I wasn’t wearing heels. I’d dressed as a director—my hair in a French twist, wearing a suit and oxfords from the thrift store out by the highway. I figured there was no way they’d queen me in boy clothes.
Susan, who still wouldn’t look at me, who I missed so badly that every part of my body hurt, showed up with Brad. She looked perfect, in a sparkly red floor-length dress. Her hair was down, curled. Her eyelashes were so dark that you could see them from yards away.
My disease was threatening to come back. I had that tingling feeling you-know-where. It even hurt when I walked, where the seam of my underpants touched it. The pamphlet said it could come back with extreme stress.
I showed up to the prom alone, and got ready in the secret bathroom so Sandra wouldn’t see me cross-dressing. I wore no makeup. I’d brought a handle of Smirnoff raspberry vodka with me, and I accidentally got drunk. I left the bottle in the secret bathroom, right there on the sink, still mostly full, hoping they’d find it and expel me.
The gym was dark, but the Christmas lights we hung didn’t look like stars to me, even though I was drunk. They looked like Christmas lights.
The DIRECTOR sign was ripped off the boys’ bathroom door less than an hour into the dance. The cardboard mountain we topped with the Hollywood sign looked like a mound of trash. The basketball hoops were too visible, and my classmates, all dressed in sparkly gowns and rented tuxedos, looked so out of place that it felt like I was in a strange nightmare.
Corvis, who was DJing, tried to play Counting Crows, Phish, Goo Goo Dolls, and Guster, but the drunker my classmates got, the more they wanted her to play rap. She reluctantly switched to Eminem, Dr. Dre, and the Notorious B.I.G., and as I weaved through the grinding bodies of my classmates—many of them making out right there on the dance floor—I wondered for a moment why a bunch of kids wanted to dry hump in public.
After a while, the music stopped abruptly, and I heard the murmur of over a hundred voices; everyone was anxious to see who would be voted king and queen. My classmates pulled themselves apart and turned to face the stage.
Miss Donovan tapped the mic. There was a horrible screech when she turned it on. She held it too close to her mouth, so her voice was painfully loud.
The crowns were illuminated on the folding table in the center of the stage, covered in the same paper we used for the red carpet.
Miss Donovan announced the court members, boys first, and Brad’s name was called. He walked up and smiled tightly as Miss Donovan put the paper sash on him.
I watched Miss Donovan’s mouth when she said that Scottie was voted prom king, and saw the lipstick on her teeth.
Scottie untangled himself from Heather and ran onstage, pumping his fist. The crowd cheered. Some people whistled. I wondered where they’d learned to whistle so loudly.
Then, Miss Donovan called Heather’s name for court, then Susan’s.
Last, Miss Donovan called my name for queen.
I got up onstage and stood there for a moment, looking at the rest of my grade, all in shiny evening wear. I was the only girl not in a dress.
Streamers drooped from the ceiling, reminding me of the inside of a car wash. The room smelled of alcohol and sweat, mixed with cheap perfume and hair spray. Even with the sparkly clothing, butterfly clips, dangling earrings, and tuxedos, this was clearly still a gym.
Honestly, school dances always smelled exactly like PE. The only difference was a false sense of excitement and the addition of vodka on everyone’s breath.
I felt bad for my classmates. I mean, I just didn’t understand why they needed to keep me on top so badly. There was no point anymore.
I grabbed the mic from Miss Donovan, even though you weren’t supposed to make a speech.
“Congratulations, you fuckasses!” I shouted. I felt dizzy and weak, and the crowd in front of me wavered under the lights. I couldn’t see individual faces, just a bunch of made-up eyes and glitter.
Everyone stared at me in silence. I’d had way too much raspberry vodka. My lips were moving, but I couldn’t control them.
“You have your first gay prom queen,” I said.
There was some chatter, people looking at each other, waiting for me to keep going. Miss Donovan reached for the mic, but I held on to it.
“I’m leaving this fucking town,” I said. “I’m going to California. My dad is a movie star. Johnny Moon? Maybe you’ve heard of him? He’s my dad, and he’s taking me away. I’m never coming back.”
Johnny Moon had only invited me for a visit, but I’d be so lovable, I thought, that he’d let me move in with him.
There were gasps all around. More chatter. I couldn’t tell if my classmates thought I was delusional or if they believed me, or both.
I spotted Mike O’Malley in the crowd—the kid I’d left on the dance floor back in middle school.
“By the way,” I said into the mic, “Mike O’Malley doesn’t smell like cheese puffs, so you can all stop calling him Cheese Puff Boy. I just didn’t want to dance with him because I’m a dyke. He’s actually really nice, and he smells fine.”
Miss Donovan tried for the mic again, but I gripped it with all the strength I had. Everyone was still staring at me, waiting.
“Susan!” I shouted. I turned to her—she stood on the side of the stage, next to Heather.
“Taylor,” Miss Donovan hissed at me.
“Susan, I love you!”
Susan looked horrified. She shook her head, reached for Brad’s hand. My stomach went sour. Susan didn’t need to go to California. She had what she wanted right here in Hopuonk.
“I love you, Susan!” I cried desperately anyway.
Someone finally dragged me off the stage.
Corvis, at the DJ station, locked eyes with me. I thought I saw a hint of pride in her expression. To dissipate the tension, she blasted “Girls” by the Beastie Boys.
The music blared, and I ran away as fast as I could. I tripped on the staircase leading out of the gym, but I kept going until I was in the parking lot.
I sat down, which hurt.
I was going to need another round of herpes-suppression pills. I was going to have to go back to the doctor who had given me birth control—the same doctor who gave me the prescription the first time—and she was going to inspect my body all over again.
I could still hear the music inside the building. It sounded too hopeful, which made me even more depressed.
The Spotlight
I was still sitting outside in the parking lot when Heather came out and sat next to me.
“Go ahead,” I said, pulling a cigarette from my pocket. One great thing about suits were pockets. “Make fun of me.”