Scene 1: “Promposal: With Garlic?”
Promposal Rule #1:
If your intended date is a vampire, don’t lead with garlic.
I wish someone had embroidered that on a throw pillow and thrown it at my face before I committed culinary social suicide in front of the entire student body and three hovering bat-drones.
Let me explain.
The night of the Blood River High prom had arrived like an ominous thunderclap with sequins. Red moon overhead. Haunted disco ball spinning in the gym. Jessie looked like a werewolf trying to cosplay as a boy band reject (leather pants, no shirt, and cologne that smelled like forest crime). Rachel had already threatened to stake the DJ twice for playing "Single Ladies" backwards.
And me?
I was outside the gym doors, clutching a bouquet of garlic knots shaped like roses, and rehearsing my line:
“Stacy, you’re my flavor of the night. Will you prom with me?”
I died inside every time I said it.
But I was committed.
Mrs. Evernight had literally told me earlier that afternoon, “Courage and hunger, Todd. That’s all you need to impress a vampire. Especially one in a tragic phase.”
Tragic phase = Stacy dating a sentient weather pattern. Still. Apparently, “Mistral the Cloud” couldn’t find a tux, so I saw my chance.
I took a deep breath, pushed open the doors, and stepped into the gym.
Immediate regret.
Vampires sparkled. Werewolves flexed. The punch glowed faintly and moved like it had feelings. And Stacy stood near the center of the dance floor, radiant in a blood-red dress and surrounded by admirers who were all somehow both undead and emotionally unavailable.
I walked up. My knees shook. My armpits wept. The garlic knots steamed in their black velvet wrap like sweaty little death wishes.
“Stacy,” I said, trying to sound confident but coming off more like a hiccup in puberty.
She turned. Her eyes widened. She looked—honestly? Surprised. Which was better than “repulsed,” so I called that a win.
“I brought you something,” I said.
Then I unwrapped the bouquet.
Garlic.
Knots.
Twisted into rose shapes.
Glowing faintly.
Possibly sentient.
Definitely smelly.
Stacy blinked. “Is that… garlic?”
“It’s a pun,” I explained quickly. “Because you’re a vampire. And I respect boundaries. And also, I thought it was funny? You know—‘flavor of the night’? Get it? Garlic? Night?”
Her face froze somewhere between bless your heart and I’m going to murder you with a breadstick.
“I was trying to be thoughtful,” I added, now visibly sweating. “Symbolically safe. No pressure. Just carbs.”
The garlic knots began to sizzle.
And then Stacy’s eyebrows wilted. Like, literally curled inward. Singed.
“Oh no,” I gasped.
“Oh yes,” hissed her father from behind her—a six-foot-four vamp with glowing red eyes and a jawline you could shelve books on.
He stepped forward, looked at the garlic bouquet, and started smoking.
Smoking.
Like I’d lit a Yankee Candle called “Die Slowly: Family Size.”
Rachel, who’d appeared out of nowhere as she tends to do when blood is imminent, promptly laughed for a full sixty seconds.
Like, bent-over, tears-in-her-eyes, can’t-breathe laughter.
Jessie clapped me on the back. “Bro, that was bold. Bold and stupid. Want me to punch someone to deflect the mood?”
“I want to die,” I said.
“Cool. I’ll hold your garlic.”
“Absolutely not.”
Stacy gently took the bouquet. With tongs.
She looked at me like I was a sentient apology card.
“It’s... memorable,” she said.
Which is the worst kind of rejection.
It’s not “no.”
It’s not “yes.”
It’s “You’ve emotionally wounded me, but creatively.”
Then she handed the bouquet off to the janitor, who sealed it in a biohazard bag.
And then—the final blow.
“I’m already going to prom with someone,” she added gently.
“Who?” I asked, because I’m stupid and couldn’t let it end there.
She smiled. “Kale.”
Jessie’s jaw dropped. “The zombie vegan?!”
“He’s sweet,” she said. “He composts his victims.”
Rachel gagged audibly.
Jessie looked at me. “You okay, man?”
I took the remaining garlic knot from my pocket, shoved it into my mouth, and whispered around the crumbs:
“Let me grieve.”
TODD’S PROMPOSAL POST-MORTEM:
– Promposal attempt: garlic-based ?
– Vampire allergic reaction: mild to severe ?
– Rejection: polite but devastating ?
