Daikaijuzine

“Take out their knees, and they’re on the ground,” Mark heard someone say. “Once they’re on the ground, they’re meat.”

Mark wandered across the gym through knots of tuxedo-clad boys. The girls were all on the opposite side, the polished court separating the sexes. They were beautiful and distant, a sea of sequins, silk, and lace. He caught scraps of conversation. “Why do they get all the breaks?” one nasally voice whined. “We have to go to them, we have to take all the risks, we have to make the first move…” Mark carefully avoided a group of jocks talking about past and future conquests. Among them was Todd Lundgren, captain of the state champion Fighting Mantises and class salutatorian.

At the buffet, the tablecloth looked like a shroud; spatters of red punch on the fabric added to the effect. Mrs. Wheatley served him punch with her left hand. Her right rested on the riot gun, loaded with rubber pellets. She was there to make sure nothing inappropriate happened on or off the dance floor, like the boys ganging up, or the girls slipping rat poison into the punch. She grinned, her smile a white slash in her wrinkled face. She wore a yellow scarf around her throat and her canine teeth were filed sharp. Gah, Mark thought, isn’t she too old for that? He muttered thanks and went back to the other boys.

The clock on the scoreboard was counting down like the timer on a bomb. One minute left. Red and black crepe paper dangled from the walls like spiderwebs. Red filters covered the lights, filling the gym with ruby light. Probably the same stuff they use every year, Mark thought, tugging at the cuffs of his too-small jacket. It had been his father’s when he was Mark’s age.

Every girl watched Todd Lundgren, prime candidate for Homecoming King. Every boy eyed Melody Greene, as would likely be the case until time stole her looks away. Mark’s heart sped up at the sight of her. Blonde and icy, she was a favorite nude model for the art classes (Mark had never been able to get in), head cheerleader, class president. They’d been in school together for almost twelve years, and she’d never looked at him twice. Todd was a match for her, though. No one spoke of it, but everyone knew Melody and Todd had the first dance.

Mark considered an ultra-petite redhead in a black sequined dress. She looked as delicate as blown glass. His father said the small ones were quick and dangerous, but Mark thought she seemed scared, and her fingernails looked dull and second-hand.

Melody stepped to the edge of the court as the clock ticked away the last seconds. She was in a pink dress, cut low in the bodice, high in the skirt, and tight in the middle. A round pink purse swung from her shoulder. The silver clip in her hair perfectly matched her two-inch razored claws. They were heirlooms from her mother, a former State Queen. Even in the dim light they gleamed.

Todd was six-and-a-half feet tall and outweighed Melody by seventy pounds. He stepped forward, too, and ran a heavy-ringed hand through his short hair. The buzzer sounded and the first song started. A slow one, Mark noted. This could be ugly.

Todd approached warily. Melody waited, hands clasped in front of her, claws down. Some girls had filigreed claws, but Melody’s were plain and elegant, with barbs at the ends, like fishhooks. She could have been a waiting bride. Todd feinted left, then ran for her. Melody sidestepped and slashed out, claws ripping his cheek. He stumbled, one hand going to his face where a flap of skin dangled. He bellowed and reached out to push her. Melody barely flicked her wrist, but Todd screamed, clutched his hand, and bent double. Mark and the other boys surged forward to see. She’d nearly severed Todd’s right forefinger. It dangled from a twist of skin and gushed blood.

The girls oohed and ahhed at Todd shrieked, bleeding on the court. Melody turned her head to receive her applause. Todd’s wails ceased. He slammed into Melody as if she were a tackling dummy and bowled her onto her back. Mark cheered with the rest of the boys as Todd grabbed her wrists in one hand and pressed her pelvis against the floor with the other. She struggled ineffectually, then stopped. Mark noticed she didn’t open her legs in the official sign of acquiescence, but Todd took her quiet for surrender. He took his hand from her pelvis and lifted his head to grin at his friends.

Melody drew back her legs and thrust her feet into Todd’s stomach, just below his sternum. Her three-inch heels, tipped with metal spikes, plunged into his guts. Melody held on to his arm to keep him from pulling away as she reared back and thrust again, this time into his chest. She let go and he fell back, spitting blood like red foam and holding his hands over his heart. One of her shoes had come off, its heel jammed between two ribs. She stood to pull it out. Todd writhed, then stilled, and Melody slipped her shoe back onto her dainty foot. The girls cheered.

The dancing began.

