And yet, hats off to Maddie Maddison (yes, her parents really called her that) and her prom committee because I walk into the school gym and it looks fantastic.
After persuading the school governors that Netflix probably wouldn’t sue for IP infringement, the theme was announced as Stranger Things. They’ve decorated the whole gym like the Upside Down: white and grey drapes cover the ceilings and walls, there’s dry ice billowing over the floor, a mirrorball casting specks of light everywhere, and they must have used hundreds of cans of that spray-on cobweb stuff you get at Halloween, which is covering pretty much everything else. The DJ is playing eighties tunes, and Ms Munroe and Mr Walker, our heads of year, are dressed up in Scoops Ahoy outfits, serving ice creams. The centrepiece is this huge Demogorgon, about six metres high, which must have taken the committee months to construct. It’s impressive, somewhat precarious-looking, almost certainly a fire risk, but, hey, it’s in an enclosed space with a hundred and fifty fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds, half of whom are already hammered on the alcohol they hid around school before we went on exam leave, so what could go wrong?
I pull Dylan over to the photo booth area, where there’s a cool red neon sign which reads “Class of 2020” in the Stranger Things title font. We put our arms around each other and pose for a couple of “formal” pics, then we do a couple with our mouths wide open like manic muppets, and then some where I’m kissing him, and then I jokingly try to dry-hump him, and then he’s had enough and pushes me off and the photographer says he’s going to delete that last one.
“Kids in America” by the icon that is Kim Wilde starts to play. “Let’s dance!” I tell Dylan.
“Let’s get a drink,” he replies.
“And then dance?”
“We should get some food too.”
“And then dance?”
“Maybe,” he says.
He slopes off towards where the punch is. He’s being way more moody than usual. Dylan is always fairly aloof and moody – obviously, that was one of the main things that attracted me to him – but tonight he’s extra. I bet it’s the gay cape thing. He’s still cross with me. Doubtless sensing an opportunity to stick a knife in, Chloe Kendall is suddenly by my side with her meathead boyfriend, Brandon, who spent most of the last five years (until I got together with Dylan) as one of my tormentors. His skinny-fit suit looks several sizes too small, barely containing his ridiculous muscles, the overall effect being reminiscent of the Michelin Man. She’s in a full-on ballgown, her bright blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, like the sort of Disney princess we’re all bored of seeing. “You know he’ll cheat on you, right?” she says, glancing over at Dylan by the punch table. “The hot ones always do.”
Brandon laughs, then frowns and says, “Not always, babe.” I look him up and down. It’s amazing how people can look so different to each other at sixteen. If I didn’t know any better, I would say he’d had some help along the way. I mean, I’m not saying he’s taking steroids, but I did see him in the showers after PE one time, and his balls are the size of peanut M&M’s.
Anyway, I’m not going to play Chloe’s game. “When are they announcing prom king and queen?”
“About twenty minutes, once everyone’s inside. Why?” she asks, crossing her arms. “Fancy your chances?”
“Do you fancy yours?” I ask, even though she’s no longer looking at me.
When she’s finished waving at a fellow popular kid across the hall, Chloe turns her attention back to me and my unanswered question. “You could win, Jack” – she casts her eyes over my cape – “if you get the LGBT sympathy vote.”
“And what the hell’s that?”
“You know, tick some boxes by voting for the LGBT.” She flashes me a cold smile.
“Chloe, first off, it’s ‘LGBTQ plus’ at the very least; secondly, if you’re using LGBT as an adjective it needs a noun after it, LGBT people for example; thirdly, if it is a noun, it’s plural; fourthly, fuck off.” I flap my gay cape at her, and she takes a step back.
“God, you people are sensitive. It’s hard being straight these days,” Chloe announces, totally serious.
I cross my arms and cock my head, ready to listen to the bullshit.
“Yeah, it’s hard,” Brandon repeats.
“I’m sure it is, sweet cheeks. Try thinking about some old politician, or maths,” I suggest, winking.
He squints at me, absolutely not getting it.
But Chloe’s still off on one. “Like, I thought Straight Pride was a really good idea, before everyone kicked off on Twitter.”
“Uh-huh?”
“But why shouldn’t we celebrate who we are, if the LGBT get to? Isn’t it supposed to be about inclusivity?”
“OK, so still missing out the word ‘people’ there, Chloe, but sure, sure, let’s … let’s imagine how great that could be.” I sweep my hands in front of me, painting the spectacular image for her. “No, I’m really just seeing a sea of beige and people dancing to ‘Mr Brightside’.”
Brandon moves behind Chloe and wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her into him. “Ba-be, why are you talking serious stuff?” he murmurs into her ear. “Let’s have some fun.”
“Exactly, Chloe,” I smile. “Go and have some fun! You don’t want to be stuck here chatting to a notorious homosexual who’s going to absolutely whip your ass in the voting later this evening.”
Chloe’s about to bite back when Dylan arrives with a couple of cups of punch for us.
“Hey, Dylan!” she says. “You look great!”
“Cheers, Chloe. You too.” Dylan passes me a cup and nods at Michelin Man. “Brandon.”
“Dude.”
“Lewis has vodka if you want to
