“Oh—a floppy disk!” I’m positive it’s the most enthusiastic anyone’s been about a floppy disk in at least two decades. “This is exactly where we’d find one, right? I’ll check the resource room.” He jumps to his feet, but before he leaves our aisle, he kneels back down as though he forgot something. “The one down the hall. Next to the science wing. I just want to be really clear about where I’m going this time. I know you get freaked out when I leave.”
* * *
When he comes back five minutes later, he’s holding a floppy disk, a roll of streamers, and a pack of Skittles.
“I assume that doesn’t have anything to do with the mysterious Mr. Cooper,” I say, gesturing to the streamers and the Skittles.
“I had this idea.” He places everything on the circulation desk, spending an inordinate amount of time arranging each object, as though mulling what he’s going to say next. “You didn’t go to prom. We’ve been talking so much about high school ending, and it seems to be this quintessential high school experience, at least if movies and TV are to be believed.”
“Right…”
“Well, the food was pretty mediocre.” He holds up the Skittles. “And here’s an appropriately cheesy song.” He scrolls through his phone, then hits play on an old song from High School Musical, and I snort because it really is cheesy. “My sister just discovered it. I will graciously accept your condolences.” Then he makes his face serious, sliding his phone onto the circulation desk and holding out his hand. “It won’t be the perfect prom from your success guide, but… will you go to prom with me?”
I stop laughing because while part of me finds this corny as hell, it’s also incredibly sweet. My heart is in my throat. I can’t remember the last time someone did something this nice for me.
Behind his glasses, his gaze is steady. Unwavering. It makes me even more aware of how wobbly I’ve suddenly become.
“We should leave” is what comes out instead of yes. Clearly, my brain-to-mouth connection is broken when it comes to him.
His expression doesn’t falter. “One dance?”
And God, he looks so earnest in the darkness that I have no idea why I didn’t give him my hand immediately.
“Fine,” I relent, “but not this one.”
I find something else on my own phone, something soft and lovely by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles.
“Much better,” he agrees.
I slide one hand into his and bring my other up to his shoulder, while his free hand settles on my waist. I’ve danced with people before—Spencer, Luke, a couple awkward guys in middle school—but we’d already been dating. This is uncharted territory. Because we’re the same height, we’re staring directly into each other’s eyes, my right hand clasped in his left.
“We don’t have to leave room for Jesus,” he says. “Or whatever the Jewish equivalent is. If there is one. Leave room for Moses?”
“Leave the door open for Elijah,” I say, and he snorts.
“Yes. That’s the Jewish version.”
“And we’re the worst Jews.” Still, I inch closer. “But it’s awkward, staring at you like this. I’m going to spend this whole thing trying not to laugh.”
He shifts so his hand on my lower back gently pushes me closer to him, so I can rest my head in the space where his neck meets his shoulder. Oh. Wow. We are… much closer than we were a second ago, and he is solid and confident and warm, which I don’t understand, since he’s been in a T-shirt most of the day. God. That dorky T-shirt. QUIDQUID LATINE DICTUM, ALTUM VIDETUR. It might as well mean “look at these sick biceps.”
“Better?” he asks, his breath hot on my cheek, my ear. That single word travels down my spine and into my toes, an electric current. I’m reminded of my freshman-year crush, when for twelve days I fantasized about the two of us going to homecoming together. Is this what it would have been like? How he would have held me?
Probably not, I decide. I towered over him back then, before his growth spurt brought him up to my height. And he was scrawny, and now he is decidedly… not.
“Mm-hmm,” I manage to say, but I’m not actually sure it is. It’s both better and worse because Neil McNair is a fucking paradox. That good hoodie smell from earlier—it wasn’t the rain. It was just him. If my face is flushed from being this close, at least he can’t see it.
“Good.”
As we sway back and forth to the music, one thing becomes apparent right away:
“I’m not great at this,” I say after apologizing for stepping on his feet.
It transports me to this scene in Sweet as Sugar Lake, where diner owner Emma closed the place early so she could teach her best friend (and longtime crush) Charlie how to dance before his brother’s wedding. It still stings, missing my chance to take a photo with the replica of the Sugar Lake gazebo Delilah was bringing on tour.
“It’s okay. I make up for it.”
It’s arrogant but true. He’s good, while my dancing style draws inspiration from those floppy things at car dealerships. “You are, like, absurdly good.”
“I took dance as a kid. Ballet and jazz, mostly. A couple tap classes here and there.”
“That is really cool,” I say, and it is. “My cousin Sophie is a choreographer. Or, she’s studying it in college. She and Kirby and Mara have tried to teach me, but I am a total lost cause. Do you have any sick moves? I want to see some sick moves.”
“I’m afraid this is the extent of my sick moves these days,” he says, and at that, he guides me through a gentle spin, and when I wind up exactly where I started, my level of impressed is officially off the charts. His limbs are more confident moving to a rhythm than they are the rest of the time. I can’t believe this is the same boy who wore a suit with too-long sleeves earlier today.
Neil being this good a dancer—it’s kind of hot.
The realization turns me inside out, as though my traitorous heart and brain are on display for him to see.
“What made you stop dancing?” I ask his shoulder, no longer able to make eye contact. If I don’t keep talking, I’m going to spiral. Neil. Hot. My brain has gone rogue, and with it my trembling hands, which he tries his best to keep steady. Because he’s a good dancer. Which I find hot. Damn it. Spiraling. I try to summon memories of the past few years, the times he made me so furious I couldn’t see straight.
It doesn’t work.
“School got too busy,” he says. There’s some sadness there that only increases my tenderness for him. “And my dad never liked that I was interested in it.”
“Maybe you could take some classes in college.”
“Maybe,” he echoes as the song changes. One dance, he said. I’m certain he’ll let go, but he doesn’t, and I remain firmly in his arms. “I’ve missed it. This is… nice.”
It is. It’s so fucking nice, but it’s fleeting, like everything else about tonight. I can’t get too attached. All of it is about five kinds of concerning. Neil isn’t my PHSB. He’s not the guy who would make out underneath the bleachers or hold my hand during a movie. He wouldn’t take ridiculous selfies with me and post them with ironic hashtags I kind of unironically like, or declare his love with a bouquet of roses. He is not a romance-novel hero.