“Introducing the 2022 homecoming court!” a peppy voice I recognize from the daily announcements shouts over the music. The convertibles approach in an orderly line, each slowing to a crawl in front of the bleachers so the homecoming queen hopeful sitting atop the back seat can flick her wrist like the Queen of England while her escort ensures she doesn’t go tumbling over the trunk of the car.

Three couples go by, radiant in powder blue, shimmering black, and toothy white convertibles. They’re a stark contrast to Morgan, who looks pained, escorted by Caleb, still in his football uniform. Her seafoam-green dress sparkles under the floodlights, but she’s straining to look happy.

“The cars are…a nice touch,” I say.

Amber snorts. “Meggy Harper’s dad owns the local car dealership. That’s why she gets to go first, and in the best car, color-coordinated to her outfit. Natalie fucking hates her.”

Speak of the devil, Natalie glides by. Unlike Morgan, she has no trouble delivering her best Miss America from-the-elbow wave. She’s the last in the procession, as if the true queen has finally arrived. It’s easy to picture her in a glittering crown, giving a tearful acceptance speech to the masses. I’m not sure anyone else ever stood a chance.

The cars park before a wooden stage right in front of the cheerleader bench. Bronte, Amber, and I have a front-row seat as each king and queen hopeful lines up at the foot of the stairs waiting to be announced. A yearbook photographer is on hand, snapping couples’ pics before Principal Morris calls them up onstage for the big group shot. One by one, the crowd claps and cheers for each twosome until one is left: the shoo-ins for queen and king.

“Natalie Aurora Bergen and Lucas James Rinaldi!”

Luke ascends a step ahead of Natalie, offering a helping hand, which she bats away. She’s enjoying the moment too much, pivoting on the first step, waving to the adoring crowd. A coquettish kiss is blown with a wink before she turns around. And then a gasp of shock carries through the crowd as Natalie goes down, hard. There’s a loud ripping sound, a strangled cry.

“You tripped me!” Natalie growls, back on her feet in a flash. She jabs her fingers into Morgan’s shoulder, sends her reeling a good half foot.

“What? I didn’t trip you. I was ahead of you!”

“I felt something tug on my scarf! You fucking bitch!”

Natalie lunges at Morgan, but Luke and Caleb are quick to step in between them. Luke whispers something into Natalie’s ear that makes her turn, face a tomato red—with rage or embarrassment, who can say? Now the crowd is hushed. Then the first giggles begin.