Page 87 of The Prom Queen Project
Their eyes looked empty, their smiles forced—it was painfully clear they didn’t want to be there.
I rolled my eyes, sneering to myself. Deciding to grant them a little mercy, I pushed myself up and called the team together. Exhaustion crept in as I powered through each routine. I dugdeep, pulling from my memories to keep myself going, using them as a well to harness energy.
With every cheer, my mind kept drifting back to one moment in particular—kissing Elliot in the computer room. The way my heart stuttered, the warmth of his hands on my jaw, the soft, deliberate brush of his tongue against mine. Technically, it wasn’t our first kiss, but to me, it was.
Kiss number one had been for Ryan.
Kiss number two was just for me.
At least,I hope it was, anyway.Does Elliot replay that kiss in his mind like I do, or was it just another act in our fake dating game to him?
Twenty
There’s no way her ex just said her relationship with Nathan was fake!I mean…it was fake, but still—he had no right! My fingers gripped the corners of the book as my mouth flew open.Boys and their audacity.
As I continued scanning the pages ofDungeons and Dramaby Kristy Boyce, my jaw dropped lower and lower as I read through each sentence. The sound of my door being ripped open and slamming against the back wall caused me to hurl my book into the air as I scurried to catch it again.
“I did it!” my mom cried while rushing into my room.
“Jesus!” I shouted with an exasperated sigh as the book landed back in my hands. “Ever heard of knocking?”
“Heard of it, yes? Do I care? No.”
“Wha—” My words died in my throat as my mom plopped down on the bed next to me. “Oof!”
“I finished writing my book!”
“Really? Can I read it?”
“Would you be my unofficial editor if you didn’t?” She handed me the manuscript, smiling fiercely.
I set my current read down, replacing it with the thick stack of papers clutched in her hands.
For my mother’s last three books, I had taken up the mantle of part-time editor, reading her manuscripts before she sent them off for review. Her stories were geared toward women in their thirties or older, but that never once deterred me. Her words had a way of grabbing hold and pulling me in deeper. Maybe I was a little biased—shewasmy mom, after all—butdamn,she could write. For as long as I could remember, every room in our house overflowed with books. Shelves upon shelves were crammed with romance novels, dictionaries, poetry collections, and forgotten works of literature. It didn’t matter if the covers were worn or the spines cracked—the real beauty was in the words hidden inside. I guess I had my mom to thank for my ever-growing love of reading.
Jessie used to call me a grammar nazi, always poking fun at how I constantly corrected her wording whether through texts or in conversation. But deep down, I think I always wanted to be an editor.
When I was accepted into the University of Charleston, I spent hours combing through their website, weighing my options, until I finally settled on a communications major with a minor in journalism. That was when it clicked—I could turn my hobby into a career. Meredith never expected me to go to college. She always insisted that higher education was a waste of time. That’s why I never told her about my major. In fact, I hadn’t told anyone—except my parents.
“So you figured out a way to end the story?”
“Yeah. Not the typical ending I would go for, but it seemed right.”
“Cool. Give me a few hours?”
“I’ll be downstairs. Let me know when you’re done.”
I stretched my legs and lifted my arms above my head for the long emotional journey that was bound to unfold within the pages of her story. Leaning to the side, I blindly rummaged through my nightstand, pulling out a few highlighters, a pen, and some sticky notes. When my mom closed the door behind her, I got to work, dissecting her manuscript.
When Hands Touch by Sarah Taylor.
You’d think a book about childhood sweethearts should be cavity-inducingly sweet, right? Well, fifty pages in, my heart ached. One hundred and eleven pages in, I longed for a hand to hold. One hundred and sixty-two pages in, my eyes welled with tears. Two hundred pages in, I started to picture Elliot’s face. Two hundred and eighty-four pages in, I was a heaping, crying puddle of a girl.
A faint scratching sound grated against the outside of my door, yanking me from the hyper-realistic world my mom had so perfectly crafted. I sniffled, swallowing a sob as I wiped away my tears. God, I hoped my crying hadn’t been loud enough to summon my parents.
I pushed myself off the bed and cracked the door open, allowing a blur of orange fur to slip through the gap.Cleo.She leaped onto my bed, circling a few times before settling into a cozy spot. I peered into the hallway, quickly rubbing my face to erase any lingering evidence of tears. No one needed to see how pathetic I looked right now.
With a soft click, I shut the door and climbed back into bed beside Cleo. I stared ahead, bracing myself for the next wave of heart-wrenching words. Glancing at Cleo, then back at the manuscript, I suddenly scooped her into my arms. She let out a sharp, indignant‘meow’in protest, but I just held her tighter and kept reading.
