Prom and Prejudice Read online

  (Book 4 in the bestselling Snark and Circumstance Series)

  Stephanie Wardrop

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Copyright © 2014 by Stephanie Wardrop

  PROM AND PREJUDICE by Stephanie Wardrop

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Swoon Romance. Swoon Romance and its related logo are registered trademarks of Georgia McBride Media Group, LLC.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Published by Swoon Romance

  Cover designed by Su Kopil

  Cover copyright © 2014

  To my super editors, Mandy and Annie, my family, and everyone who liked the first three. Vegan cupcakes all around!

  (Book 4 in the bestselling Snark and Circumstance Series)

  Stephanie Wardrop

  1 Hester Prynne Throws Down

  They say it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I say it’s really sucky to have lost someone you have just started to love—or, at least, to really like.

  That’s what happened to me last week with Michael Endicott.

  When he first walked into my homeroom on the first day of our junior year here at Longbourne High School, I thought he was an insufferable snob (“asswaffle” was the exact label I gave him, if I recall). He had actually demanded that I get out of my seat because it was where he “always” sits. (Like I should know that, somehow.) Then we were stuck together as lab partners in bio class, and when I explained to him that I am an ethical vegan and therefore would not be participating in any of the dissections, I thought he was going to take the scalpel to my throat. (Like homicide would just be another attention-grabbing extracurricular activity to wow some Ivy League admissions officer.) And when we were stuck together again in English class for a series of projects, he told me I better not plan on exploring the exploitation of female characters in every text we tackled or he would join another group. (Like I didn’t want him to join another group, or maybe the Foreign Legion, anything that would get him out of my life.)

  But the weird thing is, the more we had to work together, the more we got to know one another. He started dropping by my house and even let me teach him how to make vegan stuffed shells one Saturday, despite the fact that he finds my diet to be equal parts bizarre and hilarious. He’s spent so much time, in fact, sneering at most of the choices I make—not to mention my less-than-perfect-preppie family—that I was stunned when he asked me out one day. So stunned I threw him out of my house. But the weirdest thing is that once I saw that maybe he liked me—and I use “like” in the traditional seventh-grade definition of attraction—I started to like him back. But it was too late. I’d pushed him too far and lost him just when I had realized he was a nice thing to have found.

  But last week, when my mom dragged me to a historic homes tour that included Michael’s house, I found a copy of Jonathan Safran Foer’s Eating Animals in his kitchen. It had one of my doodles stuck in it as a bookmark, so I knew it was Michael who borrowed it from the library and not one of his parents. And right before that I’d found out why he’d been kicked out of the Pemberley School—not because he cheated on a test, but because he was covering for another kid who had cheated and couldn’t afford to lose his scholarship. I found out that not only is Michael Endicott a more open-minded guy than he lets on, he’s a quiet crusader for justice. And I am the only one who knows this, because he never told anybody why he had to leave Pemberley. Even when people spread stupid rumors about why he was expelled, he still didn’t say anything.

  As soon as I can figure out the right way to do it, I will tell him that I know and that I think he is wonderful for doing that.

  But first, I have to deal with another series of rumors that hits closer to home. They involve my sister, Cassie, who admittedly made an astronomically bad choice in sending X-rated selfies to a senior who’d hooked up with her and then never spoken to her again. Still, she doesn’t deserve what happened to her when we got to school on Monday.

  On my way to homeroom, because I’m preoccupied with figuring Michael out, it takes me a while to notice that there are grainy printouts of some of Cassie’s sexted photos plastered all over the hallways. When I do, I race to the freshman hallway to find that someone has written SLUT in big red letters on her locker again, and someone says that she ran out of the school when she saw it. I probably should run after her, but I’m compelled to see what else is happening; even if I can’t do anything to prevent it, I can at least glower at the perpetrators. And I do so much glowering that day my brows hurt by the end of it. Meanwhile the rumors, the tweets, and the Facebook posts have increased in frequency and absurdity. By the time I leave the building after school, Cassie is widely known to have performed exotic sexual acts on half of the football team and starred in a series of internet pornos, all while maintaining a highly paid position as a prostitute soliciting clients through the Netherfield Shoppers’ Gazette. Her ad was supposed to be right there between the coupons for free queso dip at Mama Taco’s and an offer for estimates on aluminum siding.

  It makes me half-mad with disgust to see these sexist, stupid hypocrites attack Cassie for something they themselves have done (or wish they’d done). So when I get home that day, jet propelled by my righteous anger, I storm into Cassie’s room with a proposition: Cassie should wear a big, scarlet A on her shirt every day until everyone shuts up about her mistake.

  “That sounds...a little crazy,” she balks. But I explain that everyone in school had to read The Scarlet Letter as freshmen, therefore everyone will recognize that like Hester Prynne, Cassie has been wrongly and hypocritically forced to wear an emblem of sorts by our own puritanical community.

  “Everyone in the school will recognize that they were just as wrong, just as hypocritical, as the people in the book,” I assure her.

  Cassie hugs a stuffed unicorn to her chest, and asks as she sits on the edge of her bed, chewing the gloss off her bottom lip, “What will it be made out of? The A?”

