I HEARD BRITTANY WAS EXPELLED.

Or driven out of town by a mob of her victims.

At least, so say the many students who, in their hunger for details about what truly happened, decided to fabricate their own. No-one really knows how the teachers decided to deal with her. Not even the Monarchs — but given their mutiny, that's to be expected.

All we know is that no-one's seen or contacted Brittany since her breakdown on Monday.

And she hasn't been missed.

The entire student body has been alight with joy since that day. Most of the freshmen and sophomores — who had only a short, albeit terrifying, understanding of how cruel the Monarchy could be — assumed all the paper and commotion was just the senior prank for the year. But the juniors and seniors — who lived through their reign for years — truly understood the magnitude of that day.

More than understood, actually. They revelled in it.

Surprisingly, most of the cheer was spread by the Monarchy themselves.

They went through school apologising to any student to which they ever caused harm — emotional, physical or otherwise — which was a lot. I heard Madison was using her previous messages as a way to track down her cyberbullying victims. As for the others, they had to rely on facial recognition to find students, which wasn't too hard.

With the extensive damage the Monarch had done over four years, nearly every second person was someone who deserved an apology. Either from Derek, Reece, Madison, Terrence, or on behalf of Brittany. What was inspiring, however, weren't the apologies.

It was that, in most cases, people didn't fully accept them at first.

I can't count the profanities spewed towards the ex-Monarchs, nor the bitch-slaps and flipped birds — though I can count the one time a girl dumped her water on Reece. One might have looked at the hostility towards the Monarchy negatively, but it filled me with relief.

It proved that the students no longer felt compelled to readily accept whatever the Monarchy dished out. If they wanted to swear and insult them with the dirty laundry made available to the whole school by yours truly, they could. And on the other hand, if they wanted to sit down and talk it out, they also could.

It didn't matter if they accepted the apologies or not. I know the Monarchs weren't apologising to assuage their conscience; it wasn't a self-serving gesture. If anyone could get closure from them reaching out, they were willing to do it over and over again.

The fear was gone, from both bullies and bullied, replaced by freedom so profound it made my heart thump with pride when witnessing it.

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Squeezing into my vice of a dress was not easy.

With its cream colour and gentle, flowing silhouette, my ball dress is indubitably beautiful — but two times more high-maintenance. Aside from its sheer skin-hugginess, there are so many layers of skirts and odd, thin lacy contraptions that criss-cross between my shoulder blades to the low backline that made just getting changed a hellish feat.

Not to mention makeup and hair.

I did my best to conceal the scabs on my cheek from where Brittany scratched me but to no avail. My excuse to Mom when I came home with a plastered face was that a girl had accidentally scratched me whilst going for the same hit in a game of volleyball in Gym class.

"It was my fault, really," I casually explained, "I should have called for it."

Yet, all the grief of scrubbing up has been worth it. I may be sucking in my stomach and only showing my good side in photos all night, but nothing will dampen my spirits. It's Prom night after all and my last one, at that.

Reece Dormer hosts the biggest pre-Prom party that Carsonville has ever seen. Surprisingly, all my friends and I were invited. The whole year, stories about Reece's raging afterparties permeated the student body, but when he personally extended an invite to us in the cafeteria, he bashfully said it wouldn't be anything wild.

None of my friends have forgiven the Monarchy — rightly so — but they reckon siphoning Reece's food and alcohol is a good way to express their dissatisfaction with him. When I walk through the Dormers' grand foyer, into their backyard — with a pool, a grill, and a hammock strung between trees — Delaney leaps up from where she sits with Kyler. "Sophie! Over here!"

Delaney looks like hell's angel, zipped into a silver sequined gown that clings to her body. The colour accentuates her stormy grey eyes, and the neckline accentuates her slender collarbones. "You are looking hella fine," she notes, scanning my formal wear.

Not every senior was personally invited by Reece, but I know every senior was invited. He didn't seem to think twice about making it an open invite party. Seemingly, just because we're graduating but I suspect he's celebrating something else. Either way, many familiar faces take him up on the offer.

A lot of people feel like shaking off old grievances, except Delaney, of course. She was drinking from a proper, delicate champagne glass, and she ceremoniously flings it into an open garbage can as she approaches. It shatters on contact but is safely contained in the bin.

Reece glances over to her at the sound of breaking glass, scowling. Delaney spread her arms in a challenge, clearly tipsy, and yells across the pool. "What, Dormer? You got a problem? You got a problem?"

