Chapter 2 Prom And Principles #4
I laugh, something like warm sunshine lighting up in my chest as I stare at Weston, who looks so devastatingly handsome in his tux, the disco ball overhead casting a hundred moving shards of light over him.
He’s talking to Rudy now, making all sorts of cute faces and wild gestures to emphasize what he’s saying.
I link arms with Clara and say, “Maybe we should make the boys jealous.”
She nods approvingly, her dark eyes glinting at the idea. “Good thinking, Tessa. Let me introduce you to a few guys I know.”
And with that, she leads me to a different corner of the room, weaving through the chaotic crowd.
I envy her easy-breezy confidence and her ability to tap shoulders and strike up conversations.
Small talk comes as naturally to her as breathing.
Not so for me. But luckily, the music is too loud to carry on a substantial conversation with anyone.
I smile and nod when it seems like the right thing to do, and I laugh when Clara laughs even if I don’t hear the joke someone made.
Eventually, I wind up with a glass of fruit punch in my hand that I most certainly didn’t ask for.
Is it spiked? No—of course not. We’re at a school event being monitored by school faculty.
I sip the punch with caution and feel more and more like a socially awkward homeschool girl as I drift to the margins of the group.
Clara has been siphoned into a gossipy conversation with one of her girlfriends, which leaves me alone and friendless.
I glance around for Weston—but he’s nowhere to be found in the sea of strangers.
It’s dizzying, all of it: the sheer number of people in this room, the bright strobing lights, the pounding beat of bass in the floor.
Where did he go?
I’m about to reach into my dress’s hidden pocket and pull out my phone when two strong hands slide around my waist, warm and sure and familiar.
“There you are,” Weston murmurs into my ear, pulling me backward and away from the circle of Clara’s friends. “Come on. Let’s dance.”
I spin to face him, a twinge of anxiety flickering in my chest. “But… I’ve never danced like this before.” I nod towards the others flailing wildly under the strobe lights to the high-energy music. “And I’m… holding this drink someone gave me.”
Weston smirks, taking the cup out of my hand and abandoning it on a nearby table. “There’s no science to it, Tessa. You don’t need to know how to dance in order to dance.”
“That seems scientifically impossible!” I laugh into his ear.
It’s a bit intimidating to plunge into a crowd of glamorous strangers. But with Weston’s hands in mine, I’m not scared of anything. He leads me onto the dance floor, and we throw ourselves into the rhythm of the song with reckless abandon—Weston occasionally twirling me around.
I laugh every time I trip over the hem of my dress, and he laughs every time he trips over his feet.
We are graceless, breathless, and spectacularly bad at this, but that makes it more fun.
The only thing that could make it better is…
fewer people. The room is so crowded that I keep bumping into bodies, and once, I narrowly miss getting my skirt splashed by someone’s drink.
It’s a relief when the song changes to something smooth and romantic—all the energy mellowing as couples melt into each other’s arms for a slow dance.
Weston’s hands encircle my waist as I slide my fingers up to the lapel of his jacket. The room liquefies in shades of rose gold as we sway in leisurely circles around the dance floor, star confetti sparkling under our shoes.
At one point, I step on Weston’s toes and say, “Oh—sorry,” out of instinct.
He only smiles and shrugs. “You can step on my feet all you like.”
I laugh and rest my face against his chest, breathing in his spicy scent as I spread my hands over his back.
I don’t know this song, but it feels like warm honey melting over my skin, making me forget anyone else exists.
There is nothing but the perfect harmony of us together, slow-dancing in gentle circles, Weston’s hands heavy on my hips.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers into my ear, his warm breath leaving chills on my neck. “The most beautiful girl here. The most beautiful girl in the world.”
A little laugh catches in my throat as I tilt my head back to look at him. “Flattery.”
“Truth.” He dips down to kiss the tip of my nose. “Scientific fact.”
WESTON
“Multiplication.”
“Multiplication?” I say, casting Rudy a dubious look as I shadow him down the hallway toward the bathrooms. “That’s the secret weapon?”
He nods. “Works every time.”
“You’re telling me you were mentally going through your frickin’ times tables back there while you were slow-dancing with Clara?”
Rudy casts a smirk over his shoulder. “Takes your mind off other things.”
By “other things,” of course, he means the cause-and-effect results of being in close proximity to your dancing partner, who happens to be a girl you’re crazy about and who smells so good you can practically taste her with every breath you take.
