“Nice ride!” someone calls out, and I blow a kiss out the sunroof, giving no fucks as to whether it was sarcastic or not. Jack exits first, and I scramble out to take her arm and wait for the guys. For all the fun we had on the way here, this is a massive and terrifying moment for Miguel, and I wish I could reach into the limo and take his hand, but I’m not the person he needs holding him steady right now.

Miguel and Malcolm emerge together, and if possible, it seems like the crowd has grown outside. But when they take each other’s hands and the gawking and whispers really start, we all about-face and march straight into the school, focusing on nobody but each other, on nothing but celebrating ourselves with terrible music and even worse punch.

-JACK-

I’ve always hated being talked about, but tonight it’s proving particularly hard to get to me.

It might be that it’s really tough to distract from the ridiculously hot girl on my arm and the scent of sweet floral shampoo wafting off her big glossy curls.

It might be that I finally feel like I look like myself.

It might be that if I proved anything this weekend, it’s that I can take on anyone in this room.

It might be how Miguel, for all his obvious nerves, is fucking glowing in Malcolm’s presence.

It might be any of those things.

But of course, we make it about five feet into the gym before we bump up against Sanchez and Devlin, and being talked about fades into the woodwork, because they are definitely talking to us.

“Y’all know this is a school dance, not a fucking Pride parade,” Sanchez spits, his stink eye practically rolling in its socket as he struggles to figure out which of his teammates is more deserving of it.

“Don’t worry, Sanchez,” Santiago says, puffing out his chest. “No one’s confused into thinking y’all have anything to be proud of. Everyone saw the game last night.”

“Burn!” someone says cheerfully from the crowd of bystanders.

“Shut the fuck up, Barrett,” Devlin snaps.

But Barrett won’t shut up, and I realize it’s Austin from my English class—the guy who’s always blatantly staring at Amber’s legs. I knew he had good taste. “He’s right, though. Neither of y’all could catch for shit last night. If anyone deserves to be here—with whomever the fuck they want—it’s these two.” He gestures at me and Miguel.

“Hear, hear!” someone else calls, and a whole bunch of voices echo.

“So this is how it’s gonna be?” Devlin snarls. “No one gives a shit who we have to share our locker room with anymore? No one gives a shit that Robbie’s gone?”