"Not at all," he smiles tightly back, returning to his conversation with Derek, both of them in navy blue tuxedos.

Delaney takes me to where the rest of our friends are, swinging on the hammock. Kyler's tie is slate grey to match her dress. Leah looks positively radiant in a mint green halter gown, Drew wearing a forest green suit and a matching tie to Leah's.

Warmth flutters in my chest when I see Ben's crisp, clean-cut black suit, and his creamy satin tie. It looks like it'd be endlessly soft between my fingertips. He stands when Delaney and I near the hammock, taking my hand and letting me squeeze onto the swing next to Leah.

"Oh my gosh, you guys look so good!" she exclaims joyously, running her eyes over Delaney and I. "How's your battle scar healing up?"

I absentmindedly brush the wound on my face. "Not too shabby. But I'll be angling to the right in all photos tonight, okay?" Leah chuckles, good-naturedly agreeing.

She even kicks it off, taking the first photo of the night: a group selfie on her phone, full of smiling faces.

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There was dinner, there was laughter and there were tears.

I don't know how rich the Dormers are, but somehow a fleet of ten limos arrived for each friend group to go to the Prom venue. Ours was full of geeks; my closest friends, the Unofficials, Kyler, Wyn, Riley and Phoenix. After we exit the limo, Benjamin graciously takes my arm.

I follow the stream of upperclassmen up the grand stone stairs. The venue is a modern but ornate events centre in the next town over. Though it usually hosts conferences, concerts and plays, it becomes quite popular in Prom season.

Entering the main banquet hall, my eyes are drawn to the wonderful stylistic touches of the Prom committee. With the usual convertible seating packed back, the low glamorous lighting and pumping music, it could almost be mistaken for a real ballroom. I smile softly, seeing the familiar decorations Quentin and I bought two weeks ago.

The blue and gold banners circling the room glint at me, bunches of balloons of the same colour scheme attached at regular intervals. Glittering silver stars have been hung from the ceiling, swaying gently in the breeze from the air conditioning. In the centre of the room, the floor is cleared for dancing, right under a spinning disco ball.

Dinner is surprisingly varied, with three options for each of three courses. I have scallops, beef, then chocolate fudge for dessert. Delaney eats so much she has to unzip her dress a bit at the side for some extra breathing room. It is quite hilarious, watching the chaperone blanch in horror at her lack of decorum, even though no-one can really see anything under her arm.

Then comes a speech by the salutatorian — the head cheerleader. She touches upon how close her homeroom class has grown over the years, also humorously reflecting on several of their 'glow-ups.' I hear many students hooting mirthfully at her jokes.

Had I been at Carsonville longer than a year, I would have laughed along, too. But seeing as my roots don't run as deep, I resign myself to slowly making my way through the leftover fudge and smiling fondly at the camaraderie in front of me.

Her speech earns a round of raucous applause. She obviously proved herself deserving of being the runner up to valedictorian, who won't be announced till prizegiving. But I have my money on Benjamin.

Regardless of who it is, the valedictorian will have two weeks after prizegiving to write their speech for the graduation ceremony. Hopefully, it is as moving as the salutatorian's speech, who now has the pleasure of announcing the Prom King and Queen. The strobe lighting dims until her cheerful face is illuminated in a halo spotlight.

"The votes have been counted," she announces dramatically. "Our Prom Queen for this year is... drumroll please!" Everyone good-naturedly raps against the tabletops, generating a rumbling buildup before I hear—

"Sophie Olsen!"

I choke on the fudge spoon in my mouth, and a crumb of graham cracker shoots down my windpipe. The spotlight falls on me, illuminating how red my face goes as I hack away and clutch my throat. No fucking way. Is this Terrence's last prank for the year?

Meanwhile, Delaney, Leah, Drew, and Ben laugh their asses off watching me cough up a lung. Leah pours me a glass of water and slides it over to me. The rest of the graduating class chuckles, too, until I hear Madison hoot, "Get up, Prom Queen!"

I rise from my chair, awkwardly piling the endless folds of my dress skirt into my hands such that I don't trip. Lord knows I don't need another near-death experience just trying to get onto the stage. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be Prom Queen. Not that I even care too much about it.

As I pass familiar faces, I know it's not only tonight that makes this year memorable. Each face, offering supportive smiles or an encouraging whoop, sparks a heartfelt memory.

I see Callum, Ashley, and Quen and suddenly I remember playing a song on the beach, watching a bonfire die into embers.

I see Riley and remember the hashtag she started, filling my social media feed with proud, unbreakable messages of strength.

