So Prom Court is announced tomorrow. It's not even a question of who is on it, it's who isn't. The nice thing about Prom voting is that it's the biggest popularity contest on the planet. Homecoming King and Queen are all about the nice kids. Whatevs, nice is for retards, this is the rodeo. People vote for the people they wish they could be or the people they wish they could fuck, it's sooo predictable. But you have to make sure that the court is made of the right people.
Thankfully, some people take themselves out of the running by being so damn toxic that enough of the right people would never vote for them. Fuck them, sure. Vote for them, no. See: Wallingford, Dorianne.
Some are so dramallama General Hospital that while we'll watch their pathetic train wreck selves, we wouldn't want to put a crown on it. See: Gentile, Andi. Sorry, Princess.
But some need a little help seeing the light. Too many people still think of Sheila as "popular": so what if Susan and I had to remind everyone that Sheila fucked a Badd Boy in a hallway, hello, someone took a picture of it on their camera, it was easy to show that off during C Lunch. I mean, are people brain dead? How could you vote for such a walking hepatitis! I was warning them before they got infected, that's all.
And when I told everybody that, obvs, after her Student Council clusterfuck of a speech, would Mary Angel Anne want to stand in front of whole junior and senior classes of two schools if she was nominated for Prom Court? Of course she wouldn't, so why would you vote for her...that was just me, performing a community service!
And when her boyfriend and I dance our first dance as King and Queen? Well. That's a community service, too. Serving the Community of Me. So sorry, Mary Anne, but it's for the best.
The best for the Group. The best for the class.
The best for me. And isn't that the same thing, when you're Queen like me?
You and your boyfriend looked just so cozy and so in love just now as you kissed and cuddled at the lockers. I mean, really, it's adorable.
Yeah. Your boyfriend's mine by Prom, just so that you know. Sorry to be so brief, but homeroom's about to start, but you know, it's not too difficult a concept to get. Me, queen; you, baby-sitter. You're toast, sweetheart. Don't worry, we'll keep the PDAs low until your heart mends.
And I'm gonna be smart about it, so that Brina doesn't notice. Just watch.
PS: Eat a sandwich. Damn.
I trust you with what you know. And I hope you trust me, because I meant what I said. Some days, I just kinda feel so far away from all of the entitled people in the class. I work hard to keep myself where I am, to keep The Group in order, to keep the cheerleaders from becoming total slags like the Rally Girls. I work my ass off. I have to the bitch, I have to be the hated one. Of course, sometimes, I have targets of my own, but...isn't it for the greater good? Girls who don't get the rules deserve to be put on blast, Andi. I mean, I told everybody that she was a skank, and she goes and steals Pete Black from his girlfriend, just like I said. (Let's just pretend Pete matters, for the sake of shit, kay?) I'm the gate keeper, the enforcer, I do what nobody else has the stomach to do.
So I get how hard it is to make yourself over to get your life in place. Somehow, I don't think you - well, you're not going to stop thinking about your former fattie self. I can't help you shake that because that's on you. But if you need a friend to cheer you on while you do? I'm here for you, Mar. I'm proud of you for making a change, but I think you've got demons you have to drive off; what, did you lose the physical pounds and replace it with mental weight? Well, whatever. I'm not going to baby-sit you, Margie, to get you to really face your shit, but I'm here now. I'm on your side.
Whether you know it or not, I am.
YOU ARE SO LUCKY! I mean, you have me as your captain.
Thank God that nobody on the team came to States since it was in Storrs so you didn't see me totally bite mat in the beam finals, so you still think I'm gymnastics Jesus. Though, hey, a gold in floor's pretty good...in the gymnastics juggernot that is Connecticut...not that any of you'll know that it's not a biggie. Whew. Moving on. Not that this is all about me: it's also about the team. There is no I in TEAM!
But there's an M and an E and that spells me, bitches. You better make me look good out there or I'm cutting your fat asses so fast, so help me.
I have so so so many ideas: I want new routines for every home game in football, and for us to rotate routines in basketball, with new routines for every month. Come on, I'm going to quit gymnastics next winter for this, you have to be dedicated. This is a cheerocracy, not Mormonism: you will have no other loves but cheering, and you will get your asses in shape because you all will be doing back handsprings by August. I will come into your houses and set your bagels on fire. CARBS ARE THE ENEMY. I'm going to be dating the captain of the football team
eventually, damn it Logan, and I won't let you all fuck up my image!
This is not your sister's cheer team. We will be the best in the state or, so help me -
Wait. This isn't just mine. I'm sharing it with Sheila.
Why. Who doesn't work as hard as I do, who doesn't have the talent I do...all she ever does is coast on her pretty looks and her bubble bubble shit...I'm the one who kept the Group together and made sure nobody took advantage of Sabrina leaving, I'm the one who came up with choreography to help the seniors, I'm the one. Why
But she's my best friend. Yes. My only best friend. That's why. And that's how things are, and that's okay.
