You Should See Me in a Crown: Chapters 1–11

With clearly practiced finesse, Rachel runs forward, leaps into his arms, and is lifted above the crowd in the cafeteria.

We were so goofy back then, so unconcerned with what other people thought of us as long as we had each other, we even performed in our school’s talent show together. Or at least me and Jordan did. Even then, Gabi had a pretty refined aesthetic.

Excellent grades? Check. Solid, albeit modest, extracurriculars? Check.

We're folding laundry while Granny’s at work and Grandad dozes in his rocker on the front porch, and the monotony of the chore is almost soothing to me.

Other schools have huge endowments for athletics or the arts, but Campbell County High School has one for prom.

And I’ve never been one to break from the ensemble to go solo.

It’s like I’m wagering a potential future at my dream school against a very real, very present danger of making a fool of myself in front of not only our student body but the entire town.

“Please tell him how critical it is that I make Stone a prom dress where the shade compliments her tawny undertones.”

Stone adds, “My horoscope predicted something untoward might present itself today, but I wasn’t anticipating anything of this nature.”
“It’s not untoward. Ugh, you’re all so dramatic. Lizzie, I was born to be a fairy godmother; it’s my destiny.”

“With Stone running the data from mentions on Campbell Confidential and the point-collection system, and my powers of strategy or—shall we say—shrewd deduction, we’ll know where you stand in the polls at all times,” she says.

“And Liz”—she looks me up and down—“we’ll need to revamp your look soon..."

The grunge aesthetic does not a prom queen make.

“Don’t look at me, dude. I missed the memo where we decided to go all debutante ball on steroids.”

She speaks with an incredibly convincing French accent, like she wasn’t born and raised in Campbell County and like we haven’t all seen her photo in the Gallery with her very own placard underneath: Roberta Simon, 1987.

But if you want to have your chance at making prom court, you’ll listen very closely to the nuance.

Some of the rules Madame Simoné goes into next make sense, are obvious even, but some are completely antiquated.

The girl’s smile is cloyingly sweet as she stares Rachel down.

Even after Madame Simoné finished her speech and we handed in our forms, there was at least another half hour of waiver and photo release form-signing to be done.

I went home to finish my homework and practice my solo for the spring concert but ended up helping Granny cook dinner and then debriefing on the phone with Gabi about who was at the meeting and what was said for two hours afterward instead.

I nod back and try to keep my face impassive as Mr. K brightens.

For her, there is always a way if her will is formidable enough. Though she be little, she is fierce.

“You’re so right. We should table that discussion for later,” Gabi sort of concedes.

“You’re so right. We should table that discussion for later,” Gabi sort of concedes.

“Madame Simoné made it sound very egalitarian yesterday.”

“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 moves a finger across her throat ominously, and I spit out my water.

“Perhaps we should reassess after a brief respite.”

I try to get stoic again really quickly though. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction of making me smile.

I went up one spot, thanks to Cameron’s tracksuit affinity and her already missing a community service event, but other than that, no luck.

“I can’t wait for them to take off for the weekend in a few weeks though! It’s going to be just like House Party. Me and you can reprise our roles as Kid ’n Play.”

“I miss it—my school—but I’m glad to be here. This feels like the quintessential American high school, honestly.”

Quinn goes back to humming whatever pop song she was humming before she accosted me with a spitty finger and hopes of desecrating my dessert, and Madame Simoné puts on some obscure jazz.

Quinn goes back to humming whatever pop song she was humming before she accosted me with a spitty finger and hopes of desecrating my dessert, and Madame Simoné puts on some obscure jazz.

She looks aloof, like none of this could possibly bother her.

"Your skin is so supple. I’m jealous—you won’t even need Botox when you turn thirty, or anything.”

Rachel is standing there, whispering fiercely to Derek and rubbing placating patterns into his back.

We’ve only ever really hung out in the confines of the band room, but I like having her around.

And if I wasn’t so alarmed by what was happening in front of me, I might have been impressed by the density and viscosity of the dough.

"You sentient belly button crust!”

But then, like a record scratch, a shrill voice devoid of any faux-French accent cuts through the air.