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:This chapter was insanely fun to write. I hope you enjoy it!

Just so you all know, this Friday I'm heading on holiday for 3 weeks so this will probably be my last update before I head off. But I'll back to it when I'm home!

Chapter Four

Pokemon, Rum and Obsessive Moms

And so it begins.

Chris' converses scuff along the gravelled sidewalk to an invisible beat. If it starts to rain in this moment, he'll probably break out into a 'Singing in the rain' number right in the middle of the street. Or some video game alternative – probably the Pokemon theme. Thankfully, Ashley will never have to witness that – screechy notes and all. Because the sky is looking particularly perky, no rain clouds in sight. Thank heavens! Her ears are saved!

"You're happy," Ashley peers at him, half dazzled and half betrayed by his entire existence. Okay, so she's still not particularly happy with Chris and Matt agreeing to toy with her like that. Her mild intolerance for prom is practically the foundation for her entire moral compass.

If they broke that, she'd probably end up murdering someone. Most likely, Chris.

Either that, or she'd end up marrying him.

Both options were entirely appealing.

Chris shrugs. Complete with hands in pockets and equipped with one of his signature, goofy grins.

"Tada!" He whips out a crumpled sheet of paper from his backpack. The sheet flutters to the beat of the cars rushing past them. Ashley takes one glance at the paper and she wants to jump in front of those racing cars.

Because on it is a crudely drawn sketch of a poster.

"What do you think?" He asks eagerly, trying to win her over with a gorgeous, sheepish grin. That's not fair, Chris! That's unlawful use of physical attributes to manipulate. There's probably some law against that.

Ashley blinks once up at him, staring blandly. Though her heart thrums with frustration and passion and thoughts of 'holy-crap-he's-hot'. "Josh drew that, right?"

"Huh?" Chris gawks back, glancing briefly down at the draft, pencilled poster. And the masterpiece (note: sarcasm) of a barely recognisable Chris – glasses and tuft of hair for his fohawk included – wearing one of those Mario crowns and holding up an upside-down calculator. That just happens to be showing the very classy word of 'BOOBIES' in numbers. Childish trick. Very original, Josh.

The caption reads: LEVEL UP! Vote for the Master! Vote for Chris!

"Yeah," Chris finally says, a confused smile twitching at his lips. "How'd you know?"

Ashley smirks, fighting back a laugh. "There's a penis on your forehead."

Chris' hand whips up to his forehead in a panic - knocking his glasses in the process - as if he could even feel any pen marks there.

Ashley snorts, grinning. "On the drawing!" She points at the sketched version of Chris, complete with Josh's signature, penis drawing on his forehead. A great look. You'll get all the ladies with that. "Maybe not include that in your final draft?" she snickers, playfully batting at Chris' arm. Not that she approves of the poster in the first place. But... you know.

He cringes, subconsciously leaning into her, before abruptly laughing out loud. Ashley's pretty sure that all the car drivers are staring at them like they're crazed idiots. Not that Ashley would describe the two of them as anything other.

And, just like a pair of crazed idiots, they're both thinking the same thing. 'Typical Josh.'

And just like typical Josh, he's left an oh so obvious, oh so inventive note at the bottom of the poster – which an oblivious Chris has yet to notice. Which Ashley will not mention. Under any circumstances. Even if someone offered a million chocolate bars... okay, maybe two million would do it.

'To Ashley,' it reads. Ashley can already hear Josh's pretentious, smug voice in her ear. Like one of those flashbacks from movies. Pleasant. 'The penis drawing is not scaled to size. I assure you Chris' is much bigger.' And to finish it off, it's complete with a winky face. Classy.

How does he even know that?

Ashley doesn't even want to know.

Instinctively, Ashley's heels drag to a stop, finding herself in front of her house. She grimaces. She's tempted to keep walking.

Would Chris mind if she stayed at his? Ashley toys with excuses. "I forgot my key." "Our shower's broken." "I'm desperately in love with you that I want to smell your bed and use your toothbrush and dress your monkeys-."

Whoa. Smooth.

