Prom: the most magical night of your entire high school career. Since freshman year, you’d been planning, secretly dropping hints to a guy you wanted to be asked by, buying a dress four years early so that no one else would have it, and making reservations at the Olive Garden. You found out fast that your perfect night was going to go all wrong. Your date doesn’t have the right shade of teal in his bowtie, and he has a massive zit on his left nostril. Your dress is too small, having bought it for your slimmer freshman frame, and apparently the Olive Garden doesn’t do reservations four years in advance, although you didn’t believe them at the time. But that’s okay, because GV is now offering you the next best thing. A prom do-over!
The Presidents’ Ball is just like any other school dance, but with more specific themes such as this year’s, The Great Gatsby, and legal booze. It also mirrors prom as it requires the hottest guy in school to take you, and gives you an excuse to dress up. You’ve already told your parents all about it, and they’ve rented you a limo to take you to the Fieldhouse, even though you live on campus. Who would want to walk all that way in heels?
Regardless, the reservations at the Grandville Olive Garden are a go, and your squad is lookin’ fab. Although, Lauren is wearing the same dress as you since you didn’t have a ton of time to order a new one, but that’s okay, she’s your friend, and you’re going to post selfies with her all night with #twinning so everyone thinks it was on purpose. You can’t let a little “who wore it better?” get to you. Not tonight.
The pictures are taken, and the parents cry over the phone as you FaceTime them while you all pile into the limo for a night out. Everybody takes shots from the mini bar because going to prom, er, the Presidents’ Ball, is much more fun when you’re drunk. The dancing basically resembles a huge orgy, with all the women bent at the waist; let your date get a taste of what he’s getting after you leave. There’s a hotel room and everything, now that you’re old enough to rent one out yourself. You’d been saving your virginity for prom, but this is the next best thing, and might as well play it up for all it’s worth. Your prime was in high school, and you’re not getting any younger.
The night goes by perfectly, your date and you match, you ripped Lauren’s dress when she wasn’t looking and now she’s crying in the bathroom. You’ve deluded yourself into thinking there’s a Presidents’ Ball/Prom Queen and you’ll most likely win. You have to be, it’s the only way that this night would be complete. You had spread a rumor earlier in the night that you had spiked all the juice boxes for the under-aged attendees to ensure their vote. Those idiots, everyone knows you can’t spike a juice box.
But, alas, you find that there is not a Presidents’ Ball Queen, and your night is ruined. No more hotel, no more drunken orgy dancing pits, just you wallowing in your misery as you trudge back to North A to live out the rest of your useless, pathetic, queen-less life. Prom’s over, it’s not coming back, and it’s finally time to face the facts: you’re not in high school anymore.