Wishes by Molly Cochran

Author:Molly Cochran
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BYFR

I must admit, the gym is an alien place for me. I don’t know what those geometric markings on the floor mean. And the place always seems to smell like sweat, or at least humidity. So it felt weird when I was plunked down in the front row of bleachers, surrounded by admirers, while all the players on the basketball team whizzed past me one by one, each bouncing the ball once in front of me before passing it to the next man. One of the guys—the cutest one—even winked at me.

When the procession was done, the team lined up against the wall while Tiffany Rothstein walked to the middle of the floor and signaled for quiet as she adjusted the microphone in front of her.

“As you know,” she began, “a new name has been added to the roster of candidates for this year’s Prom Princess,” she said. There was a roar of approval as a dozen hands patted me on the back. “Since she wasn’t presented in Assembly along with the other candidates, we’d like to introduce her to you now, so that you can get to know her better. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Katy Ainsworth!”

She extended one arm in my direction. I froze. Tiffany wiggled her fingers for me to come join her.

“Go ahead,” Summer urged, poking me in the back. Two other girls pulled cheerfully at my arms until I was standing.

“Am I supposed to make a speech or something?” I asked as they dragged me to the center of the gym.

Loud applause surrounded me. Someone shouted, “Go, Katy!”

Suddenly I felt like I was having this great dream—a little scary, but thrilling. Every eye in the place was focused on me. For once, it was all about me.

“Hi, everyone,” I said into the microphone.

The audience stomped their feet and shouted as if I’d just won the championship game of the season.

“It’s great to be popular,” I said. “Er, I mean, to be here,” I corrected. The microphone squealed feedback. “I hope I can be worthy of your confidence in me.”

I said it before I realized that the Prom Princess didn’t actually do anything, or require confidence for anything besides, perhaps, the application of mascara. “And . . . er . . . I promise to look cuter by Prom,” I finished.

The gym reverberated with cheers. It didn’t matter that I’d just given the worst speech in human history; the marching band struck up a booming rendition of “Firework.”

I spread my arms wide, as if by expanding, I could pull more of the mass love I was feeling toward me. Being popular was wonderful. I was special, on a level somewhere above ordinary people, and recognized by all these ordinary people as being somehow better than they were. Me, me, me. A sea of me.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter and Becca and my other friends standing by the door, staring at me like I was Dracula.

“Oh, one more thing,” I said into the microphone.

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