Revenge of the Homecoming Queen

  REVENGE OF THE HOMECOMING QUEEN

  By Stephanie Hale

  © Copyright Stephanie Hale, 2007, 2012. All rights reserved.

  CHAPTER ONE

  This is such a movie moment. This is the part where the fabulous heroine’s dream finally comes true. I, of course, am the fabulous heroine. My dream of becoming homecoming queen is just moments away. I can almost feel the weight of the tiara on my head. Eww … I hope it doesn’t mess up my hair because I’m having a stellar hair day.

  “Aspen Brooks? Is she here today?” Miss Hott, my high school principal, asks, announcing my name for the second time. My best friend, Tobi, gives me a shove, knocking me out of my daydream. I can’t believe this day is finally here. I carefully start to weave my way down the student-covered bleachers. I am concentrating very hard on making it down to the gym floor in one piece. My new high-heeled brown leather boots look awesome with my wide-leg jeans, but they are not the best combo for trying to climb bleachers. The last thing I need to do is go tumbling face-first onto the sweat-covered gym floor. I can only imagine the millions of germs breeding on that floor, not to mention the horrible effects it could have on previously mentioned adorable boots. Besides, this is not the sort of stunt that a soon-to-be-crowned homecoming queen would pull.

  Safely down, I scoot up next to my nemesis, Angel Ives. She bristles and slides over a bit closer to her cronie and fellow princess, Amy, as if I’m not good enough to share the same oxygen with her. As if I would even want to share her foul, regurgitated air! Since kindergarten I’ve known that the only thing standing between me and my tiara was Angel. I just hope my classmates can see through her evil façade and voted for yours truly. As I turn to face the entire student body, which at Comfort High-consists of only 600 students, I feel dizzy. I can’t believe how nervous I am. My palms are even sweaty. Gross! I wonder if Angel would get pissy if I use her ugly, horribly outdated cashmere shawl for a napkin. Probably. Not that I’d want to touch the skank anyway.

  Unlike Angel, I wouldn’t be caught dead in last season’s fashions. Every single piece of my ensemble was diabolically planned in anticipation of this very moment. I look smokin’ in my shimmery pink tank topped with my adorable pink faux-fur shrug. My favorite pair of 7 jeans, the ones that make my butt look really good, finish off the outfit. It’s a fact. You just can’t have a bad day if you’re wearing your good butt jeans. My prized diamond high-heel charm dangles provocatively from its chain above the slight swell of cleavage (compliments of my La Perla push-up bra) above my tank top. I am so queen material.

  It’s not like I’m totally conceited or anything, but for the last two weeks I had a weird sort of premonition that I was going to be voted in. I just knew my expensive highlights would pay off. Normally I couldn’t care less about the opinion of Comfort High’s student body, but let’s face it, when 600 people cast a vote saying that you are one of the hottest girls in school, that’s pretty cool. Tobi would try to convince me that some of the vote, especially the girl’s portion, is based on personality, but that’s a bunch of crap. The students choose good-looking people every year. I’ve never seen some geeky chick with a great personality voted homecoming queen. It just doesn’t happen. It’s probably not PC, but would you really want to look back in your high school yearbook in twenty years (when you would be like thirty-eight, Yikes!) and see some dorks for the homecoming queen and king? Of course not, you want to see the beautiful people. That way if you are one of the beautiful people, and you gain like fifty pounds, you can always look back and know that you used to be beautiful. It works for the dorks, too. Dorks usually go on to be more successful than the beautiful people, so they can look back and laugh that the beautiful people are now big, fat losers. It’s really a win-win situation.

  When Miss Hott called my name I thought I would scream with joy, but somehow I managed a little restraint. I mean, I knew there was no way I wouldn’t at least get chosen as a princess, but I didn’t want to appear too confident. You never want to come off as a total snob. Last Friday, during lunch period, the entire student body cast their ballots. I carefully stood at the edges of the voting line. I nonchalantly handed out compliments about good hair days, adorable purses, and to-die-for shoes to the girls, and some of the boys were lucky enough to get a little bat of the eyelashes or an upper arm squeeze followed by the always popular “wow, you’ve really been working out.” After an agonizing weekend of waiting, it will be just a few more minutes before I know if all my hard work paid off or if I just wasted my breath on a bunch of ungrateful losers. It’s totally an honor to even be on the court, and I know I shouldn’t be greedy, but I can’t help it. I want to feel that cheap rhinestone tiara digging into my scalp. I’ve even been practicing my queen wave in the mirror at home. I’ve so got it down that it would be such a waste if my crown went to that skank Angel Ives.

