“Thank you. So, um, okay.”
She slides a maroon sheet of paper across her desk that reads PROM COURT SCHEDULE & GUIDELINES. Then she hands me a late pass for Mr. Norderick’s class.
As I walk down the hall, there’s the slightest bounce in my step and I’m barely bothered that I’m a Prom Queen nominee by default. I’ll have more time with Sean and more reasons to talk to him. Kallie’s going to freak when she hears. She’ll be so excited that—
Shit. My buzz is immediately killed by the sinking feeling I get as I remember our fight. Kallie probably thinks I’m skipping class just to avoid confrontation. I dip into the bathroom to give my brain a rest before heading back to class.
Stepping up to the sinks, I’m hit with a pang of disappointment. Class has already started but someone else is in here. Her red stringy hair droops down into her face. Maisey.
I make my way to the mirror next to hers and the same yellow slip from Ms. S.’s office sits on the corner of the sink, weighted by her glasses. Something nudges my brain to say something. I almost feel obligated. Like I should apologize. And I know it’s horrible but I’m hoping like a maniac that no one comes in and sees me talking to her. I let my yellow slip fall from my fingers and do a quick sweep to see that no one’s in any of the stalls before I pluck it from the floor. No feet. Clear.
“So, I uh, guess we’re both taking advantage of these late slips, huh?” I wave it back into the pocket of my bag.
Maisey squints at the faucets. She’s extra vulnerable without her glasses. Like a scared rabbit. Her eyes are swollen like they’ve been outlined in soft pink highlighter. “Yep. Guess so.”
“Sooo,” my voice shakes. “I know I don’t really know you that well or anything but I just wanted to say sorry about the whole Prom thing. I’m not—I mean, well, it’s not like I … I didn’t nominate you or anything but I still feel like I should say something.”
“Don’t bother. It looks like you’re all set.” She nods at my PROM GUIDE paper. “You’re on Prom Court now and you can do it with dignity. Tell all your friends and go home and tell your mom and dad the news.” Her eyes get that shiny glossed over look as she clenches a wad of tissues in her fist.
“I’m not happy it happened like this and I’m not even—”
“Sure you’re not.” She exhales a short breathy laugh and swipes the tissue under her eyes. “Because no one would ever want to be Prom Queen, right? Yeah sure, it’s nothing to be happy about. But really, you try to enjoy yourself. Just remember all the people you think you’re not stepping on along the way.”
“That’s not true, I’m not even like that.”
“Oh please, I’ve known you since elementary school. You’ve never talked to me. But you’ve laughed. Everybody does.” As if a dam breaks, tears rush down her face. “You were sitting right next to me when someone left a dead mouse in my desk in sixth grade. The smell—” Her face crumples like tissue paper as she mops the tears into her wadded Kleenex. “The smell of it—for two whole days until I found it in the back corner in a sandwich bag. Don’t tell me you didn’t know about it. I remember like it was last week. You’re the one who told me to check my desk, remember? There’s no way you don’t.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t. I—I …” I don’t even want to finish because the look on her face takes me back to the way she looked when she pulled it out of her desk that day. Horrified, degraded, the tears, the face-slapping humiliation. I do remember. Our corner of the class was starting to get a weird stink. Kids were whispering and laughing at lunch and recess about someone putting something in her desk. “I didn’t do that. I don’t know who did either, I just heard about it—that’s why I told you to look. I wasn’t trying to be mean. I wasn’t even sure if it was true.” My heart’s racing and the look on her face is killing me and I just want to leave. Maisey Morgan isn’t going to make me cry. “I wasn’t in on it and I really was trying to help.”
“Whatever. I’d hardly call that helping. I’m sure you were laughing with everyone else. Just like you’ve laughed a million times at a million jokes about me. You think you’re better than me with your perfect life. You get to walk down the hallway without wondering if someone’s going to throw something, trip you, or squeak and sing when you’re with friends or walking down the hall with your little sister who only just realized you were a loser once she got into high school with you.”
“Listen, I’m sorry. I’m—”
“Just shut up. It doesn’t matter anymore anyways. It’s all done, it’s over. I. Don’t. Care. I’m more over it than you’d even believe.”