Ophelia After All
Racquel Marie
To the queer & questioning kids,
I’m rooting for y’all.
And to Mom,
You were the miracle. Wherever you are now, I hope it’s good.
ONE
The fabric of my lilac gown brushes my bare legs, sending shivers of delightful anticipation up my arms. The flowers cascading down my skirt are so wispy and delicate, they look sugar spun. Light flashes in and out of my eyes, timed to the rhythmic turn of the disco ball that casts the entire gymnasium in a haze of sparkling light. Warm hands curl around the small of my back at the exact moment the music swells. My heartbeat crescendos with the music as I tilt my chin up to finally see my dance partner, none other than—
I’m ripped from my daydreaming as Agatha violently chucks a textbook into her locker.
“Do you remember during freshman year when they promised us we wouldn’t end up with a shitty graduation song?” She pulls her locker door in to look me in the eye. “We really have to send off our youth to Don’t Stop Believin’? Just hold me back at this point.”
“Is this outrage going to last for more or less time than your annoyance about the prom theme?” I ask, recovering quickly as I swap out my chemistry binder for my US government notebook. Not for the first time, I’m glad Geraldo Inglaterra was so open to exchanging his locker—perfectly spaced between Linds’s and Ags’s at the front of the alphabet—with me for a few bouquets of my roses. I can’t imagine all the chisme I’d miss out on if I was subject to my end-of-the-hall, R-last-name locker.
Lindsay’s knees crack as she kneels to open her locker. “Don’t get her started on that again.”
“Sue me for wanting a classic prom theme,” Ags shoots back.
“Technically Under the Sea is a classic theme,” I say. “It’s just classically shitty.”
In every fantasy I’ve ever had of prom, not once did I imagine decor reminiscent of the scuba-diving expedition Mom and Dad took me on during our family vacation to Mexico two summers ago. Evidently, neither did Agatha.
Lindsay snorts. “I’m more concerned with this omnipresent they who knew what all our senior year selections would be when we were still puny freshmen who’d barely voted in our class representatives. We didn’t even know how to open our lockers yet.” She accidentally spins her combination too far and curses under her breath. “Okay, so maybe some of us are still working the locker thing out.”
“Some of us are still puny too,” I joke, nudging Lindsay with the toe of my sneaker. It earns me her stuck-out tongue.
“Whatever,” Agatha says as we shut our lockers and head down the hall. “After our reps made our class color that awful rusty orange, I should’ve known not to get my hopes up. If we had all just applied for senior council at the beginning of the year, like I wanted, this wouldn’t be happening.”
“Maybe I would’ve if the senior council president was still Vijay Khan from last year,” I say, fanning my face while Agatha rolls her eyes. “Seriously, why couldn’t he have just taken one for the team and been a super senior? He was easily the best president.” Lindsay shoots me a look. “Okay, at the very least he was the most swoonworthy.”
The stifling spring air hits me at the same time Lindsay’s nudging shoulder does. I regret wearing my sunflower jeans, even if the floral patches make me smile, and envy Lindsay’s breathable running shorts and tank top. At least I’m better off than Agatha in her turtleneck sweater dress, but it’ll be a cold day in hell when Ags admits that comfort can trump fashion.
“Ignoring Ophelia’s thirstiness,” Lindsay starts, and this time I stick my tongue out at her, “need I remind you that senior council meets on Sunday mornings when I have church and Ophelia has her weird gardening rituals?”
Sammie and Wesley are already waiting for us at “our” picnic bench, mouths occupied with their food instead of with talking to each other. Wesley is picking at leafy greens while Sammie inhales a cafeteria veggie burger that looks barely edible, even under the mound of ketchup he’s drowned it in.
“My gardening rituals are not weird,” I protest, sitting beside Ags on one side while Lindsay squirms between Sammie and Wesley on the other. She ruffles Sammie’s mop of black curls and smiles at Wesley. Both boys look pleased by the attention.
Sammie swallows the last of his fries, speaking around the mush in his mouth despite missing the first half of the conversation. “You’re right. It’s totally normal for teenage girls to spend their weekends obsessively watering, pruning, and fertilizing their personal rose garden.”
“I like that she didn’t deny the ‘thirstiness’ part,” Lindsay adds.
“I, for one, think it’s sweet that O has a hobby she cares so much about,” Ags says, patting me on the head. I swat her hand away. “I just wish it didn’t get in the way of the thematic integrity of our senior year.”
“No one said you couldn’t join senior council on your own, Ags,” I reply. Lindsay nods in agreement.
Ags rolls her eyes, her bedazzled lashes shimmering in the sunlight. I swear a light breeze fans my face as she blinks. “Like I want to deal with other people.”
“Is she still worked up about the prom theme?” Sammie asks, making a face.
“Started off annoyed at our grad song, but we’re circling around to prom again,” I reply. Tomorrow, prom will officially be three weeks away, so her irritation was due to return.
Wesley, shockingly, speaks up, unshockingly keeping his eyes locked on his salad. “What’s so wrong with Under the Sea?”
“It’s a tragic cliché! It’s like the school wants us to spike the punch bowl and lose our virginities in a limo,” Ags huffs.
“Sounds good to me,” Sammie says, chewed-up veggie burger threatening to fall out of his mouth as he speaks. “Plus, Linds can just wear a mermaid tail and call it a day.” He tugs on a strand of her naturally vibrant red hair. She throws a carrot at him in retaliation, but he easily smacks it away, flinging it at Wesley’s chest. I bite back a laugh as Wesley slowly brushes carrot water off his expensive-looking gray polo.
“I can glue seashells to everyone’s corsages,” I add.
“Don’t make me protest prom, Rojas,” Ags threatens, wielding her fork. I bite back a dinglehopper joke.
“You think I can wear swim trunks?” Sammie asks before lobbing the last of his burger into his mouth. “I think it’d be tastefully in theme.”
“I think it’s a surefire way to guarantee you’ll be going stag,” Linds teases. Sammie and Wesley both visibly stiffen. She clears her throat and bites another carrot.
I feign ignorance. “You are always complaining when men don’t comply with the Met Gala theme,” I say to Ags. Bless her, she doesn’t double back to Lindsay’s comment.