  “I don’t know—felt, or something. Whatever we can find. You can even bling it up with sequins or something, use parts of your old tap dance costumes. It’ll be like Project Runway!”

  “What if what I’m wearing tomorrow doesn’t go with red?” Cassie continues. “I wear pastels, mostly—they’re better for my coloring.”

  “That’s not the point!” I screech before collecting myself. “This isn’t a fashion statement, it’s a political statement.”

  “Well, I don’t even get what I’m supposed to be stating!” Cassie wails. “And how is this going to make people stop making fun of me and saying mean things?”

  I take a breath and try again. “You will be showing that, like Hester Prynne, you will bear up under their prejudice and scorn of the community. That you won’t be broken. And that they are all hypocritical jackwads.”

  Cassie flops over on her stomach and picks at the edge of her pink, checked pillowcase.

  “I hated The Scarlet Letter. I didn’t even finish it,” she says. “But I do want all of this to stop.”

  “It will stop when you show them how ridiculous they’re being,” I assure her.

  “What does Tori say? Did you tell her your brilliant plan?” Cassie a
sks me.

  I’m pissed that she thinks we should clear everything with our oldest sister even though she’s never around anymore and is always with her boyfriend Trey. But I force myself to remain calm.

  “Just remember that it’s a statement,” I say, then, inspired, add, “You know, like Lady Gaga’s meat dress. Plus, it’ll be like that movie Easy A.”

  Cassie sits up straight then. “Oh my God, Emma Stone was gorgeous in that movie.”

  “Right? And she gets Penn Badgeley in the end of it,” I remind her, and in minutes we are wading through the hall closet, storming the collection of old dance costumes. We find one with a red, sequined, Minnie Mouse kind of skirt and cut it into the shape of an A, then pin it onto her cheerleading sweater. The next morning, Cassie throws herself into the spirit of protest by wearing the reddest lipstick she can find; she’s ready to burst into the halls of Longbourne High like an atom bomb. But during our entire walk to school, Leigh begs her to change her shirt and Tori suggests that she doesn’t have to go through with it. But I have to pat myself on the back a bit for my powers of persuasion, because when we part ways at Cassie’s freshly scrubbed locker, she rips off her coat like Clark Kent ready to turn into Superman, revealing her super, sparkly scarlet letter.

  Since my classes aren’t in the freshman hallway, I don’t know exactly what happens for a while after that, but she walks into the caf during my lunch period, clutching her coat lapels over her chest and announcing, “I want to take it off. Now.”

  It’s like God hit the mute button then in the caf, because all of the usual conversation and clanking of utensils and trays falls silent except for the cafeteria ladies talking over their steaming tubs of whatever slop they’re dishing out today. Cassie holds her chin high but her eyes are rimmed red. Seeing them, I know for a fact that while I have had many, many bad ideas in my life, maybe even more than I should be allowed to have as a human being and therefore a fallible creature, this is by far the worst idea I have ever had.

  A familiar voice cuts across the silence.

  “Can you be-lieve her?”

  It’s Willow Harper. I can tell without having to look behind me because the sound of her voice makes all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It’s like when you’re driving along at 50 in a 35-mile-per-hour zone and you hear a police siren behind you.

  “It’s like she’s proud of it,” Darien Drake marvels.

  Soon everybody starts talking again. Maybe they aren’t all talking about Cassie, but boys are whistling at her and one reaches out a hand as he passes us to touch her butt.

  “Hey!” I yell as my friend Gary swats the cave dweller with his chemistry notebook. Cassie just looks at me, her big eyes overflowing with tears; she looks broken, not angry or accusing, and this makes me feel even worse.

  Without thinking, I climb onto my chair, which wobbles a bit, so my friend Shondra steadies it with one hand. She has no idea what I’m doing and, frankly, I don’t either, but she and Dave and Gary seem convinced, out of sheer loyalty, that it is going to be epic.

  “What is the matter with you?” I shout toward Willow’s table, where she and her coterie sit sneering at me. Darien looks down at her lunch, but more out of embarrassment for me than for herself, and Willow smiles broadly when I catch her eye, as if I’d just presented her with a plaque in appreciation of her overall fabulousness. “Why can’t you leave Cassie alone?”

  “’Cause she’s a slut,” someone calls, and the room erupts in laughter. Cassie runs toward the doors. Shondra looks around for a second and then runs after her. I feel my face begin a slow burn and my knees shake so hard I think I am going to fall off my chair until Dave grabs the edge of it to steady me.

  “She’s a slut?” I call out. “Really? A slut? Okay. She had sex. Yes. Cassie had sex with one guy—” I look around the room at everyone. “But so what? Okay, show of hands. How many of you have ‘done it’? And how many of you have done it with more than one person?”

  I stop, choking a bit on my own disbelief because people are actually raising their hands; in fact, most of the males are high-fiving each other like they’re members of Seal Team Six and just saved the free world.

  I still have no idea where I am going with this but I’m a little bit like a suicide bomber now—I’ve reached a point where I have no choice but to go up in pieces and hope I blow up enough people with me.

