I realize I’m not exactly an expert when it comes to dresses but these two are absolutely amazing. Sequoia has dressed me in a sleek, strapless navy gown with a gathered waist while she’s wearing a stunning layered coral dress with a sequined hem.
Are we going to a school fund-raiser or the Academy Awards?
She also offered to do my hair and makeup, for which I’m grateful, because she did a much better job than I could ever do. My hair is pinned up in a side chignon with loose strands framing my face and my eye makeup is dark and sultry. Looking in the mirror, I can’t believe what I see. I can’t believe I’m wearing a dress like this. In my other life, I considered changing out of my jeans and Dad’s ratty old leather jacket the height of refinement. Now, I look like a celebrity!
I never thought I’d feel this way, but it’s kind of fun getting all dressed up. I guess it makes a big difference when you actually have somewhere to go.
The fund-raiser is being held at the country club in Sequoia’s community. Evidently, that’s why we decided to get ready here. It’s only a short drive from her house. The entire way there, I’m panicked that I won’t know what to do or what to say, but it becomes obvious the moment I walk through the door of the ballroom that Other Me, being the rock star that she is, already took care of everything.
I stand in the doorway in absolute awe. At Southwest High we sold candy and cheesecakes to raise money. This is like a society ball.
The giant room is decorated in Windsor Academy navy and silver. The tables are covered with glittery fabric and crystal glasses, and the waiters, dressed in white tuxedos with navy blue bow ties, are bustling around, putting final touches on the table settings.
The guests start arriving a few minutes later, and by eight o’clock the room is packed with beautiful people swathed in beautiful clothes. Everybody here is either a Windsor student, teacher, parent, or alum.
I make small talk with faculty. I eat delicious passed hors d’oeuvres. I steal away for the occasional dance floor romp with Sequoia. And I post so many SnipPics, my feed is overflowing. I just want to document everything. I want to freeze this moment and capture it in a frame.
This is, by far, the most glamorous thing I’ve ever done.
It’s truly something else.
Normal high-school seniors don’t attend events like this.
That’s because you’re not normal anymore, a voice in the back of my head reminds me.
I don’t think it’s fully hit me until right now.
My life at the Windsor Academy isn’t just about digital textbooks and award-winning teachers. It’s about so much more than that. Robotics Club, and Investment Club, and fancy fund-raising galas.
With the dress and the fancy party and the pumpkin in my latte, I’m beginning to fully understand how Cinderella felt when she was poofed right out of her sad failure of a life and into a brand-new exciting one.
So what if I don’t run a newspaper or write for a literary magazine? I’m living a true fairy tale!
After dinner is served, I wander through the aisles of the silent auction, clutching my expensive crystal glassware and marveling at all the amazing items that companies have donated. We’re not talking about a little teeth-cleaning at the local dentist or a gift basket from the grocery store. These donations are legit. Ski trips to Steamboat Springs, spa packages for two, even shopping sprees with a personal stylist! And some of the silent auction bids are over ten thousand dollars!
When I ran the Southwest Star, I was over the moon when we raised a tenth of that in a month! I remember how touch and go it was for the first few issues after I became editor in chief. We were living month to month, never knowing if we would be able to raise enough money to put out another issue. Printing physical copies cost money. Money the school wouldn’t give us. We sold ads to local businesses to keep ourselves afloat: orthodontists and nail salons and restaurants. I had to bang on doors and convince business owners why advertising in a “washed-up” medium was a good idea. The staff called me the Closer because I refused to leave until I got a check. For the most part, I simply pestered those poor people to death. But it worked. Because when you believe in something as much as I believed in that paper, you do what it takes.
And clearly, Other Me believes in this.
She believes in the Windsor Academy. Otherwise, why would she put so much effort into organizing a fund-raising event for it?
I stop and study the bid sheet for a bottle of red wine. It must be a pretty good wine because the highest bid is currently twenty-five hundred dollars from someone named—I bend down and squint at the messy handwriting—Dylan Parker?
That can’t be right. Why would he be bidding on a bottle of wine that he can’t even drink in support of a school that he doesn’t even like?
“It’s my dad,” says a voice, startling me. I jump back and accidentally land on the hem of my strapless dress, nearly pulling it right off my body.