“Well, shit, man.” I sigh, shaking my head. “You’ve been keeping this a secret all this time? Too bad I can’t remember my multiplication tables.”
He laughs, dodging a couple making out awkwardly close to the bathrooms. As he pushes through the swinging door, I follow him into the crowded, noisy men’s room. One booming voice rises above the rest, and the second I recognize it, my defenses go up.
Ferguson.
I glimpse him in my peripheral vision. As usual, a pack of dimwits crowd around him, acting like animals. I see cash changing hands and can’t help the dry laugh that escapes me as I walk past.
“Thought your drug-dealing days were over, Ferg.”
He glances up at the sound of my voice and says, “I’m in a different business now… selling insurance policies. Five bucks a pop.” He brandishes a box of condoms, and all I can do is roll my eyes.
Of course, only Neil Ferguson would be lame enough to spend prom night in the bathroom, scalping condoms at inflated prices to horny guys who didn’t come prepared. It’s pathetic. I would almost feel bad for him if he weren’t such an asshole.
“You sure you don’t need one?” he yells at the back of my head. “Oh, wait—that’s right. You’re not getting laid tonight. Or ever.”
A coil of anger tightens in my stomach, but I force myself to walk away. To not even spare him a glance over my shoulder.
“Ignore him,” Rudy mutters under his breath, stopping at the urinal next to mine. “You and Tessa getting out of here soon, or what?”
I nod, staring straight ahead at the ugly tiled wall. “Probably. She said she’s tired of all the people. It’s still early, though. We might drive somewhere.”
“Oh yeah? Where? Hickley Point?”
I grin, shrugging one shoulder. “Maybe. Not for that, obviously. Just to hang out. Talk. It’s a good place to look at the stars. And make out.”
Rudy doesn’t have a chance to reply before another voice pipes up from the urinal on the other side of me. Kent, the kid I took fire for in the locker room—I recognize his glasses out of the corner of my eye.
“What’s a good place to make out?” he asks, turning to look me in the eyes—a universal no-no for communication at urinals.
“Uh, Hickley Point,” I say, zipping up my fly and stepping away from the wall.
“Hickley Point?” Kent echoes, loud enough for the entire freaking bathroom to hear it. “Man, you’re so lucky!”
Actually, I’m not—not the way he imagines. But it’s too late to correct him or tell him to keep it to himself. The cat is out of the bag. And, of course, Ferg is the first to grab that cat by the tail.
“What’s this?” He speaks up, abandoning his post by the door to come over to the sinks, where I’m now washing my hands. “Ludovico’s taking the holy virgin up to the point? Well, color me impressed.”
If I had to guess, I wouldn’t say he’s so much impressed as he is jealous.
“What’s the matter, Ferg?” I don’t bother looking at him as I tear a paper towel from the dispenser and dry my hands. “Did your hot date fall through the cracks or something? Thought you were supposed to be up at Hickley Point before the rest of us.”
Ferg stares at me, a single muscle ticking in his jaw.
I can’t help but notice—the bathroom has fallen silent.
Everyone watches the two of us, like they think a fistfight is about to break out any second now.
A long, tense pause stretches between us, filled by the sound of muffled hip-hop through the walls.
Then Ferg breaks into an icy smile. “It’s only ten o’clock. I’ve got plenty of time to make a few trips up to the point. Whereas you gotta hurry up before you need to get your girl back home for her curfew.”
Anger clenches in my gut as I stare at him, balling up the paper towel in my fist. The other guys watch us, silently waiting for someone to throw a punch. But that’s exactly what Ferguson is expecting—hoping for. That I’ll lose my shit because he’s poked this bear one too many times.
I don’t give him the satisfaction. I just stand my ground, holding his eye contact. He doesn’t back off. Instead, he takes one of his “insurance policies” out of the box and holds it out to me.
“Guess you’re gonna need one of these,” he says with a wicked smile, flicking the foil wrapper between his fingers. “Go on, take it. It’s on the house.”
I know what he expects me to do: walk away. Let him score the final shot, leave me on the ropes, and have the last laugh. But I’m sick of letting him have the last laugh. I’m sick of letting his insults roll off me like water.
I’m sick of being an easy target.
Different.
Disabled.
Like somehow, just because I’m an amputee, I’m less of a man.
Not like other guys.
I don’t want to prove him right—prove all of them right. I’m done cowering away from Ferg’s attacks and letting him think he’s won.
This time, I’m going to score the last shot.