Dear Miss Webb,

Please notify the rest of the prom committee that I am calling an emergency meeting to be held in the library tomorrow morning at 7:30 sharp. Something has happened and it is of the utmost importance that we address it immediately.

Something has happened…

What? Did the hotel burn down? Does Mrs. Grisham want us to change the swinging ’20s theme to something tamer? Did the caterer back out?

“Hey, Millie.” Suki slams her overloaded pink backpack onto the library table, startling me. The bag is almost as big as she is. “Sorry, I’m late,” she says, dropping anchor in the chair across from me and tossing long strands of glossy black hair over her shoulder—all poise, confidence, and class. “Where is everyone?”

Tension crackles in the still air around us like the forewarning of an approaching thunderstorm. “I don’t know,” I answer. “The meeting was supposed to start”—I check the time on my phone—“three minutes ago.”

Impatiently drumming my French-manicured nails on the wooden table, I scan the Pecan Ridge High School library for any sign of the other prom committee members.

But spot him instead.

Jordan—freakin’ cocky—Ryan. My nemesis. Strutting through the study tables as though the sun came up just to watch him crow—colorful feathers fanned out wide, strong wings flapping, well-worn jeans pulling taut against his muscled thighs with every long-legged stride. But who’s looking? Not me.

Pfft, no, definitely not me.

What did I do to deserve the dishonor of his presence in the library this early? This is my turf, dude. Who does he think he is?

God’s gift to Pecan Ridge High pretty well sums up the answer to my question.

Jordan cautions a glance in my direction and catches me watching him. Aaargh! Score one for Jordan. He’s disturbing all of us who are minding our own business by flirting with whoever will give him the time of day.

Forcing my eyes wide like a pesky insect, I teleport a message to his ego-addled brain. What are you looking at, dork?

He rolls his eyes so hard he must see his frontal lobe back there somewhere before he blinks away, shaking his head and chuckling to himself with a smile that makes all the girls swoon. A smile that makes me want to headbutt him.

I do not permit my eyes to dart over to him yet again, but do they obey? No, damn them, they do not. He’s now sitting on the edge of a back table talking to Alissa, who returns his attention with goo-goo eyes. Which answers my question of why he’s in the library so early—a meetup. I blame him for my nerves being even more frazzled than they already were.

I blame Jordan for a lot of things.

Suki—my quiet, faithful voice of logic and reason—follows my gaze. She places her flawless bronze fingers over my larger, almost-as-dark hand, and squeezes. “How long do you think you can go on ignoring him? And why do you let him still get to you the way you do, Mill?”

Ding, ding, ding. And that, my friends, is the million-dollar question. Why do I? There is no simple answer. I should know after spending far too much time contemplating that very question. Maybe because before Jordan did what he did to me, he, my twin brother and I were best friends—the Three Musketeers, the Three Amigos, the Texan Trifecta… Whatever.

But things went horribly wrong between us. Jordan crushed my self-esteem that night a year ago and had the shards made into a campaign button he wears on a daily basis. “Vote Millie Webb for Loser of the Year.” Our relationship now is more like the Hatfields and McCoys or the Montagues and Capulets—Taylor Swift and Katy Perry.

Jordan suddenly begins playing a flirtatious game of tug-of-war with Alissa over a book she tries too hard to hold on to just to flirt with him. If she bounces in her chair any harder, her ample bosom will slip out of her shirt and into two separate zip codes. The novel they’re fake fighting over is likely titled A Tale of Two Titties.

“Just look at him, Suki,” I say. We both watch his softball-sized biceps strain against the sleeves of his Texas Rangers tee as he attempts to wrestle the book from Alissa’s prissy little hands. “He’s smiling at her with all those white teeth like he’s in a toothpaste commercial. Thinks he’s so hot with his finger-combed boy-band hair and those dimples. Gah. If I had a bottle of dollar-store Shine-EX, I would squirt it all over his smug face and wipe off that Hollywood smile with the coarsest sandpaper manufactured.”

Suki giggles at my melodrama, but am I kidding? Debatable.

The ever-expanding rift in Jordan’s and my relationship has apparently stunted my emotional growth. I look back down at the table, and like a more civilized human, doodle in my pink, bedazzled poetry notebook as if I haven’t a care in the world. That’ll show him.

“Yeah.” Suki sighs dreamily. “But he is. Hot, I mean. You can’t deny that one, Amelia.”

“Hmph, don’t let the eye candy fool you. Jordan is the black jellybean. If you bite into him, he’s pure licorice,” I say with disgust and give an exaggerated shudder, earning another giggle from Suki.

But the truth is, he has swaggered in here and obliterated my focus. Jordan’s presence has the uncanny ability to smother any awareness of my surroundings. When he’s around, it’s like I’m filming life with the narrowest aperture lens I own, blurring out everything in the background, which makes me want to hate him even more than I already do.

And his bigger-than-Dallas ego enters a room half an hour before he does. Back before he’d chiseled out a chasm in our friendship larger than the one Moses created to part the Red Sea, I’d believed Jordan exuded a quiet confidence. I’d even thought I liked it. Tsk, tsk, naive little Millie.

