When everyone said, “Juniors don’t get to go to Prom.” I said, “Challenge accepted.”
However, as a mere eleventh-grader, I knew the odds were stacked against me. Seniors have the advantage: parking space, leadership roles, and, most importantly, a one year head start. The clock was ticking—and I was ready to make my first move.
Act I: Reconnaissance
I blended in with the surroundings, moved with the shadows, and surveyed every room for a possible candidate. Armed with my notebook (a rule-abiding student like myself would never violate the phone policy) and my PILOT FriXion Gel Clicker, I jotted down intel on everything: snack preferences, which potted plant they favour, and—most importantly—whether they had a prom date. The lists were long, the stakes were high, and my pen was running out of ink.
Act II: Infiltration
The next step was to get closer. One could say I became a chameleon. Although, joining their B7 CL English IV: The Art of Mélange wasn’t just blending in—it was a power move (I got kicked out). After becoming the master of “accidental” hallway encounters, and the supreme commander of small talk, there was no doubt: I had successfully established my presence in their territory.
Act III: Charm
This was the ultimate ace-up-my-sleeve. My secret weapon of mass attraction (WMA). The “destructive” combo: a nonchalant smirk, a casual wink, a 45-degree turn, and the most irresistible eyebrow raise. Legends say this has the ability to stop hearts (with love). The moment it was unleashed, the crowd hurried to shield their eyes, while my target stopped dead in their tracks. And then walked away. I must have underestimated their true power.
Act IV: The Promposal
Every cog was oiled, every piece in place, with no stone left unturned and no detail overlooked. It was time. Of course, someone of my high caliber must have an equally sophisticated promposal. I spent days crafting an intricate cypher, hidden within my Mélange article in the latest issue of the Log. Solving it correctly would lead them to a secret location—the final destination. When the issue was published, I eagerly awaited, disguised as a lectern in the Dining Hall. However, no one noticed the hints hidden in plain sight. My target casually tossed the publication aside, probably mistaking my brilliant code for just another astonishing article by Yours truly—hopelessly unaware that buried beneath my literary genius was a work of romantic cryptography.
As true strategists do, I accepted my loss with grace.
Until, a few days later, when they walked up to me, and said, “Prom?”
The plan had worked all along.