– Rachel’s laughter: eternal ?
– Me: now 78% regret, 22% garlic ?
I slunk to the punch bowl.
It growled at me.
Honestly? Fair.
Scene 2: “Rachel Wears Red. It’s Not a Dress.”
I was mid-sip of demon-possessed fruit punch when the room shifted.
Not physically. Not magically.
Tonally.
Like the air had been holding its breath.
And then she walked in.
Rachel.
And every creature with a soul—or whatever passed for one at Blood River High—turned.
Because she didn’t enter prom.
She descended.
Like vengeance.
Like prophecy in eyeliner.
Combat boots, black and scuffed.
Silver-lined gloves, glowing faintly like she’d bled a moon into them.
And a red outfit so dangerous it needed a warning label.
And it was not a dress.
It was... a statement.
More armor than fashion, stitched from what looked suspiciously like vampire skin. Trimmed in something that glinted like sharpened guilt. The cloak she wore? It whispered. It whispered. In Latin. Possibly about taxes.
She walked past the punch table and the punch stopped swirling.
She walked past Principal Gravestone and his cane cracked.
She walked past Stacy and Kale and neither of them could make eye contact without visibly twitching.
I straightened up as she got closer. Tried to look cool. Failed.
She stopped directly in front of me, eyes scanning me like she was reading the footnotes to my trauma.
“Hi,” I croaked.
“You smell like regret and garlic,” she said flatly.
“Because I’m consistent.”
She smirked.
It was the kind of smirk you get just before your soul leaves the chat.
“You recover fast,” she said, nodding toward Stacy and her undead date, who were currently slow-dancing like someone had pressed pause on a Tim Burton dream sequence.
“Emotionally? No. Physically? Barely. Spiritually? I think the punch cursed me.”
Rachel tilted her head.
“Want to survive prom?”
“That’s the dream.”
“Stick near me.”
She pulled something from her corsage.
A dagger.
Blessed silver. Holy runes along the hilt. Smelled faintly of sage and fresh heartbreak.
“Is that standard prom attire?” I asked.
“In Blood River?” she said. “It’s understated.”
The lights flickered. Somewhere, a vampire started crying into a cup of glitter. A werewolf sniffed the air and began to circle. Rachel narrowed her eyes like she could see the shift coming before the shadows moved.
She leaned in, voice low.
“Something’s coming, Todd.”
“I thought I was what’s coming,” I whispered.
“You were the warning label. This is the payload.”
Her cloak flared behind her like it had opinions. Her earrings were shaped like stakes. Her lipstick matched vengeance.
Rachel Sparks wasn’t just here to look terrifying.
She was here to supervise.
Exorcise.
Possibly slay.
And absolutely steal the night.
I stared at her like she was a chapter I wasn’t emotionally prepared to read.
“You look... lethal,” I said, before my brain could stop me.
She gave me a look.
One eyebrow arched.
Lip twitching like she was weighing whether to flirt or stab.
“Good,” she said. “Let’s hope this year goes better than the last one.”
“What happened last year?”
Her smile was pure silver.
“I had to burn the gym.”
Pause.
I stared.
She patted my cheek. “Don’t spill anything on me. I’m flammable.”
Then she vanished into the crowd, dagger glinting, cloak swirling, aura set to do not cross.
TODD’S PROM SECURITY UPDATE:
– Rachel is dressed for murder ?
– Outfit is not a dress, but a threat ?
– Dagger confirmed ?
– May have history with gym arson ?
– Looks hotter than hell’s premiere red carpet ?
– I am in danger ???
I leaned against the punch table, still processing.
Jessie appeared beside me, sweating slightly and buttoning his shirt wrong.
“She’s here?” he asked.
“She is Promageddon.”
“Hot,” he said, nodding in deep admiration.
The DJ tried to play “Levitating.” The speakers exploded.
Rachel walked past again.
No one made eye contact.
Even the disco ball dimmed itself.
I took another sip of cursed punch and whispered:
“This prom is going to kill me.”
Scene 3: “Jessie Waxes His Fur. Todd Has Questions.”
The locker room was not supposed to sound like this.
It echoed with soft grunts, low growls, and a sound somewhere between a yelp and a sizzle. Steam curled around the lockers. Something dripped.
I paused at the door.
“Jessie?” I called. “You alive in there or… halfway through a moon rage?”
Silence.
Then:
“Yeah, come in. Just don’t judge me.”
