XVIII
At exactly five minutes to eight, I emerged from the library bathroom in my best monster-meet-the-press drag, and made my way across the courtyard, working my way through the crowd of looky-loos. “Pardon me! Excusez-moi! Coming through! Watch your back!” as I inched my way toward the front gate, where Clancy and her crew were waiting.
There was a rolling groan of horror when everyone got a load of my outfit and saw Clancy wave me through. Obviously, I was behind whatever was about to go down, and they were suddenly a little bit nervous.
Here’s what they said:
“Jesus Crap!”
“Not again!”
“What now?”
“What’s he up to this time?”
“Oh, here we go again.”
“Yawn.”
“Ho-hum.”
“Such an attention whore.”
“He just asks for it, doesn’t he?”
“Why doesn’t he ever learn?”
“No longer shocking.”
“BOR-ING!”
“Overkill.”
“We GET it—you’re different!”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“Whatever.”
“Lacking his usual polish.”
“Makes me miss the Swamp Zombie.”
“He’s up to something, though.”
“Why would the Channel Seven news come just to cover an outfit?”
“This can’t be good.”
“Maybe he’s announcing his engagement to Flip.”
“Oh my gaaaaawwd—stop! Someone might hear you!”
“I bet he’s suing the school.”
“Or about to go Columbine on our asses—LIVE!”
“He’s never going to go away, is he?”
“I guess we’re stuck with him.”
“Give him credit: He doesn’t give up.”
“Tougher than he looks.”
“You WISH you had his cojones, dude.”
PICTURE ME LOVELY: I was wearing a new dressy dress, a pretty lace number that I found at a thrift store the other day, with a real “special-day” feel to it.
I sported a heaping helmet of frosted hair . . . proper pageant hair, don’t you know, the likes of which they don’t do much anymore, except in the darkest depths of the deepest South.
I carried a festive bouquet of assorted flowers in my arms.
And to top it all off—a big, old twinkly tiara on my head, and a regal-looking sash across my chest, which was, strangely, still blank.
Oh! Oh! And of course, how could I forget? The most important detail—the crowning touch, the splash of colorful whimsy that ties it all together, gives it depth and meaning—I was spattered, no, drenched, really, with chicken blood. BOO! It’s true! Dripping with honest-to-god chicken blood! In all its scarlet fury! (Okay, okay, really just a mixture of corn syrup and red vegetable dye, but with the same sticky consistency and overall look as the real deal.)
So I made my way through the crowd: “Pardon me! Coming through! Watch your backs!”
Dripping. Drizzling.
Sloshing forward.
Staining the very ground with my crimson gore.
Anybody figure it out yet? Anybody? You in the back?
Carrie! Yes! The movie Carrie!
The classic horror flick about a killer prom queen with telekinetic powers. She’s the class freak, see, who brings down the prom in a fiery blaze, killing everyone who made fun of her.
GOOD STUFF.
Real feel-good kind of movie.
Does anyone see where I’m going with this?
Clancy mouthed, “roll it” as soon as I reached her side.