Girl/boy/dance

It seemed the school still lived about 10 years in the past. Dodgy techno beats blasted out tinny speakers, a rented disco ball swirling crookedly in circles—fragments of light littering the walls. The PE teacher—the only teacher probably deemed “cool” enough—was serving as DJ, and even that was questionable. A Ribena fountain sputtered unconvincingly in the corner.

The kids however, didn’t care. It was the Valentine’s disco. The place you took out the “date” you asked nervously at lunch time. The place where you then proceeded to hide from them and giggle with your best friend. The place where the girls came to show off their new glittery shoes and the boys to show off their badly slicked-back hair. It was the social event of the year in the middle school calendar. Friendships were forged and broken on this night.

She sat precariously, perched on the end of the bench, ready for flight at the slightest movement. Her corn-blond hair sat in nervous ringlets framing her face, creating an uneasy halo. The shoes she wore were coarse and ragged; her only pair—sneakers found at the thrift store one Tuesday on the walk home from school. The dress she wore was a garish, frock-like thing, embroidered with sickeningly yellow sunflowers and albino roses. There were a few moth holes, but it was her best. What she wore on Sundays to close her eyes and pray, what she wore as she snuck out the window that hot July night. She loved it.

The dance was slowly gathering more momentum. Robbie Jenkins was showing off his new phone, complete with his underage Facebook account, much to everyone’s delight. A few girls were shimmying awkwardly around him, batting their lashes, perhaps hoping for a peck. Some boys had snuck outside with their skateboards, attempting kickflips and normally failing horrifically. Other people stood in clusters, gossiping, casting outward glances at her.

One of those songs that everyone knew came on and the masses suddenly flocked to center stage. It was number one a few weeks ago, and the girls all started performing their made-up dance routines in groups. The speakers were still rattling, sounding moments away from short circuiting and blowing altogether. However, despite the somewhat raucous movement now present, she continued to sit on that bench, not remotely fazed by the sudden commotion.

He spied her, out the corner of his eye. He’d been outside, watching Jack attempt and fail kickflip after kickflip, initially amused but now stone-cold bored. She was through the window, at the other side of the hall—far, but not too far, illuminated and shadow-stricken by the strobe lighting. She also looked bored, gazing into space, and captivated by anything but the embarrassing crowd of warbling preteens. She seemed pretty, but she didn’t have the face you’d see on the front of Vogue. And yet he was transfixed.

The outro was playing now, the song quietening and the crowd already resuming their previous positions. He took this as his opportunity, bounding over to the DJ, completely ignoring the cluster of girls already screeching their requests for a similar song. He didn’t know why he’d done it, but it was too late now and he’d already seized the DJ’s laptop and was typing in a song onto the Spotify browser. “The Way You Look Tonight” by Frank Sinatra was suddenly playing out those awful, awful speakers and the kids had already started groaning and shrieking protest.

Despite this, he was on a mission. He practically waltzed over, sweeping past the hordes of gaping children, and strode right up to her like he never ever would. He extended his arm, with a curt bow said, “This dance, milady?” And with her in tow, smiling like there really were stars in his eyes, they made their way to the center of the hall. She was grinning, too, ear to ear. She didn’t know if it was because he seemed so sure of himself, or because he had that smile that was in that instant the best thing she’d ever seen. He didn’t know if he’d been driven mad by Jack and his bad skateboarding, or if there was something in that norm-riddled atmosphere. But whatever it was, they would both mutually agree it was wonderful.

Sinatra was singing, and they were dancing, and everyone was watching, and they really, really didn’t care. Monday didn’t matter, 10 minutes later didn’t matter. But this most certainly did.

—By Mia F., 14, England