You Should See Me in a Crown Read online

  “Class, this is our new drummer.” He turns to her. “What would you like to be called?”

  She waves a little and smiles. “My name’s Amanda, um, McCarthy, but everyone calls me Mack.”

  “This is our new drummer, Mack. Mack is stepping in for Kevin for the rest of the semester, due to his … unfortunate prom-related injury.” He shakes his head.

  Three weeks ago, we lost our drummer, Kevin Kilborn, to a promposal gone wrong. He attempted a backflip off the roof of his garage, holding a sign that said: LAURIE FERRIS, I’VE ABSOLUTELY FLIPPED FOR YOU. PROM? and, well, he didn’t quite land on his feet. Literally or figuratively. Not only did Laurie turn him down (citing “commitment issues” on her Campbell Confidential feed later that night, according to Gabi), but he broke his left wrist and both index fingers in the process. The whole thing was live-streamed on CC, and Kevin hasn’t come back to school since.

  Mr. K gestures in my direction. “Liz can help you get all set up after class at some point this week, but for now, you can grab a seat at the kit in the back and maybe just try to get a feel for the music today?”

  She meets my eyes and offers me a little wave as she goes to her seat, and my mouth gets all weird and dry. All the feelings of being at peace and at one with the music are out the window as she breezes by me. I don’t believe in fairy tales and love at first sight and all that, but for just a second, I think this girl and those eyes and the way her freckles dot the entire expanse of her face are cute enough to make a believer out of me.

  When Gabi elbows me again though, I snap out of it. She mouths, Definitely a secret agent.

  And yeah, my best friend might be a little unhinged, but I have to get real. Fast.

  After all, Lightys don’t get fairy tales.

  My phone is buzzing with another text from Granny, and I know I should be getting home soon for dinner. But Gabi is talking a mile a minute, and I’m taking notes like everything she’s saying is going to be on an exam later. I don’t want to miss a single thing.

  We’re in her massive basement—which I have a feeling is going to become our prom war room—pretending not to hear Gabi’s parents arguing upstairs, and listening to her lay out an impressively detailed plan for how she’s going to Pretty Woman the hell outta me.

  “Okay, so I had my mother’s personal shopper send some options over to your house today.” She holds her hands out in front of her. “No pressure! I just thought it might be a nice solution to the wardrobe concern.”

  Me and Gabi have always seen things very differently. For her, there is always a way if her will is formidable enough. Though she be little, she is fierce. Or whatever it is they say about short girls with big personalities. So if she thinks a wardrobe change is the fast track to winning prom queen, no amount of arguing is going to change her mind.

  It’s annoying, but I’ve learned to deal. Me and G aren’t just friends, we’re family.

  I think about telling her that there’s no way I’m accepting an order courtesy of her parents’ AmEx like some sort of charity case, but then I remember her being there for me every day after my mom died without complaint. Bringing me homework for the weeks I missed school, sleeping on the floor of my bedroom every night in the weeks after the funeral to keep me company. Holding my hand when I couldn’t stop having nightmares where my grandparents and Robbie were all lined up in identical hospital beds, the low, steady beep of a flatline multiplied by three. So I keep my mouth shut and swallow down all my protests, because even if I don’t want to accept the gift, she wants to give it, and I know her heart has always been in the right place.

  Even if her execution is … a bit shoddy.

  “You were the only one with a wardrobe concern!” Britt huffs from where she sits. She crosses her arms over her Campbell County HS Varsity Girls Rugby hoodie. “Despite her impressive height and ridiculously perfect cheekbones—they really are crazy high, Lizzo, it’s almost obnoxious—Liz isn’t some Barbie for you to play dress-up with.”

  “Well, I’m just trying to be helpful. Someone has to take initiative here and—”

  “Um. I’m right here, guys. Me? Liz? Your friend and the one whose life you’re talking about?”

