“Shall We Dance?”

You’ve never looked thinner. It’s surprising what black can do to a girl like you: how it hides every visible flaw and keeps you seemingly ‘locked in’ the mold that is your prom dress. You sit on a covered chair with your eyes down, focused intently on the cellphone about to lose battery. The night is half-over and the ‘club music’ has died down, changing from intricate beats to surprisingly wholesome fifties ballads. People have crowded the dance floor and seems as though you’re one of the only ones who’s managed to keep her heeled feet firmly on the carpeted floor. Sigh… and then, it happens.

“D’you wanna dance?”

  Wilde Thatcher used to be the biggest bully in your school, and in your eyes he still was. The only difference was the suit and the bouquet of flowers he held up in front of you. This guy used to hate you, didn’t he? What was this jerk doing asking you for a dance on prom night? You planned to stay cautious, and in truth you still were.

“That doesn’t have poison ivy in it, does it?” you ask jokingly, and Wilde smiles, running a hand through his seemingly perfect brown hair.He shakes his head.

“Most girls aren’t that smart, you know,” he says.

“Most boys aren’t that stupid, either,” you reply. He laughs, handing you the thick bouquet of blood-red roses.He then extends another hand.


“So what?”

  Wilde pulls you onto the dance floor, and you almost trip… but he catches you in midair with an acrobatic move that leaves you stunned. The eye contact blinds you, but it isn’t that that makes this night memorable, and you know it.Soon the music becomes a mere blur, and you realize then that love is just like the movies when you’re a teenager: nothing else matters except the guy in front of you.



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