Read Online Prom Queen of Disaster by Joseph James Hunt - Free Book Online Page B

weeks, so Mr. June and Char are pushing us,” I said, rolling my eyes at the thought. Last year we came in third at the Golden State Cheer Championship, where selected schools across California came together at one of the largest convention centers in Los Angeles to perform routines. This school year, Char was gunning for the top spot.
    “When?” he asked, reversing out of the driveway. “I’ll come along and cheer for you.”
    “I think it’s an overnight thing,” I said. “You should come!”
    He grinned. “I’ll talk to the guys and see what they think if you girls don’t mind,” he said, flashing his smile.
    The news of spiked punch was all over the bulletin board, from the large poster asking for information to the voice over on the PA advising of drug and alcohol safety.
    I sat beside Char and Ava in home room when the voice came again. “At 2 PM this afternoon, we’ll have a visitor from the local PD, this is a mandatory school assembly, you are required to attend. To repeat, that’s 2 PM in the auditorium. Arrive early to be seated.”
    Char playfully punched my arm. “Damn,” she said, “those bitches spiked the punch, and now we’re all being punished with a visit from the PD.”
    “If this eats into cheer practice, I’m gonna flip,” Ava said.
    “Cheer practice is at 3:30 PM,” I said, “it’ll be someone saying don’t do drugs . Not like last time when they brought in those dogs.”
    Char rolled her eyes. “Shit! You think?”
    “Have something to hide?” Mila spoke up from behind. “Sound mighty guilty.”
    “You look guilty of offending your face with an eyebrow pencil this morning, Mila. Did you sneeze or something?” Char asked, flicking her hair.
    I looked back. It was accurate. I turned quickly to grab a glance at my face; I’d gently wiped a brush over my eyebrows this morning to give them a fuller look. They were twins, not identical, but close enough. As someone who loved art as much as I did, painting my face was an easy feat. Only the slightest lip gloss, blush, but enough concealer to remove the darkness beneath my eyes and any odd blemishes.
    “You okay?” Ava asked.
    “Yeah? Why?”
    “The bell rang,” she said.
    That happened often. Losing myself in thought, I tried to make it less obvious, but sometimes I’d forget what I was doing before I began thinking.
    “I’ll see you at lunch,” Char said, blowing a kiss.
    First period, AP art studio. It was all focused on my final module, made from a portfolio of cohesive pieces shown at a gallery the school had connections with, but they’d only show the best, if you didn’t make it, you’d end up part of the school gallery showing in the auditorium or gymnasium.
    I pulled my hair tight and tied it high on my head in a bun. I switched out my clothes for the paint-stained smock. I didn’t have a vision, theme, or anything to resemble an idea. I was clueless. We weren’t allowed to paint direct to the canvas, a stupid decision for anyone to make, we had to sketch, then show those to the teacher, and Mrs. Galloway, the head of the department, she would approve or advise on improvements. Most canvases were made in house, from woodshop and tailor made to size. We had to think of measurements and shape it all together. Free reign.
    “Where’s the emotion, Zoey?” Mrs. Galloway said, looking over my shoulder.
    I paused in response, looking up and hiding the paper with my arm. “It’s not finished, so I’m not sure.”
    “I don’t doubt you’ll get there,” she said. “But try raw emotion. A necessary evil, Zoey.”
    I gave a full smile behind my lying face. “Thanks.”
    A single comment would throw me – it did. I didn’t expect anything else from Mrs. Galloway; she was always hovering over us. Of the seven of us in the AP class, I looked like I was struggling the most.
    Lunch rolled around. The girls sat at their table with their lunches on plastic trays. I’d brought my lunch from home, like I do