Which is exactly what people say right before you see something that haunts your soul forever.
I stepped inside.
Big mistake.
Jessie stood in front of the mirror—shirtless, as usual—his chest glistening under fluorescent lights. His jeans were slung low. A towel hung off his hip like a fashion risk and a cry for help.
And he was—brace yourself—
waxing.
Hot wax.
Open tin.
Popsicle stick applicator.
And enough hair removed to qualify as its own emotional support animal.
I froze.
He looked over his shoulder, totally casual.
“Hey,” he said. “You bring that aftershave balm?”
“No,” I wheezed. “I brought trauma.”
Jessie smeared more wax across his pecs. “Sorry. I shed during slow dances.”
“You... what now?”
He turned to me, completely serious. “Do you know how embarrassing it is to leave fur on someone’s dress during a prom slow dance?”
“That’s... very specific.”
“It’s happened. Twice.”
He pointed to a pile of fur on the floor.
“Rachel said it looked like a haunted ferret exploded mid-rumba.”
I gagged softly. “Okay. But waxing? Isn’t that, like, agony for you?”
He shrugged. “Pain is temporary. Smoothness is eternal.”
“Jessie, you’re a werewolf.”
“And I have standards,” he said, pulling off a strip with a wet rip that made my spine scream.
I winced. Loudly. “That sounded like it removed your soul.”
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“Just the chest layer,” he grunted.
Then he looked at me.
Eyes glowing faintly.
“Want me to do you?”
“Nope. Hard pass. I like my body hair. It gives me character.”
“You’re patchy.”
“I’m a work in progress.”
He flexed one arm. “Dude, you don’t even have ankle symmetry.”
I looked down at my ankles. Damn it. He wasn’t wrong.
He motioned to the tin. “One strip. For bro bonding.”
“Jessie, I will literally pass out.”
“Exactly. Then I can wax your legs while you’re unconscious.”
“I hate everything about that sentence.”
He laughed, then ripped another strip off his stomach and howled softly.
Not a pain howl.
A vibe howl.
A kind of meditative werewolf spa moan that made my brain short-circuit.
“You good?” I asked.
“Better,” he said. “Grooming’s important. Werewolf shedding spikes during emotional stress. I’m trying to present as... stable.”
“For who?”
He didn’t answer.
Just looked at the wax tin like it held his secrets.
I grabbed a towel and handed it to him. “You’re already the hottest guy at this school. Fur or not. But maybe... moisturize?”
He grinned, teeth gleaming. “You saying I look good?”
“I’m saying your abs have their own prom date.”
Pause.
Then he handed me a strip of wax.
“No.”
He raised one eyebrow. “Coward.”
“I prefer the term ‘body autonomy advocate.’”
“Just your shin.”
“Why?”
“It’s tradition.”
“For who?!”
“Me.”
Ten minutes later, I limped out of the locker room with one completely bald shin, smelling like coconut regret and holding a friendship bracelet made of fur Jessie claimed was “lucky.”
TODD’S WERE-GROOMING POST-MORTEM:
– Jessie waxes. Voluntarily ?
– Howls softly while doing it ?
– I now have one baby-smooth leg ?
– May have trauma ?
– Still love him. Platonically. Probably ?
– Werewolf bromance: stronger than pain ?
As I hobbled toward the gym in my slightly-too-tight pants and patchy soul, Jessie clapped me on the back and said:
“You’re gonna slay tonight, man.”
“I already died inside.”
“Then you’ll be fine here.”
Scene 4: “Stacy Dates a Vegan Zombie”
Let’s be clear: I wasn’t expecting Stacy to show up with me.
But I wasn’t expecting her to show up with a reanimated vegan named Kale, either.
Yes. Kale.
Like the vegetable.
But with less protein and more emotional damage.
I was nursing my punch (which still pulsed like it had thoughts) and trying to forget that I had one bald shin and a failed garlic promposal on my permanent record when the crowd parted like it had seen something… not terrifying, but mildly sanctimonious.
And there he was.
Kale.
Tall-ish.
Pale-ish.
Wearing a hemp tuxedo that smelled like moral superiority and patchouli.
His eyes were glazed in that I’ve-been-dead-for-a-while way.
His walk had that signature zombie sway—half lurch, half “I just did hot yoga and I’m exhausted by the living.”
He wore Birkenstocks. With socks.
