freedom before I’m forced to deal with reality: another day at Hamilton High where I see the same kids, listen to the same teachers, and try not to burn through too many brain cells before I leave for college at the end of this summer.
Following a line of traffic, I turn into the student lot and park in my assigned spot behind the two-story redbrick building. We’re a small school, squeezed between two much larger rivals. Our sports teams usually lose more than they win, but our show choir kicks ass. Instead of supplying us with top-of-the-line tech, we have a bring-your-own-device policy and the world’s slowest wifi network. I plan to use my graduation money to buy a laptop that actually responds when I bring up a web browser. College is calling to me like a dream life that’s only inches away. If I can just survive the last few months of high school.
I keep my head down as I enter the senior hallway, where the crowds are no different than any other high school in any other suburban town. Goths, athletes, gamers, musicians—both the marching and rock-band variety. Future Business Leaders of America in their khakis and button-downs, the Robotics Club talking about their latest competition, and our Drama Club building excitement for the spring show with a flash mob performance in the courtyard. I wish I could say there was something unique or exciting about Hamilton, but it’s just mind-numbingly typical.
No one goes out of their way to say hi to me, because I’m Riley Hart, the girl who’s spent most of the last four years fading into oblivion.
When I pass a bunch of seniors in the hallway, Owen Locklear pulls his attention away from his perfectly styled, petite, blond girlfriend, Catherine Reed. Though Catherine’s clutching his arm, staring up at him with wide eyes, he turns and shoots me a quick smile, one that might make you think he’s sharing some big secret. In our case, it’s sort of true. And it has nothing to do with Catherine, although a long time ago, she and I hung out together almost every day after school. She was the cool, fun girl who would sing like no one was listening…until she found a group of even cooler friends and became the center of the popular crowd.
As I walk by, I hear Catherine saying something about prom. Oh, right. The social event of the year for those who can snap their fingers and find a date.
I turn the corner and glance over my shoulder, hoping to catch another glimpse of Owen’s familiar dark brown hair poking above the crowd. When I recognize his spiky-messy style, my breath catches in my chest. With a wave to Catherine, he breaks away and trails behind me, leaving half a hallway between us. I veer off into an empty stairwell and wait.
Eventually, he makes his appearance, towering over me in the cramped space. Although he’s not as big as the basketball players, Owen stands at least six inches taller than me, which means I’m always looking up at him when we cross paths in school. We met during recess on the first day of kindergarten, when we decided to join up with Catherine and fight the imaginary monsters hiding under the playground equipment. Years later, Catherine has found other things to do with her free time, but Owen and I still fight monsters together—virtual ones, in our favorite video game.
“Haven’t caught up with you on Q-Chat lately,” he says, breaking into his familiar wide smile, one that could take down the entire cheerleading squad. Though it’s a struggle, I manage to remain upright. But just barely.
“Sorry, but I’ve been busy.” I speak too fast and nearly drop the bag of Tech Club pamphlets I printed last night. Talking to Owen in real life always seems to throw me off. It’s much easier to pretend I don’t have a crush on him when we’re battling aliens online.
Faking disappointment, he shakes his head. “Priorities, Riley. Immortal Quest released an update yesterday with an all-new army of zombies. They suck your life force away, and I really need your shields for protection.” His blue eyes brighten as he steps closer. “C’mon, Evil Skater Girl.”
I raise my finger to my lips. “Shhh! We promised never to call each other by our Quest names in school!” No one needs to know about my secret virtual superhero persona. At eighteen, I’m practically a grandma in the Immortal Quest world.
“Yeah, you’re right.” He backs away, darting his eyes toward the hallway, probably checking for his girlfriend. “Just…log on once in a while, okay? Keep me company.”
“Doesn’t Catherine do enough of that?” The words rush from my mouth before I think about them. I really don’t want to know what he and Catherine do when they’re alone together, but for some reason I can’t resist bringing her up, if only to remind myself that he’s in love with the girl who tossed me aside without a second thought way back in middle school.
Owen flashes his smile again. “No one does it like you, ESG.” He hikes his backpack higher on his shoulder and turns to go. Before I call him out on the name thing again, he says, “By the way, did you hear anything about prom being canceled?”
“What? Is that even possible?”
He breaks out in a small smile. “According to Cat, it is.” His smile falters before he picks it back up. “So, you haven’t heard anything?”
“No, but if I do, I’ll let you know.”
With a wave, he ducks around the corner and out of sight. I count to ten before continuing on to my locker.
