red queen
Samantha was one of the students that earnest newspaper articles fret about every so often-too slow to keep up with the class, not slow enough to be a part of any special education program. She was poor, or at least she dressed like she was, in sweat suits that shrouded her gigantic body. She wore welfare glasses, thick-lensed, smeary, that muted whatever expressions may have passed her dull face. She had no friends, as in, no friends, none that went to our school anyway. She was a freshman to my senior, and our paths never crossed socially, so I knew nothing about her other than what I saw in the hallway. But you don't need to know Samantha to know the kind of person I'm talking about. Many people claim that high school was hell; I'm sure it was. It wasn't hell for you like it was for Samantha.
At our first homecoming assembly, the one at which student council announced the homecoming court nominees: Imagine the laughter, imagine the roaring, imagine the decibel level of 1,200 teenagers watching Samantha take her place onstage among the shiny-haired cheerleaders, the pretty overachievers, the jock snowboarding types. Imagine the nice girls, the concerned citizens, not knowing whether to applaud just like we would for anyone else or to shush our cruder neighbors. Imagine being Samantha-please, try, for I do not know how aware she was of what was really happening-watching it all.
The president of the junior class later told me that Samantha was overwhelmingly the number-one homecoming court nominee of the class of '97. Nobody knew who cooked up the plan, or at least nobody was telling-and what would it matter if anyone knew? How easy would it have been for a charming 14-year-old to claim that she thought it would be good for Samantha's self-esteem, that she thought it would be nice? Whatever the case, student council didn't know what to do. So they put her on the court-democracy reigns-and hoped for the best.
There's not much more to the story; really, it all took place there in the auditorium, in two minutes of laugher. A coterie of her nice-girl classmates took Samantha under their wing and invited her over to the home of one of the girls before the big game-makeovers became a clichéd saving grace in teen movies for a reason. They found her a dress that fit. They styled her hair, they did her makeup. They, or somebody, shamed her escort-who, at the initial assembly, had elaborately recoiled from her-into behaving as gentlemanly as a 14-year-old boy can. Unlike in the movies, no makeover could hide the joke.
It was a landslide, of course, but Samantha didn't win the title; the junior president told me they'd taken a vote. Did that diminish the cruelty? Did that exacerbate it? Would Samantha like to be able to look back now and say that she was Homecoming Princess? When she looks back at homecoming night, sitting in the makeover chair of some girl named Tracie or Stephanie or Krystine-with-a-K, does she remember the kindness of that moment or the malice that made it possible?
* * *
When I was in high school, I dismissed the whole idea of homecoming court/prom court/other school-sanctioned popularity contests as ridiculous (and, in this case, cruel). But I never thought to ask why they exist. It's only now, as an adult whose life temporarily centers around prom, that I wonder in what universe this is a good idea.
There's one happy queen out there. I told my drum teacher, a short, wiry, fiftysomething lesbian, that I was working on the magazine's prom issue. She said, "Hang on, I've gotta show you something," disappeared into the back room, and a minute later brought out a framed photo of a long-haired, petite teenager in a pristine white dress, holding a bouquet of flowers; the photo has the marine tones of 1960s photography. She is beautiful.
"I was Queen of the Candlelight Ball," she said. "I did pretty well with the fellows back then. I did pret-ty darn well."
At our first homecoming assembly, the one at which student council announced the homecoming court nominees: Imagine the laughter, imagine the roaring, imagine the decibel level of 1,200 teenagers watching Samantha take her place onstage among the shiny-haired cheerleaders, the pretty overachievers, the jock snowboarding types. Imagine the nice girls, the concerned citizens, not knowing whether to applaud just like we would for anyone else or to shush our cruder neighbors. Imagine being Samantha-please, try, for I do not know how aware she was of what was really happening-watching it all.
The president of the junior class later told me that Samantha was overwhelmingly the number-one homecoming court nominee of the class of '97. Nobody knew who cooked up the plan, or at least nobody was telling-and what would it matter if anyone knew? How easy would it have been for a charming 14-year-old to claim that she thought it would be good for Samantha's self-esteem, that she thought it would be nice? Whatever the case, student council didn't know what to do. So they put her on the court-democracy reigns-and hoped for the best.
There's not much more to the story; really, it all took place there in the auditorium, in two minutes of laugher. A coterie of her nice-girl classmates took Samantha under their wing and invited her over to the home of one of the girls before the big game-makeovers became a clichéd saving grace in teen movies for a reason. They found her a dress that fit. They styled her hair, they did her makeup. They, or somebody, shamed her escort-who, at the initial assembly, had elaborately recoiled from her-into behaving as gentlemanly as a 14-year-old boy can. Unlike in the movies, no makeover could hide the joke.
It was a landslide, of course, but Samantha didn't win the title; the junior president told me they'd taken a vote. Did that diminish the cruelty? Did that exacerbate it? Would Samantha like to be able to look back now and say that she was Homecoming Princess? When she looks back at homecoming night, sitting in the makeover chair of some girl named Tracie or Stephanie or Krystine-with-a-K, does she remember the kindness of that moment or the malice that made it possible?
* * *
When I was in high school, I dismissed the whole idea of homecoming court/prom court/other school-sanctioned popularity contests as ridiculous (and, in this case, cruel). But I never thought to ask why they exist. It's only now, as an adult whose life temporarily centers around prom, that I wonder in what universe this is a good idea.
There's one happy queen out there. I told my drum teacher, a short, wiry, fiftysomething lesbian, that I was working on the magazine's prom issue. She said, "Hang on, I've gotta show you something," disappeared into the back room, and a minute later brought out a framed photo of a long-haired, petite teenager in a pristine white dress, holding a bouquet of flowers; the photo has the marine tones of 1960s photography. She is beautiful.
"I was Queen of the Candlelight Ball," she said. "I did pretty well with the fellows back then. I did pret-ty darn well."