  Gary pumps his fist in solidarity as I snarl, “Well, that’s great. Kudos to you all!” I clap a little, turning around to include everyone in the applause as best I can on my wobbly chair that was not designed to be a grandstand in any way. “But here’s the thing. No one makes fun of you for it. In fact, some of you guys are local legends for it.”

  More whooping, high-fiving, and fist bumping ensues. I could win a national election with this much support, except I have failed to get my message across. Boys are arguing over who is the biggest stud, girls whisper, and everyone misses the entire point of my lecture.

  Until Willow brings them back.

  She stands, hand on the hip of her magenta leather skirt, and says to everyone, “You’re soooo right—thank you, Georgia. Hey, maybe we should all wear labels all the time—special letters like your sister did today, just to avoid the confusion.” She pauses to reflect, her chin in her manicured fingers. “What would your letter be, Georgia? Maybe a big purple V for Vegan Hippie Freak? Or,” she concludes with a lip-curling smile, “V for Virgin. Permanent virgin.”

  Her table twitters like chickadees on cue and just about everybody else is laughing, too. Gary, green Mohawk flailing in anger, stands and makes a threatening gesture toward the table with the loudest boys, and the more mild-mannered Dave helps me down from my chair because I am shaking so hard I know I am about to fall off it, and that would bring a really spectacular ending to my already spectacularly terrible piece of political theater.

  And then I see Michael Endicott, who never comes to the caf for lunch but has decided that he needs a Coke from the machine by the door on the one day I do something humiliating. He stands by the exit, looking at me and shaking his head.

  “And I guess your letter will be B,” I say to Willow, but with a lot less bravado than I had before. “Wear it well.” I pick up the remains of my lunch, stuff it into my bag, and walk toward the doors. Gary starts clapping, and Dave joins him, and they’re both trying to yell things like, “Go, Georgia!” and “Speak truth to stupidity!” but no one is paying any attention to them. Despite their loyalty and good intentions, if this episode makes it as a feature story in the next issue of the alternative paper we all write for, the headline will read “VEGAN AVENGER ATTACKS DOUBLE STANDARD, SMACKED DOWN BY GLAMAZON.”

  When I get to the cafeteria exit, Michael’s still there, holding the door open for me.

  As I attempt to pass him, he asks quietly, “So the scarlet letter? That was your plan?”

  “I admit that it wasn’t one of my better ideas,” I wail softly. “In fact, a retarded squirrel could have come up with a better one, but, still, I didn’t think it would go as badly as it did. And somebody had to do something!” By the time I get those last words out, I’m running down the hall and to the lavatory, knowing that it is going to be the longest afternoon I have ever spent in the halls and classrooms of Longbourne High.

  But it will be even longer for my sister.

  Thanks to me.

  Weeks ago, I had yelled at Michael for insulting my family, but I am the one who has managed to humiliate us all.

  ***

  I get through the rest of the day by imagining I am deaf and blind to everyone but my teachers. I have what appears to be a laser-sharp focus on my schoolwork, but I really want to run down the hall and grab Cassie and pull her out of the school so we can run away to the most remote island in the Pacific, where I can spear fish for her and spend the rest of my life apologizing for ruining hers.

  After school, I consider blowing off the Alt meeting, but I know I owe it to Dave and Gary and
Shondra to show up. I have to be at least as brave as they were in supporting me when they had to know I was being a total jackass. I take the seat next to Shondra at the small conference table in Mr. Mullin’s room and raise an eyebrow at her and she knows exactly what I mean.

  “I took Cassie to the nurse’s office and she was sent home sick,” she says.

  I exhale for what feels like the first time since lunch. At least Cassie didn’t have to deal with anything else. Maybe later Tori can help her figure out how to get through tomorrow and the next day and the day after that.

  Gary plops himself down at the opposite end of the table from Dave, who is punching the keys of his laptop. “That should have been one awesome fuck-you to the whole school today, Georgia,” he says. “But these assholes are too stupid to get it.”

  “I think I played a key role in the stupidity,” I admit, wondering if my stomach will ever stop thrashing around like a trapped animal.

  “We have some wack ideas about sex around here,” Gary says with a shake of his head, and Dave looks up then.

  “I think that would be a great idea for an article,” he says. “This double standard guys-are-studs, girls-are-sluts should have died in the fifties.”

  “Right that,” Shondra agrees.

  “You want to write from the women’s perspective?” Dave asks her, and she shakes her head dubiously.

  “I’m not sure I’m ready to write that from the black woman’s perspective. If I say anything in defense of a girl’s right to have sex, I’ll be seen as the oversexed ghetto hooch bused in to Longbourne and you know it.”

  “People are so confused,” Dave sighs, but he’s nodding because he understands what she means. I, on the other hand, hadn’t even thought of Shondra’s position, so score one more in the dense-and-oblivious column for me. “So many people are either so pro-sex it’s ridiculous, like it’s the only thing worth doing—especially if you’re a guy—and then others think it’s a one-way ticket to hell if you do it before you’re married.”