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Mrs. Graidy stares at me and shakes her head. “I honestly don’t know, hon. You have about thirty minutes before the assembly starts. I can make sure you’re the last one to go, but that doesn’t give you a ton of extra time. Most of the other girls had their hair and makeup professionally done hours ago.” Shebites her lip, like she’s lost in thought. “I guess, I guess if you want to drop your name from the running, I can understand. I know the other girls have been preparing all week. If you feel like it’s too much to take on with such little notice, then I completely understand.
This is it. My way out. I can quit being a prom queen nominee, stop stressing about the prom, and slip through high school till the end of the year. My stomach is all twisted up in knots. I can just picture Taylor and Kylie’s smug faces when they hear I left the competition. I bet even Adika would be relieved if I quit. They’ll hug and then throw a party to rejoice. The image of them celebrating in my mind fuels a determination I didn’t know I had.
That’s when I realize I can’t back out. As much as I want to, if I give up now, it means they win. I can’t let them win. It’s not right. Any girl should be allowed to be nominated for prom queen. She shouldn’t have to fit into their perfect little mold, in order to be respected as a candidate. What makes them think they’re better than me in the first place?
“I can do it,” I say. “I’ll be ready.”
Mrs. Graidy hugs me quickly. “You better hurry fast then,” she says. “I’ll put your name at the end of the list.” Her pants make a swishing sound as she begins to walk away.
“Oh, Mrs. Graidy.” I call after her and she stops.
“Yes, dear?”
“What about the video?” I ask. Even if I can somehow make myself presentable in the next half hour, there’s no possible way I can have a video ready.
She waves her hand. “Your video was submitted late last night. Don’t worry, we have it all ready to go.” She hurries into the auditorium and I stumble in the opposite direction. My head is spinning. What now?
The tension continues to build in my chest until I feel like I’m suffocating. I can barely breathe when I push open the door and stumble into Mom’s gym. Her cheer squad are all stretching on the ground. They’re getting ready to do some sort of dance performance for the assembly, no doubt. Every eye in the room turns and stares in my direction. Mom steps away from the mirrored wall, her tiny feet pattering across the hardwood toward me. She doesn’t look annoyed or angry, like I feared she would. Instead, she looks…concerned. And definitely surprised.
“Emma? What’s wrong sweetie?” she asks. “You look white as a sheet. And why aren’t you ready for the assembly?”
I glance at all the cheerleaders, still watching us. Mom claps her hands loudly. “Back to stretching ladies,” she says. She grabs my arm gently, just above the elbow, and pulls me around so our backs are to the squad.
A rush of emotions sweep over me. I take a deep breath and the whole story rushes out like a broken faucet. How between the nomination, the party, Brody, the contest between Jaron, Ethan, and Austin, the Decathlon tryouts, and all the stresses over the last week, this assembly completely slipped my mind. I watch as Mom’s face shifts from shock to concern. I finish and half expect Mom to start yelling at me about letting her down. And letting our family legacy down. But instead of angry, she looks…determined.
“Well,” she says, clapping her hands together, “sounds like we need to get you ready!”
“But I don’t have a formal,” I say, pointing down at my T-shirt and jeans.
“I’ll call in reinforcements,” she says, whipping out her phone. She types furiously into the tiny screen, then shoves it back into her pocket. “Your dad is on it,” she says. Her tone is all business. Then turning back to her cheer squad, she claps again. “Alright ladies, we have a serious beauty emergency. Doesanyone have makeup, brushes, flat irons, anything I can borrow to make up a prom queen?
I scoff. Where are we going to find a flat iron and makeup? Girls don’t bring that kind of stuff to school.
I am quickly proven wrong when at least a dozen girls jump to their feet and dash for their backpacks. They return with handfuls of beauty supplies, and begin piling them onto Mom’s desk. My chest tightens again. But not because I’m nervous this time. I look around the room at all these girls who I assumed were snotty, self-centered, and above me in status. Yet here they are, coming to my rescue, no questions asked. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.
“None of that,” Mom says. “You’ll smear your makeup.” When I look at her, I see that she’s smiling. She pulls me down into her desk chair and goes to work. The cheerleaders surround her desk and help by organizing the makeup and handing things to Mom.
“This lipstick would look best with her complexion.”
“Thanks, Ava,” she says, taking the tube from her.
“Oh, and this eye shadow would go really well with that lipstick.”
“I think you’re right, Krissy. Thanks.”
Once my makeup is finished, Mom slides her chair across the floor to where two flat irons are plugged in.
“What do you think?” she asks, looking around. “Soft curls, or a casual up-do.”
“Soft curls for the assembly, up-do for the actual dance,” one of the girls says. The others nod their agreement. Mom nods too. She then takes one half of my head and begins curling thin sections, one at a time. Another cheerleader does the same thing on the other side of my head.
My hair is being pulled in every direction. I try my best to sit still while they work. Another cheerleader appears besideMom and hands her a can of hairspray. She takes it and I’m pretty sure she sprays enough to rip a new hole in the ozone layer. Right as I’m being assaulted with aerosol, the gymnasium door opens and in steps Dad. He’s carrying a large, white garment bag.
“I don’t think you used enough hairspray,” he says, coughing.
Mom takes the bag from Dad and gives him a peck on the cheek.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say.
