“Gimme a countdown to the Ball — go!” Rex Freeman’s voice rang out through the hall. Rex, with his buzzed red hair and biceps always bulging through his rolled up T-shirt sleeves, was way more laid-back than he looked at the moment. Usually, he was only a taskmaster when it came to getting the right number of kegs to his parties. But from the panicked expression of his lanky sophomore assistant, Rex was taking his job as Campaign Commissioner pretty seriously this year.

“Did I stutter?” he barked at the kid. “I asked you how many days.”

“Guh. . fifteen,” the boy twittered, backing against his locker.

“And how many posters per Prince are allowed on the walls fifteen days out?” Rex barked.

As the sophomore flipped frantically through a stapled packet of rules and regulations, Rex looked up and grinned at me.

“I assume your poster count is in compliance ma’am,” he joked, putting on his hick Carolina officer-of-the-law voice and giving my shoulder a squeeze.

“Oh, you know I play by the rules, officer,” I quipped back, matching his southern accent with my best damsel-in-distress.

“That’s more than I can say for your boyfriend,” Rex winced, looking down at his biceps. “I might need a witch doctor after Mike’s tackle today.”

I groaned and popped a piece of Juicy Fruit in my mouth. Rex and Mike had been tight since they accidentally tied their shoelaces together back in second grade, so I was used to them horsing around. But this week was no time to get a stupid football injury!

Usually, I love Mike’s carefree-yet-successful way of going about high school — he definitely balanced me out. But Mike’s place on the Court should have been just as much of a shoo-in as mine this year. It would be, too, if he’d just put in the tiniest bit of effort — well, and if it weren’t for Justin Balmer.