The wiser Millie has acquired the X-ray vision necessary to see straight through his sculpted façade. Cocky, arrogant, pompous, haughty, hubristic—you’ll find Jordan’s name and photo directly beside any of those terms in Webster’s According to Millie.

I glance away from him, thank goodness, only half a beat before feeling his sharp gaze snap back in our direction so fast I think whiplash is a real possibility. Seems he’s dying to catch me watching his current performance with Alissa.

Score one for Millie.

“Don’t look back over,” Suki whispers, “but he’s watching you. He can’t seem to keep his eyes off you.”

I harrumph again, pretending I never noticed Jordan’s presence. Among more eloquently written poems contained within my notebook, I primly write, Roses are red. Cold hearts are blue. Hey, Jordan Ryan, I. Despise. You! while feeling his striking Alaskan Husky-blue eyes laser through my skin. Searing heat.

In my peripheral vision, I catch his hooded gaze rove scornfully over me, starting at my toes and crawling up my body to the top of my head. He has the same familiar expression of contempt on his face—all pursed lips and furrowed brows. What exactly swims beneath those ocean blues when he stares at me like that? If I were playing a game of beer pong and took a drink every time Jordan sneered at me like I was a pool of vomit, I’d be in rehab by now.

There is absolutely no logical reason why his scowling perusal makes my skin tingle, a peculiar sensation lighting my spine and flushing my cheeks as hot as the Texas July sun. I can only hope he doesn’t notice my insta-sunburn through my caramel-colored skin.

Truth is, Jordan and I remain telepathically connected somehow. We both sense the other’s presence like a change in atmospheric pressure, and both know when the other is watching, or, rather, leering. It’s almost as if he, not Bennett, is my twin, which makes me want to scream.

Just as I exhale an irritated breath, Cody and Hannah stroll in and claim two of the three remaining chairs at our round table.

Cody shakes his dark head, his lips compressed in annoyance. “Why did Mrs. Grisham call this meeting? We just met last week, and everything’s set, right?” With his puffy brown eyes and brown T-shirt as wrinkled as a Shar Pei puppy, Cody looks as though he crawled out of his kennel less than five minutes ago.

Hannah, who is on the committee only to fluff up her resume for college scholarships, adds, “And where is Mr. Snodgrass?” discreetly turning her blonde head to stuff a white powdered donut into her mouth. The library has a no-eating rule, yet those types of rules simply mean don’t get caught breaking them.

“Who knows?” I say. “They’re all late after asking us to be here early. I could have slept seven more minutes and counting.”

The thought of my warm, comfy bed triggers a yawn. With each blink, my inner eyelids scrape against my eyeballs like sandpaper. No one’s fault but my own since I’d neglected my chores yesterday after school. So, on top of a restless night, I’d had to wake up extra early to water our vegetable garden and gather eggs before the chickens lay again today.

And come to this toilet bowl-of-crap meeting.

Cody scoffs. “When I walked past the office on my way in, the entire staff had their heads in a huddle like Mrs. Grisham was calling a big play. Something’s up.”

His observation causes my hackles to rise even higher, the feeling before the first lightning strike. “Yeah, something is definitely up. Weird,” I say. I find myself bouncing my entire leg and gnawing on my cuticles when Mrs. Grisham and her sidekick, Mr. Gupta, finally enter the library. He might as well be following her on a leash and nipping at her heels—the usual.

My heart pounds out a precursory drumroll. Oh, boy, I muse. Here we go.

The committee straightens as soon as we notice the administrators’ somber expressions. They march purposefully to our table like soldiers crossing a battlefield, and remain standing. Their presence is not only good for our posture but it disperses the library loiterers like police busting up a house party.

Mrs. Grisham plasters a fake smile on her too-bright red mouth that looks more grim reaper this morning than the usual clown. She is so fake-friendly and has so much filler pumped into her lips and cheeks, she should wear a caution label—WARNING: To avoid danger of suffocation, keep this plastic bag away from babies and children!

No lie. She’s Picasso’s rendition of Dolly Parton.

We wait for her cannon to fire first, and it does. “I suppose the prom committee is wondering why we called a meeting since we just met last Thursday.” We all nod, waiting expectantly. She clears her throat and continues, “We are meeting to inform you that Mr. Snodgrass will no longer be our sponsor for the prom. In fact, he is no longer with us here at Pecan Ridge High.”

“No longer with us? Did he…die?” I blurt. When the other students snicker, a flush makes its way to my cheeks. I should be used to embarrassing myself by now, as tact isn’t always my strong suit. Impulsivity, however, seems to be.

It’s a well-known fact among the students that Mr. Snodgrass is actually Mr. “Snotgrass” to most of us. I picture him closing one nostril with his index finger and dislodging part of his brain while launching a snot rocket into the grass, killing him instantly.

Death by mucus.

“No, I’m sure he’s fine.” She shifts her feet uncomfortably. “He is no longer a teacher at our school. Would you like to explain the next part to the students, Mr. Gupta?” Mrs. Grisham purses her red lips, drops her gaze, and fidgets with the hem of her multicolored circus blouse.