  “You’re so right. We should table that discussion for later,” Gabi sort of concedes. She pauses briefly as her parents’ muffled shouting from upstairs gets slightly louder, but she straightens quickly like we heard nothing at all. She uses her laser pointer to underline the point on the slideshow that she has projected onto the wall. I immediately wish I hadn’t asked my coworker Victor to cover my shift tonight in order to subject myself to this. She turns back to her screen and purses her lips. “We need to be drumming up support for you within the student body, because they ultimately decide who wins.”

  “Okay, but I shouldn’t be too behind, right? I mean, I’ll do all the volunteer things, and I definitely have the highest GPA,” I offer. “Madame Simoné made it sound very egalitarian yesterday.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Britt kicks her legs up in her leather seat and bites down on nacho-cheese Doritos covered in spicy hummus. “Don’t tell me this is some electoral college garbage.”

  “Great questions, my friends.” Gabi smiles. She has been studying this process her entire life. “You’re easily in the lead on GPA, Lizzie, but that is worth the smallest percentage of overall scoring. So while the different events and your class rank get you on the court, the votes alone determine whether or not you win. So as important as the next few weeks are for how well you manage to show up and take illiterate ferrets for walks at the ASPCA or whatever, what matters is that you win over the people.”

  Gabi tells the Alexa to bring up the lights so that we’re no longer lit only by the glow of the PowerPoint. It’s always like being in that old Disney Channel movie Smart House when I come over to the Marinos.

  “Stone, if you don’t mind.” Gabi waves her hand to the side as an invitation to have Stone join her in front of us.

  “While I would normally be inclined to allow the universe to dictate its will to us, due to the dire nature of the circumstances at hand, I found it in our collective best interest to—”

  “Stone, some of us have to get home at some point this century.” Britt interrupts as gently as she can.

  “I’ve devised an algorithm for evaluating where Liz is at in the rankings at any given point during the race.” She hands me her phone. “I’m not particularly adept at coding, but this application should suffice for our purposes.”

  “Whoa. Seriously?” Britt leans over and gapes at the screen. I’ve always secretly assumed that Stone is so spacy because she’s tapped directly into the motherboard. This confirms it.

  “Stone, G, this is amazing. How did you do this so fast?”

  Gabi polishes her manicure on her chic black sweater. “I told you to leave it to us. We’ll take you far, my fierce and fantastic best friend.”

  “Be advised, it’s an imperfect system. We’re using the number of hits a candidate’s name is getting on Campbell Confidential as a stand-in for projected votes to determine what type of traction you’ll need to win the popular vote, should you make court.” Stone says it as lightly as she says everything, like she’s talking about her moon being in Venus, or Mercury retrograde incoming. “But our primary concern is calculating the other elements—GPA, community service events—to understand just how competitive you need to be in order to enter the top four.”

  “There are twenty-five girls in the race currently. And Liz, given our calculations …” Gabi starts.

  Britt looks down at the app and back up at me with her expression pinched like she’s just smelled something rank. “You’re dead last, buddy.”

  “Wow, you should think about a future in investigative journalism.” I roll my eyes.

  “Well, yes, technically she’s in last at the moment, but that’s what strategy is for, Brittany Luca.” Gabi rolls her eyes, and Britt throws a chip at her for using her full government na
me. “I’m saying that’s exactly why we must handle this with precision.”

  “I think we should skip all of this and tell Rachel precisely where, exactly, she can shove a crown—”

  Gabi pinches the bridge of her nose, clearly frustrated with the inability of the band of misfits she has in front of her to execute her intricate thirty-two-step plan, which so far has included nineteen points specifically aimed at sabotaging Rachel Collins. She sighs.

  “Buttons. Britt, I’m saying we need buttons with Liz’s face on them. Every successful campaign has buttons. Your parents are still willing to volunteer pro bono, right?”

  Britt’s parents own the biggest print shop in central Indiana, and G somehow roped them into volunteering an obscene amount of supplies for the campaign. They’re honestly my favorite type of ally: the kind that puts their money where their mouth is.

