You Should See Me in a Crown(55)
Madame Simoné perches on the edge of her chair, opposite mine, like she can’t bear to get comfortable.
“Elizabeth, you have really made quite the scene, haven’t you?” She crosses her legs and uncrosses them promptly. “You have really made a mess of things.”
I’ve always liked Madame Simoné. I’ve always respected her level of earnestness, even though I don’t quite understand channeling that earnestness into something as ridiculous as prom. But in this moment, I sort of want to reach across the space that separates our chairs and slap that fake accent out of her mouth.
“Campbell County has built a system that benefits the privileged. Prom court shouldn’t be for the same kind of people every year.” Principal Wilson reads from his phone, nostrils flaring. “A fairy tale for some, and a nightmare for the rest of us. Enough. #EffYourFairyTale.”
He even says hashtag—the full word, broken into two parts, like he’s sort of confused by it. Hashtag. I try to fight back a smile. Hearing him read my words back to me is strangely satisfying. It’s made even better because I know since I posted it this morning, it has been shared more than five hundred times. #EffYourFairyTale has collected more posts on Campbell Confidential today than any other tag. I don’t know if people agree with the point I’m making, but at least they’re paying attention to it.
“This is what you think of Campbell, Elizabeth?” Principal Wilson shakes his phone in the air. His face is damp with perspiration. “This is egregious!”
“The paper will come down. It’s just stuck to the wall with double-sided tape.” I ignore his question altogether. I want to get to the point of this conversation. I’m not interested in lying, or pretending. Not anymore. “It’s probably gone already, actually.”
Credit my GPA, credit Robbie and Gabi and their incessant interest in all things prom, but I know the rules inside out. According to Campbell guidelines, Jordan has a key and is permitted to use it as he sees fit, so we didn’t technically trespass on school property to put up the mural. And according to prom codes of conduct, if the display is campaign related, we’re permitted to hang it in any common space on campus, given that the candidate is in good standing.
It’s not my fault no one thought to make a rule about profanity. For people so serious about a tradition, they sure don’t look too closely at their own fine print.
“You should know that we could take you right out of the race for something like this, Miss Lighty. That language was just plain offensive.” Principal Wilson’s ruddy race somehow gets … ruddier? He must really not like the f-word. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
My mouth suddenly tastes metallic. My chest gets tight. But I straighten in my seat anyway. The Lighty Way.
“My mother is dead.”
Principal Wilson visibly recoils and tries to find his footing. “Um, well, you know. I’m, um, sorry to hear that. But, um, the point stands.”
“It doesn’t, actually.” I’m frustrated, and in my opinion, rightfully so. They can’t do this to me. They can’t threaten me if I haven’t broken any rules. “I’m in good standing. I haven’t so much as missed a volunteer opportunity yet. And Madame Simoné, if you check your records, I think you’ll find that I’m not only the student with the highest class rank—which by your own admission is a portion of the formula used to determine court—but I’m also the only student who has attended not only all the mandatory events I was assigned to but more volunteer events than anyone else as well.”
I’ve done the events; I’ve gone above and beyond the set requirements. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s following rules.
Madame Simoné sputters in her seat.
“Well, that may be the case but … this is just …”
Principal Wilson cuts in. “That language is not befitting of what we believe our potential queen should embody, Elizabeth. And we don’t like it one bit.”
“With all due respect, Principal Wilson, if you don’t have a specific violation for me, I’d really like to get to first period now.”
“Elizabeth, I don’t want to see any more stunts like this out of you. You were doing so well. I’d hate to see this not work out for you.” Madame Simoné sits rod straight in her seat and looks over the rim of her wire glasses like she knows something she shouldn’t. “Did you know you have the chance to be the first black queen in Campbell history?”
I swallow. I did know that. Of course I know that. But I don’t like it being held against me. I don’t like the implication in her tone.
You could make history if you just follow our rules.
You could be a real credit to your people if you just straighten up and fly right.
You could actually be worth something if you would shut up and take what we give you.
And I know then what I’ve always known: Campbell is never going to make a space for me to fit. I’m going to have to demand it.
Every year, the week before prom, the administration puts on a drunk-driving simulation in the school parking lot starring the prom court hopefuls in borrowed and bloodied prom attire. It’s a dramatic display. Streets are blocked off and firefighters come to pretend like they’re responding to a multicar accident, the result of a drunken night of teenage merriment. And like everything in this race, it’s a massive deal.