Instead, a very sensible and possibly insane Ashley veers – as she always does, as the status quo always does – towards her garden gate. And into normality. Where it's desperately boring.

"See you later, Ash!" Chris calls out behind her, like he always knows to do. His hand tugs at his backpack strap as a smile tugs at his lips. Ashley casts her eyes back at him, tempted to jump into his arms and beg for him to take her away. And them beg him to make out with her.

Not that she's forgiven him yet.

But, instead, she waves her hand, grabbing the air for a little bit of him. The oxygen can't have all of him. Because, despite her normality, at least a little bit Chris and a pinch of penis drawing drama isn't boring.

At least he won't make her go insane.

Even though prom might.

"I'm home," Ashley calls out limply into the skeleton house, swinging her satchel from her shoulder and dropping it on the hall floor. She bats away at a stray cobweb hanging from the front doorframe, cringing. This house has hated her ever since she moved into it. Which equates to exactly her entire life.

"Ashley," her mother's high pitched, overbearing voice cackles from the kitchen. A voice so high, only dogs can hear it. It also tends to give Ashley constant migraines.

Yay.

"What is it, Mom?" Ashley drags herself to the kitchen. A snail could go faster than her. Even the idea of ridiculous, should-not-even-exist Prom King elections makes Ashley want to shut down. Her absolute unwillingness to deal with her alcoholic Mom doesn't help much either. "Did you hit on the postman again?"

"Don't be so rude," she scoffs, her voice echoing harshly through the hallway. Then, quicker like any of her other drunk reactions, she completely switches. "So," excitement hiccups in her words. "Has anyone asked you yet?"

Ashley sighs. Not this again.

That was one thing - among many, many others - that Ashley didn't like about her mom. She was obsessed with prom. She scoured those cliche, prom dress websites and searched predictable promposals on the Internet and watched every prom movie ever invented. Even the creepy, seemingly unrelated ones.

She had a prom complex.

It had all apparently started at her own prom. Where she conveniently fell in love with, yep, you guessed it; Ashley's Dad. Yeah, just like that scene from Back to the Future. Except in this version, they skipped the cutesy stuff and just went to bed straight away to have sex. Way to be great role model, Mom.

And it was on that night of amateur, unprotected sex that they conceived a wonderful little girl who'd have to experience the torture of them every single day.

Until He decided to up and leave them, Ashley a tender age of 16. And her mom an emotional, alcoholic mess. What fun!

"No, Mom," Ashley sighs, finally pulling herself to the kitchen doorway. "I told you. I'm not going to prom."

And then Ashley sees her mom's face. And this is why she's convinced this house is cursed.

Because her mom is hanging limply from the kitchen counter, make-up smeared like blood down her face with her signature wine glass in hand. And a sea of tacky, satin, prom dresses swimming around her ankles.

Ashley grimaces. She's very tempted to run to the toilet and throw up. It's a very real possibility. Where did she get all those in first place?

"You have to go!" Her mom hiccups, dragging herself from the kitchen counter and almost falling flat on her face. At least that's one thing prom dresses are good at – they're a convenient cushion. Gymnastics could probably use them as mattresses. "I got all these dresses for you to try on!"

"Mom," Ashley pleads, picking her way through the greasy dresses and holding on to her Mom's arm before she breaks her neck or something.

And Ashley can see it. Her Mom is drowning herself in prom. She's distracting herself by living her life again through Ashley.

Because something has happened. Like it always does.

"He called again, didn't he?" Ashley finally asks. The quietest she's ever been. She's not in the mood for jokes.

Because Ashley really doesn't hate her mom. She hates what her dad has made her.

Her mom finally, limply, nods.

Damn you, heart. Why do you make me do this?

Ashley sighs, giving in. She's been doing that a lot lately. Then, reluctantly, she says, "Okay. I'll try on one dress. Just one." Not that I'm promising anything.

Just this once. To distract you. To save you.

Her Mom's eyes light up and she quivers with joy – just like a little puppy. And she dives for the mess of dresses around their feet. "Ooh! I know the perfect one!"