Speechless(112)

                I find it really strange that Brendon of all people has stepped                     up as spokesperson for the sexually oppressed of Grand Lake High. Not that I’m                     against him championing gay rights—I’m glad someone’s doing it—it’s just                     unexpected. Though, in a twisted way, also rather brilliant. After all, what                     better way to disarm bullshit opposition about foisting the “homosexual agenda”                     on the student body than by recruiting the all-American, wholesome,                     pretty-faced, straight-as-an-arrow Golden Boy as the face of the cause?

                Maybe Brendon’s gay. It’s something                     I never would’ve considered before, but hey, stranger things have happened. It’d                     be a relief, actually, if he was—that would at the very least explain why he                     wasn’t interested when I threw myself at him. My first instinct is to consider                     the ways I could confirm or deny my theory—asking around the school, seeing if                     anyone knows—but then I stop myself short. No. I have had enough of outing                     people for a lifetime.

                Asha slides the paper to her side of the table and scowls at                     it. “What a bitch.”

                I glance up, surprised. I’ve never heard Asha swear.

                “I should knit her a muzzle,” she mutters under her breath, and                     then I start giggling and can’t stop.

                Asha’s eyes widen and she starts giggling, too. We both laugh                     so hard we almost fall off our chairs, until the librarian shushes us with a                     deadly glare. I set my head down on the table and cover it with my arm,                     wheezing, my shoulders still shaking with silent laughter.

                “We’re going to that dance,” Asha declares, once she’s calmed                     down.

                I lift my head off the table and shake it wildly. Has she lost                     her mind? No. No way. I am so not going to Winter Formal.

                “Yes, we are,” she insists. “The Wannabe Ice Princess is not                     going to get away with this. Not without a fight.”

                It’s Snow Princess, not Ice, but I don’t bother correcting her.                     Ice Princess is more fitting for Kristen anyway.

                * * *

                Anyone can run for Winter Formal royalty. You just have                     to sign up in the office on a clipboard they later give to the dance committee,                     which arranges the voting via Scantron ballots. The freshmen, sophomores and                     juniors are all given prince or princess titles, the titles queen and king                     reserved for seniors only. The senior queen and king get a bouquet of white                     roses and a gift certificate to the local movie theater while everyone else gets                     cheap flower bunches and flimsy crowns and tiaras.