Prologue #2
Ryan asks me in the middle of the main hallway.
Not privately.
Not in the courtyard.
He waits until the space outside chemistry is packed, then walks toward me carrying the sign while his teammates film.
Red and black letters stretch across the poster.
TAKE A SHOT ON ME? PROM?
A basketball is taped beneath the words.
My name is written across it in silver marker.
Students stop.
Phones rise.
Someone starts chanting, “Say yes.”
Brooke stands beside the drinking fountain with three cheerleaders.
She smiles when our eyes meet.
Ryan lowers the sign.
For one second, he looks nervous.
Maybe he is.
My father’s contacts are riding on the answer.
“Hannah Banana.” His voice carries over the crowd. “Prom?”
Everyone waits.
I could say no.
I could tell them what I heard.
I could point at Brooke and watch the hallway turn toward her.
Then Ryan would deny it.
Brooke would cry.
People would ask why I followed them.
They would dissect every message, photograph, and stupid moment I mistook for something real.
By lunch, I would be the girl who believed Ryan McBride liked her.
By dinner, someone would give me a nickname.
I look at the basketball taped to his sign.
Dad corrected Ryan’s release before school today.
He will probably see this video before practice.
Ryan knows it.
That is why he chose the hallway.
The hurt inside me cools.
Hardens.
I smile.
The exact expression I practiced in Mom’s mirror.
Surprised.
Happy.
Not too eager.
“Yes.”
The hallway erupts.
Ryan drops the sign and hugs me while cameras capture every angle.
His arms close around my waist. His mouth brushes my temple.
“You smell amazing,” he whispers.
I look over his shoulder.
Brooke gives me a tiny wave.
“Thanks,” I say.
Ryan pulls back and kisses my forehead.
People cheer louder.
I keep smiling until the bell rings.
* * *
Three weeks later, my navy prom dress hangs from my closet door.
Fitted through the waist.
Soft around the shoulders.
Mom cried when I tried it on.
Dad said Ryan would forget how to speak.
He has spent the afternoon watching videos about pinning a boutonniere without stabbing anyone.
Downstairs, Mom hums while arranging flowers for pictures.
Ryan is supposed to arrive in forty minutes.
I sit on the edge of my bed wearing sweatpants and an old basketball T-shirt.
My hair is unwashed.
My face is bare.
The dress stays on the hanger.
I have known for three weeks that I won’t wear it.
Still, some stubborn, embarrassing part of me waited for Ryan to tell the truth.
A confession.
An apology.
Anything proving the courtyard had been uglier than he intended.
Instead, he kept pretending.
He held my hand in front of Dad.
Asked questions about college coaches.
Mentioned the Indianapolis showcase twice during dinner.
Yesterday, he texted to confirm Dad would be home for pictures.
Not me.
Dad.
I walk into the bathroom and splash water over my face.
Then I sit on the floor beside the toilet until my legs go numb.
When Mom knocks, I make my voice weak.
“I don’t feel good.”
She opens the door and finds me curled against the cabinet.
Concern replaces excitement.
“What hurts?”
“Everything.”
That part is true.
Within ten minutes, Mom has canceled the photographer.
Dad offers to take me to urgent care.
I insist it is a stomach bug.
At six twenty-three, I text Ryan.
Me: I’m sick. I’m so sorry. I can’t go.
His response arrives before I put down the phone.
Ryan: That sucks. Feel better.
Then:
Ryan: The guys say I should still go since everything’s paid for. Is that okay?
I stare at the question.
He is protecting the plan.
He wants written permission in case Dad asks.
Me: You should go. Have fun.
Ryan: You’re the best.
No call.
No offer to stop by.
No disappointment.
At seven twelve, Brooke posts the first group picture.
Six couples and Ryan stand beneath a balloon arch.
He is beside Brooke but leaves enough space between them to explain away.
His tie matches the school colors.
Her dress is red.
The boutonniere Dad bought is pinned to his jacket.
The caption reads:
Prom with my favorite people.
Nothing suspicious.
Nothing Ryan couldn’t show my father.
Then the candid pictures begin.
Someone captures the group walking into dinner.
Brooke is ahead of Ryan.
He is watching her.
Not her dress.
Not her body.
Her.
His eyes are warm. His smile is unguarded, as if she said something that reached a private part of him.
He never looked at me that way.
The next photograph is taken during a slow song.
The dance floor is crowded. Brooke’s official date is laughing with someone near the DJ booth. Ryan stands behind her, one hand close to her waist but not quite touching.
Careful.
His face is turned toward hers.
That look again.
The one I spent months pretending he gave me.
Another picture shows Brooke leaning close to speak into his ear.
Ryan’s eyes are closed.
He is smiling.
Not the charming smile he uses on teachers, parents, or girls who can help him.
A real one.
Each photograph finds a new place to cut.
They never kiss.
They don’t need to.
I can see every feeling Ryan pretended to have for me alive on his face when he looks at her.
The restraint makes it more intimate.
They know people are watching.
They know my father might see.
Even while protecting the lie, Ryan cannot hide what is real.
I switch off my phone.
It keeps vibrating inside my hand.
Messages.
Group chats.
Pictures.
People asking why Ryan attended without me.
Someone writes that Brooke and Ryan look cute together, then deletes it before I can decide whether the cruelty was accidental.
I put the phone inside my desk drawer.
The room quiets.
My prom dress hangs across from me, untouched.
The tortoiseshell glasses sit on my nightstand.
I remove them.
The room softens into shadows.
Better.
Monday morning, I take the city bus to school instead of riding with Ryan.
When he waits beside my locker, I tell him I have a test.
At lunch, I sit in the library.
After school, I take a different bus to Dad’s gym and keep my laptop open whenever Ryan enters the lounge.
He notices.
He asks what is wrong.
I tell him I am busy.
He has film to review.
Showcases to attend.
A college future to build.
He doesn’t need me anymore.
The problem is, Dad still believes in him.
Ryan’s release has improved. His numbers are up. Two coaches have answered Dad’s emails, and the showcase director returned his call.
The damage is already done.
Dad has spent months studying Ryan because I asked him to.
I made Ryan seem worth the extra time.
I carried his name into our kitchen, defended him when Dad questioned his effort, and convinced myself I was helping someone who cared about me.
Ryan gets the training.
The film.
The contacts.
All because I was gullible enough to mistake a game plan for affection.
I lie in bed that night and make myself remember every detail.
The courtyard.
The prom sign.
Brooke’s laugh.
The way Ryan watched her during that slow dance.
The difference between the smile he gave the camera and the one he gave her.
I will never confuse them again.
No athlete will charm his way through me to reach my father.
No boy will ask about my books while calculating what my loyalty might buy him.
No one will turn my heart into another route to the basket.
Ryan ran the play perfectly.
I was the opening he used to get inside.
Never again.