Next to him? Stacy.
Still beautiful. Still glowing. Still metaphorically clawing my soul out of my chest one slow blink at a time.
“Kale,” she said to the circle of onlookers, “is different.”
He gave a slow, meaningful grunt. “urghhnnn... boundaries.”
Rachel appeared beside me, sipping something that looked like blood but probably had a splash of grenadine.
She tilted her head. “Is she dating… a sapient compost bin?”
Jessie joined us, squinting. “Is that zombie wearing a chakra crystal necklace?”
“Pretty sure that’s a hemp tie,” I muttered, as my entire ego slid down into my shoes.
Rachel sniffed. “I’ve buried better.”
Kale turned to me.
Spoke in the calm, drawling moan of someone who has read too many ethically sourced philosophy blogs.
“guhhh... consent... is sexy.”
“Cool,” I said, trying to smile. “So is brushing your hair.”
Stacy gave me a warning look. “He’s gentle, Todd. He only chews on the spiritually willing.”
Rachel choked on her drink.
Jessie flat-out wheezed.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Are we doing ethical necrophilia now?”
Kale blinked slowly. “plant-based... necromancy... leaves room for forgiveness...”
He handed me a pamphlet.
“BRAINS ARE PEOPLE TOO: Why Carnivorous Cravings Are a Colonial Construct”
I stared at it. Then stared at Stacy.
“This is a phase, right?”
She shrugged. “He listens. He journals. He said I have ‘aural resonance.’”
Rachel’s mouth dropped open. “I swear to hell, if he starts chanting…”
Kale began chanting.
Softly.
To the beat of a distant Tibetan bell that I could only assume he manifested out of recycled regret.
Todd.exe had stopped functioning.
Stacy tucked her hand into Kale’s. “He’s teaching me to center my hunger around lunar intention instead of bloodlust.”
Rachel stepped forward. “If I bury him in the compost pile behind the gym, do I get extra credit?”
Jessie held her back with one arm. “No murder until after the slow dance.”
Stacy looked at me—genuinely, weirdly apologetic.
“You had your chance, Todd,” she said softly. “And you brought garlic.”
“I thought it was romantic!”
“You set my father on fire.”
“One time!”
Rachel whispered, “You dodged a stake, Hawkins. Be grateful.”
I nodded slowly.
And watched the love of my short, undead-infused life slow-dance with a guy who had fungus behind one ear and mumbled affirmations like “You’re enough” in Braaaaains?-speak.
I retreated to the punch table.
Again.
It gurgled when I approached.
“Me too,” I whispered to the bowl.
TODD’S UNDEAD DATING DISASTER LOG:
– Stacy: taken ?
– Boyfriend: technically expired ?
– Walks like a haunted yoga instructor ?
– Ethics: questionable ?
– My heartbreak: slow-simmered and tofu-marinated ?
– Prom punch and I: now in a committed relationship ?
Rachel patted my back.
“You’ll survive.”
Jessie added, “Or you’ll get lucky and one of them combusts.”
The DJ played “Zombie” by The Cranberries.
Kale cried.
Stacy swayed.
And I… ate six brownies in under two minutes.
Scene 5: “Mrs. Evernight and the Principal Have History”
There are three places a person goes when they need to hide at prom:
- The bathroom (too obvious, haunted).
- Under the bleachers (already occupied by at least two spectral makeouts and a banshee vaping cloves).
- The snack table.
Which is where I was now.
Kneeling behind a fortress of cupcakes and one dangerously vibrating Jell-O mold, emotionally licking my wounds and trying not to cry into a bowl of vampire-glazed pretzels.
I had just watched my ex-crush slow dance with an ethically-sourced zombie named Kale. He cried during “Zombie” by The Cranberries and then offered me a reusable pamphlet titled “Love Without Lungs.”
So yeah.
Rock bottom.
Then I heard her voice.
Smooth. Sharp. Dangerous. Velvet dipped in razorwire.
“You still wear the tie I buried you in.”
I froze. Peeked between two stacked trays of garlic-free spanakopita.
Mrs. Evernight.
Standing under the disco ball, arms crossed, lips painted in ancient sin.
Across from her?
Principal Grudge.
Undead. Overdressed. Balding only slightly for someone who was technically embalmed. His tie?
Black. Satin. Slightly... smoking.
“I told you never to mention that night,” he growled.
