Even though the names came out fast, a lot happens. Shandy scribbles the names into her notebook just as fast as they fly out of Nord’s mouth. Justin gives himself a high five and does one of those chicken neck, arm flapping, booty shaking football-end-zone victory dances. He ends it on bended knee, head down into his elbow and says, “Thank you little eight-pound six-ounce newborn baby Jesus.”
Kallie’s got the biggest smile anyone could have while trying to keep their mouth shut. If she was any happier, she’d be wiping away tears. She slides her hands into her bag and starts rummaging around rhythmically. Definitely texting Todd the news.
Maisey barely responds to her name. Slinking lower into her chair, her head hangs over her desk, as she scribbles indifferently into her notebook while the class half-asses an attempt at subtlety. Over half the class fake coughs, giggles, and snorts into their hands and the crooks of their elbows.
Over the roar, Justin says, “You were robbed—Mouse stole your spot!”
I roll my eyes, lean over, and squeeze Kallie’s hand. “I’m so excited for you.” The little pit that sinks to the bottom of my stomach surprises me. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want anyone to think I care or because I actually do.
Sean spins around with a grin and fist pounds Justin. His eyes hit mine, cranking the heat in my face but dissipating the pit in my stomach. “Too bad you’re not on the court,” he says. “It would’ve been fun.”
“It’s gonna be rough, but I think I’ll make it,” I say, sounding way cooler than I feel.
Sean shakes his head and laughs. “Well, hey, I didn’t finish copying these notes so maybe I could keep them and give them back to you this weekend? Here’s my number.” Sean doesn’t really let me answer before he starts writing his phone number on my black and white comp book.
“Okay, yeah, no problem.” I can barely pull my eyes away from his number as the bell rings.
Everyone rushes into the hall to join everyone else in a feast of gossip, disbelief, and high fives over underclassmen regarding the nominations. Todd, in a pink bow tie, cuts between Kallie and me belting his arm around her waist.
“Babe, this dress should be illegal. If I don’t get locked up for being your accomplice, we’re going to rock the Prom as King and Queen.”
I smile, letting them walk off into their own world, as if I have a choice. My eyes skim the crowd for Sean but he’s lost in the sea of everyone rushing to get their weekend started.
When I turn the corner, a loud voice bellows toward me, “Mousey Morgan, will you go to Prom with me?”
I turn and Maisey slams into me and my armful of books.
“Sorry,” she mumbles to my forearm, then tucks a clump of copper hair behind her ear, lowers her gaze even farther and rushes past me. Her shoulders hunch beneath her backpack as she ducks beneath the laughs and through the bodies mazed before her.
I frown as she disappears into the crowd until I catch a glimpse of Chip Ryan, my ex-boyfriend pushing his way toward me from the left. His shaggy hair swings over one eye while the other meets my eyes for barely a millisecond. I do the same thing I’ve been doing all year. Look away and try to stop my breath from catching in my throat. I push through the same path Maisey blazed. The Maisey Mouse song rings out at least twice among the Prom gossip and Friday night plan snippets before I’m hitting the double doors to the parking lot.
At home in my bedroom, I jump into sweatpants and peel off my wet-pitted Elvis shirt. Talking to Sean and dodging Chip can have that effect. My whole drive home from school was me pep-talking myself into longer breaths and a million repetitions of “just relax.”
Bummer of the day had to have been Sean Mills saying “too bad.” I don’t want him feeling sorry for me. He almost made it sound like if we got on court together, we’d have been hanging out, eating pizza, and engaging in secret Prom activities. But being around Jane and Molly and their clique would’ve been awkward. And I’d have to fake like hell that it wasn’t. It’s probably for the best that my name wasn’t called.
I once read or heard Oprah talking about being nominated for an award years ago. She was so stressed about how she looked that she didn’t want to get up in front of everyone. I can’t remember if she won and she was embarrassed about winning or if she lost and was relieved she didn’t have to be on stage in the end. Either way, I know what she meant. I’m fairly confident this year about my looks, but sometimes I still feel like my best isn’t good enough. Girls on Prom Court like Molly and Jane look like they stepped off the set of the latest teen movie. Getting my braces pried off last year and accepting that my hip bones will never shrink did cut down on mirror critiquing time, but it didn’t do much to bump up my social rank at school.
Sean’s face flashes in my head so I grab my backpack and fish out my notebook to make sure his phone number is still there. It’s slightly smudged but still legible: Sean 612–555-8000.