Chapters (44)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Books by Julie Murphy
- Back Ad
- About the Publisher
I shake my head. What would Clem do? She would give a pep talk. “You are smart and funny and you’ve got this style that’s all your own. The crown can’t be your prize. Don’t make it your goal. You can’t control that outcome, but what you can control is telling Clem you love her. That’s the prize. That’s the magically stereotypical moment for you to share with her. The crown? That piece of plastic is just the cherry on top of your queer sundae.”
“Let’s go, people!” calls Mrs. Leonard.
I pull Hannah by the wrist. “Come on, Romeo, let’s do this.”
“Speaking of queer sundaes,” she says, “I like the outfit.”
I do a twirl. “Oh, this little thing?”
My mom had so kindly ironed the khaki pants I’ve worn to weddings, funerals, church. But after a quick skim through Grammy’s closet last night, I opted for leggings and a knit rainbow poncho. Grammy called it the statement of all statement pieces. Nothing says fat gay guy running for prom queen like a rainbow poncho, and after that kiss last night, no one can tell me a damn thing.
We all line up, and that’s when I see Tucker three people down, next to Hannah and the other king nominees. He wears black jeans with brown boots and a black-and-white check shirt rolled up to the elbows. So basically, he looks like a hot lumberjack. Wow, I didn’t know I had a type, but apparently I do, and the category is: hot lumberjack.
I catch his eye, and he leans out of line to give me a wave.
Beside me Melissa waves at him as well, but then notices that his gaze reaches over her head to me. She shakes her hand out, like she was shaking it awake after falling asleep instead of waving at her ex-boyfriend.
“Blood circulation is a bitch,” I say.
She laughs. “So you saw that?”
I wink down at her. “Secret’s safe with me.”
She sighs, and it’s the kind of sigh only induced by hot lumberjacks. “Thanks.”
Onstage, Millie Michalchuk wears a sharp black skirt suit with a baby-pink blouse and a bow tie that looks like cat whiskers. It’s the kind of outfit that says I am very serious about everything including looking cute.