The art kids made a Takashi Murakami–style rainbow arch—a massive, glossy thing in eye-popping colors—for photos. Our theme has led to a lot of kids wearing bright tuxes and dresses, and the decorating committee has made the entire place shimmer. Kids who didn’t really like each other in my original timeline are praising each other’s outfits, and people dance unselfconsciously, as if they know our youth won’t last.

I can’t help but think that Leeza would love this—I wish she’d gotten to go to this version of our school. I promise myself to google her tomorrow. She can’t be that hard to find, and won’t she be surprised if I do.

When Yasmin mounts the stage and takes the microphone, a rhinestone-studded crown in hand, I have a brief flutter of hope: Is she going to call my name? But that’s the old me talking. The new me has learned that the school no longer indulges in gendered prom kings and queens. And since I spent the last two weeks campaigning for someone else who is even more deserving, I’d bet good money that my best friend is about to have the night of their life.

“The Antic Springs Academy Prom Royal is …” Yasmin has barely formed an N before the whole room is chanting, “Nix! Nix! Nix!”

Nix’s look has a lot going on: a cropped velvet tux jacket and a tulle skirt over expensive athletic pants. But they’re just slaying. When they take the mic and ask the whole class to be their date, it’s like a massive Billie Eilish mosh pit.

Cheng whispers in my ear, the sort of sweet nothing an athlete is prone to. “I’m starving. Let’s ditch and beat the rush at Popeye’s.”

Okay, I know the biscuits at Popeye’s are butter-porn, but still. “We’re not done yet, babe.”

He does the “hungry eyes” thing—puppy dog eyes with a subtitle that reads “feed me”—but keeps dancing anyway.

I scan the banquet hall: Mom, having snagged herself a chaperone spot, is talking to Shreya, perhaps asking how she has gotten her strapless dress to stay up this long; Ms. Silverthorn and Mrs. Somboon-Fox are flanking Bryce, whose red Solo cup the principal is sniffing; Nix is dancing in the middle of a crowd of kids who came without dates, looking for all the world like their guru. It’s everything I could hope for.

With only a few minutes left, the DJ announces a special request for a “blast from the past, from Luis to Cheng.” Cheng doesn’t blush—he’s way too chill for that. But my heart races a little faster.

“What did you do?” he whispers, looking pleased and nervous all at once.