I grip the steering wheel and refuse to look at him. “Don’t worry about it.”
Dad snorts. “Don’t worry about it? At this rate, you’re going to break that other arm all on your own.” I don’t look at him still, and he lapses into silence for a long time before saying, “Want to talk about it?”
It’s my first instinct to say no, to refuse my father any information about my personal life. I don’t like opening up to people, and even Brooke, my best friend, doesn’t know absolutely everything about what happened between Amy and me. Nobody knows how I really felt about her, how much it hurts now that she’s out of my life. And I intended to keep it that way.
But things have changed; my dad has changed.
So instead, I tell him everything as we drive home.
AMY
I AGREE TO let Carlos drop me off at prom. Jackson wanted to do the whole limo thing, but seeing as how he’s not my date anymore and Petra wanted to meet at the hotel, I don’t bother with anything so fancy.
So that’s how I end up pulling up in front of prom in my parents’ minivan. I’m surprised by the nerves that flutter through my stomach when everyone who’s outside, waiting for dates or getting fresh air, look over at me as I climb out.
I got used to being ignored. When I was with Jackson, people were always trying to make an effort, always trying to pretend like they liked me even though it was dreadfully obvious that they didn’t. And when we broke up, I became a ghost, floating through the halls of the school like I wasn’t even there.
And now here I am again, with all eyes on me because I’m walking up to Petra by the door. There’s a bit of whispering as Petra smiles at me and then laces her arm through mine.
“Well, Amy, don’t you look dashing?”
I laugh because, honestly, it’s nice to be with Petra and not be talking about grades or class rank, and I realize, with a kind of clarity that’s almost tragic, that I don’t even really know anything about Petra. I don’t know what she likes to eat or what kind of movies she watches. I don’t know her middle name or where she went to elementary school before the two of us merged in the same middle school. I only know that she’s class president, president of the student council, number one in our class, and most likely going to Yale. I don’t even know if she got in. Because I’ve never asked.
I grip her a little tighter, and we take a picture inside the door, below a string of balloons that spell out CLASS OF 2021 that I helped put up this morning. Petra presses her cheek to mine, and I can feel her grin as the flash goes off.
The room is full of people, dark, with lights shining in patterns on the walls and the dance floor, which takes up half the room. The other half of the room is full of round tables with white tablecloths, the little plastic candles in their holders in the center—the ones I made last week.
Petra and I go straight for the dance floor. I’m not much of a dancer, but when we join her friends on the floor, it doesn’t seem to matter. Petra grabs one of my hands and a girl I only know from glances in Petra’s direction in the hall grabs my other hand, and I’m suddenly dancing with a group of four other girls to a rap song I don’t know, and it feels amazing. We dance through a few songs, until a slow song starts, and then the girls, all of us sweaty, our perfectly styled hair a little worse for wear, scatter in different directions.
“Hungry?” Petra asks, nodding toward the refreshments table.
“Uh, sure. I’m just going to run to the restroom.”
She nods and wanders off, and I find the bathroom, alone. Inside, there are girls everywhere, but very few of them are actually using the restroom. Most of them are fixing their makeup or lamenting torn dresses, and one girl is crying into her cell phone while two girls drape themselves over her in sympathy.
I do my best to squeeze into a stall and then find an unoccupied sink at which to wash my hands before holding my dress up off the floor so that nobody in the tiny space accidentally steps on it.
I push out into the hallway, feeling like I can breathe again, until I get back to the room where the lights are pulsing in time with the music, and see Jackson. Word on the street is Jackson also came to prom alone. I know this only because two girls were talking very loudly in nutrition and food science last week about Jackson’s very public break up, and from the fact that Jackson is currently leaning against a wall and acting as a spectator all by himself, I would say the word on the street is sound. Even still, Jackson looks like a groom on his wedding day. He’s wearing a tux that looks absolutely perfect on him, his hands tucked into his pockets, looking so handsome it’s a little unreal.
I’m still standing there, outside the bathroom, when Jackson’s eyes travel over the room and find me. The music is loud, but just for a second, it seems too quiet, and I look away quick. Over by the refreshment table, Petra has two clear plastic cups full of punch, and she’s talking to one of the girls who was dancing with us. My eyes wander back to Jackson and find that he’s still watching me.
“Excuse me.” A girl in a knee-length silver dress nudges past me, and I move out of the way to let her pass.
I look around for an open table. That’s the thing about not having friends: You never have a place to sit. Every table is occupied, and even though there are empty seats here and there, they’re sandwiched between people I don’t know, people I would never sit with outside this room. I finally find a spot, on the other side of the room from where Jackson was leaning against the wall, but when I take a seat and look back over, he’s gone.
I sit and wait for Petra, watching people go crazy on the dance floor and scrolling through my phone for lack of something better to do. As I scroll through Instagram, my eyes catch on my own face, and I stop. On the screen, Oliver is singing karaoke in front of a group of people, and I’m watching him with a giddy look on my face.
I’m fairly certain I actually hear my heart rip in two. That was the night I knew I liked Oliver, as more than just a friend, even though I didn’t want to admit it to myself. I watched him go up on that stage and sing the Cure in front of all those people, and I felt butterflies in my stomach.
The caption reads: #tbt to when our very own ex-assistant manager sang the Cure for karaoke night. Karaoke night was a huge success! If you want another one, let us know in the comments. 20% off for anyone who sings!
My brain gets caught on one word: ex-assistant. Where did Oliver go?
“Dance with me, Ames.”
I spin around in my seat and find Jackson’s hand stretched out toward me. For a second, I just stare. Behind Jackson, I can see Petra, still standing by the refreshments table, her eyes on us. She looks disapproving. It’s one dance, I want to tell her. One dance can’t hurt. I hope she can hear my thoughts as I look from her to Jackson, to the face I know so well, and slip my hand into his.
He pulls me straight to the dance floor, and I’m in his arms so quick, and it’s like this is the way it’s supposed to be. I’m supposed to be here with Jackson, we’re supposed to be together, and it feels so natural as we sway to a slow song. I smile into his neck, loving his long, strong arms around me, despite everything. I missed them, I missed him. I press in closer to him, smelling the cologne that clings to his shirt.