Sydney frowned, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Oh…is she young? Is that why you have to pick her up from dance class?”

“She’s sixteen. Her feet get sore after class, and I don’t want her walking home in pain.”

Sydney hesitated, like she wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Oh…”

Scott, however, looked annoyed. “Dude, I just told you I’d pick her up. I wouldn’t make her walk home.”

I leveled him with a look. “Beverly doesn’t like you.”

A lie. A petty, unprovoked lie. I didn’t even know if Beverly knew him. But the words left my mouth before I could think about them, and I didn’t bother to take them back.

Scott blinked. “What? Why the hell not?”

I shrugged. “Because.”

Jamal let out a low laugh.  “Man, you’re a menace.”

Scott rubbed a hand over his face. “Whatever. Not my loss.”

Sydney looked like she wanted to say something—maybe ask a question, maybe just make sense of why I had shut her down so completely. But I didn’t give her the chance.

I backed away, shaking my head. “Sorry, guys. I’ll see you around.” Looking at Sydney, I added, “It was nice to meet you.”

She inhaled slightly, like she wasn’t expecting that. And when I offered a small, polite smile, a faint pink blush rose to her cheeks—like my attention alone was enough to make her feel something.

Hell, I wished I felt something. Anything.

I wished I could look at her and see what Scott saw.

I wished I wanted to stay.

Most of all, I wished I was normal.

But instead, my mind was already somewhere else—on a girl with sore feet and ballet calluses, waiting for me in a parking lot.

22

BEVERLY, 1998

16 years old

The door to the dance studio swung shut behind me, the final echoes of Ms. Sander’s voice fading as I stepped outside. My feet ached, and my ankles throbbed from a combination of exhaustion and bad decisions.

I peeled off my dance shoes as I sat on the curb, stretching my legs out in front of me and wincing as I rolled my ankles.

The sun had started to dip lower in the sky, casting the parking lot in a warm, golden glow. I had my bag next to me, my water bottle in my lap, and an oversized hoodie thrown over my leotard. I must’ve looked ridiculous—makeup still half-smudged from the night before, hair barely holding together in a messy bun, every inch of me screaming tired.

And I was.

Tired of feeling him everywhere.

Tired of wanting things I wasn’t supposed to want.