Katlyn Eubank
This party sucks.
Although, I suppose that’s typically the MO when we’re talking about school dances, especially when costumes are involved. I’ve seen at least five Captain Americas and three Hermiones.
My best friend, Layla, begged me to come with her, so here I am, standing in the corner dressed as my favorite childhood cartoon character, Kim Possible—my go-to costume each year thanks to my red hair—only to be ditched by my supposed “best friend” for some guy dressed like Willy Wonka.
Thanks a lot, bestie.
Abandoned, I’m about to ditch early, but I find myself searching the crowd like a lovesick puppy for a boy who doesn’t even know I exist.
That’s when I spot a totally different boy that I really don’t want to see.
“Oh no,” I breathe frantically, because walking through the crowd is Landon, aka my stalker—well, sort of. He has a bad habit of asking me out when I’ve made it clear I’m not interested, and he’s headed straight for me.
Raising his hand, he calls out my name. “Diana!”
This is not good.
Without thinking, I do something incredibly out of character for me and snatch the hand of the first boy I see that doesn’t have a date and drag him to the dance floor. Once positioned at the center, I risk a glance at Landon, who is now turning away with a dejected slump to his shoulders.
I exhale, feeling mildly guilty. I do feel bad for Landon, but how many different ways can you tell someone no before they figure out you’re not interested?
Then I remember what I just did, and all thoughts of Landon are out the window. I blush and force myself to actually look at the boy I just towed out here with me. Blue eyes peek curiously at me through a Batman mask, the room’s dark lighting making it difficult to discern much else from his appearance.
Before I can blurt an apology, he whispers conspiratorially, “Who are we hiding from?”
My eyes dart to Landon’s retreating form and he follows my lead, looking in Landon’s direction before suggesting, “We should probably start dancing if you want this to look real.”
Mortified, I nod and anxiously place my arms around his neck, mirroring the other couples around us. He rests his hands on my sides, the contact making my pulse jolt. We begin to sway to the beat.
“An ex of yours?” he asks curiously. His voice sounds familiar, but I can’t quite place it.
“What? Oh, no.” I chuckle nervously. “He’s not my ex. Just some guy who can’t take no for an answer.”
His brows knit together. “He won’t leave you alone?”
“Yes, but he’s harmless. Annoying, but harmless nonetheless.”
“So why don’t you want to go out with him?”
“Because there’s someone else,” I admit sheepishly.
The corners of his mouth turn down. “Why aren’t you dancing with the other guy then?”
I duck my head, embarrassed. “Because he kinda doesn’t know I exist. Pathetic, I know.”
“I find it hard to believe he hasn’t noticed someone like you.” He smiles, but it’s strained. I’m about to ask what he means, but he rushes on. “What’s his name? Maybe I know him.”
Apparently, I no longer have a filter, because I actually tell him. “Jack Walker. Do you know him?”
His grip tightens on my waist. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him. What is it you like about him?”
“Other than the fact that he’s probably the most gorgeous boy I’ve ever seen? He’s loud, but not in an obnoxious way. He’s always got something clever to say. He sits behind me in trigonometry, and he’s always cracking jokes that make the whole class laugh. But I always end up laughing a little harder than everyone else . . .” I trail off, embarrassed by my own candor.
He’s silent for like a million years, and I worry that I was a little too honest. Finally, he asks, “Want to hear about the girl I’m in love with?”
My stomach flutters, though I can’t explain why. I nod, so he continues.
“She’s the smartest girl in my class, probably the whole school. She’s quick to answer questions and doesn’t cave when she knows she’s right. Like when a guy keeps bothering her for a date.”
My mouth hangs open.
Surely he doesn’t mean . . . I don’t even know him.
“She sits in front of me in trig class, and I pay more attention to her hair than I do the teacher. It’s red like fire.” He reaches up and gently tugs on a strand of my hair. My red hair.
“She laughs at all of my jokes, and the sound is so sweet, I spend all my time trying to think of ways to make her do it again.”
He doesn’t protest when I reach up to pull on his mask. My hands shake with nerves. This isn’t possible. There is no way the moment I’ve had literal dreams about is actually happening. It can’t be—he can’t be. The mask falls, and . . .
Holy cream puff pastries.
“Jack Walker.” I gasp the words like they might be my last. Because I really think they might be. Am I dying? I’m definitely not breathing anymore.
He hasn’t finished speaking yet, each word more delicious than the last.
“I was gathering the courage to ask her to dance, when lucky me, she dragged me out to the dance floor. I get the feeling things will be very, very different now.”
Jack searches my eyes, hope lighting up that gorgeous face of his.
“Yeah, I get that same feeling,” I whisper.
We continue dancing, talking, laughing until the music cuts off and nearly all the party goers have left.
And to think if it weren’t for Layla, I wouldn’t have come tonight, and I wouldn’t have had the best night of my life with the boy of my dreams.
Thanks a lot, bestie.
Spark Flash Fiction 