  “Absolutely. I’ve been waiting for a chance to have Rachel Collins canceled since she called me a Troll Doll on acid in the eighth grade. You just say the word, Liz, and I’ll have one of the freshmen from the JV team take care of her.” Britt moves a finger across her throat ominously, and I spit out my water. All my friends are losing it. “What? I’m not going to have her killed or anything! They’ll just put sugar in her gas tank or cut her brake lines or something.” She shrugs. “Nothing drastic.”

  I know that Britt is (mostly) joking, and I know that they all have my best interests at heart, but this whole discussion is making my chest feel tight and my stomach go haywire. All these steps and strategies just to make people like me, to make myself into someone worth paying attention to, makes me get that too-big-for-my-skin feeling.

  I stand up suddenly, brush the stray Doritos crumbs off my jeans, and try to smile at my friends. My hands are shaking in the telltale I’m-getting-ready-to-have-a-panic-attack way, so I stuff them into my pockets. Gabi looks confused about my abrupt move to leave, but Britt just presses her lips together and nods.

  “I think that’s enough for today, don’t you guys?” Britt asks. “Hell, we’re not even plotting on my life, and I’m exhausted. I say we reconvene after Liz’s first volunteer event.”

  Gabi points at the screen with a pout. “But what about—”

  “Yes, I think our dearest friends have the right idea.” Stone places a gentle hand on Gabi’s arm. “Perhaps we should reassess after a brief respite.”

  Gabi visibly deflates, and I almost feel bad about taking the wind out of her sails like that, but I have to go. I grab my backpack from the floor and shrug it up onto my shoulders. I’m out the door before I even think to say goodbye.

  When I get home from G’s, I’m completely wiped.

  I’m ready to crawl into bed for the next forty-eight hours straight. Which, okay, after homework and practicing the fingering for the new arrangement of one of our songs we got in class earlier, I don’t have eight hours to sleep, let alone forty-eight, but a girl can dream, right?

  But Granny is standing in front of the window with her hands on her hips, waiting for me, when I head up the walk, and I know dipping out to go to my room instead of going to the kitchen to check in is not going to be an option.

  “Where you been, Elizabeth?” she asks when I open the door. I barely have a chance to kiss her on the cheek before she continues. “You missed dinner tonight, and you know that don’t fly around here.”

  I would never tell my granny to dial back the attitude—I value my mouth too much to get it slapped off my face—but I wish I could.

  “Gran, she’s been at practice, remember? Long nights this week!” Robbie shouts from his place on the couch next to Grandad, and I couldn’t be more grateful for the save. I don’t like Ro lying to Granny any more than I like lying to her myself, but everything about prom has to stay under wraps until after I’ve gotten the scholarship. Because if they find out about the campaign, they’ll find out about the scholarship I’m working toward and the one I didn’t get, and if they find out about the scholarships, they’ll start the process of selling the house.

  I can hear Alex Trebek’s voice from where I stand. They’re watching Jeopardy!, and even though Robbie will beat him in final Jeopardy like he does every night, Grandad is confidently yelling out wrong answers along the way anyway. “Chill, Grandad! You’re so far off it’s not even funny. It’s: What is the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo?”

  Granny ignores him and is right at my heels as I step farther into the foyer. I can see Ro from his spot on the couch, and he shoots me a sympathetic look.

  “You don’t get to just walk into this house whenever you feel like it, Elizabeth. I didn’t play that when your mama was a little girl, and I’m not going to play that now.”

  And that’s just the punch to the gut I needed after today. A comparison to one of the many ways I can’t live up to the expectations set by my mom. But I can’t say that to my granny either, because I don’t talk back and because she’s right. I know the rules. You don’t miss dinner without a phone call, and I dropped the ball.

  It’s only been a day of this prom stuff, and I’m so over it I could puke.

  “Sorry, Granny. It won’t happen again,” I mumble.

  “I know it won’t, baby.” Granny’s voice is soft as she holds my cheeks with both her hands. She examines my face and pats my cheek twice. “You look tired. Make sure you drink plenty of water. Last thing we need is you studying yourself into dehydration before we even get you to Pennington.”

