Free Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal by Chris Colfer

space to local businesses but didn’t have any takers.
    Claire Mathews strode up to our float wearingstilettos and a pink gown. She was nominated for homecoming queen and was expected to win—after all, she was in charge of counting the votes.
    “You look like shit,” I said. An insult coming from a life-sized school supply didn’t faze her much.
    “Why couldn’t I have worn something like that?” Malerie asked me.
    “I don’t know what you’re wearing, but I have some bad news,” Claire said. “The truck pulling the cheerleaders’ float, its engine just broke down, so we’re taking yours.”
    She smiled, nodded, and tried walking away.
    “Excuse me?!” I said, feeling actual steam emitting from my ears.
    “I’m sorry,” Claire said, looking back at me, “but homecoming is nothing without the cheerleading float.”
    “Go take the athletes’ truck away,” I demanded. “They pride themselves on running around like mules anyway!”
    “I’m sorry, my decision is final,” Claire said with a smile so fake my left eye started to twitch. She strutted off like she was on a runway.
    My insides started boiling. I felt like I was beingcooked from the inside out and my anger was the chef. She couldn’t do this to me—this was my last shot at making the literary magazine. I started pacing, trying to come up with my next move.
    “Too bad,” Malerie said. “At least we had fun making it.”
    “No,” I said, and stopped dead in my tracks. “They’re gonna see this float if it kills me.”
    I stormed off toward the other floats. I found a rope the cheerleaders had tossed aside. Suddenly, a lightbulb appeared over my head like a bad motel vacancy sign. I had an idea!
    I bet you thought I went on a strangling rampage after that. That was my first idea too, but no, I pursued the second idea instead. I went back and tied the rope to the front of our float.
    It could work.…It just might work , I thought to myself. From that moment on, my body was running on pure adrenaline. I felt like the Hulk. (The Mark Ruffalo Hulk, not those other guys.)
    Night fell…the game started…fireworks burst in the sky (which I’m assuming meant we were winning or had entered some kind of war)…the band warmedup the crowd with cheesy melodies from the seventies…and homecoming began.
    There are moments in life when you think, Oh my God, is this really happening? Am I actually doing this? Is this how I’m going to be remembered for the rest of my life? This was one of those moments, and unfortunately for me, it was very real, I actually did it, and it’ll probably be how I’m remembered for the rest of my life.
    Picture me, dressed as a fucking pencil, pulling the Writers’ Club float across the football field by myself. Imagine Malerie, dressed as a giant notepad, operating the giant notebook on top of our float and waving to the crowd. Visualize the crowd roaring uncontrollably at the cheerleaders passing by but then going dead silent once they noticed us.
    It was so quiet all you could hear were my grunts and swearing while I was pulling the float.
    “Yeah! Writers’ Club! Woo-hoo!” Malerie enthusiastically shouted and continued waving.
    A quiet rumble of snickering started, which grew into an eruption of giggling, which then evolved into an explosion of laughter. Everyone—the parents, thestudents, the faculty, etc.—was pointing and laughing hysterically at me.
    “ SCREW YOU! ” I screamed at them, and finished pulling the float off the field. I was sweating profusely, my face was as red as Mars, my hands were bleeding from the rope, and my body had become so stiff I could barely walk.
    I ripped off my pencil costume, got in my car, and bolted out of the student parking lot. I didn’t even use my blinker .
    I must have driven a hundred miles an hour all the way home. That sounds really fast, but the speedometer is broken, so I was really only doing like sixty or seventy.
    I got home, went into my bedroom, and