My words hang in the air, and I wish the earth would swallow me up so I wouldn’t have to experience this silence. When I glance at Ana, her face remains as serious as usual. The only cue I have that something is going on behind that blank exterior is that she has one hand hooked around the back of her neck. Her fingers play fitfully with the collar of her shirt.

“You sure?” she says.

“Yeah?” I say questioningly, because that seems like a weird response to an apology.

“Don’t think I’m, like, desperate to make us friends,” she says, staring fixedly at my feet. “I mean, I wanted to be friends—I thought we were friends—but I don’t want to be your pity friend. I came on too strong the other day, and I’m cool to just cut my losses if . . . yeah.”

Oh my god, I think she’s embarrassed. I’m officially living in an alternate universe. She drags her gaze up from the floor, and I realize when she meets my eyes that I’m staring at her. I snap my head around to stare at the wall in a move that definitely looks calm and collected and not twitchy at all. “I think I was maybe being stupid?” I say. “I don’t know . . . um . . . can we just start over?”

“Start over?” she echoes, her face unreadable.

“Yeah, like . . .” I trail off. Ugh, I don’t know what I’m doing. The idea that this can’t be the end of our relationship keeps rolling around my head. These past two days have been lonely, if I’m being honest. Ana used to be the only person I spoke to much in class, even if most of that was us messing with each other. I feel stupid realizing how essential she was to my day-to-day life. No wonder she thought we were friends.

“I’m sorry I made you feel bad,” I say finally. “I guess I’m just kind of dense.”

There’s another long, terrible silence. Her expression is so damn unreadable that I want to scream. She keeps fiddling with the back of her collar and staring past me as if I’m not here.

Just when I start grasping for something else to say, she steps toward me and holds up her hands. It takes a moment for me to realize that she means for me to take them. When I grab them uncertainly, she begins to lead me in the moves from “The Block Party.” Her hands are cool to the touch, and I’m suddenly aware of how warm and sweaty my own hands are. Nerves flutter in my chest inexplicably.

“You’re rushing the turns,” she says softly. “It’s throwing you off balance.”

“Okay,” I say, biting my lip in concentration. She leads me through one of the turns again, and it goes slightly better.