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She came up to me and said, “This was such a great idea, Emma. I never wanted to go to prom because I didn’t have anyone to ask. Plus, proms are usually a disaster—last year, my date got wasted and threw up on my two-hundred-dollar shoes. But this prom’s going to be epic. I hope you keep the tradition going next year!”

I smiled and told her we’d try our best. But as I headed back to Lockwood, Sophie’s words began to sink in. So what if I didn’t have a date or a dress? That was the whole point of alternative prom. The important thing was to have a good time with friends and celebrate the end of this difficult year. We’d earned ourselves a night of fun.

When I got back to the dorm, Michelle and Jess were getting ready in our room. I asked Michelle about borrowing a dress, and she hopped off the bed and grabbed my hands, flailing like a madwoman.

“You’re coming?” she said.

“I’m considering.”

Jess shook her head. “You have to come. You helped make this happen.”

“And of course you can borrow a dress,” Michelle said.

“And you can borrow Michelle for a dance, too,” Jess said.

“Oh, are you giving away my services now?” Michelle said, swatting Jess’s arm. Jess caught her hand, and the two of them leaned in for a kiss that was so tender and adorable, I couldn’t help but smile. They seemed so confident together now, so comfortable in their own skins. If anything good had come out of this year, it was this moment right here.

I chose a simple strapless red dress from Michelle’s closet to go with the rose corsage and wore my ruby red slippers. I wondered, if I clicked my heels together would it bring Gray back to me?

Elise met us in our room around six o’clock, looking surprisingly understated in a silver sheath dress. Michelle wore a vibrant orange-and-green dress that looked like a Monet watercolor. And Jess, God love her, wore a slinky black dress with black high-top Converse. We all took turns at the mirror, double-checking our outfits, hair, and makeup.

While we were walking out to the parking lot, we saw Amber and Chelsea dressed in their finery and standing in front of a ridiculously long limo. We had opted not to rent a limo to save some money, so I was driving everyone in the Volvo. But Amber couldn’t resist making one more cheap shot.

“Going to your ball in a pumpkin carriage?” Amber said. When we all ignored her, she added, “Be sure to be back by midnight, Emma, or you might turn into a lesbian.”

Chelsea followed this up with her usual laughter, and Elise shouted, “Hey, Chelsea, be sure not to think for yourself, or you might turn into an actual human being.”

Chelsea’s mouth dropped, but it was Amber who looked the most insulted. Jess and Michelle high-fived Elise as we walked to the car. But I felt a little sorry for Chelsea. She hadn’t figured out who she was yet, and when she did, she was in for a rude awakening.

But this night wasn’t about Amber and Chelsea; it was about us.

When we arrived at the Depot, a news van was parked outside. The same anchorwoman who had tried to cover the Day of Silence approached us, flanked by her burly cameraman. Somehow they’d found out about our underground prom and wanted to do a story on us, hoping to expose institutionalized discrimination at Lockwood and make local heroes of Michelle and Jess.

I could tell Michelle and Jess felt sort of trapped under the scrutiny of the camera, which was already filming as the anchorwoman spoke. She was being really pushy, asking a lot of personal questions:
How long have you two been together? What’s it like being gay at a conservative prep school? Do you want to say anything to the public that might help your cause?

“You know what?” I finally said to her. “This is our prom night. We don’t want to fight any causes or make any statements tonight. All we want to do is dance.”

I walked away as determinedly as I could, and Jess and Michelle followed suit, leaving the anchorwoman and her cameraman standing idly on the sidewalk, bereft of their hot story.

“Thanks, Emma,” Michelle said once we got inside. I nodded and smiled, full of gratitude and love for her.

We all stopped short when we saw the interior of the club. The room was awash in a violet glow, with fake gas lamps set up around the periphery casting silvery pools of light. The mirrored stars we’d hung caught the light, projecting mini-stars onto the ceiling. Everything looked sparkly and ethereal.

We split up to make final preparations for the food, favors, and music, then stood around talking as we waited for the guests to arrive. After about an hour, the place was packed with prom-goers mingling and eating.

“How many people do you think are here?” I asked Michelle.

“At least sixty,” she said. “Maybe more.” We had definitely siphoned off a good portion of the traditional prom crowd, and for this, I felt immensely gratified.