I see Wyn and Kyler and remember the weekends we spent working on the newspaper, spinning the wheely chairs across the room, and throwing paper scraps at each other.

By the time I'm on stage, I have to hunt to find my original table, squinting through the spotlight. "Congratulations, love," the salutatorian says to me, placing a crown on my head, a sash around my shoulder, and the microphone in my hands.

When I catch the faces of my newfound friends, smiling encouragingly — and not at all surprised — I get another rush of joy, deeper in my bones this time.

Unsuccessfully rowing a boat, spinning in circles, at Haywood Park due to Drew's sprained wrist. Dancing with Delaney and Leah in some random house. Ben holding me while someone shoves a pie into my face. Hot chocolate in the snow. Watching Marvel movies at Leah's house. Music. Laughs. Tears. Love.

The salutatorian smiles warmly. "Any words of thanks?"

I nod, raising the microphone to my lips. More than I can ever say.

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Terrence tells me that Madison, though she should really stop pulling strings with her popularity, rigged the election.

The last thing she wanted was Brittany or herself crowned, which surprised me immensely. When she heard my friends jointly nominated me, she did everything she could to endorse me. Then Madison did the same thing for Terrence, the Prom King.

We're unlikely candidates, I know. Though Terrence was notorious, he was solitary, joined no clubs, and kept to himself the whole year. And I'm just a geek. A new one, at that. A weird turn of events to end a weird year. I cannot think of anything more fitting.

For the mandatory Prom King and Prom Queen dance, Terrence takes my hand, gently leading me into the centre of the dancefloor. Lacing his fingers with mine, Terrence guides me to start swaying in time with the music, my skirt flaring out as I move side to side.

"You look dashing, Prom King," I compliment him truthfully.

He wears a black tuxedo with a matching tie — yet his hair is still wild and unruly, keeping his signature air of cheekiness about him. Like a shy boy shoved into a man's attire. "Thanks," he returns my grin. "You, too."

"So where are your friends?"

His eyes widen imperceptibly as if just realising there are other people in the room. Looking around the area, he admits, "I don't know. I ate dinner with them, but haven't seen them since. They're probably still apologising to people."

"Oh. How is that going?"

"Um, not too bad. Most of the people I talk to hate my guts, so at least we have something in common," he says self-deprecatingly.

I sigh soberly. "You know, you've done so much for the Revolution this year. And the lot of you have been very responsible these last few days, owning your past like that. But the only person who needs to forgive you is yourself. I think you deserve that."

"You do? Thanks, I guess. I'll work on it."

"Good," I encourage.

Terrence falls in step with my movements, moving forward if I move back and back if I move forward. The distance between us remains small but still palpable. I'm not sure if the warmth I feel is emanating from Terrence or a product of the hot summer air.

As we dance, all the memories of stress and pain from this year fade away. It's hard to look into Terrence's eyes — so open and full of warmth — and recall a time where he was ever a bad person. Obviously, I remember everything with a painstaking clarity, but the boy in my memory no longer exists. Or rather, is no longer connected to the man in front of me.

As far as I'm concerned, this is a completely new person. And unlike the old Terrence, a real person — not a puppet — with real flaws and all. "You remember that Saturday we met at the Shack? And you said these last four years have been really hard?" I ask.

"Mm. What about it?"

"Are you happy with how you're leaving high school?"

Terrence casts his eyes downwards, his lips pressed in a thin, thoughtful line. "Now that it's nearly over actually, I'm quite happy to be going. Maybe I didn't like the journey, but I like the destination. I like that I made it. I don't know how to word it— but yeah."

"Yeah," I echo, understanding his emotions perfectly.

"And..." Terrence's hands release mine, sliding to my waist. "I like that it's ending with you."

"I know," I reply, feeling his grip tighten on me imperceptibly, drawing us closer. "Me, too."

On Terrence's face blossoms a smile that reminds me of sunbeams cascading through clouds, of toes hitting warm sand on a beach, of all things small but mighty. I smile back. He's not so intimidating anymore. Nor are Madison, Reece, and Derek, who have been waiting at the end of a long photobooth line all night. No-one lets them skip ahead.

The Monarchs are no longer kings and queens deeming the peasants worthy to be walked among.

To faculty and student body alike, they are just four ordinary teenagers navigating the last balmy days of high school with only their wits and friends — what every other high schooler has. Yes, they're now no more powerful than the next teenager but with that comes normality and acceptance.

Dare I say, that is what they truly wanted all along.

THE END