God Save the Prom Queen

Intro to Mayhem

Have your friends ever talked you in to doing something that you would never do otherwise?

I consider myself a fairly logical person. I cooperate with my family, I don't entirely dread my homework, and I don't have any insatiable life ambitions, such as climbing Mount Everest or meeting Harry Styles. My friends usually have no impact on my determination to stick to the normal patterns of teenage life.

But every time I'm tempted to tell people that I am a completely unimpressionable person, the memory of that one time always nudges my conscience.

My predicament began somewhere in the middle of April, on a regular school day that seemed to be just like any other. In the morning, I had helped my Mom plan her dish for our upcoming family reunion; at 10:32, I was handed back my U.S. Government test with a bright red "A" that had recently been written on it; at 10:37, I'd managed to hold in my laughter when my teacher had a malfunction with his comb-over.

Everything was going well.

By the time lunchtime rolled around, I was in a fairly agreeable mood. I took my lunch tray and sat down at my trio's usual table by the window. Hannah, my partner in staring at attractive guys and closest female friend, was already seated, stretching her legs across an empty seat. She wasn't exactly the type of girl who cared what people thought about her—this was evident by her loud laugh and tendency to sing Disney songs anywhere and everywhere. But her genuineness was one of the reasons I liked her.

"Hey," she greeted, twirling her plastic fork around in her salad. "How'd you do on the U.S. Gov. test?"

"D minus," I replied sarcastically.

Hannah smirked. "So you passed, huh?"

I nodded as I pulled a bottle of water out of my backpack. "Yeah. Handing me my paper with an 'A' on it was probably the only happy thing that happened to Mister Gerald during class."

"Hair malfunction?"

"It fell to the other side and stuck off his head like a pitchfork."

Hannah shuddered. She didn't have Mister Gerald for a teacher in any of her classes, but seeing his poorly done hair in the hallway was enough for her. I wanted to explain to her that teasing a middle-aged man's balding head was rude, but it's hard for one to criticize what they themselves do.

My friend took a bite of her salad. She wrinkled her small nose and quickly took a drink of water.

"So you're still on that salad thing, huh?" I asked.

Hannah groaned. "Yes. I'm so sick of these glorified leaves. The only flavor they have are from the salt in my tears."

"I guess that's what happens when you choose a dieting plan off of Pinterest."

"Oh great, I'm interrupting a girl conversation."

I turned my head at the all-too-familiar voice. Behind me stood David Hurst, the only male in our trio of friends. As usual, his medium length brown hair was fixed just right, his plaid button-up lay open about three inches from the top, and his general air of confidence permeated the atmosphere.

"It's not a girl conversation," Hannah explained to him as he sat down. "Just because someone mentions Pinterest, it doesn't make a conversation girly."