Jane snatches the mic as I mouth the words “I’m so sorry.” Still, she brands me with the evilest stink eye ever. My smile widens and all I’m thinking as I slide back into my seat is fake it.
I’ve gotta give Jane credit. If she wasn’t breathing venom right now, her speech is an A plus for effort in her attempt at damage control. This is not her first rodeo. Her lips purse, her shoulders come back, and her chin tips up. “Things happen that change you. Life happens. Other people happen. But we have choices. You can become someone bigger and better than the evil you’ve been running from. In the face of adversity, we can become giants. We cannot only survive, but overcome. I’ve worked my ass off to be me. To exceed when jealousy and monsters with claws are within seconds of bringing me down. But I’m always quick on my feet and ahead of the game. We are fighters, Belmont. I am always fighting.” Her voice is a knife dipped in honey butter. Sharp and sweet. “A vote for me is a vote for strength and poise.”
The only problem is that someone keeps bellowing “Booooo” every few seconds. Jane dips into a curtsy and passes the mic to Laura. Shandy runs over asking that everyone please refrain from any lewd or negative comments while the court candidates are speaking, thank you so much.
Someone yells, “Shandy, you suck.”
Laura frowns. “No she doesn’t. Shandy is a really good person.” For some reason that gets another big laugh from the audience.
Everyone else’s intros drone on, the class becoming more restless with each candidate. I run through things to say to Sean when we walk out. I don’t get much more detailed than “hello” and a daydream that he’ll be the one with all the things to say. Things like “I never stopped loving you” and “I can’t go another minute without you.” Before I know it, we’re herded back into couples by Shandy.
As we file off stage, Principal Finley thanks everyone for their school spirit and gives a few rules about Prom tomorrow night. Basically: don’t come drunk or high and don’t punch anyone in the face.
Sean says, “Nice shoes.”
I glance down as if I haven’t seen them yet. “Thanks.”
The guys and girls part in a red sea fashion as the double doors of the gym close behind us. I turn to say something to Sean. Something, anything.
Instead Jane steps in front of me, pinning me up against the girl’s locker room door with her ruffles. “You have some nerve, really. Un-be-fuckin-lievable. First I’m bullied into wearing a different dress, accused of stealing your shoes, and then you humiliate me onstage. Who the hell do you think you are? You’re nobody. You think your reverse psychology speech up there is going to get votes? You’re wrong. Nobody cares about you Brittney. You don’t even have a date. You’re all alone. You are right about one thing though. You’re not a Prom Queen. You are a Prom loser.”
The principal walks out of the doors and Jane spins around.
“Oh hey, Mr. Finley. Great pep rally, right?” Jane smiles, not a drop of venom in sight.
THIRTY-ONE
As soon as I sit up to stretch on Saturday morning, my heart is ticking in my chest like an amped up version of my cat clock. TickTickTickTick. Tiny heartbeats, super close together. If I wasn’t starting to get used to these faster and harder hitting palpitations, I’d think I was having a heart attack. Lying in the fetal position, I repeat over and over for it to go away go away go away. Finally after about five minutes of me talking myself out of dying of nothing, my breathing becomes less shallow and I can move again.
Kicking off my sheets, I release a frustrated growl. What is wrong with me?
Once I pull on a pair of sweat shorts, I pad over to mom’s room. “Mom, you up?”
“Come in,” she answers as I’m already pushing her door open. She rakes her hand through her short spiky hair and closes her ereader. “You’re up early.”
“I know. I was wondering about going to that appointment you made for today. Did you actually cancel it?”
“Nope,” she quirks her eyebrows. “It’s still on. I was going to make one last-ditch effort to convince you and maybe throw in a bribe. I was pretty sure I’d be taking the appointment for myself instead.”
Swishing my foot through the carpet a few times, I try to fight back tears. “I feel like I’m always crying.”
Her arms are out so I jump on her bed and let her pull me in. A few tears trickle down my cheek as I wish there were more words to explain what I’m feeling. She smooths her hand over my hair and says she’ll drive me to meet with the therapist at 9:30.
****
The office behind the waiting room is a little smaller than my bedroom. The walls are a muted gray and the two paintings hung on opposite sides are abstract swishes and swooshes of rich yellows and cool blues.
A short, pale-skinned woman with a bronze-streaked bob extends her hand. “Hi Bree. I’m Donna Jarron. You can call me Donna if you’d like. Please, have a seat.”