“Smile!”

“Thanks for the ride,” I whisper up at him. “And the moon.”

“No problem,” he says, leaning away once the picture’s been taken. I sort of wish we’d take another.

To our left the front doors open, and there are voices and heels clacking as more people walk in. I turn around to find Danika and Doug, then Gene and Helga. As our eyes latch, the egg of my heart cracks and it makes a rotten breakfast. His head comes up to Helga’s shoulder with her heels on, and he’s matched his orange bow tie with her orange sparkling gown. Suddenly I feel homemade in this dress. And not in a cute Etsy way.

“Hey, Cham, you look great,” Gene says with a We’re such good friends smile.

I smile back, but like are you kidding me? Just because we’re in nice clothes doesn’t mean we have to be nice. As Gene walks away to stand in line to be Breathalyzed, it occurs to me that when we weren’t making out or running, there wasn’t much else between us. I feel sad about it for a second, but maybe all first loves are like that. Maybe you have to love someone on the surface at least once in your life so that when you love someone beyond that, you know the distance you’ve traveled.

“Oh, come on,” Abigail whispers, watching my face. “Nine point eight out of ten high school relationships end. Did you really think yours was the exception?”

I punch her in the arm and burst out laughing. “Wow, you’re kind of a dick, huh?”

“I’m just saying you can move on now,” Abigail says, waving us toward the diminishing line of people waiting to go inside. “Come on, I gotta get to the dance floor.”

She and Hilary go ahead, and Brendan smiles at me. “Well, have fun with your friends!”

“Aren’t you coming?” Abigail asks, turning around. Brendan looks at me.

“He’s coming,” I say, catching my reflection and nodding certainly in the big mirror with the vase of roses in front of it.

Brendan shrugs and turns toward the regal-looking wooden doors. “Looks like I’m coming.”

Our senior prom is in a big, bright room with a polished wooden dance floor that looks out onto the sprawling green golf course. In the right-hand corner a DJ sets up her table while a catchy, warm-your-ass-up dance tune plays in the background. “Wanna bet who’s gonna be the first to do it on the golf course tonight?” Abigail asks, standing in front of the doors that lead to a romantically lit balcony.

“Mr. Garcia,” Brendan says, and we all laugh.

“You guys,” Abigail says suddenly as we half marvel at the place and half marvel at everyone all dressed up. “I’m literally crying.”

“No, you’re not,” Hilary points out.

“But I could be.” Abigail walks toward the tables in the back of the room, all set for dinner with white tablecloths and floral centerpieces. We follow slowly, taking in the fanciness of everything. It’s a little weird how weird it’s not to hang out with Brendan and Hilary and Abigail. I thought it’d be awkward, but it’s kind of like we’ve been doing this all along. Or maybe the illusion of separate worlds is just that: an illusion.