Around seven o’clock, Flynn took the stage and announced the karaoke machine officially open for business. When no one volunteered, he rounded up Jess and Owen, and they opened with a rousing rendition of the Rolling Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil.” Flynn affected his voice to sound British and did the Mick Jagger rooster strut, while Owen and Jess provided the
who-who
s.

Once they finished, to screaming applause, Owen grabbed Elise from the audience, and they stood onstage with Flynn conspiring about something. Michelle looked at me in surprise, and we maneuvered our way through the crowd, getting as close to the stage as we could without getting trampled.

The song began with a catchy drumbeat, and then Owen’s crystalline voice sang the first few words of Fun.’s “We Are Young.” As soon as everyone recognized the crowd-pleasing song, they began to jump and cheer, and then Elise chimed in on the haunting chorus. Owen and Elise must have been tapping into their stage chemistry from
The Crucible
because they were really working the crowd, building the song to its anthemic crescendo. At the end, Owen hopped from the stage and held out his hand to help Elise down. The crowd went wild. Michelle and I had to pick up our shocked jaws from off the floor.

A group of Braeburn guys got up next and sang the Killers’ “When You Were Young,” which got the entire crowd on their feet. Before I could argue, Jess ripped my arm out of its socket, thrusting me into a sea of humanity, all of us writhing and jumping and swaying to the music. Michelle and Elise were out there, too, and a few seconds later, Owen and Flynn joined us, Flynn bouncing around in a one-man mosh pit. By the end of the song, we were all drenched and happy and starved for more.

We danced like crazed fiends for another few songs, until some girl requested “Gravity” by Sara Bareilles. I took a breather by the bar and watched people slow dance, feeling just a little bit sorry for myself. And then, Owen and Elise stepped onto the dance floor. At first I thought they were heading to the karaoke booth, but then Owen wrapped his arms around Elise’s waist and pulled her close, and Elise curled into the crook of his shoulder like they’d done this many times before. When had this happened?

I was wondering how serious they were when Flynn sidled up next to me. “Wanna dance?” he said.

I raised an eyebrow, and he suddenly looked a little unsure of himself. That brief moment of vulnerability made me say yes.

We walked out onto the dance floor, and he tentatively placed his arms around my waist while I rested my arms around his shoulders.

“So what’s wrong?” he said. “You seem depressed. And it’s your prom night. You shouldn’t be depressed. Is it Gray?”

I nodded. “I wish he was here.”

“Yeah, me too,” he said, letting one of his hands roam down my lower back toward my butt.

I grabbed his hand and placed it back on my waist. “Seriously, dude?”

“I’m just joking,” he said. “But there’s something else bothering you, isn’t there? I see you watching them. You can’t stand the sight of Owen dancing with Elise.”

“No, it’s not that,” I said.
Okay, it is partly that.
“It’s our friendship I miss. I don’t think Owen’s forgiven me yet for . . . kissing you.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m alcohol-free tonight. I won’t be molesting you any time soon.”

“Good to know,” I said.

“And I am sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” I said. “It was that damn tattoo.”

“My tattoo? What, you find it sex-eeee?” he said, wagging his eyebrows up and down.

“No,” I said, laughing. “It’s just that when you told me what it meant, it made me want to do something fearless, but it turned out to be something colossally stupid instead.”

“Thanks a lot,” he said.

“You know what I mean.”

Then he gave me a mischievous look. “You know what would be really fearless?” he said. “If you got up on stage and dedicated a song to Owen.”

“You mean, actually sang him a song?”

“That is what you do in karaoke.”

“Flynn, I can’t sing.”

“That’s the point,” he said. “If you could sing, it wouldn’t be such a sacrifice.”

“Yeah, but what song could I possibly choose that could make things right?”

“Let’s go over to my booth and take a look.”

We strolled over to his karaoke case, and I marveled that Flynn was being so kind without a discernible motive. He flipped through a list of the karaoke selections and said, “How about Akon’s ‘Sorry, Blame It on Me’?”

“Akon?” I said. “Uh, Flynn, can you see me rapping?” He regarded me for a fraction of a second, then burst out laughing. “Okay, it’s not that funny,” I said.