Okay. Let's go.
I loved what you did today. Okay, some of the boys had to whip out their dicks with "I can stare longer and more intensely and threateningly than YOU CAN," which was lame, but...what you did, to just walk away from Bruce? With the entire damn Group ditching his abusive ass? That was the way to do it. If you beat him up, we look like thugs. If you scream at him, he won't listen.
But if you rip off his dick in front of the entire cafeteria - the lunch with Erica Blumberg in it?! - that is genius. The silence was louder than a scream and harder than a punch, and it was perfect, and that's why everybody calls you The Golden Boy behind your back. Or maybe sometimes to your face. They're trying to be mean, but it's true. You're The Man now.
And I'm the Sabrina, aren't I. You looked to me to make sure I was on board. Because that's what Sabrina would have done with you, and you her, and that's how it works with the two at the top. And that's you and me, you get it. I know you hate to be That Guy, but you are That Guy, Logan. You're even the movie version of That Guy, because in the movies, He says no to the head cheerleader for the sweet shy girl that everybody overlooked except for you, and she's the catch of a lifetime and cures cancer and rides unicorns, blah blah fucking blah.
But this isn't the movies, Loag. This is real life. And I'm going be head cheerleader in two week's time. Don't you see? Don't you get it?
It doesn't matter how many roses Carlos gets me for Valentine's Day, it doesn't matter how many times we go to Chez Maurice. It doesn't matter that I'm with him and you're with Mary Fucking Angel Anne.
I think I still love you. I think I fell back in love with you today, watching you take charge and do it so damn right. We'd be so good together.
We ARE so good together.
Okay, Corinne. This is what you have to do.
1) Breakfast with Susan and Hannah tomorrow, get them on your side immediately.
2) Arrive at school looking like the best of BFF. BFFE. BFFFFE.
3) Go to Sheila's locker, chit chat and laugh and WTFE to show brand new BFFFE-ship.
4) Arrange the big Group lunch: make sure it is beyond clear this is from you.
5) Pizza Express on Thursday night after basketball: lead in the cheerleading team, fold in Susan and Hannah, have Carlos be the only guy on your arm as you all enter. Make sure that Logan actually shows, so make it after track.
6) Get Logan to hug you hello in front of everyone.
7) Make sure he brings Mary Anne and get her to be nice to you, too.
8) Then everybody knows that it's from you.
9) And Sheila is your BFF.
10) And you're to her right hand side. So.
11) This is all for Sheila, what you have to do and quickly. This is not for you, this is to preserve the social order, so you have to move fast and do this, to keep things right and normal.
12) This is not for you.
Why isn't it? Why not. You're the one who's...you're the one that's...
13) By Monday, everything will be set: cheerleaders on top, as usual. The end.
I'm waiting for you to pick me up for the Midnight Mass at your church, and despite everything, I have butterflies in my stomach. I want to make this very very clear: there will be zero Christmas sex in the back of your car when you drive me home tonight. But taking me to your church with your family? Okay. I'm kinda...
We can negotiate over third base. What can I say. I'm in the giving mood, too.
I don't know how to start this.
I don't know when I kinda started this whole letter writing thing: I guess to say what I wanted to say to people but couldn't to their face, either because I couldn't or because they aren't around to say it to. Like stupid old LBJ and his dumb Vietnam choices that I learned about in that paper back in 9th grade. When I look at the shoebox I keep my old paper letters, the oldest one I can find is from 9/11, when I just - I mean, it's just me, ranting against the Islamic terrorists for pages. I was so furious and scared...and then the country just went wackadoodle on Arabs, and I was so damn terrified that people would find out that I'm Iranian and treat me badly, too, and - it was like this nightmare, so be so scared all the time. For something I can't even control! I don't know who my biological parents are, they didn't want me! Or couldn't have me, it doesn't matter, they gave me up! Dad and Mom adopted me, I belong to them, and I don't give a shit if I'm actually Persian, I'm American, okay? I can't stand knowing that I'm the same as those horrible evil terrorists. I'm not Islamic like my birth parents, okay? I'm not them. I hate this.
And now it's happening again, in India: radical fundamentalist Islamic terrorists. I get it, I'm not a bigot or whatever, I get that not all people who practice Islam are terrorists. Like, duh, like the KKK is just a little part of Christians. But...come on, right? The stigma. And every time, every goddamn time that things seem to get back to normal, that everybody gets tolerant and stuff again, something like this happens. And I hate it. I hate watching my news shows and seeing -
And I wonder if my birth parents look like those people. I mean, I know that I'm pretty light skinned, but we're Persian, you know? But still. I - this is why I never ever want to find them. I was adopted, I'm so proud to be adopted, but - other than my best best best friends...nobody will ever know who THEY were. Ever.
I wish I didn't, too.
So I guess this is a letter to you guys, birth mom and dad. Don't ever, ever find me. Ever.
Corinne Roya Baker
Why did my parents have to give me a Persian middle name...