  I try to put the final vote out of my mind as I scan the restless crowd for my boyfriend. He is easy to spot in a cluster of turquoise-and-black football jerseys. Lucas Riley, my totally hot boyfriend. He is tan, blond, and filled out just right in all the good places. He is also the quarterback for the Comfort Seagulls. We’ve been dating about two months. I’ve always been a Comfort High A-lister, but dating Lucas Riley has catapulted my popularity through the roof.

  “And our fourth homecoming princess is Tobi Groves,” a deliriously happy Miss Hott announces.

  Oh. My. God. Tobi just made the homecoming court with me. Tobi is just as shocked as I am as we lock eyes and she stays frozen in her spot on the bleachers. Finally, people start pushing her and she makes her way down to meet me on the floor. We hug and squeal like the girls that we are. It’s not that Tobi isn’t cute, because she so is, but this is just so not her kind of thing. Even so, I can tell she is totally psyched.

  “They’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel this year,” a poufy-lipped Angel spouts with venom.

  I discreetly run my middle finger up the side of my face to silently counter her response. Tobi and I hold each other’s sweaty hands as we wait for the final name. When Miss Hott announces Angel Ives’s best friend, Pippi Fox, as the fifth homecoming princess it is no surprise. Pippi bounces down the bleachers screaming like she has just won a million dollars or something. The girl has absolutely no control over her emotions. She and Angel embrace and Pippi bursts into tears. Sometimes I can see why Tobi has no stomach for these types of competitions. Tobi drops my hand to clap for Pippi. That’s weird. Pippi is Angel’s number one crony. We do not like her. I grab Tobi’s hand to stop her from clapping.

  Miss Hott is now announcing the homecoming princes, one of which will become king. Angel’s boyfriend, Jimmy McAllister, was the first name, no big surprise there. Jimmy makes me swoon with his wavy black hair and evergreen eyes not that I’d ever cheat on Lucas, I’m just saying. We are in speech class together and he’s always really sweet, but he must have some sort of mental defect for dating Angel.

  “Our next little prince is none other than the Seagulls fantastic quarterback, Lucas Riley.” Miss Hott shouts over the wild crowd. Lucas throws his arms up in the air and starts chanting his own name as he makes his way through the crowd. On his way down he gets several pats on the back and a few girls grab his butt. Note to self: have discussions with a few girls about keeping their hands to themselves. I try to make eye contact with Lucas, but he’s too caught up in his own popularity for the moment.

  When the crowd quiets down, Miss Hott resumes calling the names of semi-popular seniors Blake Mason and Lance Brown, who are greeted with a much more subdued applause then Lucas was. As our principal gets ready to read the final name from her note card she hesitates, then walks to the back co
rner of the gym to consult with Mr. Lowe, our accounting teacher, who has the distinct honor each year of tallying the votes. I see Miss Hott ask him a question with a puzzled look on her face, he nods solemnly, unlike the usually quite humorous Mr. Lowe, and Miss Hott turns back around and makes her way to the microphone.

  She clears her throat. “And the final homecoming prince this year is Rand Bachrach.” Miss Hott backs away from the microphone and winces as if the crowd is going to pelt her with their shoes or something. For one second there is absolutely no sound, not even a sneaker squealing. This so cannot be happening, but then I start to hear the chant, and realize that it is. All of the guys are chanting, “Rand, Rand, you’re our man,” over and over again. People start to make a path on the bleachers as Rand, who by the look on his face is still unsure what is happening, slowly makes his way down the bleachers. As he nears the other princes, every single one of them big, hefty football guys, they lift scrawny Rand onto their shoulders and continue around the gym carrying him like a trophy.