“Oh, yes it is,” he said. “How about Good Charlotte’s ‘Say Anything’?”

“Mmm, too emo.”

“Okay, let’s try a different approach,” he said. “What about ‘You’ve Got a Friend in Me’?”

“The song from
Toy Story
?”

“No good?” He kept scanning his list, and then he said, “Bingo.”

“What?”

“ ‘Count on Me’ by Bruno Mars. It’s a big, melty pile of commercial cheese, but I think it’ll do the trick.”

“Hey, I like that song!”

“Well, good, because that’s what you’re singing.”

“But I don’t know the lyrics,” I said.

“No problem. They’ll pop up on the screen, and you just have to sing along.”

“Are you sure I should do this?’ I said, feeling a slow churning in my stomach.

“You
have
to do this,” he said. “For Owen. Besides, the song is short. It’ll be over before you know it.”

Flynn had a point. I had to put myself out there if I was going to redeem myself in Owen’s eyes. So reluctantly, I said yes.

But once I’d committed, all I could do was pace around and sweat for the next ten minutes until Flynn called me to the stage. When Michelle and Jess saw me up there, they stopped in their tracks, staring up at me in disbelief. Michelle’s awestruck face had me second-guessing my decision. She’d heard me sing in the shower, and it wasn’t pretty. But if I was going to win back Owen’s friendship, I had to do this.

Somehow, I had pictured myself striding up to the microphone and jauntily announcing, “This one goes out to Owen Mabry, a good friend who deserved better.” I imagined everyone talking and laughing over me, so no one would really pay much attention.

But now the room was eerily silent, and the stage lights were burning down on my face. When I peered out into the crowd, they were staring at me with a perverse sort of fascination. Like watching a naked person walk down the freeway.

When it became clear I wasn’t going to be able to speak, Flynn announced, “This song goes out to Owen from Emma. She’s really sorry, dude, and so am I.”

When Owen heard his name, he made his way to the front of the stage so he was staring straight up at me. I couldn’t even look at him. Instead, I focused my attention on the little TV screen. I heard bongos and a guitar, and then the little red ball began bouncing over the words, and I knew I was supposed to start in, but I was frozen. And I could hear a tambourine jangling in the background, making it all the more obvious that I wasn’t singing.

Everyone in the audience just stood there, waiting for me to begin, their eyes wide and expectant. Briefly I caught Michelle’s eye, and she made a horrified expression like, “Emma, please do something!” It was like one of those nightmares where you have a big wad of gum in your throat and you can’t scream. Sweat began pooling at my temples, and I swayed a little, feeling dizzy.

Somewhere in my mind I knew I’d skipped the entire first verse. I glanced at the screen again and saw the red ball poised over the chorus. I had to jump in here. Bobbing my head slightly, I began to sing.

“Louder!” someone shouted from the audience. “We can’t hear you!”

Oh my God, someone get me off this stage!

Flynn had said the song was short, but I felt like I’d been up there for three hours. Sweat dripped off my face. My hands shook by my sides. I gulped in some air and wondered if I had enough spit left in my mouth to finish the song. Or maybe I could just run off stage and move to Alaska?

Even though my heart was beating wildly and my mouth was dry as stone, I tried to start in on the second verse, but I couldn’t locate my strength or confidence. They had both run screaming out the exits.

And then, like a miracle, someone else’s voice broke in, an angelic male voice—and at that moment, the most beautiful voice I’d ever heard.

I whipped around and saw Flynn belting out the words of the song like he’d written them himself. He was standing next to me now, nudging my arm and nodding at the screen. With his voice carrying the tune, I joined him, softly at first, then gaining volume as my fear faded.

By the time the chorus repeated, we were singing together, with Flynn’s voice sailing beautifully over the
ooohs
and
yeahs
. When we got to the bridge, we were actually singing in harmony, and I had to admit we sounded okay. Better than okay.

Near the end, some of the audience joined in on the chorus, and when we finished, the crowd went wild, mostly because this cringe-worthy debacle of a song was finally over.

I blinked gratefully at Flynn, then stumbled down the stairs and raced toward the exit, bursting out the door onto the rooftop balcony. The air felt refreshingly cool, and the beads of sweat on my body chilled immediately. Adrenaline still surged through my body.