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Even Scotty is going to the prom. He was asked by Kelsey Barney. She’s a senior, the manager of the baseball team. Scotty said she’s going to some small college in North Carolina that I’ve never heard of. I don’t think she’s too smart. She’s got big crunchy hair. Borderline Hoochie. In my unbiased opinion, he could do so much better.

Sara and I are the only ones with nothing to do on prom night. Fortunately, right now she’s so heartbroken about hearing nada from her Kappa Sigma soulmate that she can’t even muster enough sorrow to get depressed about the prom. So I have some time before I need to come up with some excuse as to why we can’t wallow in our loneliness together.

the tenth

A day of high highs and low lows.

I had a track meet this afternoon. It started almost an hour and a half late because the visitors’ bus broke down or something. I easily won my first two races, but that’s not important to this story.

Because their away meet started on time, the boys’ team returned to the school just as the 4 × 400 relay—the last event—was getting under way. Now, in a tense meet situation, I wouldn’t run this event because I’d have to do the Triple Threat: 800 meters, 1600 meters, and 3200 meters. But since we had already scored twenty points more than we needed to lock in the win, Coach decided not to kill me today and put me in the relay to help me build up my sprinting strength. (A strategy wholeheartedly supported by my unofficial coach in the bleachers.)

The point is, under normal circumstances, Paul Parlipiano would not have been there to see me run. And not only did he see me run, he actually cheered me on. Me! As I came around the far turn by the flagpole I heard him yell, "Go Pineville! You’re kicking her butt!" Which I was. And I was going so fast that I didn’t even see him. I just heard that voice and knew. Once I passed the baton, I looked back just to confirm that I hadn’t made up the moment. He was still there, leaning on the fence. It really was him.

Thanks to my enormous lead, the next three runners would’ve had to have been struck down by polio to blow the race. It was a totally insignificant victory in the grand scheme of things, but for me, it was one of the greatest triumphs of my life. Paul Parlipiano had noticed me, and I hadn’t totally blown it by collapsing at the sound of his voice. I was positively flying.

A half hour later, I came crashing down.

I was getting my stuff out of the locker room while a group of juniors and seniors were talking about (what else?) the prom. I heard Carrie P. mention Paul Parlipiano’s name. I could hear his name if it were whispered in a football stadium filled with 10,000 screaming fans. I was feeling gutsier than usual, so I asked, "What about Paul Parlipiano?"

"He’s taking Monica Jennings. They’re sitting at our table."

From blue skies to splat! Just like that.

"You’re not gonna get all fucking depressed now, are you?"

"No," I lied.

Monica Jennings isn’t that blond, big-boobed bitch you love to hate in the movies. She’s sometimes pretty, sometimes plain. She’s in Honors, but isn’t ranked in the top five in her class. She’s on the tennis team, but isn’t the captain. She’s friends with members of the Upper Crust, but isn’t invited to all their private parties. She’s a totally normal girl.

And that makes this hard for me to take. It means that there’s no reason why I couldn’t go to the prom with Paul Parlipiano—other than the fact that to him I’m just another girl in a Pineville uniform, one who has never said as much as Bonjour, mon ami to him.

the twelfth

Marcus and his latest ho-bagity Hoochie girlfriend were kissing each other by his locker this morning. I don’t know her name. I saw her from behind, so I don’t know what she looks like exactly. But like most Hoochies, she has over-dyed, over-everythinged hair. She’s also a size twelve who thinks she’s a size six.

I had to walk past them to get to homeroom and I was trying to avert my eyes. Just as I got within a few feet of the couple, Marcus took his hands off her big ol’ Lycra/spandexed butt and