Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
So yeah. If you’re there and you’re listening, could you send me a sign that everything is going to work out? Because prom is in two weeks and it’s not looking favorable.
I give myself a glance in the mirror, pull my brown hair back into a ponytail, and tie it with a scrunchie. Sending off my silent prayer ending with an Amen and hallelujah, time to make magic.
Alone.
Yup, that’s me. Harper Conrad: forever dateless.
What am I, a glutton for punishment?
Ugh.
Why do I do this to myself?
Because I’m excited about prom! Blame it on every single romance novel I’ve read, and television and the movies, not to mention all the dress posts I’ve seen that are now part of my algorithm when I’m mindlessly scrolling.
I’m a victim of great marketing, okay?
I want to be a part of the big day. I want the gym to sparkle. I want it to shine! Glimmer!
I know what you’re thinking: Harper must be an art nerd or a sucker for painting and drawing. But that’s the first thing you’re wrong about. I am not artistic. I cannot draw a stick figure.
I cannot paint.
The second thing you might be assuming about me is that I’m a Goody Two-shoes for volunteering—usually the class officers have to beg for help. But not with me on the committee—nope. I’ve recruited enough people to have a full team of students to decorate.
I’ll take my bow later…
For now, I have men to manhandle.
Making my way to the garage, I select one of the massive pieces of cardboard we’re using for the occasion and prop it against wall, checking to see that it’s tall enough to be a realistic height, for I am in charge of the knights.
According to the directions our committee head gave me, I need at least ten knights in armor to decorate the gym.
I shiver with excitement. Is there anything more romantic than a fairy tale theme? Or “A Knight Under the Stars,” as our school is calling it.
Eek!
Perfection.
Still. Now that the cardboard is in my possession and at my house, the task feels daunting.
“Of all the things you could have been in charge of, you choose painting knights,” I grumble. Ugh.
I groan, looking down at the sample drawing that I’ll use to project onto the garage wall so I can trace it. Ten times.
“Why didn’t you keep your mouth shut?” I add. “How nice would it have been to be in charge of the ticket sales? Or the photo booth?”
Or the massive balloon arch that’s going to be in the lobby of the gym when you walk into school.
“Now look at you. None down and all these to go, and you don’t even have a stupid date.”
Plenty of my friends were going to go dateless, but they’re dropping like flies. One by one, cringey promposals are showing up in my Snap Stories, too. My best friend Macy? She was just asked to the dance by a guy in her chemistry class; he sent her a pizza with the words I KNOW THIS IS CHEESY written in black marker on the inside box cover and BUT—PROM?? spelled out in pepperoni on the pizza.
She was freaking thrilled!
“You don’t eat meat,” I reminded her as her squeals pierced my eardrums and she lunged into Marcus Fields’s waiting arms. “And you don’t eat cheese.”
The look she gave me over his shoulder as he was spinning her…
I shudder at the memory, only a teensy-weensy bit jealous.
And by teensy bit I mean: a lot bit.
None of us are dating anyone, but that isn’t stopping my besties from getting actual dates to prom. I seem to be the last girl standing—or at least, that’s how it feels.
“How long are those going to take up space in this garage?”
My mother interrupts my inner complaining, motioning to all the cardboard scattered around her parking space.
“I’d love to be able to park in here. It hasn’t been fun carrying groceries into the house from the driveway.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to remind her there are worse things in the world than having to walk her groceries from the driveway to the kitchen—or to remind her that not everyone has a home to walk groceries into. Or to remind her that not everyone has groceries.
But if I actually said those things? She would start yelling.
“Sorry, Mom.” I’m adjusting the projector so its beam of light is lined up with my cardboard. “I promise I’ll get these out of here as soon as they open the art room for the committee again.”
Currently the art room has no space; too many other prom-related decorations are swallowing it up.
“How was work?” I change the subject.
My mother’s frown deepens.
She sighs. “Work was work.” She checks her wrist for the time. “Dad should be home in a bit; it’s his turn to start dinner.”