Mr. Gupta also clears his throat. The phlegm imagery must be contagious. “Yes, unfortunately, the prom funds have been…misplaced, and, therefore, with the prom on the horizon, we must ask this fine committee to create a fundraiser to make up those lost funds as quickly as possible. We will explain the circumstances to students and parents in a formal email, which we hope will garner a few sympathy donations. However, we wanted to let the prom committee know first.”

“How much is gone?” Cody asks.

With a grim smile, Mr. Gupta replies, “All of it.”

I stare at the others whose reactions reflect my own—eyes wide and jaws unhinged in utter shock as if a bucket of iced water was dumped over our heads. We sit like this in total silence for a good five seconds. My father would tell me to close my mouth—‘unless you want to draw flies, Millie.’ So, after I recover from the reality slap, I promptly shut it.

For one second anyway.

Again, as I’m not well acquainted with holding my tongue, and as the chair of the prom committee, I speak up on our behalf. “So, Mr. Snotgrass,” I begin, and the committee chuckles, the two administrators unaware of my blatant mispronunciation, “took all our hard-earned money, thousands of dollars, and just, like, left? Poof? For good?”

Panic seizes me by the throat, violently shaking me half-dizzy at the implications of starting from square one with fundraising. Our committee has raised more than enough money to make this prom the best ever. We’ve even submitted the deposit required to rent the ballroom of a fancy hotel in downtown Austin.

I imagine this feels like training for months to ride the fastest barrel-racing horse in the rodeo, yet on the big day I stumble and break my leg on the way out to my car. Yeah, like that, only worse.

“Now, did I say he took the money, Miss Webb?” Mr. Gupta sighs condescendingly.

“No, but I don’t think you had to,” I croak out, my voice leaving me stranded on an island of total disbelief.

I glance at the others for help, but they watch me as if I should know what to do. Everyone is so used to me giving them direction, they don’t recognize when I might need some myself.

“Right now, we are calling the funds misplaced,” Mrs. Grisham enunciates carefully while wincing at their conspired choice of words. “It doesn’t look like there is any hope of them being found. I can’t disclose details at this point, but Mr. Snodgrass appears to have left the country.”

The pitch of my voice rises with my frustration level, and I sound a bit unhinged even to my own ears. “Let me get this straight.” Mrs. Grisham cringes at my tone. “You’re telling us that all the fundraisers we’ve held the last two years, all the food sales and deliveries, the candy bar sales, and the library book fairs were”—I actually choke up and attempt to swallow the splintered grief lodged inside my throat like thorns stuck in a tractor tire—“were all for nothing?”

Mr. Gupta smiles in feigned sympathy, but his crooked smirk suggests he’s delivered news that we’ve been handed money by an anonymous donor rather than stolen from. He clearly enjoys the drama, and adds, “Please don’t fret. We always have the option of scaling down and holding the prom in our school gymnasium.”

Wait. What? Are you serious? And this is supposed to make us feel better? His suggestion sounds more like a threat.

As the prom committee chairperson, I’m responsible for how successful or unsuccessful our senior prom is. I’d even envisioned walking into our first high-school reunion, everyone nudging one another and whispering in supreme awe, “That’s Millie Webb, the one who organized our senior prom. So what if ten years have passed? We should go over and thank her again for her hard work and ingenuity in making our prom the greatest night of our lives.”

All of that is gone in an instant. In one fell swoop—not only the funds but my dreams of making this prom colossal for my classmates have been snatched away like a purse in a mini-mart. There is no way with me at the helm that I will allow our senior prom to be canceled or held in the freaking high-school gym. No way!

I feel sick.

Mr. Gupta, still sporting his ventriloquist puppet grin, says, “We wanted to let you know as soon as we learned of the missing money so you can get to work on ideas to raise more funds. As you recall, the remainder of the ballroom rental is due in less than four weeks or we lose it. It’s not fair, we know, but it is what it is, and we must move forward, yes?” He looks in turn at each of us, hopeful.

“Yeah, whatever.” I inhale a cleansing breath through my nose to calm down and hold it together, not having the luxury of falling apart at the moment. I must remain Malleable Millie with all eyes looking to me as their flexible, fearless leader. But inside, I’m Manic Millie, and a crushing weight threatens to trap me inside this slimy pigpen of suck.

I futilely try to remember the words of encouragement Dad left for me beside the coffee maker like he does every morning. He prints the sayings and cuts them into strips containing a single inspirational phrase or quote. The quotes work to ground me when I need them throughout my day. Of all mornings not to have put it in my pocket.

They’re all watching me, waiting. I heave a deep sigh, prolonging my hesitation to concede. “I guess none of us can undo what’s been done, then, can we?” I say. “We’ll try to come up with something.”

Mrs. Grisham makes a “golly-gee” motion with her fist. “Now, that’s the spirit, Miss Webb,” she exclaims in relief, smiling as much as her Botox will allow. “I know you all will take these lemons and turn them into lemonade.”

My own mouth might as well be pumped full of a deadening agent, as I cannot seem to return her smile. All I can think is, But sometimes it’s difficult to distinguish lemonade from piss, now, isn’t it?