Flashback. 1986.
Regina: Dude. Lena. What're you doin' on Saturday night?
Lena: Ha. Very funny.
Regina: Huh?
Lena: That's funny. You're not usually this funny before Algebra. Heh.
Regina: What the fuck are you talking about?
Lena: Saturday. "What're you doin' on Saturday night?" Heh. Hilarious.
Regina: Uh. I wasn't trying to be funny, Lena. I realize this might come as quite a shock to you. Me being funny and all without trying.
Lena: Uh. What?
Regina: What. Are. You. Doing. On. Saturday. Night? It's a fairly simple question.
Lena: Are you high?
Regina: Yes, Lena. I'm high. I'm an eighteen-year-old cynic who abhors most of her peers. I'm a likely candidate for ganja.
Lena: Sorry. I forgot.
Regina: So?
Lena: "So" what?
Regina: Work with me, Lena. Saturday. Do you have plans?
Lena: Reg.
Regina: Yeah?
Lena: Reg.
Regina: What?
Lena: It's the prom on Saturday, Reg.
Regina: Prom? We have a prom?
Lena: Okay. Now you're being funny.
Regina: The Prom is on Saturday night?
Lena: Shhh.
Regina: OUR PROM IS ON SATURDAY NIGHT?
Lena: Reg.
Regina: AS IN TWO DAYS FROM NOW?
Lena: Dude. DUDE.
Regina: [quietly] Okay. Lemme get this straight. The prom. This Saturday.
Lena: [warily] Yeeeesss...
Regina: [dangerous whisper] As in the prom that I have not been asked to?
Lena: [searching for exit] Uh, yeah. That's the one.
Regina: [deadly] Yeah.
Lena: [nervously] You okay?
Regina: [anything to the contrary] Mm-hm.
Lena: [tentatively approaching] Reg?
Regina: [blankly staring] Yuh?
Lena: You okay?
Regina: [straightening up] Huh? Oh. Yeah. Sure. Fine. Great. Fabulous.
Lena: [hesitantly] Okaaaay...
Regina: Why wouldn't I be fine? Hm? I mean, really? I've just not been invited to the single most [screaming at the top of her lungs] IMPORTANT EVENT OF MY FUCKING HIGH-SCHOOL CAREER BECAUSE NOT ONE OF THE EMOTIONAL REPROBATES AT THIS SCHOOL CAN GET IT UP LONG ENOUGH TO MUSTER THE COURAGE TO ASK ME TO WEAR A STUPID OVER-PRICED SATIN DRESS AND DANCE TO "SHOUT" WHILE THEY PUKE ALL OVER THE FLOWER ARRANGEMENTS.
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.
Back at the student prom montage...Blah blah blah the kids all want to go to prom, blah blah blah Allie doesn't have a boyfriend, blah blah blather SCOOTER'S KISSING SOMEONE! Ew. And in case I pass out due to disgust and forget to say it, EW.
And now, for the first time since missing the important field goal, Captain Kiwi has his very own personal segment. He tells us that he and his girlfriend (remember her? Yeah, the one with the dark roots and the Anna-envy. Her) recently broke up. Kiwi gets out of bed and readies himself for school as he explains why they broke up. Yeah, like we need a transparency and an overhead projector to help us understand why high-school romances end. Someone grab me an Encyclopedia Britannica -- I'm baffled over here. Sans educational tools, though, Kiwi then attempts to explain the reasoning behind the breakup to a friend of his in the cafeteria. "There was this whole dilemma, like, about this other guy...and I couldn't be with her if there was this other guy...remember I told you about this fucked-up guy...so...I just couldn't..." Then he looks off into the distance, his tenuous grasp on the English language escaping him.
"I'm Morgan Moss, I'm a senior at Highland Park High School, and this is the worst year of my life," Morgan says in a voice-over. Word, Morgan. Seriously. I'm Regina Rouge, I'm drinking a tasty Bloody Mary right now, I'm single, and this has been the worst two months of my life (recapping AH, hanging out with Sars when she was in town, and an endless supply of left-over vodka notwithstanding). Morgan's saying that he and Salima have always had problems due to her parents; he's addressing an envelope and wrapping up a little package in red heart paper. God, he's a cutie. But maybe that's just the vodka talking. Even though Morgan thinks he and Salima are together, he's completely barred from talking to or hanging out with her due to her failing grades and her over-protective parents. The only time he can see her is at school. "I'm just sick of it," says Morgan.
Hallowed HPHS Halls of Justice. Salima's getting a birthday hug from a friend who notices that someone did a number on Salima's locker. No, not that kind of number. Get your minds out of the gutter. The "Happy Birthday Salima" kind of number: banners, posters, stickers -- the works. Morgan walks up, hands her his carefully wrapped gift and card, hugs her, wishes her a happy birthday, and then walks off. Salima walks away from her locker as her voice-over informs us that she's kind of not allowed to date Morgan right now. And I have to give snaps to the editor and director of this show because just as the words "not allowed to date him right now" come out of her mouth, the crap on her locker just peels off and falls to the ground. You can't ask for a more perfect illustration of love gone wrong. Yes, I'm stretching. No, you don't get to tell me that I'm stretching. Just be quiet and pay attention. As Salima opens her card and gift in the library, she tells us that her father has laid down the law and stated that she's not allowed to date Morgan anymore because he only brings trouble. It's true, I know, judging from viewings of their turbulent relationship, but I still feel kind of bad for them. They're sweet. I mean, they're sweet in a Natural Born Killers sort of way. Yes, I'm kidding. No, I'm not drunk yet.