Page 37 of The Initial Insult

He’s hopeless. Always on for the boys, always onto the girls. Except for the few of us he recognizes as human beings. The ones he’d have to actually form a relationship with, not just fuck and toss. He’ll come to our rescue every time, a white knight who rides away before he has to take more responsibility than just saving you. Or maybe I’ve just been seriously friend-zoned and am bitter.

“We need to talk about prom.”

I assume Gretchen directed that to David, getting a top-tier date locked in early. But a few seconds later she’s snapping her fingers in front of my face again.

“Hello? Prom?”

“Yeah, prom,” I say, desperate to make myself agreeable.

“Right,” she says, watching me closely. “Junior class officers are in charge of it, and I’m not letting ours come off like last year’s.”

I have to agree with her. Last year they tried to do a Little Mermaid–themed dance and rented out an aquarium. Which would’ve been cool, but nobody bothered to clarify with the aquarium staff that it was for a prom, not just a class trip, so a bunch of decked-out teens ended up sitting through lessons about endangered species and forced to participate in a scavenger hunt identifying types of fish. Although, I did have two proposals of marriage and there was at least one fist fight over me, so not a total loss.

“Obviously me and Brynn have got prez and vice in the bag, but we can’t have those diseases from last year.”

“Meg and Lisa?” I ask. “I thought they were fine.”

“No, I mean like actual diseases, Turnado. Don’t you remember?”

I do remember. Meg Cofflero and Lisa Johnson had done a fundraiser for multiple sclerosis, asking that we all pay whatever we felt was appropriate for our prom tickets, while anything over the price of admission was donated to medical research. Mom and Dad had donated a ridiculous amount, asking that they be put down as anonymous. There were a lot of those on the program at dinner, a trifold that had the five- through fifty-dollar donors listed, the word anonymous becoming more prevalent as the numbers got higher.

“We are not having prom at the hospital,” Gretchen says, putting down her fork with a clang.

“Who said we were?” I shoot back.

“Felicity,” she says patiently, “that’s what will happen. Trust me. Everybody was so happy with Meg and Lisa and all their community-minded thoughtfulness.” She puts the last in air quotes.

“Did you know Meg’s sister has MS?” she goes on. “That’s the whole reason they did it. It’s not like they’re actually raising money for sick people. I bet everything went right into her family’s checking account.”

I seriously doubt that, but I don’t have the energy to fight with Gretchen. Besides, even if it did all go to pay the Coffleros’ medical bills, I don’t even care.

“MS sucks,” I say, turning over a spoonful of now cold and lumpy soup.

“Uh, so does prom in a cancer ward.”

“Way not cool,” David chimes in, a bite of mac and cheese falling out of his mouth.

“I already talked to Maddie Anho, and she said she’d run for treasurer, so you’ll be secretary,” Gretchen says, like it’s all decided.

“Wait? What?” I ask.

“Sec-re-tary,” Gretchen says, breaking down the syllables for me. “Even if Meg or Lisa try to run, you know they won’t win against you.”

“Oh my God,” David says. “You’re cockblocking class elections.”

I flip my spoon over again, watching fat and cheese roll off it in an oily stream. I don’t want to be secretary. I don’t want to plan prom. And I don’t want to be sitting here with David and Gretchen. I don’t want to think anymore.

I want to go home. I want to go to bed.

“Meeting’s at one, auditorium.” Gretchen pats my arm. “It’s mandatory.”

Class meetings are mandatory for the whole school; I know that.

But I don’t think that’s what Gretchen means.

Everyone files into the auditorium, eyes sliding across each other as we assess after the summer break. We’ve been in school a week, but there are still some surprises: the cute girl who suddenly became hot; the hot guy who doesn’t have the same shine to him anymore; the pasty person who apparently went outside for the first time and looks better for it.

I feel eyes on me, too—a lot. I know my exterior looks amazing. No one needs to know about the rest.