Lena: [again seeking exit] Uh.
Regina: [turning to Lena with laser-sharp eyes] WHY SHOULD I NOT BE FINE? HUH? WHAT'S NOT TO BE FINE ABOUT? I'M A FUCKING LOSER SENIOR WITH RED HAIR AND TERRIFYINGLY WHITE SKIN AND AN ALARMING INTELLECT AND I'M NOT GOING TO FUCKING PROM BECAUSE EVERY SINGLE HUMAN WITH A...
Fifteen years later, I have learned that none of it, not one single iota of it, mattered. Not the prom. Not my friends. Not the prom and my friends. It didn't matter. ["I never went to Prom either." -- Wing Chun] And now. Now. I have to recap an episode of American High that revolves almost completely around the high school prom. I may very well kill someone. No. I'm not kidding. Fasten your seatbelts, children. You may be in for a bumpy, angst-filled ride. Let us begin.
Under the white-on-black credits, we hear Kiwi and his hair-cuttin' mama discussing partying after prom at Kiwi's house. "I am legally responsible for you," says Kiwi's mum. "And I am legally responsible for any friend of yours who comes here." "It's not like I get drunk every weekend here, Mom," says Kiwi, as the camera shows Kiwi in all his gray jocko-shirt-sporting glory. "This is the last time I'll ever ask you, in your lifetime, can I have a party in my house? For Prom, we're going downtown. That's given. That's the last hurrah." "I don't have a problem with it," says Kiwi Mum. "I have a problem with you drinking. Why don't you go...Cosmic Bowling?" What? Is there such a thing? Can we reach the stars through bowling? Or is there a Cosmic Bowling Palace? Because Kiwi actually puts his poor non-field-goal-making head down upon his non-football-catching arms and shakes his skull in frustration. What, is the "Cosmic Bowling" on some other planet? What in the holy hell is his mother talking about? Because I don't know. I surely don't know.
Ew. Abalone. CrAbby. "CrAbby" has been introduced in the forums and I think I'll make it real here. CrAbby is on camera, and she's basically using the same form of repetition that worked so well on her ex-friend Brad. "Prom," she says. "Prom. Prom. Prom. Prom." She repeats this word, over and over again, while flicking her dyed blonde hair over her manicured fingertips. "Prom. Prom prom prom." Shut up, CrAbby. Shut up before I send some well-endowed Italian to kill you.
Then Suzy's on camera saying, "Everyone wants to go to their senior prom, right?" Right, Suzy. It's true. Everyone wants to go to their senior prom. Even people who say they don't want to go to their senior prom want to go to their senior prom. Even people who didn't go to their senior prom who say they didn't want to go to their senior prom and that it's a stupid bourgeois tradition that has no business occurring in today's society want to go to their senior prom. Do I lie? ["I really didn't want to go to my senior prom and I don't regret not going. But carry on." -- Wing Chun] Suzy goes on to say, "For twenty years, even though it's just one little night of your life, it seems so pathetic to look back and go, 'No, I didn't go to my senior prom.' Everybody has to go to prom." I didn't go to my senior prom. Yes, I wanted to. No, no one asked me. Yes, I felt pathetic. No, I didn't sit home alone. Yes, I got dressed up, went downtown with a couple of girlfriends, saw Little Shop of Horrors at the Royal George Theatre, went to dinner at Hamburger Hamlet, flirted with the gay waiters, thanked them profusely when they snuck us a couple bottles of wine, drove back to President-Elect Mo's house, stayed up until dawn drinking straight out of bottles of cheap champagne that our extremely cool parents had purchased for us, and finally trudged over to Calla's place the following day for post-prom brunch and mimosas with a bunch of our friends. I didn't go to my senior prom. But I also didn't lose my virginity in the back of a rented limo. Everything's a give and take, people.