“I just need another minute, okay?” I close my eyes until I hear the door close. The air is suddenly cold. One by one Mr. Erikson announces the king’s court, who are nearly all from the athletic crowd.
“And the prom king is.,” says Mr. Erikson. The room is absolutely silent. “.
Christian Prescott.”
I step back inside in time to see Miss Colbert, my French teacher, hand Christian a gold scepter. Christian smiles graciously. He handles attention so well, like a movie star or a politician. Maybe he
Then he stands to one side while Mr. Erikson reads off the court for prom queen, and that’s when I start to get nervous. Of course I’m not named. I wasn’t even nominated.
I’m Bozo the Clown. But every single one of the girls in the queen’s court is Kay’s friend. Which can only mean.
“And now the prom queen,” says Mr. Erikson. “Kay Patterson.”
The room reverberates with the thunderous applause of the students who voted for her. Kay approaches the stage with infinite grace and poise. She takes the bouquet of white roses under her arm, and leans down as Mr. Erikson replaces her little silver laurel with a big gold one.
“Now, as is customary, the king and queen will share a dance,” says Mr. Erikson.
A string of very un-angelic curse words come to mind.
Kay looks at Christian expectantly. He glances down as if deciding something, then looks up and smiles again. As the music starts to play he walks over to Kay and takes her hand. She puts her other arm on his shoulder. They start to dance.
Everybody around me begins to chatter excitedly, watching them move so beautifully together to the music. Christian and Kay, together again.
I feel like I’ve slipped into the hell dimension.
“Hey, Carrots,” says a voice.
I cringe. “Not now, Tucker. I can’t deal with you right now.”
“Dance with me,” he says.
“No.”
“C’mon, you look pathetic standing here watching your date dance with someone else.”
I turn and glower at him. But one thing I will say for him: He cleans up nice. The white shirt against his neck sets off his tan. In the tux his shoulders look broad and strong. His short tawny hair is combed and styled. His blue eyes blaze under the lights. I even smell cologne.
“Fine,” I say.
He holds out his hand, and I take it, then stalk over to the edge of the dance floor with him and put my arms around his neck. He doesn’t say anything, just moves his feet from side to side, looking at my face. All the anger drains out of me. He’s doing me a favor, or so it seems. I scan the ceiling for the telltale bucket of pig’s blood he’s about to douse me with.
“Where’s your date?” I ask.
“Well, that’s a complicated question. Depends on what you mean.”
“Who did you come with tonight?”
“Her,” says Tucker, gesturing with his head to the redheaded girl standing over by the punch table.
“And her,” he says, looking over toward the DJ where a brunette I don’t know, a senior I presume, is putting in a request.
“And her,” he says finally, and points to a blonde who’s dancing very close to the second runner-up for prom king.
“You came with three girls?”
“They’re on the rodeo team,” he says as if that explains it. “None of them had dates, and I figured I was the only one man enough to handle the three of them.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you came with Christian Prescott,” he says. “Your dream come true.”
At the moment it seems like more of a nightmare. I cast a look at Christian and Kay over my shoulder. Predictably, Kay is crying. She’s clinging to Christian’s shoulders and sobbing.
Tucker turns to follow my gaze.
Christian leans closer to Kay and whispers something. Whatever it is, she does not take it well. She starts crying even harder.
“Man, you couldn’t pay me to be in his shoes right now,” says Tucker.
I glare at him.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll shut up.”
“You do that.”
He stifles a smile, and we finish out the song wordlessly.
“Thanks for the dance,” he says.