  Tobi squeezes my hand as we exchange glances that say “what the hell is happening here?” Rand Bachrach is like the anti-prince. He doesn’t even really have a clique. He’s not like ugly or anything, actually he kind of reminds me of Josh Hutcherson with Napoleon Dynamite hair. And he’s not like poor or anything; his family actually owns a world-famous candy company, but Rand always looks like he shopped at a thrift shop, and not in a cool vintage way. I’ve never really talked to him except this one time in calculus he let me copy an answer, which was way cool, but I still don’t understand how something like this happens.

  “Mr. Lowe must have made a mistake counting the votes or something,” I whisper in Tobi’s ear.

  “This was no mistake, I overheard some guys talking about Lucas putting something together to shake up homecoming. I bet this was it.” She raises her terribly-in-need-of-a-waxing eyebrows, already knowing that I’m not going to like the outcome of my boyfriend’s prank.

  Why are guys SO stupid? Don’t they realize that you only have one senior homecoming in your entire life? A prank is running down the hallway in your jockstrap, not altering Comfort High history by voting a D-lister to the court. And, how mean is it to do this to Rand? To get the poor guy’s hopes up about being thrust into popularity just to find out it was a joke.

  Miss Hott finally manages to get the festivities under control. Lucas and his clan gently lower Rand back to the floor. Rand still looks dazed, but from the smile on his face, he’s enjoying himself.

  The princesses, with the exception of Tobi, are standing here horrified. I am personally trying to take back every wish I ever made to be homecoming queen. I feel bad that Rand is probably going to get his feelings hurt over this, but I still don’t want to spend the entire week being some nerd’s fantasy date.

  Mr. Lowe saunters up and hands Miss Hott two sealed envelopes and the student body, knowing what they contain, quiets down.

  Miss Hott rips into the first envelope and pulls out a white sheet of paper, I squint my eyes trying to read the large black print backward through the paper to no avail. “It is my pleasure to announce this year’s Comfort High homecoming king,” she says, then seems to slightly shake her head in confusion, clear her throat, and says, “Rand Bachrach.” The crowd goes wild, the male portion of the crowd, the girls are just sitting there looking confused like we’re all on some noncelebrity episode of Punk’d or something. Like any minute some producer is going to walk in and be like, “Dude, you guys totally fell for it, Rand isn’t really your king, duh, it’s Lucas. Man, that was so dope. You should have seen the look on your faces. Swaaeeet!”

  But as the princes once again lift an ecstatic Rand on their shoulders, and parade him through the halls, no MTV producer ever shows. I am making serious bargains with anyone holy who might be listening at this time. I so do not want that tiara now. Please don’t let me win. I feel almost sick just thinking those things after wanting this dream for so long. But seriously, who wants to be homecoming queen if the king is a total nerd? The king is supposed to be handsome and charming, not scrawny with frizzy hair and glasses. This is turning into such a nightmare. Tobi is shaking she’s laughing so hard. I can’t believe she doesn’t recognize how traumatic this is for me.

  “I don’t see a single thing funny about this situation, missy.”

  “Aspen, look at him.” She points at Rand riding high on our best Seagulls. “He’s having a blast. Rand is a really great guy. He deserves to be king.”

  “Whatever, just wait until he finds out it was all a joke. How much fun will he be having then? And what if you get chosen as the queen, you’ll have to spend all week being his escort to the bonfire, the football game, riding with him in the parade, there’s the carnival … ”

  “And this year’s homecoming queen is Angel Ives.” I was so busy verbally sparring with Tobi that I didn’t even see Miss Hott rip open the envelope.

  I breathe a huge sigh of relief then glance over toward our queen. Angel is turning different shades of purple as Amy and Pippi shove her toward the microphone to accept her tiara from Miss Hott. I’m no girl detective, but something tells me that Angel isn’t too psyched about holding court with a geek. Poor Rand is completely oblivious as he stands next to Miss Hott, his disheveled curls holding his crown high in the air.

  Miss Hott sticks the combs on the ends of the tiara deep into Angel’s scalp, making her wince, either that or standing so close to Rand is actually causing her physical pain.

  “Okay, congratulations to our royal couple. Tonight is the bonfire so everybody dress warmly.” The final bell cuts off Miss Hott, and the entire student body erupts into screaming and rushes out the door.

