Free Prom Queen of Disaster by Joseph James Hunt

every Monday, because meatball Monday could not be trusted, it was a mystery meat my body could not digest. But Friday was pizza day, and they couldn’t go wrong with pizza.
    “You should’ve reminded me,” Hannah said as I pulled my sandwich from my lunch bag.
    “Every Monday,” I laughed.
    “Think it’s real meat?” Libby asked.
    “God no,” Char said, “it’s all ball. No meat.”
    “Poor guys,” Ava added. “Question is which animal do they take them from?”
    We glanced at each other, often, we weren’t sure if Ava was serious. Usually, she wasn’t and trying to add something to the joke , but it would never seem to land. “It’s beef, so probably a cow,” I said, not believing myself. I had a sandwich; I didn’t need to believe.
    “Oh.” She creased her face at the thought. “So the male ones?”
    “Bulls,” Char said.
    “But cows are the ones you milk,” Ava said.
    “Yeah. Try and milk a bull and I’m sure he’d be upset, or excited.”
    “Ew.” She stabbed a fork into a meatball. “As long as they taste semi-nice, that’s fine.”
    I dug into my cheese and pastrami sandwich. Tuesdays in the cafeteria were usually hamburger patty days, the leftover mystery meat from Monday. Funny enough, I enjoyed Tuesdays.
    A voice came over the PA again before the bell for final period. “A quick reminder, at 2 PM, a mandatory assembly is being held, and you’re all expected to attend. That’s 2 PM in the auditorium.”
    Last year, something similar happened when a girl overdosed on some designer drug. They made it sound almost like she had died, but she didn’t, she had her stomach pumped and was back in school a few days later. She’d been a cheerleader, a year older than me. My mom threatened to homeschool me at the thought of drugs circulating the school.
    “If Sadie was here,” Char began, “she’d be having some serious flashbacks.”
    It was time for the dreaded assembly. We’d pre-emptively changed into our cheer outfits, an expression of how much we would rather be in gym class or cheer practice to the stuffy auditorium.
    Three tall men, bulked in their police uniforms walked on stage. They were from the San Rafael Police Department, their faces solid in place, like half of San Rafael’s over 50 within a mile radius of a plastic surgeon’s office.
    A microphone had been placed center stage, adjusted higher than it was for Principal Sanders. He stood awkwardly beside them.
    He tapped three times. “Sure by now you know why you’re here,” the middle man boomed. “And if not, you missed out on the dance, but at least you were safe.” He took a step back.
    “We received a call at 9 PM on Friday night.” Another stood forward. “Reports of teenagers’ vicious vomit attacks. Now, one person, we can understand, two people, again, we anticipate you to experimenting with alcohol, but when almost forty students are reported, well that’s no coincidence. That’s a malicious attack.”
    Staged gasps sounded throughout, we all knew someone had spiked the punch, the question was, who ? Our bets were placed on the student body, but mine were on Kaleb.
    “We pulled a sample from the punch and found traces of the ethanol that went missing.” The third took the microphone. “Known as pure alcohol. We’ve noted a substantial amount missing from the science labs, and we’re investigating this further.”
    They continued to use their scare tactics, asking for any further information. It was a witch hunt.
    “Does anyone have anything to say, publicly, or privately? We’ll be here for a few more hours,” the middle officer spoke up.
    Char cleared her throat and stood. “I have something,” she said. “The only people I saw beside the punch table were the student body.” She shrugged her shoulders. I glanced at the back of their heads; Mila, Heather, and Kirsten. “I mean, I’m not accusing anyone, but isn’t it weird, they stood beside it all evening, and none of them were