“You left that night,” she snapped. “Right after saying you’d rise again.”
“And I did. And you revoked my crypt access.”
“You slept with a succubus and got us banned from the PTO!”
“We were on a break!”
I gasped.
Mrs. Evernight narrowed her eyes.
“You don’t get to Ross-and-Rachel me, Grudge.”
“I died for you!”
“Briefly.”
The lights flickered.
So did the oxygen in my lungs.
I ducked behind a tray of cursed biscotti and prayed to whatever entity managed supernatural HR.
Grudge floated up about six inches. So did Mrs. Evernight.
Their capes whipped like gossip in a hurricane.
The disco ball spun wildly, projecting tiny bats across the walls.
The DJ (some poor vampire intern named DJ Suckadelic) cranked up the volume on Dancing Queen and mouthed, “I don’t get paid enough for this.”
Grudge hissed, “You still haunt my dreams.”
She purred, “You still snore when embalmed.”
“You said you’d wait.”
“You said you’d stay buried.”
Rachel walked by, sipping blood cider.
“Y’all good?” she asked, not even stopping.
“No,” Mrs. Evernight and Grudge both said in unison.
Grudge turned to her with dark, glassy eyes.
“I still remember the night you bit me.”
She laughed. Soft. Lethal.
“I was aiming for your brother.”
A gasp spread across the room like emotional contagion.
Grudge floated higher. “You’ll regret this.”
She smirked, reached into her purse, and tossed a bat.
A literal, flapping, sass-dripping bat.
It screeched once and shaped itself into a middle finger mid-air before flying out the exit vent.
The crowd gasped.
I whispered, “What just happened?”
Rachel leaned beside me. “High drama. Low impulse control.”
Grudge adjusted his tie.
“That tie,” she said again, quieter now. “I buried you in that tie. You didn’t even wash it.”
“I kept it because it smells like regret and your perfume.”
Pause.
The air thickened.
Someone sobbed near the cheese fountain.
Even the cursed Jell-O stopped jiggling.
Mrs. Evernight tilted her head. “This doesn’t change anything.”
“I know.”
They stared at each other like a dark, moody soap opera written by Anne Rice and directed by Tim Burton’s caffeine addiction.
Then Grudge lowered back to the floor.
So did she.
They parted in silence.
Dramatic. Tragic. Seductive.
I reached for a cookie.
It bit me.
TODD’S EMOTIONAL DAMAGE REPORT:
– Hid behind snack table ?
– Witnessed supernatural ex-lover showdown ?
– Heard phrase “You still wear the tie I buried you in” ?
– Saw middle-finger bat ?
– Slight cookie injury ?
– Now afraid of ties, bats, and PTA drama ?
Rachel patted my shoulder.
“That’s why we don’t date the undead over thirty-five.”
“I just wanted to eat in peace,” I whispered.
“Too late. You’ve seen the lore.”
The lights flickered again. The DJ played “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”
And in the background, I swore I saw Grudge weep into a candelabra.
Mrs. Evernight floated by, winked at me, and said:
“Don’t get too comfortable under that table, Todd. History has a way of repeating.”
I choked on a cursed mini quiche.
Scene 6: “Coach Fangley Hosts a Deathmatch”
Prom was supposed to be a celebration.
A night of sequins, slow dances, and traumatic eye contact beneath a disco ball that hasn’t stopped bleeding since 2013.
Instead?
Coach Fangley just flipped over the refreshment table and screamed:
“LET’S SETTLE THIS LIKE SUPERNATURALS!”
Confetti cannons fired.
The lights turned blood-orange.
And someone (probably DJ Suckadelic) hit the “battle theme” playlist—because suddenly, we were hosting a deathmatch.
The crowd shrieked.
Jessie immediately ripped off his shirt.
Rachel muttered, “Of course,” and pulled out a dagger shaped like a flamingo.
I clutched my one bald shin and whispered, “Why is this my life?”
Coach Fangley—part gym teacher, part warlock, part sentient protein shake—stood at the center of the room with wild eyes and a whistle made from a human femur.
“This,” he bellowed, “is what physical education should’ve always been!”
No one questioned it. Probably because he was holding a clipboard that hissed every time someone looked away.
“We’re doing it tournament style!” he roared. “Vamps vs wolves! Witches vs banshees! Zombies vs emotional availability!”
Someone screamed, “What about humans?!”
