Hate Should Be A Hockey Term
SLOANE
By the second week of December, Eastlake High had discovered the concept of a Winter Formal and immediately devolved into a glitter-laced hostage situation.
The hallways were suffocating under a blanket of silver snowflakes, blue streamers, and posters advertising *MIDNIGHT FROST* in curling white script. It looked less like a dance invitation and more like a high-budget deodorant commercial. Someone had wrapped the athletic trophy case in fake plastic icicles. Someone else had arranged battery-operated candles around the front office until Mrs. Keller from attendance nearly had a coronary, shouting, “Absolutely not! This is an educational institution, not a séance.”
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