  Angel spins on her heels and rushes toward me. She gets right into my face and starts yelling at me. “I’m going to destroy you.” She’s so close I can feel her spit landing on my perfectly applied MAC makeup.

  “Say it, don’t spray it, psycho.” I hop back, hoping to avoid any more of her germ-filled spit spray. She turns and runs into the sea of students piling out of the gym.

  “Angel, my ass. More like Demon Spawn.” Tobi wipes my soggy cheeks.

  “What the hell was all that about?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it, she’s just got her panties in a bunch because her Prince Charming turned out to be a frog.”

  I try to brush off Angel’s comment like Tobi suggests, but her annoying voice keeps ringing in my ears. Lucas comes up behind me, looking visibly shaken. He looks like he has just realized the gravity of the situation he created. He is SO slow!

  “Are you responsible for this?” I demand, glancing over my shoulder at Rand, who is getting several pats on the back from his dorky entourage. Part of me feels a little bit sorry for Angel, even if she is a total lunatic. How bad would it suck to spend the entire week dragging around some nerdy guy? Thank God it wasn’t me.

  Lucas just stands there looking like a brain donor. He doesn’t even need to tell me he did it. This brilliant handiwork has his name stamped all over it.

  “It wasn’t supposed to work out this way.” Lucas finally mumbles.

  “What the hell does that mean?” I ask, glaring daggers at him. I swear, I don’t know why I keep sticking around and putting up with his immature crap.

  “You were supposed to be queen, not Angel.” He keeps repeating.

  “Tell me something I don’t know, Lucas.” I shout at him, attracting glances from the few stragglers left in the gym.

  “You guys are so perfect for each other,” Lucas says sadly.

  Lucas isn’t making any sense and his stupidity is making my head hurt. I just can’t deal with him right now.

  I stomp out of the gym, dragging Tobi with me and leaving Lucas eating my princess dust. We get to my locker and I pop it open and grab my periwinkle Dooney barrel bag. I know, I know, periwinkle is a spring color, making it a total fashion faux pas in the fall, but it totally matches my eyes. Besides, people like me don’t have to wo
rry about pushing the fashion rules a little bit. By next week a dozen girls will have purses exactly like mine.

  I slam my locker shut. I’m not even going to bother locking it since I have my purse. Who’s going to steal a bunch of textbooks? Tobi is showing considerable restraint, but I can tell this whole debacle has amused her. She would be all for anything that turned the whole popularity contest that homecoming is on its nose. I swear, sometimes I do not know why I am friends with this girl. We are such polar opposites. I am all about looking hot in the latest fashions. She is all about throwing on whatever is on her floor that doesn’t smell. I spend most of my free time shopping for previously mentioned luxuries and she volunteers at a soup kitchen. I have a wicked IQ. Tobi will be lucky if she doesn’t end up graduating with the juniors. I push her into the bathroom.

  On the way in we nearly collide with a disheveled Angel. Her pixie haircut is sticking up punk-rock style around her crooked tiara. The green eyes that normally shoot holes through me are bloodshot and remnants of mascara are smeared down her cheeks (silly girl should have used waterproof, what an amateur). A cloud of hideously cheap perfume surrounds us as Angel rushes by.

  “Ya know, Angel, you won’t actually become Katy Perry no matter how much Purr-fume you put on?” Tobi shouts at Angel’s hastily retreating backside while holding her nose. I laugh at Tobi’s wit and rush into the first stall. Only Tobi could make me laugh at such an emotionally trying time. Even though we are like night and day I’m lucky to have Tobi for a sidekick. She has the best sense of humor. She is a loyal friend who would do anything for me and vice versa. Even though Tobi isn’t exactly royalty at Comfort High, like yours truly, nobody messes with her because they know better than to get on my bad side.

  As I start unbuttoning my jeans I hear Tobi scream. I quickly unlock the stall door, expecting to find her murdered by some demented bathroom serial killer, but instead find her pointing at the wall-length bathroom mirror with glazed-over eyes. As I turn my eyes toward the mirror I hear myself start screaming. On the mirror in huge block capital letters written in blood- red lipstick is a message. ASPEN BROOKS IS A LESBO WHO WEARS KNOCKOFFS.