Liars and Losers Like Us(2)
A snort erupts from the girl behind Justin. Mr. N. has written “Maisey Morgan” right under my name on the board. Sean laughs under his breath as I look over to check out Maisey’s reaction. She’s pulling and twisting her hair into her fist and I can only see the side of her face but it’s probably the same shade as mine. Like me, no way was she expecting someone to shout out her name.
Maisey Morgan is the biggest nerd in our class. She’s pretty much owned that title since elementary school. Maisey’s the homely doll at the bottom of your old toy box. Stringy red hair, gangly arms, wobbly legs; eyes beady and vacant. Our class has been singing the Maisey Mouse song to her ever since someone left a dead mouse in her desk in sixth grade. I’ve never sung the song to her personally, but I’m not going to lie. It’s almost a habit to hum it in my head when I see her scurrying down the hallway. Just because I haven’t walked up to her and called her “Maisey Mouse” to her face, or thrown wadded up worksheets at her, doesn’t mean she hasn’t been involved in the punch lines of a few of my jokes throughout the years.
“Oh, to be Maisey’s King!” Justin says in a high-pitched squeal. Then he sings in a cartoony voice, “I just caaaaan’t waaait to be king!”
Maisey turns, face flushed and her stare is blank. As she turns back, I smile at Kallie, raising my hand again.
“Justin Conner.” That shuts Justin up and everyone laughs. Sean Mills turns around and looks at me. (At me!)
“Good one, Bree.” And he winks. Wait. Maybe it was just a blink. I try super hard not to smile but the rest of my face smiles for me. I feel myself floating out of my chair. I also catch a breeze of his scent. It reminds me of hot apple cider and driftwood. To be real, I’m not even sure what driftwood smells like—but it’s for sure a woodsy tone. It feels like I’m immersed in whatever feeling people are talking about when they say someone is “boy crazy.” Which could be a good name for his cologne. Or soap. Hell, maybe it’s just his natural scent.
Kallie raises her right then left eyebrow and mouths something that looks like “I told you so.”
I smirk, pretending to write something important in my notebook while Mr. Norderick copies the names from the board onto his notepad.
“Good work, kids. Hopefully your choices will prevail on Friday and all will be right with BHS and the USA.”
I give him a courtesy laugh over Justin’s groan. Mr. Norderick’s not so bad for a teacher. He knows about my parents getting divorced and didn’t make a big deal about it.
My dad moved out this summer and I haven’t really made a big deal about telling everyone. Or anyone. I didn’t feel like talking about it, plus I’m not sure how something like that gets announced. And because it’s been like eight months, it feels more awkward to say something now. For some reason, my mom felt a need to call the school counselor to let her know that she and dad were in the middle of a divorce. Maybe she forgot that I’m seventeen. Ms. Selinski, the counselor for all students with last names A–L, must’ve passed our little family drama on to all my teachers. About half of them mentioned something first semester. But on the first day of second semester none of my teachers said anything except Mr. N. who asked me to stay after. He said he figured I’m still dealing with a lot right now and if his assignments got to be too much or I needed help with anything, to let him know. That’s all he said. He didn’t pry or give off any kind of creeper vibe, so I appreciated that.
****
That night at dinner Mom asks the usual, “How was school?”
I smile, contemplating how much to tell her. She’s tried to have more “sit down” dinners since Dad moved out. Since she’s a lot happier these days, it’s actually kind of nice. Also, I’m not the best person at putting myself out there to hang with other friends when Kallie’s not available. So, “Post-divorce Mom” is kind of like a live-in friend these days.
“Something more than ‘fine’ I’m guessing?”
I push the mozzarella and baby tomatoes around my plate, sliding them back and forth through Mom’s homemade balsamic dressing. The Sean story rests on the tip of my tongue. At the last second, I keep it to myself. “Kind of. Maybe. Prom Court nominations were today and everyone was going crazy about it. But Kallie nominated me, so, yeah, that’s that.”
“What? Prom Queen? Oh my God, that’s great! Congratulations honey, this is going to be so much fun.” She does this little squeal thing that instantly has me spearing a tomato and pointing my fork at her.
“Mom. Don’t even. It’s not like that. They’re just nominations, not even the actual court members yet. Every class nominates and then those votes are added up and then there are five girls and five guys to vote for on Prom Night. It’s only a nomination and there’s no way I got votes in other classes too.”
Her smile gets all beamy and she says, “I don’t care what you say, it’s still fun that there’s a chance.”
“A fat snowball’s chance,” I say, popping the tomato into my mouth.
That night in bed, I replay the Sean Mills “maybe a wink maybe a blink” scene over in my head, reminiscing how perfect our names looked together on the whiteboard. Maybe the whole court thing wouldn’t be so awful. Standing up there on stage in front of everyone looking like you matter more than you feel like you do. It feels shallow even thinking this way after I’d gone on a million tangents last night trying to convince Kallie she was making a big mistake.