-12th grade—emotional trauma from his bullying caused me to fail my driver’s test—twice
-12th grade-claims to have beaten my SAT score （no evidence of claim provided）
-12th grade—THE STUDENT COUNCIL ELECTION
Of all Renner’s transgressions, student council was the cherry on top. I’d been the ninth, tenth, and eleventh grade rep, and the entire student body of Maplewood High School knew the president position was mine. I’d worked tirelessly for the past three years for this.
Extracurriculars are key for graduate school, which I’ll need to become a school counselor. They’re also important for scholarships, which I spent all of spring break applying to. In fact, I have an interview next week for a $20,000 scholarship from the Katrina Zellars Foundation—a nonprofit that funds aspiring educators. Mom has saved as much as she can for my college fund, but it’s still barely enough to cover one semester in the dorms.
Anyway, I was high on endorphins, practicing my victory speech because I was running unopposed. Then, two days before the election, Renner decided to toss his name in with zero forethought, despite having no student council experience whatsoever.
When I confronted him about why he was running, he just said, “Because I knew it would piss you off. And I thought it would be fun.”
Fun. That’s how Renner lives his life. Lover of all things fun is even his social media bio.
Unlike me, Renner had no official election platform. I spent countless hours hunched over my laptop, surveying peers, developing a list of goals I was passionate about, including increased support for diverse clubs, adding a deli and salad bar in the cafeteria, and equality for girls’ sports programs.
Meanwhile, Renner spouted off fifteen minutes’ worth of unpracticed, somehow eloquent nonsense about collective school spirit and ensuring all voices are heard, channeling the effortless charisma of Obama.
And because everyone loves J. T. Renner, he won the presidency with a 75 percent majority.
I still can’t talk about it without ugly crying. Renner’s obsession with ruining my life cost me my dream college on the West Coast. The admissions counselor never said it outright, but I think he was less than impressed by my status as vice president—not president. The only benefit is that now I’m going to college in the city, with Nori.
I emerge from the dressing room in the purple gown, hoisting myself onto the pedestal with an ungraceful grunt. I feel like a bride on Say Yes to the Dress, minus twelve nearest and dearest bystanders in varying degrees of bitter over my upcoming nuptials.
This satin, royal-purple number does absolutely nothing for my five-foot body. My flat chest occupies only about half of the laughably huge cups. I look more like a five-year-old playing dress-up in her mom’s clothes than a teenager one year shy of adulthood.
Nori hops onto the pedestal next to mine in a bumblebee-yellow trumpet-style two-piece and frowns like a hungry couture model at Paris Fashion Week.
“Only you can pull off a color like that. You look amazing,” I assure her before her doubt creeps in.
The saleslady saunters over with the emerald-green dress I was eyeing in the window draped over her arms. “Still want to try this on, dear?” she asks Nori.
Nori blinks and points at me, confused. “Uh, my friend is the one who wanted to try it.”
The saleslady’s hawk eyes cut to me, surely judging my uncanny resemblance to Barney in this purple number. “Oh, right.” Flustered and embarrassed, she shuffles into my changing room and hangs the emerald gown on the knob.
Nori flashes me a funny look. This isn’t the first time people have mixed us up, even though we look nothing alike. Nori is Korean, tall, and pale, with unicorn-dyed hair that grazes her shoulders. And I’m half-Chinese, half-white, with long, dark hair. It’s not like Maplewood isn’t diverse （sort of）， but there’s always the odd person who stares, or kids who crack stupid Asian jokes about being good at math. Apparently, by simple virtue of being Asian, your spot on the honor roll is guaranteed.
Once I reemerge in the green dress, Kassie circles my pedestal to capture it on video. Nori nods vigorously in the mirror, signaling her approval as I turn to inspect my side profile.
Strangely, the halter neckline actually elongates my short torso and legs.
“I might even have the perfect heels to match,” I say. I found orthopedic nude heels with specially padded insoles last month for graduation.
Kassie rolls her eyes. “Not those old-lady church shoes.”
I gasp, feigning offense. I spent weeks scouring the depths of the internet for them. “They are not church shoes. They’re functional. Optimal arch support is important. I’ll just need to break them in.”