He pointed to a kid in the back wearing khakis and regret.
“Kevin! You’re in.”
Kevin blinked. “I’m on yearbook committee.”
Coach Fangley tossed him a pair of nunchucks.
“Not anymore.”
Kevin looked at them. Then at the swirling chaos.
Then at his date, who was already turning into a cloud of bees.
He whispered, “Please let this end quickly.”
Spoiler: It wouldn’t.
—
ROUND ONE: VAMPIRES VS. WEREWOLVES
Jessie cracked his knuckles. “Finally. Cardio.”
A vampire in gold heels and fangs sharpened like broken dreams bared her teeth. “You’re going down, furball.”
Jessie winked. “Only if you buy me dinner first.”
They collided in a blur of teeth, growls, and cursed glitter.
Someone’s arm flew. It high-fived me midair.
—
ROUND TWO: WITCHES VS. BANSHEES
Rachel squared up against a banshee in a sequined gown that screamed every time she moved.
Rachel, deadpan: “Nice echo chamber.”
Banshee: wails
Rachel responded by pulling a blessed spatula from her sleeve and smacking the banshee into the fog machine.
The fog machine screamed. Not metaphorically.
—
ROUND THREE: ZOMBIE KALE VS. KEVIN
Kale moaned, “consent... only... in single-elimination format.”
Kevin twirled his nunchucks once.
Hit himself in the face.
Twice.
Then blacked out and accidentally roundhouse kicked Kale in the kneecap.
Kale crumbled like spoiled tofu.
Kevin won by default and trauma.
The crowd cheered. Kevin whispered, “Tell my mom I loved her,” and fainted into the glitter pile.
—
THEN IT GOT WORSE.
Coach Fangley screamed, “EVERYONE FIGHT EVERYONE!”
I tried to escape. I really did.
But I slipped on a were-banana peel (don’t ask) and skidded directly into the ring, face-first into a pile of broken tiaras and vampire toenails.
“FIGHT!” the crowd roared.
“I’M NOT A COMBATANT!” I yelled back.
Rachel tossed me a dagger.
Jessie howled encouragingly.
Even Mrs. Evernight, watching from the rafters, raised a wineglass and mouthed, “Embrace chaos, Todd.”
A were-cat in rhinestone heels lunged at me, eyes full of prom queen rage.
Rachel screamed, “Duck!”
I screamed, “I’m not a duck!”
Then I fainted.
—
LATER...
I woke up on a stretcher made of bleachers and tinsel, my face smeared in glitter and probably someone’s spell residue.
Jessie was fanning me with a cursed clipboard. “You did great, man.”
“I passed out!”
“Exactly. That’s a defensive strategy.”
Rachel crouched beside me. “Next time, stab first. Cry later.”
“Next time?!”
From somewhere nearby, I heard Coach Fangley screaming “ROUND TWO, LET’S GO!” as two witches started arm-wrestling with telekinesis.
I closed my eyes and whispered:
“Just once, I’d like to go to a school dance without violence, possession, or someone losing a limb.”
Jessie grinned. “Too late. Kevin lost both.”
“Oh my God.”
—
TODD’S PROM FIGHT CARD:
– Accidentally entered battle royale ?
– Passed out during opening round ?
– May have stabbed self with corsage pin ?
– Officially a threat level: Mildly in the way ?
– Prom: now basically Mortal Kombat in formalwear ?
– Kevin is legally dead but spiritually victorious ?
As Coach Fangley summoned the spirit of dodgeball past to referee the rematch, I curled into a ball of tuxedo shame and whispered to the cursed floor:
“I miss middle school.”
Scene 7: “Todd Accidentally Gets Engaged (to a Were-Chihuahua)”
I needed air.
And possibly a new identity.
After the prom cage match, my tux was ripped, my soul was in a blender set to “sad milkshake,” and I had just witnessed Kevin, the yearbook guy, defeat a zombie with a concussion-powered backflip.
So I escaped.
Out the gym doors, past the possessed smoothie bar, through the sentient fog, and into the school’s “enchanted garden”—which was really just four hedges and a fountain that occasionally spat up frogs and existential dread.
And that’s when I saw her.
Lupita.
Sitting alone on a stone bench under a flickering fairy light.
She wore a shimmery pastel dress and combat boots the size of protein bars.
Tears streaked her face.
And she was sniffling.
I froze.