  When she walks away, she pushes at Robbie’s feet that are currently resting on the coffee table and tells him to quit acting like “some kind of heathen.” I drop my bags off in my bedroom and sort of shuffle through the living room and into the kitchen. I know Granny is annoyed, but she wouldn’t leave me without a foil-wrapped plate, ready to be reheated. When I open the door to the fridge, it’s on the second shelf, right where I figured it would be.

  I don’t even bother throwing it in the microwave before dragging my feet into my room and falling onto my bed with a thud. I don’t even toe my shoes off, because it would take too much energy. I still have to practice my music and review G’s thirty-two-point plan again before I can call it a night, but for a moment I just balance my plate of cold chicken on my stomach and stare up at the ceiling. The notes from my arrangement practically dance across my line of vision, almost like counting sheep. For the first time all day, in the silence of my room and the almost-music of those imaginary notes, I feel close to relaxed.

  And before I know it, I’m asleep.

  The thing about anxiety is that it looks different for everyone. I mean, yeah, of course there are some threads that run through all of us that mark us as, you know, anxious people: being restless, exhausted, just plain fidgety. But it’s the nuances that change the game. It’s my stomach-churning, gazelles-dancing-gracefully-across-my-abdomen feeling that always gets me the most.

  It’s why I toss my cookies (or almost toss my cookies, if I’m extra lucky) before nearly every performance, and why I’m clutching my bike’s handlebars for dear life, breathing slowly through both nostrils like that counselor they made me see after my mom died taught me, as I psych myself up to go clean up trash in this already-clean park after school.

  Granny is used to me going to work or having rehearsal after school, so as long as I’m home in time for dinner, at least I don’t have to worry about that.

  I’m perched on my seat at the bike rack next to the parking lot, and from where I’m sitting, I can see everything as I scan the area: the group of ladies and their newborns doing Mommy-and-Me yoga in the freshly cut grass, the kids from the nearby community college playing Ultimate Frisbee in the clearing, the dogs chasing one another in the fenced-in dog park.

  Across the parking lot, Jordan Jennings tugs at his black Nike hoodie and bends down to check his appearance in his side mirror. He runs a hand over his waves—the style he’s been wearing since he cut off all his curls freshman year—and stands up straight. He must have decided that he’s public
-appearance ready. Nothing less than cover-model worthy for Jordan Jennings.

  I remember that I have a job to do—one huge, my-entire-future-depends-on-this job to do—and hop off my bike just as his eyes catch mine across the lot. He doesn’t smile when he sees me looking. Instead, his face flashes what is almost a grimace before it schools itself back into something more flawless.

  “Hey, Lighty!” he shouts, and gives me the classic head nod. I lock my bike to the rack and steel myself for this interaction. We’ve successfully avoided each other for almost four years, but all good things must eventually end, I guess. “Still riding your bike, huh? Good to see some things haven’t changed.”

  I bite back the urge to say something snarky to him about how all our families can’t just buy us the newest Supercharged Range Rover because we remembered to tie our shoes or whatever. If we have to work together, the smart thing to do is to make this as bearable as possible. Bite my tongue, put my head down, and get to work. The Lighty Way.

  “Looks that way.” I tug my backpack higher on my shoulders and start in the direction of the park attendants’ station.

  “So, partners, huh?” He waits a beat, and when he realizes I don’t plan to respond, adds: “Crazy they have us out here, right? It’s not like they need our janitorial services.”

  “Sure.”

  “A woman of few words nowadays, I guess,” he mumbles from behind me. The petty in me is a little bit happy about how frustrated he sounds with my short answers.

  What? I never said I was perfect. He’s had four years to make aimless conversation with me: in the classroom, in the hallways, over my grandparents’ old landline using the number he used to have memorized. But he hasn’t. So.

  The park is bustling now, all our classmates who were also assigned trash duty today finally here and milling around. I see a couple of guys from the baseball team leaning against the swing set, the girls they’re partnered with taking selfies.