You Should See Me in a Crown(57)
“Yeah, we like you!” Quinn chirps, dabbing a makeup sponge with fake blood down my neck. “You’re so nice. Remember that time in elementary school you and Gabi made Ben Burdorf cry because he was being such a jerk to all the girls in our grade?”
Lucy nods. “I remember that! He was such a little snot. He said my mom got Botox! Which is completely untrue. Nobody ever believes her because, I mean, those cheekbones on a woman in her late thirties? Yeah, right. But I swear to God she was just born with, like, naturally tight features. But whatever.” She smudges some charcoal-like eye shadow across my cheek to make it look like I’ve really been in an accident. “The point is, you stood up to him for all of us.”
I don’t remember it that way. I’m not sure how elementary school lore functions, how a story can evolve into something totally different over time, but I don’t correct them.
“You’re very Mia Thermopolis,” Quinn says almost dreamily.
I knit my eyebrows together in confusion.
“Mia Thermopolis? From The Princess Diaries?” Lucy asks, and I keep staring blankly. “Are you seriously telling me you’ve never seen the classic Anne Hathaway and Julie Andrews film The Princess Diaries?” Quinn gasps. Lucy shakes her head and continues, “I was worried you might be a lost cause, and if that isn’t proof, I don’t know what is.”
“I mean, have you guys seen Drumline?” And like, yes, Drumline and The Princess Diaries are in two totally different worlds, but still. They both shake their heads and I smirk. “Okay, then, let’s consider it a cultural learning curve.” I try not to twitch away as Quinn curls my eyelashes. “Anyways, if you guys like me, why haven’t you ever spoken to me outside of prom stuff?”
Lucy pops her gum loudly. “Uh, duh, because you never talk to us. We thought you hated us by association or something, because Rachel is so mean.” I must look shocked because she continues. “Look, I think we can all admit that Rachel has some major rage issues that could be worked out in therapy.”
“Very major.” Quinn giggles. “But she’s our friend.”
And yeah, I guess I understand that. Loyalty between lifelong friends is complicated and runs deep. More deeply, even, than I think you realize, until just how different you and your friends have become is practically unavoidable.
“And you’re surprisingly cool. I never would have guessed from the way you’re, like, married to your flute or whatever,” Lucy says.
“Ta-da!” Quinn steps back to make sure I can see myself in the mirror. “What do you think?”
I think that I look like I was professionally done up by The Walking Dead makeup artists, honestly. Lucy and Quinn have managed to make me look like I am every bit as gruesome as I would if this were real. It’s pretty impressive.
“Wow,” I say, leaning forward to examine the fake cuts they’ve put above my needs-shaping eyebrows. “You two are good.”
They look at each other and high-five as they respond in unison, “We know.”
Outside, the demo is exactly what I’ve seen every year since I was a freshman, but it’s different being a part of it somehow. When the three of us approach the carefully arranged, dented, on-loan-from-the-junkyard Chevy Tahoe, Jaxon is leaning against the frame talking to Jordan. Meanwhile, Rachel is by their car doing what looks like vocal warm-ups. The two guys whistle when we approach, and Jordan admires Lucy and Quinn’s handiwork.
“Looks even better than I thought, Lighty!” He examines my neck. He smiles at Lucy and Quinn. “Very believable, ladies.”
Jordan leaves to go position himself half in and half out of the windshield of his assigned vehicle. Lucy and Quinn are making jokes about Jaxon’s sucky driving skills, and he’s laughing and tickling Quinn. And Madame Simoné is directing us on how to position ourselves in our car and reminding those of us with speaking parts not to forget our lines, but Jaxon is poking me in my side and whispering, “And, Lighty, don’t you forget to aim out the window when you puke this time, okay? I don’t want to have to get my fake-totaled car detailed.”
Ugh. He must have heard about my embarrassing moment at Jordan’s party. And, okay, not like I blame him for bringing it up, but still.
I smile a little and reply, “Spell ‘detailed,’ Price.”
“You got some fire in you, Lighty. I like it.”
It’s like some imaginary switch has been flipped, and I don’t know when or how it happened, but it feels like I’m on the inside of something I never considered I could be inside of. It’s the same feeling from the good part of Jordan’s party.
By the time the student body streams out into the parking lot to take in the faux carnage, we’re already in our places. There’s a moment when my body thrums with anticipation and nerves about how many people are going to be watching us, but I figure that if I have to do this show, I’d rather do it dead than alive.
The whole demo goes by in a flash. There’s smoke effects all over the parking lot to mimic small fires, and the firefighters they’ve dispatched for the demo rush around like they’re really attempting to save our heathen lives.
Rachel lets out a bloodcurdling Drew Barrymore scream, Claire rattles off her lines about Chad Davis driving under the influence as she pretends to cry over Jordan’s fake-dead body, and Ryan Fuqua groans and attempts to claw his way out of his overturned Prius.