A hand reaches out to steady me. When I finally catch my balance I see that it belongs to Dylan. He’s dressed in a black tux that, like his Windsor uniform, looks wrinkled and thrown on. His bow tie isn’t even tied.
“Whoa there,” he says. “We wouldn’t want you to fall twice in one week.” There’s no sympathy in his tone, only smugness.
“Thanks,” I mutter, and turn back toward the auction table. But I can still feel him there behind me. For some reason I get the impression that he’s watching me. Waiting for a reaction.
“It’s pretty incredible, isn’t it?” he asks after a moment. “That my dad will spend twenty-five hundred dollars on a bottle of wine that he’ll never drink?”
“It’s for a good cause,” I retort tightly, without looking at him.
He scoffs. “Sure. Yeah. A good cause. There are children starving all over the world. The wild elephant population is dwindling because of poachers. The oceans are full of oil and trash, and half the fish species on the menu tonight are being overfished, but hey, let’s give our money to rich kids because God forbid they have to use year-old iPads in their science classrooms.”
“If you’re so against this fund-raiser, why are you even here?” I fire back.
“Trust me, there are plenty of places I’d rather be. But I wasn’t really given a choice. My dad is a very proud Windsor alum. As was my grandfather.”
“So you’re a legacy?”
He groans. “God, I hate that word.”
I sigh and keep walking, hoping to get away from buzz-kill Dylan. I can’t believe I ever went on a date with this guy!
I bend over to read the description on the next item and nearly drop my crystal glass. “Holy crap! Someone got Daphne Wu to donate autographed copies of all of her books?”
She’s hands down my favorite author. I remember when CoyCoy55 posted a picture of her in the Windsor Lauditorium when she came to speak last year.
Dylan steps up next to me and flashes me a strange look. “Seriously?”
“What? Not a fan?” I roll my eyes. “What a surprise.”
“Actually, I’m a huge fan. I was commenting on your reaction.”
I do my best to ignore him. Chances are he’s going to make some obnoxious comment about how I’m a zombie and zombies shouldn’t have favorite authors or some nonsense like that. I take a sip of my drink and move on to the next item up for bids—a set of designer luggage.
He follows, keeping his gaze trained on me. “I mean, didn’t you get Daphne Wu to donate the books?”
I spit out my drink. “What?”
He gives me another confused look. “I thought you got all the donations.”
“I did?!” I clear my throat when I see his reaction. “I mean, that’s right. I did. Yay for me.”
Meanwhile, inside, I’m screaming.
How on earth did Other Me manage to convince someone to donate a ski vacation worth over ten thousand dollars?
I’m beginning to think she really might be superwoman.
Dylan is still staring at me with that inquisitive expression, like he’s not quite sure what to make of me. I avoid his probing gaze by looking at the highest bid on the designer luggage set, blinking in surprise again when I see Dylan Parker’s name.
“So your dad is Dylan Parker, too?” I ask, peering up at him.
“Yup.” He makes a popping sound at the end of the word. “Dylan Parker III.”
“Doesn’t that make you a fourth?”
“The zombie can count!” he says, like he’s just discovered life on Neptune.
I scoff and turn to confront him. “I am not a zombie.”
He laughs. “Are you kidding? You’re like the queen of the zombies. Just look at all this!” He spreads his arms wide, gesturing to the entire room.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong with it?” he spits back. “You don’t see the irony in raising money for a school that costs fifty thousand dollars a year to attend?”
Fifty thousand dollars?
I don’t remember the tuition being that high. Although to be honest, I never spent a ton of time on that section of the website.
“Well…” I struggle to find a defense, but I just don’t have one.
“Well, exactly,” Dylan says. “It’s ridiculous. This shindig alone probably costs over a hundred thousand dollars. And you’ll probably raise, what? A hundred and twenty-five? That’s some zombie math for you.”
I cross my arms, feeling my breathing grow shallow. Why do I always get so flustered around this guy? Why can’t I just ignore him and be done with it?
“Look,” I say, losing my cool. “I happen to really like it here. I’m grateful to be attending the Windsor Academy. And I’m not going to let you or anyone else spoil that for me. This school is amazing. It provides opportunities that most people would kill for. And if it takes a little extra money to make that happen, then I’m honored to donate my time and energy to help.”