“Holy shit, Riley. What is that barf-worthy smell?” Desmond Janek asks when I unzip my backpack and pull out a plastic food container, holding it up for his examination. His locker’s been next to mine for three and a half years, and you’d think by now he’d be accustomed to my extracurricular experiments.
“Stuffed artichokes. An old family recipe. It’s my contribution for today’s International Club menu sampler.”
Desmond leans closer, his nose twitching as he sniffs. “I think you messed something up. Maybe you should stick to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.” Backing away, he shakes his head. Typical for a Monday, his dark hair looks unwashed and he needs to shave. “Is that what you do in International Club? Eat foods from around the world?”
“Pretty much. It’s a way of broadening our cultural experiences. And it’s taste-bud fulfilling. Last month, Abby Connell brought in South African sweet potato stew, and it was the best thing anyone made all year.” I set down my shopping bag and spin the dial on my lock.
Desmond pulls open his locker, which he never bothers to lock. Suffice it to say, there’s nothing in there worth stealing.
“If you want a broader cultural experience, let’s trek across Southeast Asia this summer. Visit my mom’s family.” Desmond steps aside as I jam the artichokes back in a food storage bag and place it on the high shelf in my locker. Then I shove a folder filled with marketing paraphernalia for Tech Club on top of my pile of textbooks.
“For such an organized person, you’ve created a complete disaster in there,” he says. “Are you going for aftereffects of thermonuclear war?”
Ignoring his commentary, I tape my activity schedule to the inside of the door, my Monday morning ritual. Color-coded activities block out nearly every hour of the day. “This week is ridiculous. Everyone’s in fund-raising mode. I have meetings after school and no study periods to catch up on homework.”
Desmond slams his locker shut and leans against it, waiting for me. “Yeah, too bad Tristan Fleming forgot to fund-raise for prom. I heard Slater pulled the plug last week.”
So, Owen’s rumor is true. “What happened? Tristan’s been selling baked goods in the cafeteria for weeks now.”
“You call those dry-ass cupcakes baked goods? Nobody bought them, and rather than come up with another way to raise more money, he quit.”
“I’m sure someone will step up and replace him.” I grab my morning binders and notebooks, trying to ignore the slips of paper sticking out everywhere. “I mean, it’s prom. Every school has a prom.”
“According to Jane, we might be the first high school in history to cancel prom.”
Jane Moore, one of my best friends and the student council president, is one of our most reliable sources of information.
My jaw drops. “Jane said that?”
“Yeah. She was practically crying about it at lunch yesterday while you were at the emergency Tech Club meeting. Slater told her not to count on the school district for support. He re-prioritized the budget and cut out all the fun stuff for the rest of the year.” The hallway starts to clear as everyone filters into homeroom. “I really wanted to ask Carrie. Do you think she would’ve said yes?”
Des has been pining for Carrie Funai since the beginning of junior year. He used to keep a log inside his locker and mark off the days they made eye contact, but I haven’t checked for it lately.
“Who could turn down Desmond the Magnificent?”
With flawless skin, big brown eyes, and long black hair she wears in a high ponytail most days, Carrie’s cute, but not completely unobtainable like Catherine Reed. Des would totally have a chance with Carrie if he ever worked up the nerve to speak when they’re together. In the past, I’ve mentioned to him that a sentence like “let’s go out sometime” could be all he needs to achieve his dream.
Pushing thoughts of Desmond’s love life aside, I return to the matter at hand. “Back to prom. Is the decision final? Definitely not happening?”
Desmond shrugs. “Why don’t you check with Slater? You’re one of his favorites, aren’t you? Maybe he’ll let you start a ‘Bring Back Prom’ committee.”
A mini-earthquake shakes down my spine. Tristan Fleming is a straight-A student and a varsity soccer player, who also plays percussion in the All-State Concert Band. If he can’t organize a prom fund-raising committee and find people to help out, there’s no way I could do it. “I’ve never been to prom. I wouldn’t know the first thing about what needs to get done.”
Desmond looks amused. “Yeah. And also, you’d actually be in charge of something.”
Holding up my pile of notebooks, I say, “I’m in charge of plenty.”
“Not really, Madame Vice President. You’re almost in charge of a lot of things. Assistant to the president of the Tech Club marketing committee. Student council alternate representative. Backup organizer of the International Club. Co-activities coordinator of the Community Service Club.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Did you read an advance copy of my yearbook profile?”