Mark started hesitantly for the little redhead. Sometimes, at regular dances, the girls would go easy if they liked you. This was Homecoming, though, and every girl wanted to be Queen. Fatalities would be high. Before he reached the little redhead, he saw her crouch and, snarling, thrust her stiff-fingered hand into a boy’s stomach. She pulled out a handful of guts, cutting them apart as they came. Some boys had chain-mail cummerbunds, but not that one. Not Mark, either. He decided the redhead’s claws might be dull from cruelty rather than negligence. He veered away.

He turned slowly, searching for a likely girl to engage, but they all seemed occupied. Mr. “Take-Out-Their-Knees” got his own knees taken out by a wiry brunette. Boys were pinning girls or slipping off the court, with minor injuries, before they ended up like Todd. Melody was a whirlwind, kicking and swinging her purse at all comers (it was weighted; she was something else). Mark searched frantically. His dad would never let him live it down if he went home without a pin, or at least the injuries to show he’d tried to make one, but there didn’t seem to be any unattached girls. And, of course, he had to initiate contact. His mother said good girls never approached a boy.

Mark tripped as a hamstrung kid with glasses tumbled into his legs, and he flailed blindly until his feet found clear space. He lifted his head and found himself staring directly into the eyes of Melody Greene, his (and every other boy’s) everlasting crush.

She took his stare for a challenge and came at him, claws stretching to pop his eyes and skewer his brain. He yelped and ducked, banging into her legs. Her own momentum carried her forward and it was her turn to yelp as she fell, arms extended, claws digging furrows in the wooden floor.

Mark turned around, saw her skirt hiked over her bottom (locked-door-bathroom material for months– if he lived) and did the only thing he could think to do: he jumped on her back. She oofed as his knees came down above her kidneys. He followed inspiration and grabbed a handful of hair, slamming her forehead against the floor. She wriggled, so he gave her another bang. She stopped moving.

Kneeling on Melody’s back, Mark gazed around the gym. There were male bodies everywhere, bleeding and wheezing. Girls sat on the bleachers with the boys who’d pinned them, their claws removed. The injured bandaged themselves. Those needing more serious attention had to wait: no medical crews were allowed until after the crowning. The girls were consulting the scoreboard for their confirmed Kills and Incapacitations to see who would be Queen. Mark and Melody were the last ones on the dance floor.

“Finish her!” a boy shouted, and others picked it up. “What are you waiting for?”

Mark came out of his daze. Melody’s eyes were open, but rolled back. Her lids began to flutter as she started to regain consciousness. Quickly, he removed her claws, careful not to cut himself. He tossed them away, then took off her shoes and straddled her torso, both hands on her throat. He waited.

Melody shook her head slowly, eyes focusing, rage burning behind them, her face sharp and feral in the red light. She turned her head, straining to see the scoreboard– and relaxed. She looked back at Mark and smiled sweetly as she parted her legs, admitting surrender. Applause rose.

The last dance of the evening was done.

Mrs. Wheatley’s voice came over the loudspeakers. “I remember my own high-school days. I wasn’t Queen, but I was a runner-up. You girls have done well. You boys, too, of course. It’s my duty and pleasure to announce the names of the King and Queen, which I’ll do as soon as the final tallies come up.”

Mark stood, disbelieving, and offered Melody a hand. She ignored it, but he scarcely noticed. He’d pinned Melody Greene! Oh, it was stupid luck, he had no illusions about that, but still, he’d done it. He had rights now. Certain things were allowed. Melody’s attention remained on the changing numbers changing on the scoreboard.

The numbers stopped and Mrs. Wheatley said, “The Queen, with four confirmed Kills and nine Incapacitations, is Melody Greene! And King, the only male with no injuries, and the one who pinned Melody, Mark Hastings!” The girls applauded. The boys whooped and cheered.

Mark felt his stomach drop. King? Him? But–

“They will go on to the county fair to compete with the Kings and Queens of our other local schools, and if successful there, on to the state level, where the couple left standing receives a pair of handsome scholarships.”

The runners-up (the girl was the little redhead; good thing he hadn’t gone for her) brought Mark and Melody their crowns, delicate things made of finger bones joined with gold. Melody smiled with practiced radiance as Mark tried not to gape. The fair was in a month, the best dancers in the county, and if he somehow made it through that (Melody would, he had no doubt), he had to go on to the State level. He’d never survive.

Melody took his hand as the photographers and the medical crew arrived. Flashbulbs blinded him. Melody squeezed his hand. Her silver claws were gone, but her bare nails were sharp enough to make his palm bleed.