I pushed and shoved my way around the dance floor, reached Cecelia’s table and turned back to ask Zenna if she was okay.


Zenna had vanished. I worried about her, but I hadn’t seen Cecelia all evening, and I knew she still smarted over my not attending the ball with her in the first place, even if she’d never mention it. I promised myself that I’d make it up to her. Extra study sessions on Sunday afternoons. Maybe I’d drag her out for ice cream afterwards.


Maybe I could drag her out for ice cream now.


‘Hey, Ceel.’ I tugged at my too-tight sleeve as I came up to Cecelia. The girl she’d been sitting next to accepted a request to dance, leaving Cecelia alone at the table. I pulled a chair around and sat. ‘How’s your night?’


Cecelia pasted a smile on top of her pensive expression. ‘All right.’ She almost had to shout over the music. ‘The show was wonderful.’


I nodded, but I wasn’t sure what I was agreeing with. What show? The music was so loud, perhaps I’d misheard. I was glad I’d come to the ball. I wasn’t. I was a war, a mass of indecision about why I was here. I should have come on my own terms. I shouldn’t have come at all. I should dance with Zenna. I should sit with Cecelia.


I should know my purpose in the universe.


The DJ music pounded around us. Thank goodness Zenna wasn’t here right now, because pretending to have fun dancing to the bass-heavy racket would be impossible.


‘What are you writing your media analysis on?’ Cecelia asked.


It took me a minute to realise she was talking about English class. ‘Um. The reinforcement of traditional motherhood stereotypes in baby product commercials.’

‘That sounds good.’ She sighed. ‘I keep getting stuck. I think I need your help.’


For the first time all night, maybe all year, my intuition crystallised.


I should get the three of us out of here.


‘Are you ready to leave?’ I called. ‘We can go for sorbet.’


Cecelia gazed around the room once, taking in the laser lights flickering over the dance floor, the gyrating student body, the tables dotted with those not bothered to dance, the teachers talking in clusters or standing sentry against the walls.


The horrible song ended. ‘Are you –’ the DJ scratched on his computer-generated record system ‘– ready –’ scratch ‘– to –’ sc-sc-scratch ‘– PARTY?’


The crowd roared.


‘Let’s go,’ Cecelia said, picking up her phone to text Nancy.


We were three steps from the balloon arch when a throat cleared behind me. A deliberate throat clear, to be audible over the cacophony.


‘Gabby?’


Dylan. Teeth grinding, I turned. Mrs Johnsen watched from beside the arch, her face impassive and angled away, but her eyes were focused on us.


‘What now?’ I said. Cecelia hovered at my elbow, probably conjuring an ordnance of medical terms to fling at him.


‘I saw, well, before you go, are you sure you don’t want a dance?’ He gestured towards the DJ booth. ‘I asked for a slow song next.’


‘Dylan, I’m not interested.’


He swallowed. ‘Well, I thought a better song …’


My blood pushed at my ears. ‘It’s not the music.’


‘But I requested it for you.’


‘No!’ I didn’t know how else to say it, or what else to do to make it clear to him. ‘Leave me alone. Come on, Ceel.’ I turned to go.


‘Gabby,’ Dylan said again, and in my peripheral vision, his brown suit moved.


His hand touched my arm, clammy fingers on my skin, and he made a soft longing sound.


My hands balled into fists as I whirled. I considered punching him in the face, but there were teachers everywhere. ‘What part of “no” don’t you understand?’ I said, my voice rising. A few people on the edge of the crowd glanced at us. Cecelia was talking to Mrs Johnsen.


‘If you’d just dance with me …’ Dylan toyed with his tie. ‘You might enjoy it.’


I couldn’t believe this guy. As if my disinterest was simply a lack of imagination. ‘Get fucked!’ I shouted, right at a break in the music. My words rang across the hall. People stared, and I half-expected Mrs Johnsen to drag me out for losing all sense of decorum, but I didn’t care. ‘I don’t like you! I’ll never be interested in dating you. If you talk to me again, I’ll report you to the school for harassment.’


Dylan stared at me for a moment, open-mouthed, then glanced around at the onlookers, swallowing. Cecelia returned to stand beside me. Mrs Johnsen remained at her post, but when I flicked my eyes in her direction, she gave me the tiniest of nods.


‘Fine,’ he muttered as the music pounded back into action. ‘You didn’t have to be such a bitch about it.’


‘Seems like she did,’ Cecelia said. Dylan flashed her a glare, then stomped away.


Across the room, Ms Box wove between tables, gesturing to Mrs Johnsen, then at us. Mrs Johnsen raised her eyebrows, but she made no move to intercept us.

Cecelia tugged on my elbow. ‘Gabby, we should bail.’


With a grateful smile at Mrs Johnsen, I followed Cecelia through the arch and away from the ball. We got five steps out the door before I stopped. ‘Zenna.’

‘I’ll go back,’ Cecelia said. ‘You stay out of trouble.’


I hovered out of sight in the foyer in case Ms Box was still on her mission, wondering if it would be safer to go outside, but the night was cool with the storm blowing itself out, and I didn’t have a jacket. Or shoes, for some reason. I wasn’t sorry that I’d lost the uncomfortable sandals.


Cecelia returned, shaking her head. ‘I can’t find her.’


‘Maybe she’s outside.’ She had to be gutted about Will dumping her, and sometimes she retreated from a room when she was upset.


Before we reached the door outside, one of the venue staff stepped around the foyer reception desk. ‘Young ladies?’


I suppressed a scowl. Something about that phrase made me want to shred something, and I wasn’t sure which of the words was more offensive.


‘Us?’ Cecelia asked.


The man nodded, then gestured into the tiny office behind the desk. Through the door, I spied the woman who’d tied the ribbon on my wrist at the start of the night. She wore a black blouse now and sat at a desk sorting tiny vials of blue liquid. ‘Come in, please. I need your wristbands back before you leave.’