You Should See Me in a Crown(2)
He’s almost too cute to stare at for more than a few seconds at a time. And this isn’t just me being thirsty; with his smooth brown skin, his waves where his curls used to be, he really looks like he belongs in a teen soap opera—all effortlessly flawless or whatever.
I remind myself of what he made sure I knew when we were freshmen: People like me and people like him exist in two different stratospheres, and it’s best to keep it that way.
“Ugh! Organizing a promposal on the day Emme vacates her spot as potential queen? It’s Kris Jenner–level strategy. I’d be pissed if I weren’t so jealous I didn’t think of it myself.” Gabi shoves a book into her locker and shakes her head. “The devil works hard, but Rachel Collins works harder.”
“Jealousy is a disease, Marino. Get well soon.” Britt smirks from where she leans against the wall, and Gabi narrows her eyes in her direction. “Seriously, who cares about Rachel Collins? I’d rather talk about who would win in a steel-cage match between Captain Marvel and Wonder Woman. Who are you putting your money on, Lizzo?”
Stone, sitting cross-legged in deep meditation, seems to be completely unconcerned with the fact that there’s a furious between-class rush that threatens to flatten her. I haven’t said much since the promposal at lunch—haven’t been able to shake that weird feeling of otherness that sometimes hits me in waves so strong they threaten to pull me under—but that doesn’t stop Gabi and Britt from trying to get me to chime in anyway.
“G, that is so far from relevant,” I start, linking my arm through hers as we all head toward our next classes. “It’s not like any of us are next in line for the throne.”
“I’d say we’re a lot closer than some people,” Gabi says, voice laced with faux sadness. “Closer than Freddy, at least.”
I’ve been good, careful, not to ever have any cafeteria mishaps, but other people haven’t been so lucky. Last week, Freddy Brinkley tripped over his own shoelaces (rookie mistake, you always double-knot before you start the trek into the battle zone) on his way to his seat and face-planted into a plate of spasagna, Campbell County’s lasagna-spaghetti hybrid dish.
At least thirty people captured it on Campbell Confidential, and it’s been remixed, remastered, and retooled so many times and in so many ways that I don’t think poor Freddy is ever going to get past #SpasagnaGate.
Freddy got cocky, thought he could make The Walk without the proper precautions, and he paid the ultimate price: a public meme-ification. You hate to see it.
Britt and Stone leave us at the band room to head to their next class. Band passes quickly, too quickly for my taste. Between my anxiety about waiting for the scholarship email, which I know is supposed to come today, and the general buzzing energy of prom season kicking everything into overdrive, I’m not ready for class to be over when it is.
Gabi gathers her things quickly once the final bell rings, not taking nearly the same care as I do to tuck her clarinet back into the soft velvet of the hard case. She’s going to miss her favorite Campbell Confidential livestream—the Prom Projectioners, a group of girls who make predictions every Monday afternoon about who does and doesn’t stand a chance at making prom court—if she doesn’t leave right now.
The rest of our classmates are pouring out the side doors into the parking lot, but I’m staying behind like I do most afternoons. There’s always something more to get done before going home.
“I still can’t believe that Emme went ghost like that.” She pulls her sleek black sunglasses from her bag and adjusts them over her eyes. She pauses for a second. “You think Jordan is okay?”
Emme Chandler: Jordan’s girlfriend of three years, the sweetest person alive, and mysteriously disappeared shoo-in for prom queen. We weren’t friends with her—we were barely in the same area code, socially—but since she’s practically Campbell County royalty, it’s hard not to wonder where she went.
But the question still catches me off guard. Back when the three of us were friends, G and Jordan fought constantly. I wonder if a part of her cares about him still, even if she doesn’t want to, the same way that I do.
Jordan, G, and I were closer than close in middle school. For years, the three of us did everything together. We all met in band in sixth grade, when me and Jordan were battling (auditioning, technically) for first-chair clarinet. And whenever he landed first chair, his smile smug and shining with his braces, he’d say, “Don’t be embarrassed, Lighty. A first is nothing without a good second!”
During the school year, we would watch Jordan hang up his nerd hat on Friday nights to play football for our surprisingly good middle school team, and then we’d practically camp out at Gabi’s house for the rest of the weekend—me and Jordan putting Gabi on to black cult classics from the ’90s like House Party and Friday. We were so goofy back then, so unconcerned with what other people thought of us as long as we had each other, we even performed in our school’s talent show together. Or at least me and Jordan did. Even then, Gabi had a pretty refined aesthetic.
Jordan and I dressed up in these awful, thrifted, super-baggy ’90s outfits and did the Kid ’n Play dance sequence from the first House Party. We got second place, but honestly, we were robbed by Mikayla Murphy and her stupid Hula-Hoops.
But things change, people change, and Jordan is no different.