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Prom Dates from Hell

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Overview

Maggie Quinn, Girl reporter. Honors student, newspaper staffer, yearbook photographer. Six weeks from graduation and all she wants to do is get out of Avalon High in one piece. Fate seems to have different plans for her.

High school may be a natural breeding ground for evil, but the scent of fire and brimstone is still a little out of the ordinary. It's the distinct smell of sulfur that makes Maggie suspect that something's a bit off. And when realTwilight Zone stuff starts happening to the school's ruling clique--the athletic elite and the head cheerleader and her minions, all of whom happen to be named Jessica--Maggie realizes it's up to her to get in touch with her inner Nancy Drew and ferret out who unleashed the ancient evil before all hell breaks loose.

Maggie has always suspected that prom is the work of the devil, but it looks like her attendance will be mandatory. Sometimes a girl's got to do some pretty undesirable things if she wants to save her town from soul-crushing demons from hell and the cheerleading squad.

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Author Information

Bio of Rosemary Clement-Moore

Maggie Quinn: Thank you for letting me interview you. Rosemary Clement-Moore: I'm just glad that the character of my novels is a journalist. It means I don't have to write about myself, which can be so awkward. MQ: Right. Awkward. Like that Starfleet Academy sweatshirt you're wearing. RCM: Only inside the house, I swear. I'm a closet nerd. MQ: I guess I don't need to ask if you were popular in high school. RCM: Like you, I wasn't part of the "in crowd," but I had friends and activities. My grades weren't as good as yours, though, because I was always writing stories when I should have been doing my algebra homework. MQ: So, you've always wanted to be a writer? RCM: While other girls were having runway shows with their Barbies, mine went on fantastic adventures in space or battled evil overlords to free their kingdoms (of which they were all princesses in disguise). MQ: In other words, you were always weird. RCM: I prefer "eccentric and creative." MQ: But you have a master's degree in science-how did that happen? RCM: The usual. A pessimistic but convincing guidance counselor who said, "But what's going to be your day job?" So, I picked something that sounded interesting, then loaded up on electives. My transcript is all over the place, and I had a blast learning new things. Researching my books is like staying in school forever, but without as many final exams and keg parties. MQ: Speaking of jobs, you have a really random collection of hobbies and skills. RCM: I'm a fifth generation Texas rancher on one side, and a first generation American on the other. Being the child of a cowboy and a city girl contributes to my weirdness. I can ride, shoot, sail, tie knots, pitch a tent, and build a campfire and then cook on it. I can also serve high tea, embroider and sew, tap dance, and sing random selections from Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. I love history, archeology, literature, ballet, musical theater, horses, and dogs. Plus the whole sci-fi/fantasy obsession. MQ: Did you always want to write for teens? RCM: That's just how it turned out. I enjoy stories about discovering your talents, and how you're going to use them to save the world, sometimes literally. MQ: Yeah, what's up with that? Monsters and demons? Evil cheerleaders? Do you keep yourself up at night? RCM: Well, I don't believe in literal monsters and demons, just figurative ones, which are even more frightening. It's scary to realize that horrific things like the Holocaust or 9/11 or the Virginia Tech shootings aren't caused by supernatural forces, but by human beings. Giving evil a face and defeating it in fiction is very satisfying. The good/evil line isn't as clear-cut when it doesn't involve automatic weapons. Sometimes the little decisions-kind words over hateful ones, unprompted generosity, honesty when no one is watching-are harder than the big obvious ones. But I think they're just as important, which is why my characters are often faced with the choice of doing the easy thing, or doing the right thing. MQ: Way to bring things down. Let's lighten it up a little. Why give up your glamorous job as a youth theater director for writing books? RCM: Well, you don't have to worry about a special effects budget in a book. You can do whatever you want. You can also go anywhere, be anything or anyone-the same things that appeal to me about drama, except I don't have to stay on a diet, and I get to work on the couch, wearing my Starfleet Academy sweatshirt. Though the puppy in my lap does make it hard to type sometimes. MQ: I have to say, your dog, Lizzie, is probably the cutest dog on the planet. RCM: How nice of you to agree with me!

