I take one look at the line of people stretching across the blacktop and change my mind. “Nope, I’m outta here.” I turn around and start back toward my mom’s car.
“Mira, you can’t!” Elodie’s voice assaults me from behind. “We’ve waited for this day our whole lives!” I take her in, her purple floral dress and black flats left over from our choir days, and can’t help but think she looks ridiculous.
“It’s our eighth-grade dance, not prom,” I snap.
“There’s gonna be a disco ball . . .” she whines.
“Ugh, fine,” I groan, rolling my eyes so she knows just how unexcited I am.
“Yay!” she squeals, dragging me into the line of our classmates, who are simultaneously buzzing with excitement and attempting to look apathetic.
When we reach the front, the parent volunteer takes our tickets. “Have fun, girls!” she beams. I roll my eyes again, and she looks genuinely wounded.
Inside the gym, a generic pop song blasts from the speakers. Elodie starts hopping back and forth like a poorly trained circus animal. I smirk. “Come on, Mira, dance!” she urges. I shake my head. She stops and stares at me in disbelief. “Are you really gonna do nothing the whole night?” I shrug, avoiding her gaze. She opens her mouth, closes it again, and turns away.
Before she can try to convince me again, I sprint to the top of the bleachers and plop down, pulling out my phone. I skulk there for over an hour, ignoring everything. Elodie doesn’t come looking for me. When my phone finally dies, I get up to use the bathroom. That’ll kill at least five minutes.
Once inside, I stop short. I hear sniffling coming from one of the stalls. I look under the door and see the hem of a purple dress and black ballet flats. “Elodie?” I say. The sniffling stops. “Elodie, I know you’re in there.”
“Go away, Mira,” she says, her voice thick from crying. “You clearly don’t want to talk to me, so I don’t want to talk to you, either.” I sigh and lean my head against the stall door.
“Can you just come out so we can talk? Please?”
No response. “Elodie, come on. Talk to me.”
She slams open the door and glares at me with an uncharacteristic ferocity. “I just wanted us to hang out for one night!” she snaps. “One night! You’ve been so distant lately, and I thought maybe tonight would fix that. Maybe it would bring us together again. But no, apparently you can’t be bothered to spend time with me anymore. I’m sorry I’m not good enough for you, Mira.” She stomps past me and out the door. Her footsteps echo in the silence.
Suddenly I need air. I walk out the door, down the hallway, and out onto the blacktop. Orion stares down at me judgmentally. “I don’t wanna hear it, dude,” I murmur.
“Wow. And to think, I haven’t even stated my case yet,” someone says.
Startled, I look over at an older guy, probably high-school age, standing a few feet away. A long coat envelops his scrawny frame, and scraggly hair conceals half his face. He looks like someone who would try to sell me illegal substances in a dark alleyway. I shuffle farther away.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you,” I mutter. He takes a step toward me, and my body tenses.
“Why aren’t you inside?” he asks, staring at me with a piercingly analytical gaze that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
“I hate dances.”
He’s silent for a moment, then takes a deep breath and begins to speak. “When I was in eighth grade, I spent all my time coding and writing really terrible poetry. I saw myself as above everyone else. Even at my best friend’s birthday party, I refused to play Fortnite and opted instead to sit there, completely miserable. Me and my friend, we stopped talking after that. I guess we realized we didn’t have much in common. Then two years later, I’m at a different friend’s house, and he asks me if I want to play Fortnite. I agree, ‘cause why not. So we start playing, and turns out, Fortnite is actually super fun!” He suddenly stops talking and doubles over in laughter.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, chuckling awkwardly.
“I’m sorry, I totally made up that entire story,” he cackles, wiping his eyes. I realize for the first time that he has eyeliner on, which is now hopelessly smeared.
“Okay . . . I’m just gonna leave.” I turn away, trying to retain some shred of my dignity. I hear him cackling behind me as I speed-walk back inside.
I stop in the hallway and take a breath. I know what I have to do.
I march into the gym and shove my way through the crowd until I find Elodie in the center of the gym, dancing her heart out. I tap her on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“What?” she yells. Her face is red and sweaty, her braid mussed up.
“I’m sorry,” I yell back. She rolls her eyes, which I guess I deserve.
“Want to dance?” she asks.
I smile for the first time tonight. Then I start hopping back and forth like a poorly trained circus animal. Dots of light cover my body, coating me in glittery freedom.