I turn on my heels and stalk off, feeling proud of myself. Feeling in control and powerful and on top of the world again.
“Why don’t you ask Lucinda Wallace what she thinks?”
I freeze on the spot, my breath suddenly trapped in my lungs.
“Why don’t you ask her how amazing this school is?” Dylan lets out a dark laugh. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. You and your BFF Sequoia would rather pretend she never existed.”
I spin around and open my mouth to respond—not sure if anything will come out besides hot air—but I’m never given the opportunity. Because right then a loud voice echoes through the entire ballroom. “Good evening, Windsor Family!”
I turn toward the stage to see Dean Lewis standing in front of the microphone, looking radiant in a long, shimmery gown.
“Thank you so much for coming,” she goes on. She’s so poised and calm. Like she was born to be up on that stage. “On behalf of the entire Windsor faculty, we are delighted that you could join us tonight for this very special occasion.”
There’s a smattering of polite clapping throughout the room, and I glance around me to find that Dylan has disappeared into the crowd.
“Although to be honest,” Dean Lewis says, “this whole night wouldn’t have been possible without one very special person.”
Sequoia pushes through a group of people to come stand next to me. She flashes me a giddy smile and nudges me with her elbow. “She’s talking about you!”
I feel my legs go numb.
What?
No. She can’t be.
“Her friends call her Crusher,” Dean Lewis goes on with a twinkle in her eye. “Because, let’s face it, she crushes everything she does. Including this beautiful, brilliant gala. There’s no doubt she represents everything the Windsor Academy stands for and we will miss her terribly when she graduates in May. Please give it up for the fabulously accomplished and ridiculously talented student fund-raising captain, Miss Kennedy Rhodes!”
The room bursts into raucous applause. Somewhere near me, I’m pretty sure Sequoia is telling me to do something, but I can barely even hear it over the sound of rushing water in my ears.
I feel a nudge at my back. “Go,” Sequoia urges. “Get your butt up there.”
What? No way!
It’s one thing to stand up in front of a room full of student newspaper reporters, it’s quite another to stand up in a room full of tuxedo-and-ball-gown-clad people who bid twenty-five hundred dollars on a bottle of what is basically just fermented grape juice.
Panicked, I look to the stage, where Dean Lewis is shielding her eyes from the spotlight and scanning the crowd. “Where is she?” She gives a hearty laugh. “Probably off convincing someone to donate to next year’s gala. Kennedy?”
I instinctively start to back away but Sequoia gives me another nudge in the back. “Go on! You deserve it!”
I stumble toward the stage, my legs feeling like solid blocks of ice beneath me. As I climb the steps, I seriously think that I might faint. Is this what an out-of-body experience feels like? Because I am nowhere near my body right now.
Dean Lewis claps as I make my way toward her. “This girl,” she announces to the room, “not only organized this entire event, but she also secured every single donated item on that auction table.”
More applause. “There are still a few auction items open, but we’ve already raised one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for the Windsor Academy tonight!”
The room goes crazy. Meanwhile, my head is spinning.
One hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars.
I don’t want to do it. I hate myself for doing it, but I can’t help it. It’s like my eyes move all on their own, without my permission. I scan the crowd for Dylan. And when my gaze finally lands on his, he gives me the subtlest of smirks. It’s got “I told you so” written all over it.
I shake my head and force myself to look at anyone but him. Every other single person in this room is applauding and cheering and singing my praises.
So what if he accurately guessed how much we would raise? That doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t know for sure how much this event cost to put together. Maybe it was organized with donations. Maybe it didn’t cost us a penny.
One hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars is an incredible amount of money.
And I’m responsible for that.
That’s definitely something to be proud of.
“Please join me in raising a toast to Kennedy Rhodes!” Dean Lewis sings and hands me a glass of soda water. Hundreds of hands launch into the air and I stare into the crowd, my gaze, once again, involuntarily finding Dylan. He raises an invisible glass and gives me a wink.
I huff silently and turn away.
I don’t care what Dylan Parker has to say. He’s an outcast. A minority. A rebellious spoiled ingrate who doesn’t appreciate what he’s been given.
As I raise my glass to the Windsor Academy and clink it against Dean Lewis’s, I’ve never felt better about my choices.