always talks about what great friends you two were through elementary and middle school.”
“It doesn’t matter what his intention was, Alex.” My voice cuts, and I hate talking to Alex like this, but I also want it to sting enough so that somehow Kyle will feel it too.
For me and Kyle, history will always be divided into two distinctive chunks of time. BWL = before weight loss and AWL = after weight loss. And Alex isn’t wrong. If you can even imagine it, Kyle and I were actual, genuine friends. But after he lost the weight, I couldn’t handle the way he talked about his former fat self with hate and disgust. It felt like he wasn’t only talking about himself. He was talking about me. Then, before I knew it, his whole world was Alex and the end of our friendship came all too naturally.
Being fat is hard enough without adding gay guy to the equation. The only gay guys anyone fawns over online are ripped with like twelve-pack abs or whatever. I know it’s plenty difficult for other people too, but when you’re straight and big, everyone is fine with you as long as you can be the person who lifts heavy stuff or fixes things or protects people. But when you’re gay, if you want to be the object of anyone’s desire, you better have washboard abs and a phone full of thirst traps. So in a very small way, I feel for Kyle, but mostly being near him hurts.
“Good morning, future adults. Welcome back, Mr. Brewer,” says Mr. Higgins as he settles into his office chair and props his feet up on his desk before turning on the TV. “It’s that time,” he says.
Everyone likes to pretend they don’t give a shit about things like prom court, but I can sense the electric energy in the air as that familiar intro plays on the TV.
Millie sits at her desk with Miranda Garcia, student body president, and Kyle Meeks, her vice president.
“Hello, CCHS student body. I’m here live in-studio with two very special guests,” Millie says with a giggle.
Kyle and Miranda awkwardly wave, the both of them not sure exactly where to look.
“We’re here today live to announce your prom court. Miranda, I believe you have our list of students in the running for prom king.”
Miranda nods and offers a stiff smile. I swear, you turn a camera on and people (even stupid, charming Kyle) turn into robots. At least the two of them showcase how charming and relaxed Millie is on camera.
“We have four nominees for queen and four for king,” says Miranda. “Your nominees for homecoming king are Mitch Lewis, Bryce Dooley, Tucker Watson—”
The whole classroom erupts in cheers and a few guys lean over to bro-grip Tucker’s shoulder and offer their congrats.
Well, Tucker is on my shit list. Bryce is a piece of work, and even if he weren’t, he would be by association thanks to his dad. Mitch is cool at least.
“And Hannah Perez?” Miranda finishes.
The room rumbles with whispers as Miranda leans over to Kyle and says, “Isn’t that a girl?”
What is going on? Is this some kind of joke?
Kyle looks perplexed. “There’s no rule saying that only male-identifying students can be nominated for king, so . . .” He turns to Millie. “We will, um, we will be speaking with our faculty adviser and double-checking the ballots on this one. I’m sure it was a misprint.”
On-screen, Millie grins, though she’s obviously a little perplexed, and blows into a plastic noisemaker. “Congratulations to the nominees! Can’t wait to see who takes the crown.” She turns to Kyle. “Take it away, Kyle.”
He holds up a sealed envelope and tears into it. “These results were tabulated by our treasurer along with several faculty volunteers, and on behalf of the student body, Miranda and I would like to thank them for their service. Now for the results.” He reads them quickly and his brow furrows for a moment. “Your nominees for homecoming queen are Bekah Cotter.”
No surprise. She came out of the womb with a crown on her head and a baton in her meaty baby fist.
“Melissa Gutierrez.”
Captain of the Shamrocks, the school dance team. Tucker’s ex-girlfriend. She could give Bekah a real run for her money.
“Callie Reyes.”
Former mean girl and former Shamrock, which should make for some good drama.
“And . . .”
Say Millie. Say Millie. Say Millie. We could use a wild card. That would change the news cycle, for sure. And give me