“Mira, you can’t!” Elodie’s voice assaults me from behind. “We’ve waited for this day our whole lives!” I take her in, her purple floral dress and black flats left over from our choir days, and can’t help but think she looks ridiculous.
“It’s our eighth-grade dance, not prom,” I snap.
“There’s gonna be a disco ball . . .” she whines.
“Ugh, fine,” I groan, rolling my eyes so she knows just how unexcited I am.
“Yay!” she squeals, dragging me into the line of our classmates, who are simultaneously buzzing with excitement and attempting to look apathetic.
When we reach the front, the parent volunteer takes our tickets. “Have fun, girls!” she beams. I roll my eyes again, and she looks genuinely wounded.
Inside the gym, a generic pop song blasts from the speakers. Elodie starts hopping back and forth like a poorly trained circus animal. I smirk. “Come on, Mira, dance!” she urges. I shake my head. She stops and stares at me in disbelief. “Are you really gonna do nothing the whole night?” I shrug, avoiding her gaze. She opens her mouth, closes it again, and turns away.
Before she can try to convince me again, I sprint to the top of the bleachers and plop down, pulling out my phone. I skulk there for over an hour, ignoring everything. Elodie doesn’t come looking for me. When my phone finally dies, I get up to use the bathroom. That’ll kill at least five minutes.
Once inside, I stop short. I hear sniffling coming from one of the stalls. I look under the door and see the hem of a purple dress and black ballet flats. “Elodie?” I say. The sniffling stops. “Elodie, I know you’re in there.”
“Go away, Mira,” she says, her voice thick from crying. “You clearly don’t want to talk to me, so I don’t want to talk to you, either.” I sigh and lean my head against the stall door.
“Can you just come out so we can talk? Please?”
No response. “Elodie, come on. Talk to me.”
She slams open the door and glares at me with an uncharacteristic ferocity. “I just wanted us to hang out for one night!” she snaps. “One night! You’ve been so distant lately, and I thought maybe tonight would fix that. Maybe it would bring us together again. But no, apparently you can’t be bothered to spend time with me anymore. I’m sorry I’m not good enough for you, Mira.” She stomps past me and out the door. Her footsteps echo in the silence.
Suddenly I need air. I walk out the door, down the hallway, and out onto the blacktop. Orion stares down at me judgmentally. “I don’t wanna hear it, dude,” I murmur.
“Wow. And to think, I haven’t even stated my case yet,” someone says.
Startled, I look over at an older guy, probably high-school age, standing a few feet away. A long coat envelops his scrawny frame, and scraggly hair conceals half his face. He looks like someone who would try to sell me illegal substances in a dark alleyway. I shuffle farther away.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you,” I mutter. He takes a step toward me, and my body tenses.
“Why aren’t you inside?” he asks, staring at me with a piercingly analytical gaze that makes me want to crawl out of my skin.
“I hate dances.”
He’s silent for a moment, then takes a deep breath and begins to speak. “When I was in eighth grade, I spent all my time coding and writing really terrible poetry. I saw myself as above everyone else. Even at my best friend’s birthday party, I refused to play Fortnite and opted instead to sit there, completely miserable. Me and my friend, we stopped talking after that. I guess we realized we didn’t have much in common. Then two years later, I’m at a different friend’s house, and he asks me if I want to play Fortnite. I agree, ‘cause why not. So we start playing, and turns out, Fortnite is actually super fun!” He suddenly stops talking and doubles over in laughter.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, chuckling awkwardly.
“I’m sorry, I totally made up that entire story,” he cackles, wiping his eyes. I realize for the first time that he has eyeliner on, which is now hopelessly smeared.
“Okay . . . I’m just gonna leave.” I turn away, trying to retain some shred of my dignity. I hear him cackling behind me as I speed-walk back inside.
I stop in the hallway and take a breath. I know what I have to do.
I march into the gym and shove my way through the crowd until I find Elodie in the center of the gym, dancing her heart out. I tap her on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her.
“What?” she yells. Her face is red and sweaty, her braid mussed up.
“I’m sorry,” I yell back. She rolls her eyes, which I guess I deserve.
“Want to dance?” she asks.
I smile for the first time tonight. Then I start hopping back and forth like a poorly trained circus animal. Dots of light cover my body, coating me in glittery freedom.