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SHILOH
Whoever decidedto start telling teenagers ‘it gets better after high school’was lying through their teeth…
At least when it comes to me.
Unfortunately, I still have to sit across from the same chick who declared to the whole senior class my prom dress looked like it was puked up by a seasick alien…andyou know what?
Nothinghas changed. Melanie is still shooting me daggers and rolling her eyes with every suggestion I make. I’m still white knuckling this ballpoint pen and imagining what it would be like to gouge her eyes out with it. So, while I guess we pay taxes and have mortgages now, the hierarchy of the mean girl transcends beyond the diploma I received from Avalon High School.
Well, and my Bachelor’s in Education.
And Master’s in English.
Why did I decide to become a teacher in my home town again?
“Um, earth to Shiloh?” Melanie snaps her perfectly manicured nails in my face. “Did you hear that I was asking for suggestions? You’re literally a bottomless pit of catchy phrases, and no one else can come up with anything.”
“What about ‘Legends and Lore’?” I pipe up, pretending like I’ve been paying attention this entire time. “We could have a costume contest based on local ghost stories, set up interactive reenactments of the town’s history, maybe even hold an auction for ‘cursed’ antiques? It would be a true celebration of Avalon’s historic character that inspired our Halloween Ball in the first place. This town is a picturesque representation of almost everyone’s fall Pinterest boards.”
For a prolonged moment, there’s only silence, while I try to tamp down the rare enthusiasm that bubbles out of me whenever I discuss this topic. I see a few of my fellow committee members nodding, considering my suggestion and sparking a little hope in me that we might pull off something really cool this year. That is, until Melanie’s patronizing laugh shatters my dream like biting through the hard shell of a candy apple.
“Oh, Shiloh,” she titters, shaking her head at me like I’m a child who just said something adorably naïve. “We can’t expect our most affluent donors to get excited about dusty old fairy tales. No, we need something more trendy, more sophisticated. You know what I just thought of?Masquerade of the Macabre.Everyone loves a mask theme. It’s sexy, mysterious. Of course, we’ll have a costume contest, but I don’t want to be judging droves of pilgrim hats and stained nightgowns. How dull would that be?”
“There will bechildrenthere,” I remind her, biting my tongue so hard I taste copper. I want to argue about setting a good example for my high school students–but she’d be mute to that point, I’m sure.
“Um, there will still be a dress code,” she laughs in that same condescending tone.
I keep my mouth shut, knowing the battle is lost. It doesn’t matter that most of our “affluent donors” consist of elders, whose families have lived here for generations and wouldprobably have loved the idea to celebrate our spooky, lore-ridden history. Not to mention, all thatloreis the foundation of our whole damn tourism trade. But I know that would be pointless. Melanie’s mind is made up, and not even a thousand spiced lattes would give me the energy required to enter that wrestling match.
“So, what are we going to do about the funding crisis?” A voice speaks up. I miss who throws it out there, but Idon’tmiss the ‘funding crisis’ part. What are they talking about?
“Well, I’m afraid I have some truly terrible news on that front…” Melanie dramatically sighs. “Bellman’s Orchards have pulled out as our principal sponsor. Apparently, their summer profits were not what they’d hoped for. We’re facing a significant budget shortfall for the epic bash I intend to pull together, so we really need to find an alternative fast.”
The room erupts into a cacophony of gasps and anxious murmuring. You’d think she’d just announced the End of Days rather than a hiccup in party planning.
“Now, now, everyone,” Melanie says, raising her hands in a preachy gesture that makes me want to throw my notebook at her head. “Let’s not jump straight to panicking. As my father always says, ‘there’s no problem that can’t be solved with a simple plan B and a bit of elbow grease.’All we need to do is brainstorm other businesses who could come up with a lump of cash and do so quickly.”
Oh really, Mel? A simple plan B in the form of a pile of money?
There can be no doubt in anyone’s mind that our committee chairman has absorbed every ounce of wisdom her father has fed her with his favorite silver spoon. Her father is the mayor of this town, and some say the wealthiest. Others say they’re up to their heads in debt. Maybe that’s why she’s not offering to frontit herself? I can’t imagine her passing up the chance to save the day.
Regardless, the next fifteen minutes are a mind-numbing blur of increasingly hopeless suggestions. Local businesses are named and dismissed faster than a speed-dating event for escaped convicts. I doodle spiderwebs absentmindedly in the margins of my notes, wondering if there’s a circle of Hell dedicated entirely to committee meetings.
“We have to think bigger, people. Hey, Shiloh, what about your brother?” Melanie’s voice cuts through my daydreaming of fiery pits like a bucket of ice water. I look up, momentarily confused. My brother–well,half-brother–is six years old. Melanie must be mistaking me for somebody else. But she doesn’t seem to think so, because she’s still staring at me with that predatory gleam in her eye I remember all too well from our years at school.
“Isn’t his father some big shot in New York?” she presses, lacing her pink-taloned fingers together and leaning forward. I instantly wish she’d go back to pretending I don’t exist. “Blackwood Enterprises, right? They must be loaded.”
The pen in my hand creaks as my grip tightens enough to almost snap it in two. “Oh…um. You mean Dominic? My stepbrother? We, uh…we’re not exactly close.”
Understatement of the century right there. Dominic and I are about as close as the North and South Poles, our relationship just as warm. But Melanie is like a dog with a particularly juicy bone, if said dog was maybe a mutant and resembled something more akin to a T-rex. She’s not letting this one go.
“Oh, come on, Shiloh. This is for the good of the community, for our school. You wouldn’t want to let your students down, would you?”
And there it is, folks. The signature Melanie manipulation, dressed up in community spirit and accessorized with justenough guilt to make you feel like a selfish asshole if you eventhinkabout saying no. I glance around the room, met with the hopeful stares of each of my fellow committee members in turn. The last time I was looked at like this, like the human embodiment of salvation, I had just offered my freshman class an open-book exam for their final last year.
“Okay, I’ll try,” I grit out, the oath tasting like ash in my mouth. “But don’t expect any miracles. Dominic isn’t exactly known for his generosity.”
