They push me through the bathroom door. The lobby is loud with the sounds of prom transitioning from dinner to dancing.

“Come on, Cham,” Abigail says, linking her arm in mine as we head toward the loudening music. “It’s time to dance like we danced in my kitchen that night, even though Evelyn refused to acknowledge our brilliance. And don’t act like you’re all above high school.” Abigail starts to swing her hips. “You’re one of us, whether you like it or not.”

“You’re killing me, Abigail,” I say as she and Hilary drag me toward the photo booth.

“Quick stop here first,” Hilary says, pulling back the curtain. There are props and a bright light, and facing the black curtain is a camera that has a button on a foot pedal.

We put on the fake mustache and the huge glasses and hold up the square frame that says Gill School’s Senior Prom.

“Three… two… one,” the photo booth tells us. Then clicks. Seventeen is wanting something more and finally being able to go after it, even if you have no idea what the freak to call it. “Quick, switch it up,” Abigail says. I grab the mustache from Hilary, and she takes the frame from Abigail, and we stick our tongues out. Seventeen is dancing barefoot with the people you know way too many things about, because dress shoes hurt and heels hurt and at the end of the day high school hurts enough.

“Okay,” Abigail says, throwing the cardboard mustache on the floor. “Now for the dance.” She turns toward the doors containing all the sound and color and sequins and sweat and, holy shit, Mr. Garcia’s dance moves.

“Wait,” I call, running after Hilary and Abigail and taking them by the arm. “One more, but no props this time.” I arrange us in the small black booth, Abigail in the middle. “Just your default face, please.” We get perfectly still and I try to look straight-faced into the camera, but as soon as the timer starts, we all burst out laughing, and the camera sound effect clicks.

“Come on, Cham,” Abigail says, zipping across the oriental rug, past the fancy water station and the various bouquets, toward the wooden doors. “You can move faster than that. Look at those terrible sneakers.”

“Coming,” I call, running to squeeze between Abigail and Hilary. The fabric of our dresses overlaps—white and green and red and probably other colors our retinas don’t register.

Seventeen is just a word someone made up that doesn’t mean anything at all without us, I realize as we approach the doors and all the familiar and unknown things behind them. I hug my friends before we’re too sweaty to stomach each other, and they give me a taunting look.

Abigail puts her hands on her hips while Hilary leans against the metal door handles. “Now go find Brendan,” Abigail says.

“What?” I ask innocently.

“Oh, come on, Cham,” Hilary says. “You obviously have a crush on him.”