Why I’ve Owned A Decorative Box Since 2008

Every extra-curricular activity had to nominate a girl from the senior class. I was the only Class of 2009 female-identified person on the Speech & Debate team so I guess it was a no-brainer, despite the fact that I had absolutely no interest whatsoever in running for Homecoming Queen, and the whole concept seemed like an un-spectacular waste of time.

Not quite the same story for my best friend, Jessica Jordan. For weeks leading up to the nomination process she would yammer on incessantly about how amazing it was going to be for the two of us when she won the title of Queen and I would, of course, be her First Runner Up. We were already both committed to attending the same university in the fall, so this was, in her mind, the first of many events that would be notches in the belt of our lifelong success. First it was gonna be Homecoming Court, then we would meet ~perfect~ men in college to marry (hopefully bound for Congress or something), we would get pregnant at the same time, and our kids would eventually get married, even if they were gay, finally making us sisters. She was a planner. I said, “Yeah, sure.”

Jessica Jordan was one of those people who, at seventeen years of age, really just encapsulated everything she thought being 30 was all about. She wore a lot of sweater dresses. Her hair just naturally DID what every 30-something lady from Kentucky’s hair does. One time she made me a mix CD and it had songs by Air Supply and Journey on it. She said, “I know, that Air Supply song is pretty sexual but I just love it.” I saw her pitch a massive fit when someone didn’t wear a seatbelt in her car. She was incredibly proud of her salsa recipe. Not to get ahead of myself, but one of the most dramatic days of my life came years later when we had to scrape a sticker off of her bumper that had romantic sentiments about her then-boyfriend who was in the Coast Guard Academy that said “I [heart] My Coastie” after he had broken it off with her. She was passionate about historical fiction novels. You know when you see an over-sized mug at a thrift store that says “Plant Mom” on it and you know in your heart of hearts that at one point in that mug’s life journey it held bath salts and was given as a work holiday party gift?Not quite the same story for my best friend, Jessica Jordan. For weeks leading up to the nomination process she would yammer on incessantly about how amazing it was going to be for the two of us when she won the title of Queen and I would, of course, be her First Runner Up. We were already both committed to attending the same university in the fall, so this was, in her mind, the first of many events that would be notches in the belt of our lifelong success. First it was gonna be Homecoming Court, then we would meet ~perfect~ men in college to marry (hopefully bound for Congress or something), we would get pregnant at the same time, and our kids would eventually get married, even if they were gay, finally making us sisters. She was a planner. I said, “Yeah, sure.”

Jessica Jordan was one of those people who, at seventeen years of age, really just encapsulated everything she thought being 30 was all about. She wore a lot of sweater dresses. Her hair just naturally DID what every 30-something lady from Kentucky’s hair does. One time she made me a mix CD and it had songs by Air Supply and Journey on it. She said, “I know, that Air Supply song is pretty sexual but I just love it.” I saw her pitch a massive fit when someone didn’t wear a seatbelt in her car. She was incredibly proud of her salsa recipe. Not to get ahead of myself, but one of the most dramatic days of my life came years later when we had to scrape a sticker off of her bumper that had romantic sentiments about her then-boyfriend who was in the Coast Guard Academy that said “I [heart] My Coastie” after he had broken it off with her. She was passionate about historical fiction novels. You know when you see an over-sized mug at a thrift store that says “Plant Mom” on it and you know in your heart of hearts that at one point in that mug’s life journey it held bath salts and was given as a work holiday party gift?Not quite the same story for my best friend, Jessica Jordan. For weeks leading up to the nomination process she would yammer on incessantly about how amazing it was going to be for the two of us when she won the title of Queen and I would, of course, be her First Runner Up. We were already both committed to attending the same university in the fall, so this was, in her mind, the first of many events that would be notches in the belt of our lifelong success. First it was gonna be Homecoming Court, then we would meet ~perfect~ men in college to marry (hopefully bound for Congress or something), we would get pregnant at the same time, and our kids would eventually get married, even if they were gay, finally making us sisters. She was a planner. I said, “Yeah, sure.”

Jessica Jordan was one of those people who, at seventeen years of age, really just encapsulated everything she thought being 30 was all about. She wore a lot of sweater dresses. Her hair just naturally DID what every 30-something lady from Kentucky’s hair does. One time she made me a mix CD and it had songs by Air Supply and Journey on it. She said, “I know, that Air Supply song is pretty sexual but I just love it.” I saw her pitch a massive fit when someone didn’t wear a seatbelt in her car. She was incredibly proud of her salsa recipe. Not to get ahead of myself, but one of the most dramatic days of my life came years later when we had to scrape a sticker off of her bumper that had romantic sentiments about her then-boyfriend who was in the Coast Guard Academy that said “I [heart] My Coastie” after he had broken it off with her. She was passionate about historical fiction novels. You know when you see an over-sized mug at a thrift store that says “Plant Mom” on it and you know in your heart of hearts that at one point in that mug’s life journey it held bath salts and was given as a work holiday party gift? Jessica Jordan would have loved that gift. She would have purchased a special box of herbal tea to steep in that mug for her afternoon office-treat. Jessica Jordan was a motherfucking ICON and I would die for her to this day. As far as I know she’s living her best life on the West Coast and has published a Keto cook book.