This was prom. This was sacred ground. You don’t cry here unless someone dies or accidentally plays the uncensored version of “Pony.”
I cleared my throat gently. “Hey, you okay?”
She looked up. Eyes wide, ears twitching beneath her carefully gelled bangs.
“You’re... Todd, right?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She sniffled. “No one asked me to dance.”
“Oh. That’s... criminal.” I sat beside her, the bench instantly colder than my GPA. “You look amazing. I mean, if no one’s asked you, that says way more about them.”
She smiled faintly.
“I just thought... maybe tonight I’d finally get bonded.”
“Bonded?” I echoed. “Like... spiritually?”
She nodded shyly. “In my culture, a boutonniere offered under moonlight is a courtship token.”
Pause.
“I thought people just... liked flowers,” I said.
She giggled. “Not when you’re a were-chihuahua.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry—come again?”
“Were-chihuahua,” she repeated, brushing invisible fur off her dress. “We don’t howl. We yap. We imprint fast. And we commit.”
A pause long enough to be legally awkward followed.
Then, trying to be nice, I took off my boutonniere—slightly wilted, definitely garlic-free—and handed it to her.
“Here,” I said. “You should have this.”
Her hands flew to her face.
“Oh. My. Moon. You’re choosing me?!”
I immediately sensed danger. I had stepped into a social landmine wearing emotional clown shoes.
“Wait,” I said, “is this—”
She grabbed the boutonniere, clutched it to her chest, and let out a tiny, ecstatic growl.
The garden lights surged.
Somewhere, wind chimes played “Canon in D.”
The frog fountain exploded.
From behind the hedge, Rachel burst in.
“TODD NO,” she shouted. “THAT’S A BINDING GESTURE!”
Lupita turned to her, smiling wide. “We’re promised now. He’s my mate.”
“WHAT?!” I screeched. “I was just being polite!”
Rachel stalked forward, corset creaking with wrath. “You just proposed in chihuahua culture! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”
“I shared a flower!”
“That’s basically second base and a mortgage where she’s from!”
Jessie skidded into the courtyard, half-dressed and covered in frosting.
“She shifted yet?!”
Lupita giggled. “Only if he kisses me.”
I screamed.
Jessie held out his arms protectively. “Nobody's kissing anyone unless I can mediate. Lupita, you’re sweet, but Todd has no idea what he’s doing. He still uses Bing.”
“Jessie!” I cried. “Speak her language!”
He knelt in front of her. Cleared his throat. Then let out a series of high-pitched, yappy barks that honestly sounded like a dying squeaky toy in heat.
Lupita gasped. “You speak Northern Pocketpack?!”
“A little,” he grunted. “Majored in it. Community college.”
They yapped back and forth in a musical blend of growls, snorts, and barks.
I just stood there.
Holding my soul in my hands like a dropped snow cone.
Finally, Jessie turned to me.
“She’s agreed to wait until the next full moon before finalizing the bond. That gives you three days.”
“Three days for what?!”
“Either annulment, or you become her mate and spend the next five years as a stay-at-home squirrel hunter.”
I whimpered. “I’m allergic to commitment. And fur.”
Lupita patted my arm. “I’ll wait. But I expect snuggles.”
Rachel dragged me away by the collar.
“You’re never allowed to hand flora to strangers again.”
“Noted.”
Jessie barked goodbye in Pocketpack. Lupita wagged slightly.
TODD’S UNINTENTIONAL ENGAGEMENT LOG:
– Offered boutonniere ?
– Proposed in chihuahua dialect ?
– Binding complete ?
– Panicked ?
– Engagement temporarily suspended ?
– Mental health: trembling ?
Back in the gym, Rachel shoved a soda in my hand.
“You need electrolytes and a muzzle.”
“I was being kind!”
“You’re too kind,” she snapped. “Next thing you know you’ll be married to a banshee because you complimented her shriek pitch.”
I sipped. “It was very on-key…”
She threw her hands in the air.
Somewhere nearby, a werewolf howled. A vampire moaned in despair. And I quietly Googled “how to get un-engaged from supernatural chihuahuas without dying.”
Answer: unclear.
Scene 8: “Everyone’s Shirt Comes Off for Some Reason”
It started with a bass drop.
One second, we were grinding through a spell-safe remix of “Thriller,” the gym reeking of sweat, blood-type punch, and teen angst.
The next second?
BOOM.