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Additional Info

Imprint

Delacorte for Young Readers

Filesize

832.48 KB

Number of Pages

320

eBook ISBN

9780375849077

Excerpt from: Prom Dates from Hell by Rosemary Clement-Moore

As an interactive horror experience, with beasts from Hell, mayhem, gore, and dismemberment, it was an impressive event. As a high school prom, however, the evening was marginally less successful.

I should start at the beginning, but I'm not entirely certain when that is, so I'll start with the day I realized that despite my most determined efforts, I was not going to be able to ignore the prom entirely.

The end of April, and a rabid satin and tulle frenzy had attached to every double X chromosome in the senior class. All available wall space-hallway, cafeteria, even the bathrooms-sprouted signage in the most obnoxious colors possible. I was assaulted by flyers in the courtyard, and harassed by thrice-daily announcements. Had I gotten my tickets yet? Had I voted for the class song? Had I voted for the King and Queen? No, no, and Hell no, because voting for royalty was not just moronic, it was oxymoronic.

No one was safe from the Prom Plague. When dog-eared copies of Seventeen magazine started circulating through AP English, I knew I'd soon have to fall back to the band hall and call the CDC from there.

Then one day my neutrality was over. My indifference punctured. Stanley Dozer asked me to be his date.

Stanley Dozer was even lower on the high school food chain than I was, and I was in the journalism club. Sometimes I think God must have a kind of divine craps table; every once in a while He shoots snake eyes and the next baby born is screwed from the jump. I mean, "Stanley Dozer," for starters. Maybe he could have aesthetically overcome this name, but the guy was about six foot five, pale and bony as a corpse, with hair the color of spider webs. His ankles and wrists shot out of his too short jeans and the sleeves of his plaid button-down shirt. I sympathized with the sizing problems, but I had to wonder at the complete inattention to fashion. And by fashion I mean "camouflage."

Back on the middle school Serengeti I learned that, lacking a certain killer instinct, my best bet was to avoid standing out from the herd and making myself a target for the apex social predators, at least until I'd built up a tough skin. Now I'm sort of like the spiny anteater. Small and prickly, trundling along, a threat to no one. Except ants, I guess, which is where the metaphor runs out.

Back to Stanley's ambush. On the second-story breezeway that overlooked the courtyard below, the Spanish Club was selling candy to raise money for their Guatemalan sponsor child and I was taking their picture. Privately I thought little Juanita would benefit a lot faster if they sold tequila shots instead. Not that I advocate underage alcohol, but I bet there were a few teachers who could use a drink this time of year.

"Hi, Maggie!" Stanley's voice startled me.

I spun around, narrowly missing hitting him in his bony chest with my camera. I'm used to looking up, but with Stanley I had to crane my neck and squint. "Oh. Hi, Stanley."

Behind me, the Spanish Club giggled. What was Espa-ol for "Bite me"?

"How are you?" he asked, hefting his book bag onto his shoulder. The canvas bag bore the logo of the natural history museum. High on the geek quotient, but worlds better than the briefcase he'd carried freshman year.

"I'm taking some pictures for the yearbook." I hinted broadly that I was busy. After all, the next box of Chiclets might be the one that sent little Juanita to college.

"I saw you up here, and I thought . . . Well, you know how the prom is coming up?"

"Is it really?" I mumbled, messing with the settings on my camera. "I had no idea."

Sarcasm sailed over his head, which was a trick considering his height. He shuffled from foot to foot, giving the unfortunate appearance of a dancing skeleton. "Well, I was thinking you could go with me. We could, you know, go together."

The words entered my ears, but my brain rejected them. Stanley Dozer was not asking me to the prom. Words failed me, and that's just not something that happens. Ever. I'd known Stanley since his paste-eating days, and had always tried to be nice to him. I was the spoilsport who pulled the kick me sign off his back, or helped him pick up his books after he'd been tripped-either by his own overlong legs or someone else's. I guess if I were a better person I'd have befriended him more thoroughly. I felt bad about that, but not that bad.

"Wow. The prom." I stalled as the rest of the school continued normal operations, electric bells calling students to class, kids buffeting us as they passed on the breezeway, calling to the people below. "I really wasn't planning to go," I said honestly. "I might have to take pictures, but I'd kind of be working."