The homecoming process at Boone County High School is an atypical one. There is no vote. Instead, on the Thursday before the Friday night game, the young women and their mothers dress up, attend a “tea party” in the cafeteria, and are individually interviewed by members of middle management at Citi Bank and DHL Logistics. Boone County’s illustrious monarch must not only have beauty, but has to be able to answer a simple question from someone who got their haircut at the beauty school down the road. Friday afternoon, before the football game, we would all get dressed up in SKIRT SUITS to ride in the PARADE. After the PARADE, we would file onto the field at halftime and the coronation would take place. Our fathers were to acquire a convertible for us to ride in and drive us around for a couple miles near the school while the neighborhood adults gawked at how dumb this was, and the neighborhood children would hope one of the girls with functional parents would be throwing candy. First of all, it’s inherently messed up and classist to assume some kid from Florence, Kentucky’s dad can just ACQUIRE a convertible for an afternoon. Second of all, it was dumb and I didn’t wanna do it. God, I hated every minute of this.

Melissa also hated every minute of this. Things and Stuff aren’t really her bag. We’re both sitting there slack-jawed waiting for my turn to go interview and pretending to listen to Jessica Jordan and her mom talk about how beautiful it is that our friendship will be forever commemorated in the halls of this venerable institution of learning when we sweep the Court, and how this is just the beginning of all of it. ALL OF IT.

This was the exact moment in which I decided that if I was going to be forced into this god awful process I might as well run away with it and entertain myself. When my turn came to go into the Special Ed classroom where these SUPER PROFESSIONAL interviews were being held, it went a little something like this:

Interviewer: So, Molly, tell us why you think you should be Boone County High School’s Homecoming Queen.

Me: Well… I’m not a cheerleader, and I’m not anorexic or anything (a bold faced lie), I’m just kind of regular. That’s usually what happens in the 80s high school movies, the regular one with a heart of gold wins against all the odds, right? I fell asleep halfway through Heathers and didn’t see the ending.

Interviewer: And where would you like to see yourself in 10 years?

Me: Oh Em Gee, if I could just be rolling around in The Dirt in the The Africa with The Malaria Babies… that would be so amazing. Wow. A dream.

Interviewer: What do you plan to study in college?

Me: Welp, I looked into Cult Studies but, can you believe it?? University of Louisville doesn’t offer that as a major. Maybe I’ll be able to find some work-study program or something.

Interviewer: What do you like to do for fun?

Me: I have a passion for taxidermy.

Interviewer: Here’s a fun one! If you could be any animal in the world, what would you be?

Me: That hideous blob fish that lives on the ocean floor so I could be left alone.

Interviewer: What made you choose the University of Louisville?

Me: Hippie commune was too expensive.

Interviewer: What would you say your biggest strength is?

Me: I ate 16 slices at a Cici’s pizza 3 months ago in one sitting. Only hurled once.

Interviewer: What would you say your biggest weakness is?

Me: Oh man, my hair is very damaged.

Interviewer: What’s something you’ve done that you’re proud of?

Me: I’ve seen Napoleon Dynamite over 100 times.

Interviewer: Tell us about a time you had a conflict with someone. What did you do?

Me: My friend Derek came over to my house but I didn’t feel like hanging out with him, but I kept this screaming banshee I found on the side of the road once and sicked it on him.

Interviewer: How do you think your friends would describe you?

Me: No one will ever admit to being my friend, y’all.

Interviewer: What’s your favorite class this semester?

Me: Sir, I am truant for the third year in a row.

For as much as Melissa was not about this type of thing, oh my god was it ever Butch’s bag. His Appalachian heart swelled to burst every single time he thought about his baby girl in the ring for the crown. He cried the Tuesday night before at the dinner table because he was drunk but also just so proud of me for making it so far in my life. Jessica Jordan approved of these tears.

Before this was all gonna go down we had to line up in the parking lot in alphabetical order of our extra-curricular activity’s name. Jessica Jordan was several girls behind me, too far to talk shit with. See, I was representing the Forensics Team, and she was National Honor Society. I was in front of some girl that I didn’t know at all, and she was representing one of the band subsidiaries. She was kind of dumpy and awkward. Butch made fun of her so bad and I knew she could hear it so I kept rolling my eyes in a show of solidarity but that doesn’t actually help anything. I wanted to gutturally scream until all my entrails came flying out of my mouth and ruined my skirt suit so I could leave. I thought about cussing at a teacher to see if I could get disqualified, but the likelihood of that working felt pretty low. And on we launch into the glitz and glamour of the blocked off subdivision by the high school in a display of our magical girlhood.

