Homecoming crushes royal rejects, leaves nothing but regrets

By Margaret Poe 2004

I just don’t know what happened. I had genetics on my side, with hair whiter than an arctic sunrise, skin so Caucasian it’s not even funny and the inexplicable luck to grow up in the U.S.A. This is a land in which high schools not only devote an entire week to football, but they attempt to become more European by creating pseudo-royalty to honor the football. This a a wonderful place.

It seemed that I possessed a definite advantage in the pursuit of becoming homecoming queen, a title so competitive it puts Miss Universe to shame, but that only how it seems.

I always assumed it would be me down there on that fancy, plush chair brought out but once a year, that I would be the one giggling hysterically as my dad and I belted out lyrics to Ja-Rule. Alas, at the homecoming assembly I found myself perched on the edge of the red and black bleachers, a convincingly apathetic grin frozen on my face, as they called the last lucky soul included on the homecoming court.

Being the mature high school senior I am, I refrained from any outward displays of disappointment, allowing myself to merely slump back into bleacher-shaking sobs. There was no doubt in my mind: This was the greatest disappointment of my life.

The gay festivities continued as if me and the countless other royal rejects weren’t having our worst day ever. The unsuspecting sophomores and juniors laughed away, not realizing the importance of the situation. This was not just another assembly. Because of this one pivotal assembly, my life’s master plan has to undergo drastic alterations; I have no idea what the complete ramifications
of this failure are. My destiny has been shaken.

The bell sounded for the assembly to come to a close, yet acceptance would not come. I looked down at my pointedly chosen ensemble — the lowest of my low rise jeans, the most plunging of my midriff-covering sweater, my most authoritative-sounding shoes. Even my (blond) hair had arranged itself for the occasion. I had managed to look sleekly gorgeous, with an air of not trying too hard. Yet I never got to display myself for the doting student body.

Homecoming queen was to have been the crowning pinnacle of my achievements, the most revered story to share with my grandchildren. But in a typically high-schoolish fashion, nothing went according to plan.

I hope I can move on with my life, wipe away the mascara flowing down my cheeks, put an end to my rose-acceptance drills. Perhaps this crushing experience will fade into oblivion. Or , perhaps it will become just another thing I can list when I’m 90 years old and reflecting upon my regrets in life.

Life. It’s a crazy thing, you know. Right now, it feels like my life is pretty much over. But, luckily for me, I just remembered something: prom. Watch out, Cedar Falls High School. You’ve got a queen in the house.

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