He mirrors my expression, raising an eyebrow right back at me as he points to my calendar. “Not only do I see your schedule every week, but I hear about it whenever you bother showing up for lunch. And I think the time has come for Riley Hart to step up.” When he leans in, I catch a whiff of his hair gel. “No more second-in-command. High school is almost over. It’s up to you, Riley. Save us from being the only school in the universe without a prom.”
“No, Des. Not me.” My eyes dart away from the heat of his stare. I have no business getting involved in school social events. I’ve skipped most of them, including junior prom after holding out hope for months that someone would ask me. Everyone else at my lunch table managed to find someone to go with, and I didn’t want to be the only one of us to show up alone. I spent hours looking at dresses online, then gave up the week before and spent the money I’d saved on upgrades for my gaming PC. Still, I’d held on to some small glimmer of hope that my last year of high school would be different.
Desmond’s big brown eyes plead with me. “You should at least ask Slater about it. Find out the truth. He talks to you.”
With a sigh, I step around him, ready to move on. “Maybe I’ll stop by the office and get the real story.” Once I know what’s going on, I can update Owen on Q-Chat.
…
Mr. Slater’s office is at the far end of school in the administration wing. Hoping to still make it to homeroom before morning announcements, I ask Desmond to let Mrs. Lam know I’ll be late before dashing through the hallways. I’m out of breath when I slide the last few feet on the waxy linoleum and burst into the reception area.
“Can I help you, Riley?” Mrs. Whyte continues typing, barely glancing away from the screen. Her only reaction to my dramatic entrance is the deep vee forming between her eyebrows, telling me she’s expecting a problem. No one drops by the front office to deliver happy news.
I pause to collect my breath. “I heard about prom.”
Mrs. Whyte looks like she’s fighting a smile. Her dark curls bounce. Twice. “And you’re here to save the day?”
“Come in, Miss Hart.” Mr. Slater’s gruff voice emerges from his office. For a principal, Slater isn’t too bad. According to his Hamilton High website bio, he’s a longtime fixture around school, starting out in the history department and moving into administration before I was born. His white hair and kind smile remind me of a grandfather who never minds dressing up as Santa Claus for holiday parties. But he does have a stricter side that shows up on occasion, particularly when he’s forced to deliver what he calls serious consequences. “How can I help you?”
I lower myself down on the edge of the chair in front of his desk. “Is it true? Is prom canceled?”
The wavy lines on his forehead deepen. “Who told you that?”
“Oh, um, it’s just a rumor,” I say, shifting back and gripping the arms of the chair. Possibly I should have asked someone other than Desmond about it. He’s not the most reliable source of underground information, unless it’s marching band-related.
Principal Slater removes a pen from the pocket of his dress shirt and clicks the tab on the end, drawing the point in and out. “Unfortunately, Tristan Fleming has resigned from his position as prom committee chair. He was unable to raise enough money, and based on last year’s ticket sales, there’s no way we could hold the event at the country club this year. The school district recently completed the construction of a new elementary school, and our budget is limited. Due to the lack of interest, we’ve decided to cancel this year’s senior prom.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, holding myself back from popping out of my chair. “Of course there’s interest. Who doesn’t like prom?”
“It’s not a matter of liking prom. It’s expensive. Dresses, tux rentals, tickets—kids don’t want to spend that kind of money anymore. They’d rather go to the store and buy the latest Xbox game or an iPhone.”
I hate to admit it, but Principal Slater is a little out of touch. Who goes to a store to buy stuff when you can download video games right onto your computer? But senior prom isn’t something you download—it’s a once-in-a-lifetime memory that can never be recreated if you miss it.
“Prom is universal,” I insist. “It’s a tradition dating back to…a long time ago. We can’t be known as the first class at Hamilton High to miss it.” I flip through the stack of shiny new ideas popping into my head. “We could find sponsors to cover some of the expenses. Or find a cheaper location if the country club is too expensive.” After a slight hesitation, I hear myself add, “Maybe I can work with the rest of the committee and find someone to take Tristan’s place.”
But my chest tightens at the thought of getting involved in a crusade to save prom. Desmond’s right. After Catherine and I became ex-best friends in middle school, I lost a shield of protection I never knew I’d had. I was teased for sitting alone in the cafeteria until I found a new lunch table, and no longer picked for the best spots in group projects or gym teams. Since then, I’ve avoided attention and learned to survive while staying out of the spotlight. Rack up multiple small achievements while the popular kids fight for bragging rights over a big win.
But if someone needs to light a fire to restart a committee, it can be me…for now. I can always ask Jane for help. As student council president, she has the experience needed to organize a big event like this.