A pulse of green light erupted from the DJ booth.
The walls shook.
The floor sighed.
The disco ball screamed and shed three mirrors.
And then…
Everyone’s shirt vanished.
Not like exploded or ripped—just... blinked out of existence.
Poof. Topless.
I stood dead center, clutching my soda, as the entire prom population collectively looked down and had a moment.
Jessie gasped. “Not again!”
Rachel stared at her now-shirtless midriff with calm disdain. “Oh, for moon’s sake.”
A freshman vampire cried, “MY NIPPLES ARE UNHOLY!”
And me?
I screamed. Loudly. Then dropped my soda and immediately tried to cover both nipples and soul with a cursed prom flyer.
“WHAT HAPPENED?” I shrieked.
“The spell,” Rachel growled, drawing a blessed dagger from her garter belt. “Someone triggered a shirt-stripping spell.”
“WHO WOULD DO THAT?!”
From the DJ booth, DJ Suckadelic held up a rune-etched USB drive.
“I thought it was a remix of ‘Pony.’ I didn’t know it was enchanted!”
Then a werewolf howled, and the entire gym devolved into chaos.
Shirts were gone.
Self-esteem was optional.
And hormones?
Fully unhinged.
—
CATALOG OF SHIRTLESS CHAOS:
- Jessie was already shirtless from the cage match, but now struck a slow-motion hero pose under a spotlight he definitely summoned with werewolf pheromones.
- Rachel did not take it well. “My modesty is magically calibrated,” she snapped, slicing a curtain off the wall and fashioning it into a makeshift top with pure rage and pins.
- Mrs. Evernight, who never technically wore anything that counted as a shirt, floated past with a casual, “This is tasteful chaos. I approve.”
- Principal Grudge hissed from under the bleachers, “I warned them this would happen in my prophecy-slash-email.”
- Kevin had somehow reappeared from the dead and was shirtless again, twirling a nunchuck over one shoulder and sobbing softly into a marshmallow.
—
Back on the floor, I was trying to stay unnoticed by folding a napkin into a tube top.
No luck.
The punch exploded again, this time into glitter.
I now sparkled.
Everywhere.
Jessie ran over, panting. “Todd! You okay?!”
“I’m 16 and topless in front of every supernatural being I’ve ever offended! Of course I’m NOT OKAY!”
Rachel joined us, pinning her curtain shirt with a blessed bobby pin. “You’re lucky it wasn’t the pants spell.”
I froze. “There’s a pants spell?!”
“Not anymore,” she said, eyes narrowing at the DJ. “I destroyed the USB. With my shoe.”
DJ Suckadelic sobbed into a synth pad.
Then someone screamed, “WHY ARE THE VAMPIRES SPARKLING?!”
Jessie winced. “That’s not sparkle. That’s sunlight residue. Someone cracked the roof enchantment.”
Indeed—several vampires were beginning to smoke.
One pulled out a tiny umbrella. Another hissed, “Get the aloe!”
In the corner, Kale the vegan zombie had tied a napkin into a halter top and was preaching about body positivity in a voice like sleepy oatmeal.
Rachel looked at me. “You caused this somehow.”
“Why does everyone assume that?!”
“You always trigger the spell.”
I gestured wildly. “I’ve never even studied rune theory!”
“You kissed a golem once and accidentally started an earthquake.”
“That was an emotional support golem and you know it!”
Jessie sighed and wrapped his backup shirt—how did he even have that?—around my shoulders.
I sparkled harder.
“Thanks,” I muttered, voice cracking.
“It’s okay, bro. Everyone’s mostly focused on their own trauma.”
A vampire shrieked nearby: “MY CHEST IS CURSED WITH AN EX’S INITIALS!”
I stared into the middle distance.
TODD’S PROM STRIP-MAGIC DISASTER REPORT:
– Shirts: gone ?
– Modesty: hanging by a thread, literally ?
– Covered in glitter and mild shame ?
– Blamed for spell: emotionally ?
– Temporarily re-shirted by werewolf bestie ?
– Still somehow engaged to a were-chihuahua ?
Rachel stabbed a rogue vine trying to hand out enchanted nipple pasties.
Jessie howled. Twice. For mood.
And I—glittering, trembling, shirt-adjacent—whispered:
“This is the weirdest prom ever.”
The disco ball fell.
Missed me by six inches.
“And I’ve seen Twilight.”