Synopsis: Ashley isn't a fan of Prom. Not when it's advertised as this big, celebratory party exclusively for those at the top of the pecking order. But when Chris and Matt both decide to compete with each other to see who can win Ashley a Prom crown, who will succeed? And will that change her mind about the whole thing? A very short story about Prom, romance and obligatory long words.
Genre: Comedy, Romance, Friendship
Ending: Pre-Game
Rating: T
A/N: Just a fun little project to tide me over through the angst and tragedy of I Do and Where I Once Was. Everyone can do with a bit of comedy and a whole load of fluff, once in a while.
Chapter One
Pretty, Rich and Obscenely Modest
Ashley's sigh drags out like one of those achingly long commercials you can't skip on youtube. Why did they have to strategically slap this PROM poster right in the centre of her locker door? Was like school really trying to torment her? If yes, she'd be dead by the end of the school year.
"You alright there?" The ever familiar, ever neighbourly voice hums beside her. Literally neighbourly – Matt shared the locker right next to hers. "You sound like a dying battery."
"Thanks, Matt," Ashley groans sarcastically, clicking in her locker number before creaking the door open and carefully placing her books in perfect subject order, according to her timetable. She was highly surprised that a mountain of crumpled up PROM posters hadn't come spilling out of the locker – you know, like they do in those cheesy promposals, but with cute things like roses or love notes - to deal the final blow.
Go to prom, they said. You'll love it, they said. You won't die, they said.
The probability of all of the above happening is highly unlikely. Statistically, surrounded by drunk, horny teenagers, there is about a 72% chance she will die. By means of vending machines – and desperate suicide attempts – included. Reassuring.
"Why do they always have to be so..." Ashley sighs, dejected, and closes her locker door with a pathetic thump, "Segregational about all this?"
"Huh?" Matt's jaw is slack as he stares blankly at her, mouth agape like his locker door. Ashley rolls her eyes, wishing she had a constant supply of dictionaries on hand that she could occasionally knock him out with, and hope that some of the words made an impact. Pun intended.
"It's a word," she starts, leaning her back against the cold metal of her locker door, watching the mindless brains and bodies of other students swim aimlessly through the halls. "It means that- oh, whatever." She kicks off the locker with her foot and, like the nobody she is, slips easily into the status quo of student traffic.
Matt sidles up beside her, like the jock he is. He automatically requires shoulder space. The rest of the student food chain knows this, instinctively swivelling around him with at least a metre radius. A sign of luxury. That is non-existent in Ashley's world. With her, the students have no problem shoving and bumping into her. She's like the amoeba – smallest organism in the food chain. With a bizarre ability to mould itself different shapes, much like contorting to society.
Poor guy. That amoeba gets it hard.
"Prom is just a word for a party for all the rich, pretty, popular people," Ashley finally explains, staring ominously at all the ridiculously pink, frilly banners stringing the halls. Like the straggly ends of a ghost. "Pretty, Rich and Obscenely Modest." She snorts at her own joke, sarcasm ringing in her tone. It's pretty hard to miss the glaringly obvious posters plastered on every wall – they might as well make them into wallpaper – and the tacky ribbon stringing from every corner of every ceiling. Modest, my ass.
A few harsh glares are shot her way. She shrivels back. Sorry.
She's pretty sure Matt's face is blank again. That's what long words do to him. They're like his kryptonite. Or a stun gun. He just doesn't get them.
"You know," Matt finally says, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other swinging his measly notebook at his side. Matt doesn't come prepared with books. He doesn't do books, "You wouldn't think those things about Prom if you actually went."
Ashley has to tuck herself between two people who are charging towards her, seemingly unaware of her existence. She lets out a breath as soon as they pass.
"You would say that," she mutters. "You're actually popular."
"And you're actually-"
"Hey!" A voice cuts out through crowd, an arm flailing wildly above everyone's heads. "Ashley!"
"Oh, hey!" Ashley perks up immediately, hearing that bright, familiar voice. Swivelling around too quickly, blood (and possibly her breakfast) rushes excitedly up to her head. And an unexpected, uncontrollable grin flourishes on her face - one that's far too big for her head. "Chris!"
"Wait, Ash-" Matt starts but Ashley waves an aimless hand in his direction.
"I'll catch you in class," she says casually over her shoulder, before readjusting her attention back to Chris, who has swindled his way through the crowds. Someone's shoulder knocks his glasses squint on his nose. He cringes and straightens them, his other hand clasping the backpack that is swinging from one shoulder.
"I was hoping I'd catch you," he finally says when he's at a safe enough distance not to get knocked over. Not that it does any good when he has to duck backwards to not get smacked in the face by somebody barrelling past.
You can catch me anytime, Ashley's inner clockwork begins. You know, preferably straight into your arms. But I'm open for negotiations.
"Yeah?" Ashley masks her excitement, rushing classmates pushing her, against her will – though not uninvited – closer to him. She almost thumps into his chest, Chris stumbling backwards, when a particularly unaware student elbows her in her back. "What about?"
Chris shifts his backpack strap on his shoulder, his eyes flitting around at their audience. Even Ashley finds her eyes streaming back to where Matt had been standing – and who has now been absorbed by the masses and has disappeared.
"Do you want to go," he starts, readjusting his glasses in front of his eyes, flitting a sheepish grin on his face, "Somewhere else?"
And that is where fate crashes in – just like that Miley Cyrus, Wrecking Ball song – and ruins everything. With a resounding clash of the school bell.
And, because her DNA consists of studying, schoolwork and a great class report, Ashley cannot – as much as she wants to – choose alone time with Chris over class. It's physically impossible. She would spontaneously self-combust.
"At lunch!" she splutters, rushing away from Chris and into the crowd, her hand hanging limply in the air – so he can at least still see she exists. That's she's still an individual among the masses. "Regular time, regular table!"
"You got it!" Chris calls back, a hopeful voice above the dull drill of the status quo. Though Ashley can't forget the way his tone breaks, like he wishes she'd stayed.
No. She can't think about that. Natural Sciences awaits!