Mr. Slater adjusts his glasses. “Are you sure? The prom committee is a lot of work, and we’re already months behind.”
I square my shoulders and assume a look of grim determination. “I can help out. We’ll catch up quickly.”
Still, he appears unconvinced. “You’re taking quite a few AP classes, aren’t you? And how many clubs have you joined this year?”
“I’m the vice president of six and the secretary of two. But I’m keeping up with my work. Last marking period, I had distinguished honors. I submitted my early decision form to Bucknell, so I just need to make passing grades through the end of the year. I can find the time for something as important as prom.”
Principal Slater folds his hands on top of his desk as he considers my offer. “I can give you a week to come up with something. Talk to Tristan about setting up a new committee, budget, event site, and marketing plan. I’ll look over your report, and we’ll take it from there.”
I consider running out of the office and never looking back. But then I remember how disappointed I was about not attending junior prom. I wonder who else has been dreaming of finding that perfect dress. Or hoping their secret crush will come through with a grand gesture and prompose.
“Yes. Fine. I’ll do it,” I say, wanting to cry inside. My schedule will need major rearrangement to meet his deadline. This part of senior year is supposed to be chill time—everyone else around here seems to be slacking off. I push to my feet and shoulder my backpack as a little voice inside wonders why I care so much. Sure, seeing Desmond and Carrie finally get together would be a stellar achievement. He stuck by me for so many years, along with Jane, my other BFF. But, chances are, I’ll end up sitting at home alone again this year. It’s not like I’ll have anyone special to go with. Still, the small wisp of hope inside me refuses to die. If I can make something memorable out of prom night, maybe I’ll find the perfect date. Owen’s face flashes in my mind, and I forcefully chase it away. He’s not an option.
“Next Monday, in my office, with a write-up.” Mr. Slater’s interrupted by the ringing of the late bell. “And I’ll sign a hall pass for you this morning, but in the future, Miss Hart, make an appointment and come speak to me outside of class time.”
After International Club, I rush home and type up my physics lab notes. Between pages, I run online searches, looking for potential prom sites, and fill out contact forms, requesting information from the bigger venues around town. Mom left a note on the counter, saying she and Dad are at an engagement shoot in the town park. I shudder at the thought of my parents forcing the poor future bride and groom to pose in front of the stone fountain with a perfectly timed sunset in the background. Although, when you’re in love, you probably want to be in my parents’ photos. When you’ve grown up with your own personal paparazzi, you start to dream of bright, sunny days with harsh shadows or locations with dim lighting. I was their test subject for years, through my incredibly awkward frizzy-haired, acne-riddled middle school phase, until I begged them to please stop taking pictures of me.
Alone in the house, I reheat a bowl of chili, add chopped onion, pour the mixture over a plate of spaghetti, top it all off with shredded cheese, and carry it up to my bedroom. I switch on my monitor and eat dinner while waiting for Immortal Quest to power up. When the welcome screen appears, I strap on my headset and log on to Q-Chat for the first time in weeks. Sure enough, I find a message from Owen, aka HouseofLock.
HOL: Heard you’re trying to save the prom.
ESG: Not me. I’m hoping Jane can make it happen. I’ll assist.
His reply is instantaneous. He must be finished exploring the latest Immortal Quest release he told me about this morning.
HOL: Why not you? I can help.
I squint at the screen. Owen Locklear wants to help me run the prom committee? I wonder if Catherine the Great is putting him up to it. I’m about to shoot down his suggestion, but my fingers pause above my keyboard. If I did step up and he had my back…no way. Owen isn’t mine. Not in a dateable sense.
But does that even matter anymore? He’s my friend, and it would be fun to work on a committee with him before we part ways at the end of the school year.
ESG: With your help, I might be able to pull something together.
HOL: Count me in. We should do something different. You know, not a typical boring prom. Like no tuxes.
ESG: Tuxes are mandatory. It’s the only time I’ll see you dressed up. Ever.
HOL: I’ll wear my jacket backwards in protest.
Picturing Owen zombie-walking with his arms shoved in a backwards jacket makes me laugh. And I’m secretly swooning, because that would be totally adorable. When he pauses our conversation, I log in to the game and find him busy fighting a mob of green aliens. When the bad guys disperse, another message appears on the chat screen.
HOL: So, what about it? A backwards prom?
ESG: Sure. We’ll use the reverse spelling and call it a Morp.
HOL: I like it. Project Morp is on. Let’s go slay some aliens in Sector 10.
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