Page 34 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
The lunchroom turning into a mine field thanks to prom court politics.
Prom dress group chats because God forbidtwopeople wear a purple dress. The horror.
Student government allocating almost 75percent of their budget to a dance. Why make the underclassmen suffer through a dozen bake sales just for most of theirmoney to go toward an overpriced undersea photo backdrop?
Every year someone gets paid to ask someone else out as a joke, and it’s all shits and giggles until they find out and start having a telenovela-worthy fight in the senior parking lot.
Watching dickheads buy up all the good mascara from the one Sephora in town and selling it for double the price like some kind of makeup black market.
The. Freaking. Prom. Posals.
It’s cathartic, writing down all of my petty annoyances to pass the time. Which, unfortunately, just confirms exactly what Anna said: I’ll feel better if I’m honest.
With a sigh, I flip to a fresh page and force myself to write the first thing that comes to mind.
Dear Quin,
Decent start.
Another ten minutes go by before I can write another word. Hundreds of apologies and questions and statements flash in front of my eyes but nothing feels worthy of what I truly want—need—to tell him. That some days it feels like the sun rises and sets with him. That he’s the only part of my life that feels safe, stable, the way it did before everything—his momleaving, mine never sticking around, his newfound feelings for Tessa—changed.
That I’m terrified of what it could mean to lose someone likehim.
The pen moves across the page in a blur, my body following some belly-deep instinct my frazzled brain can’t process. Words appear on the page by divine Raspberry Unicorn inspiration.
I’m sorry for wrecking your promposal. Twice. And for not telling you the truth about how they fell apart. Twice. I know you’re really into Tessa and think this is some “made in the stars” type of love story after one memorable spring break. But—
But what? The thought of him falling for someone who hurt me stings more than the third-degree burn he accidentally gave me in fifth grade? That I haven’t felt this way since I saw him making out with Chelsea? That I’m terrified of him falling for someone else when I fell for him first? This letter is about being honest, sure, but I’m still not ready to open up to him about that last question.
Thankfully, I’m saved by the bell.
An earsplitting alarm blares over the loudspeakers, a monotone male voice saying, “FIRE! PLEASE EVACUATE!” on loop.
