“Well, except for Usha Das,” another adds.
“Wait,” I say, “Usha was nominated?”
“Yeah, she’s the fourth nominee.”
“Wow,” I breathe, smiling. Yes, the whole thing is still absurd, but if someone is going to be prom queen, it should be Usha.
“Yeah, wow,” one of the ponies says to me. “My reaction exactly.”
“Of course, you know why,” another adds.
“Why?” I ask.
“Because of you know.”
“She means pity,” the first one says smoothly.
“Pity?” I say.
“People feel sorry for her because her friend killed herself.”
I cock my head. “And what about us? Why are we nominated?”
The other nominees look at each other.
“Because people like us,” one of them says slowly.
“Do they really?” I ask. “I don’t think they do.”
“What’s gotten into you?” the other one says, nostrils flaring.
I shrug. “Call it honesty.”
The ponies look like they have a decisively different name for it. I smile innocently at them. Kelsey is nominated for prom queen? Fine. Let’s see if she wins.
“What happened to your regular clothes?” one of the bolder ponies asks as I join them in the cafeteria line an hour later.
The others outright stare at the wrinkled T-shirt and sweatpants I pulled out of the lost-and-found bin in the locker room. Kelsey had stormed and bucked inside me, but I forced her feet through the elastic cuffs of the sweatpants, her head through the dank cotton of the shirt. I’d gotten the idea for the clothes from Greenvale, though I’d refrained from throwing Kelsey’s original outfit in the toilet. Just.
Anger runs through me and, with it, a sense of rightness and power. I’ve been thinking about it all morning. I know that I can’t make Kelsey say anything she wouldn’t say herself, or she’ll just take it back as soon as she’s herself again. But I can make Kelsey do things, things that she can’t undo later. Kelsey ruined my reputation? Well, I can ruin hers right back.
The sweatpants Kelsey now wears are a stained (with what? don’t ask) baby blue, elastic at the ankles. The shirt advocates for some team called the Fighting Pelicans, though it’s not clear what type of sports team the Fighting Pelicans are or even that the large-beaked bird is a pelican. He looks more like a vulture with a top hat. Kelsey’s hair? In pigtails. High ones. Kelsey had resisted me again and again, especially when I yanked on the sweatpants, but I’ve gotten good at planting my feet on the ground of my own will. It’s like standing still in the middle of the hall just as the warning bell rings. Shoulders bump you on every side; some people will even run smack into you, but you have to stay standing.
“What? You don’t like it?” I try not to show my amusement as the ponies struggle to find the right answer for this question. Come on, you can say it, I think. It’s hideous. Even strangers are turning to look.
“Is it a Spirit Day?” a pony asks hopefully.
“Nope. I just thought I’d try something different.”
“It’s different, all right,” one whispers to another.
“Actually,” one of them says, “my sister’s friends at Bard dress like that.”
“They do?” I ask. “Really?”
“I’ve seen it. It’s, like, the kind of style where you don’t try too hard.”
“Besides, you’d look good in anything, Kelsey.”
They all nod in agreement. Ponies. The worst part is that they’re right. Kelsey looks okay—maybe better than okay, maybe hip, daring, cute, even—in wrinkled lost-and-found gym clothes.
“The line’s moving,” I say, and sigh.
I let the ponies go ahead of me, gathering their salads and soft pretzels. When I get to the counter, I slap down dessert after dessert—slabs of brownie with cracked sugar tops, squares of cake thick with frosting, two wavering towers of soft-serve ice cream—until my tray is laden with small circular plates. Kelsey rages around inside me, and for a moment, I lose my grip on the tray and drop it with a splat. Everyone around me claps sarcastically. The lunch ladies sigh as I reload a fresh tray, but they don’t make me pay twice.
When I slide my tray onto our table, the ponies stare at it.
“Hungry?” one of them ventures.
They share looks.
“That’s brave,” another notes.
“You trying for bulimia? Induce the urge to vomit?”
“What do you mean?” I take up a forkful. “Looks good to me.”
They watch me eat the tray’s contents with big eyes and repulsed mouths. But when I take the last bite of the last piece of cake, they start applauding, this time in earnest.
No luck with rudeness. No luck with clothing. No luck with food. On the way to art class, I’m racking my brains for what reputation-killing move to try next when I literally run into my pony escort, which has halted in the art room doorway.
“Oh, God, look,” one of them whispers.
I peer over their shoulders and see Wes Nolan sitting at his table, sketching. “So what?” I say.
“So his nose is practically touching the page.”
“Page. Paige!” the other one squeals, hitting her friend. “Funny!”
Both Usha and Harriet look over from where they stand at Mr. Fisk’s desk. “Shhhh!” the other pony says, managing to be even louder. “Do you think he you knows to it?”
“Ew! Gross!” They begin jostling each other over the grossness of this.
I look from one pony to the other. “I’m going to ask Wes Nolan to prom,” I announce. I wait for resistance from Kelsey, but this time, there’s nothing.
The ponies, however, react. “You’re what?”
“Asking Wes to prom.”
“Right?” one says, eyes glittering. “He can give you a corsage of weeds from his backyard!”
“And you can spend the dance outside watching him smoke pot!” adds the other.
“But”—the first one makes a mock-sad face—“you’ll probably never live up to the memory of Paige Wheeler.”
“No, seriously. I’m asking him.” I slide between them and up to Wes’s table, which yes, carries the slight scent of smoke. Wes looks up at the sound of my approach. I wait for him to grin and say something smart-ass, as usual, but he offers only a blank stare.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” Still no grin, and I wonder what is wrong with him.
Now that I’m here standing in front of him, my heart is clomping as loud as Kelsey’s stupid boots, even though it’s not me standing here. It’s Kelsey and Wes Nolan. Who cares?
The thing is, I’ve never asked a boy to a dance.
Or anywhere.
“Wes?”
“Yeah?”
I take a breath and say, loud enough to carry, “Would you like to go to prom with me?”
By the end of my question, the already quiet room holds not even a pencil scratch. I glance over my shoulder. Everyone is staring, including Mr. Fisk, who doesn’t even bother to tell me to get back to my seat. The ponies are gawping. Wes mumbles something.
“Prom is kind of stupid, I know. And we don’t have to do the corsage thing,” I barrel on. “Or the dinner.”
“I said no,” he repeats quietly, and I vaguely realize that he already said this a second ago, but I talked right over him.
It seems like I’m standing there forever. “But I’m Kelsey Pope.”
He nods. “You are.”
“But, but . . . ,” I stammer, “I’m not joking. Did you think I was joking?”
“Why would you be joking?”
I put a hand to my face. My skin is hot. I can’t turn around and face all of those people staring at me, though a blush on Kelsey probably looks rosy and inviting, unlike the splotchy skin disease of my blushes.
But that’s just it, isn’t it? It’s not me who Wes said no to. It’s Kelsey. And, wasn’t this what I wanted? To embarrass Kelsey Pope? To ruin her? And then I realize, Wes saying no is way better than if he’d said yes.