Zenna and I almost made it to our table, having left Cecelia at hers once the discussion turned to the latest trigonometry assignment, which took all of t minus ten seconds.


‘Gabby?’ said a familiar voice.


I thought about pretending I hadn’t heard. Zenna gave me a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow.


I turned. Dylan Rickshaw wore an ill-fitting brown suit, although since I was in a borrowed dress that was at least a size too small for my bust, I supposed I couldn’t judge him for that. I could judge him for the hairstyle that made his head resemble a football, all puffy and gelled up at the back.


‘Hi, Dylan.’


He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, then smiled. ‘You look beautiful.’


I folded my arms. ‘Thanks.’


‘I thought you weren’t coming.’


‘I wasn’t.’


‘Will …’ Dylan stared at the carpet, scuffing a patent leather toe at the stiff orange pile. ‘Will you dance with me?’


I wondered if it would be too rude to walk off without replying. I inclined my head at the dance floor, empty except for a pair of teachers talking to the DJ and a man in a tail suit. ‘No one’s dancing.’


Sweat beaded on his brow. ‘I – I mean later.’


Zenna hooked her gloved arm in mine. She wore a black and white patterned dress with a circle skirt that flared out just below her knees, six-inch heels with white ribbons winding around her calves and black gloves up to her elbows. Her hair was gelled into black and white shapes to match the geometric dress design. Even with the sheer hair height, she was shorter than me in my more modest heels, although not by much. ‘Sorry, dude,’ she said. ‘Gabby’s dancing with me.’


Dylan’s face fell. ‘All night?’


‘Yep.’


With that, Zenna steered me away, leaving Dylan standing alone among the half-filled tables. A couple of other boys nearby sniggered, and for half a moment I felt bad for Dylan, but I set my jaw. If he didn’t want to be embarrassed, he shouldn’t ask someone who’d already made their lack of interest clear. More than once.


‘Thanks,’ I said as we found our table.


Zenna squeezed my arm. ‘I wasn’t lying. You are dancing with me.’


I baulked. ‘Zenna, no. I don’t dance. Especially not in this.’ I waved a hand at my dress.


‘What’s wrong with it?’


‘You mean apart from it being two sizes too small and magenta? It’s awful.’


‘Magenta’s a great colour.’


‘On you, maybe. It clashes with my skin.’


‘You look lovely. And even if you don’t, you can still dance.’


I stared at my chest, at my boobs threatening to burst out of the tight sweetheart neckline, the seams pressing into my skin. ‘I think I’ll break it.’


Zenna snorted. ‘Look around, Gabs. You’re not even the closest to falling out of your dress.’


She was right. Half the girls at the next table were at risk of indecent exposure. Even Zenna’s dress was a deep, plunging V-neck, her sternum bare. Hers worked though, the elegant product of painstaking design and hours spent planning outfits with the theatre crowd. I wasn’t against wearing low-cut tops, but it was the whole foreign combination. A brightly coloured dress. Cheap, sparkly stiletto heels, grabbed in five minutes at the local department store because there hadn’t been time to shop properly. My hair pulling tight on my scalp. Being sculpted into the bodice to get the zipper fastened. The prickling sensation that everyone was staring at me, at my bulging chest, at the red roots coming through in my hair.


‘This was a mistake,’ I muttered, tugging at the neckline. I wondered if it was too late to grab Cecelia and sneak back through the balloon arch. Go see a movie instead. Ice cream in lieu of dessert.


Zenna didn’t hear me. ‘You’re my date. You have to dance.’


‘There’s no rule about that.’


Zenna pouted. She was in good spirits considering dickhead Will had bailed on her. ‘There is now.’


Before I could reply, a squeal erupted, and Quona, one of Zenna’s friends, leapt at us in a flurry of purple and teal fabric. Quona always bubbled, as if she were a glass of lemonade that never lost its effervescence. ‘Your dress!’ She stepped back, hand still on Zenna’s shoulder, turning Zenna in a circle. ‘It’s perfect.’


‘Yours too,’ Zenna replied. She greeted the rest of Quona’s entourage, a group fashion exhibition. ‘Ooh, you got pockets!’ someone exclaimed, catching Zenna’s skirt in their hands.


Quona turned to me with a warm smile. ‘Hello, Gabby.’


‘Hi,’ I replied, trying to think of something to say. I never felt comfortable with Zenna’s crew. Performance art was one thing I knew I could cross off my list of future careers, and I’d never pursued drama or music beyond the compulsory classes at the start of high school.


‘Where’s Will?’ someone asked.


I winced. Zenna pretended not to hear, turning instead to gush over someone’s pinstriped suit, but her stiff posture belied her easy words.


If I wanted to escape, she might be amenable now.


‘… fashionably late,’ one boy was saying as everyone took their seats, and no sooner had we all sat than the music faded out. A teacher cleared their throat at the microphone.


Too late to sneak away now.