Homecoming

Prologue

Walking into the gym with all eyes on us, it's difficult not to be reminded how everything changed since that incident.

I used to have everything: good grades, a secured college scholarship, the admiration of my peers, two trusty wingmen who happen to be my closest buds, and the best girlfriend in the world. Now, what is left of me is that nickname, which instead of being a harmless moniker to poke fun at the way I turn into at the football field in reference to my last name—like what it originally was meant to be—has become a weapon of torment.

Psycho.

That is me now, according to the rest of the school.

That is me now, even outside the football field.

That is me now, until after I leave this shithole of a town for college at least—if I get to leave, that is.

Apparently, I'm that crazy dude who attempted to start a hysteria by claiming to have seen the inevitable end of the world at the hands of ghost-white-skinned, alien-like monsters with superhuman powers in my visions.

Of course, nobody believed me.

At first, they thought I was just being my wacky self by interrupting a boring class with a drop-to-the-floor seizure episode fake-out, followed by an out-of-this-world warning just to elicit laughter. Well, I wasn't.

When those warnings morphed from a one-time stunt into a running gag for weeks, everyone outgrew the humor and started thinking of me as becoming an actual psycho. For a while, I even thought the same, especially after mom was advised by the guidance counselor to have me see a shrink and a neurologist.

Word about me being spotted leaving a psychiatric ward got out, eventually cementing the new meaning to the nickname.

It was the ultimate "hero's reverse-journey": I turned from hero to zero. Real quick.

At least, I still get to attend the homecoming dance—and with a date to boot.

Sure, she's no Ashley with the banging body and the perfect hair, but Wendy is on a completely different league of her own. She's beautiful, without it being her only selling point, and she doesn't give a damn so much about what other people might think of her, her own unique sense of style and her whole foster care situation. She certainly has no issue being seen walking this series of decorated arches hand-in-hand with me, a laughing stock.

"Look who the loser club's newest recruit has brought to the dance tonight: the OG loser herself, Miss Carrie carpet-wearing White," I begin to hear someone remark from among the small assembly near the center of the gym—basically, the same people who are giving us these condescending stares. "She's got herself her own Tommy Ross now, Ash!"

I try to make out who exactly is making those insults with outdated references and see Rose, Ashley's best-friend-of-the-moment and default sidekick, stirring the hot pot and feeding the latter's already ablaze ego with even more firewood.

It's funny, because I used to like her—back when she was just Rosalinda Gonzalez. A regular geek, who was sweet, eccentric and actually kind of cool. But when Ashley took her in as her new 'project' (i.e. errand girl) after the former dumped me via a two-worded text message, that's when everything changed.

"So, that makes you the quintessential Sue Snell, obvi, and I'm like," Rose starts to ramble, carrying on with her analogy, "that vengeful best friend whom Carrie kills with a telekinetically induced car explosion? No way! Nah-uh."

She's been trying so hard to adjust to Ashley's brand of cool that she has ended up being a carbon copy in appearance and personality, except with the same dorky humor and fancy way of speaking she had from before.