Archie’s third from the front of the line. Looks like I got here just in time.

Except he’s not alone. He’s standing next to Maggie, and she wears a purple dress the exact color as his stripes. His hair is combed nicely, and they’re talking together. Laughing.

I bump into the girl next to me, and she shoots me a dirty look. I mumble an apology, although I hardly register what I’m saying. Did I make a mistake?

Maybe Maggie didn’t trick him. Maybe this date wasn’t some elaborate setup, and purple-striped tuxedos are totally hot in some highly exclusive celebrity circles. Archie said he trusts her. Maybe I should, too.

I bite my lip. The next couple steps up to be photographed, and a pair of people shoves their way to the velvet ropes. Overeager grandparents, it looks like, who have no concern about anybody’s toes, even the precious pink toenails of the scowling girl next to me.

By the time I find Archie again, Maggie’s no longer standing next to him. What? I only took my eyes off them for two seconds. Where did she go?

In my peripheral vision, I see a girl wearing a violently purple dress shove her way across the lobby.

My stomach sinks. Oh no. I wasn’t wrong. This is a setup.

A person jostles me on my left, and someone elbows me on the right. First heat and then ice flashes through me, as disorienting as strobe lights. Do something! a voice inside me screams. And I try. Damn it, I do try. But horror has welded my lips shut. Panic has planted my feet to the floor. All I can do is watch the scene unfold before me, as helpless as a consciousness in my older self’s body.

Archie steps up to the backdrop, his eyes scanning the lobby. The photographer’s spotlight shines down on the lock of hair that will never lie down.

“Um, my date will be back in a minute,” he tells the photographer.

The crowd titters. Someone pushes Archie from behind, and he stumbles forward, moving more fully to the center of the backdrop. Cameras go off, but the flashes are more than a few isolated bugs now. They’re a swarm of golden sparklers, producing yellow-green light.

That’s when the heckling starts.

“Hey, dude! You took a wrong turn. This is prom, not the circus!”

“Whatcha wearing under that tux, Archie? Your Marie Curie T-shirt? Never leave home without it!”

“Hey, Archie! Hypothesize this! What do you get when you put a freak in a purple-striped tux? An even bigger freak!”

The laughter swells. Archie turns bright red. He stands, as frozen as me for a few endless seconds. And then, finally, he takes off. Crashing through the velvet ropes. Tunneling a path through the crowd.

My stomach tilts.