Page 28 of As You Walk On

“Christian,” I say, not that it matters. His eyes keep drifting toward Jayla. I clear my throat aggressively until his head snaps back around.

“My bad.” He laughs, cheeks reddening. “I’m here for you. Do you want to search downstairs?”

Beyond his shoulder, I clock the severe stink eye Jayla is throwing us. Throwingme, to be precise. As much as I want Jay around, it’s not worth her wrath.

“No. Go.” I sigh. “Do your... hetero things.”

He looks mostly relieved when I wave him off.

“I won’t be far,” he promises. “When you find Christian, just... uh, make sure I’m around. You know, dare rules and all.”

How could I forget? At least one of us must be present when the other is doing a dare.

“He’s probably not even here yet,” Jay adds while backing away. “You know the gays like to make an entrance.”

I blink three times. That scummy feeling surfaces in my stomach again. Before I gather a retort, Jay has Jayla lifted in his arms. Phones are out to capture the moment in all its sickening adorableness.

#TheStraightsAreAtItAgain.

I exhale loudly, turning toward Darren, ready to rant.

“Darren! O-M-G!”

The two girls from SpeedEx sidle up to Darren, bouncing on their toes.

“They’re playing Kings downstairs!” one cheers.

“You’re coming, right?” the other asks, barely hiding her eagerness.

Darren’s eyes don’t know where to look. I cough into my fist. He presents me with an abashed smile. The one he always uses when convincing me to share the mochi ice cream.

“Jesus, just go,” I relent.

Before he gets too far, I say, “Turn your location on. Stop at threemixeddrinks. No shots,” going full-on Miles Wright.

I shudder.

“Promise to do reconnaissance while I’m gone,” he yells, tripping over his own feet to chase the girls.

Whatever. This is fine. As much as I love Jay and Darren, their lack of game will slow me down. I only need them around to witness my big moment. Project: Win a Prom Date with Christian Harris has always been a one-man job anyway.

•••

Except trying to find Christian is like a big, drunk game ofWhere’s Waldo?at this party.

Somewhere between nonchalantly mingling with the wallflowers and lasting one round of Beirut: Name That Tune! Edition with the Rolling Tones, I scale back on my search. It’s been forty-five minutes. I’m exhausted. Catching up with classmates about our worst essays or the latest viral video is more my speed.

Eventually, I end up in the family room—AKA Club Brook-Oak.

The “dancing” is as awful as you’d expect. All the furniture has been pushed against the walls to maximize floor space. The overwhelming odor of sweat, alcohol, and countless body sprays saturate the room.

At the heart of the swaying bodies is something that catches me off guard.

It’s Luca and Makayla...grinding.

This is, dare I say, scandalous? Modern-ageDirty Dancinghip action is happening between them. My entire face is on fire from watching.

Strands of Luca’s hair stick to his temples. Makayla’s arms are linked around his neck. His hands can’t find traction on her swiveling waist. Her exaggerated smile seems almost performative. Like this is all for the audience they’ve amassed.

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