Butch had borrowed his buddy’s Thunderbird or some shit for the big day; it was a red convertible that he often referred to as “A real class act” but it smelled like Old. Dressed to the nines in an all black ensemble that included an exposed wife-beater tank and black pleated pants with a flask in the pocket, he was ready to rock it the fuck out at this parade. He’s got the LYNYRD SKYNYRD blasting out of this low-rent sound system of this convertible for retirees and he’s chiefing a Black & Mild. If I didn’t hate him so much, this would have been a very cool power move. As we’re plodding down Main Street, I’m sitting on the back of this convertible just staring at the dashboard in absolute disbelief that this is really something I have to do with an evening of my life. It lasted a hour. Also, it’s September in Kentucky so the heat is as oppressive as the SKYNYRD.

One of the things that Jessica Jordan and I could really do together was be real and vulnerable about how shitty the father figures in our lives were. She had some dirtbag stepdad that wore a pocket protector, had a comb-over, and could almost contend with Butch if they were drinking together. She was absolutely terrified of anyone in this world finding out that her life wasn’t as perfect as she wanted it to be, and I was right there with her. Little did we know, anyone who had even taken a passing glance at either of these men knew off the rip that they were nutjobs. When you spend enough time hiding something, you think you’re good at it. Otherwise, you just did all the work of concealing, crafting, stretching a narrative, and making up excuses for nothing. So while we made up pleasant stories about what our lives would look like later, it was always a treat to share after figuring out how to cover up how stupid the story from that day had been. I heard down the line that at some point during the parade her step-dad had snatched her pump and thrown it into the on-lookers. Some kid returned it to the high school and she got it back in time to walk onto the field at halftime.

By this point the ‘ole anxiety was really flaring up in a major way. Butch kept sweating and undoing buttons on his shirt. It really hit me that I had to stand there in front of every person I went to school with, their families, and every person I would probably see at the mall ever again next to a drunk, sweating dude that was half-crying and saying, “Oh my baby girl!!” in the last place I would ever want to be. Jessica Jordan is shooting these hopeful, moon-faced looks at me and I’m overwhelmed with how disappointing this whole ordeal really is going to be for everyone involved. I figured the mega-hot girl on the dance team would sweep this thing and I would spend the next week consoling my friend, reminding her that no one will care about this in 5 years and our amazing future escapades will make this trivial day pale in comparison.

Third runner up was Dance Team Girl. Curveball. She claps enthusiastically, so do all the other popular girls contending for this grand prize.

Second runner up was BAND BITCH FROM BEHIND ME IN THE PARADE. I shed a tear for her because her dad really was so proud from a genuine place where you could tell he looked forward to their family board game nights. I would have killed to be that girl in that moment. I couldn’t remember the last time I had ever purely enjoyed anything as much as she was savoring that moment.

First runner up was Jessica mother fucking Jordan. She pulled a classic Miss America move where she showed the hungry crowd she was high-key crestfallen but snapped it into a gracious, beautiful smile. This is something I can totally work with as the supportive best friend. This haranguing nightmare was significantly more manageable if my girl JJ got a bouquet out of it. Let’s call this a wash and go drink some punch to the musical stylings of Lil Wayne.

And then they said my frigging name. Butch bursts into a sobbing, soggy mess. I’ve never been able to fix my face to save my life and this moment was no exception. How on god’s green earth did this even happen? I expertly curated my interview answers to be as in poor taste as possible, and it had completely backfired. My girl JJ was immediately inducted into the Can’t Fix Your Face Crowd. Jesus. They slap the crown on me, hand me a dozen roses and take a picture of me next to Butch. I asked if I can leave yet, and they said, “No Missy, we gots to go into the auditorium and get yer pitcher taken with the court.” So now I’m grappling with the reality that there will be another 45 minutes of this.

Jessica Jordan actually took it in great stride, saying it was about time she made more room for my accomplishments in our friendship. I kindly reminded her how far from our personal brand that was, and that I hadn’t cared from the beginning anyway. She made enough room for me in our friendship in ways that we didn’t have to talk about. In college we would occasionally run into someone we went to high school with at a party or in a class or where have you. It often came up, because idiots from small towns care about idiot shit like who was on the homecoming court. We would brush it off fine enough, but you bet your sweet ass as soon as we were alone we would scream over each other, “REMEMBER WHEN KEVIN THREW YOUR SHOE,” and “OH MY GOD BUTCH AND THE LYNYRD SKYNYRD” and laugh so hard at how great it was to have someone around who could just feel the same things without having to really delve into it.

I still have the tiara and the commemorative box it came with. I keep stamps in it these days.