Page 45 of The Prom Queen Project
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” I forced a smile. “Don’t need your pity either, Abercrombie.”
Elliot pursed his lips. He scratched the back of his neck and let out a sigh. “My dad left us a few years ago. My sister’s been taking it pretty rough. Ever since then, my mom has been working two jobs just to keep the lights on.”
We sat in silence, neither of us knowing how to move forward.
I looked down at my lap, wondering how we had gone from writing essays aboutThe Tell-Tale Heartto making rules about fake dating to talking about the intimate details of our home lives.
Maybe Elliot and I weren’t so different at all. We were both dealing with pain that was so different yet so similar. I slowly lifted my head until our eyes connected again. The room was eerily quiet.
Elliot broke the tension, speaking softly. “Can I do something without you punching me?”
I let out a small laugh. “Depends.”
“I’m willing to risk it. Stand up.”
“Okay.” I eyed his movements as he rose to his feet. I pushed my chair backward and did the same. “Are you going to explain why, or do you want me to—”
Elliot wrapped his arms around me, engulfing me in a tight hug.
I melted into his embrace. I didn’t think twice before I threw my arms over his shoulders and hugged him back.
He nuzzled his chin into the nape of my neck and stroked my hair.
I moaned at the sensation.
“Whoa. Don’t orgasm.”
“Shut up.” I laughed while shoving him away. “Way to ruin the moment.”
“We should finish working on our essays, anyway.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“Actually, there’s one more thing we need to talk about first.”
“Okay.” I placed my hands on my hips. “Care to enlighten me?”
“Your plan to win Prom Queen…that stupid name’s gotta go.”
I raised a single eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? And what genius name do you have in mind?”
“The Prom Queen Project.”
Damn…that was actually perfect.
Eleven
In sixth grade, at the end of the very first week, I cried when I got off the bus. The sun was ablaze in the sky, but my eyes refused to acknowledge it as I hung my head, keeping my focus on the cracked asphalt below my feet. My shoes scuffed against the pavement, leaving black streaks on the soles of the faded Converse sneakers. Not once did I look up until I made it to the doorstep of my house. My parents asked me what was wrong. I didn’t answer them. Instead, I begged them not to make me go back on Monday. No matter how much they pried, I never told them why. I never told them about the kids who made fun of my‘I was going to make a joke about sodium, but NA,’ shirt.
I never told them about the girl who said my hair looked like straw.
I never told them about the boy who ripped the book I was reading out of my hands and tossed it on the floor.
I never told them that I sat alone for lunch.
I never told them that people were signing their names on a piece of paper with the words,‘I will never be friends with Clarke Taylor,’written at the top.
