The song changes and the girls in the foam with us squeal in delight as the opening to Lizzo’s “Truth Hurts” begins to play.

I feel on top of the world as I give myself over to the beat like I’ve only done in my bedroom for the past three years. Zeke doesn’t exactly dance, but he seems more relaxed now and I’m patting myself on the back for pulling him in here. All he needed was a little forced fun.

One song turns to five and I’m drenched with a combination of foam and sweat when I turn back to face the middle of the circle. I offer a shy smile to the girl to my left. She returns it and then tilts her head and studies me. “You’ve got something…” She takes a step toward me, smooths a hand over her face at the same time she must realize the only thing on my face is… my face.

My scarred face.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid, Gabby.

My hand flies to the left side of my face and I give her a reassuring smile. After all, it’s not her fault.

They can make mascara that withstands a good cry fest, but so far, I haven’t found a foundation that is as magical. Which means mine is gone with the foam and the lines on my face are more visible. The scars on my face from a car accident my senior year of high school are never completely hidden, but with several layers of concealer, foundation, and setting spray, it’s not usually obvious enough that people gasp in horror – yep, that’s happened.

“Sorry,” she says and averts her eyes back to the middle of the circle.

I don’t look around to the other girls. One thing I hate more than gawking – the pity. As if my life were defined by my face. As if I’m somehow less than because I’m not perfect. As if they’re better than me because they wear their scars on the inside. And I flipping hate that I feel like they might be right.

I turn to face my date and hope he’ll shield me from this awkward, awful moment or maybe whisk me away and tell me I’m beautiful no matter what. Cheesy, right? But I long to hear those words from someone even if it’s not true.

Zeke’s eyes are warm and understanding as his gaze drops to the scars on my face and then to the girls dancing around us. “Wanna head back?”

Well, it’s not a profession of beauty or love, but it’s an excuse out of here anyway. I grab his arm and duck behind him. With as much dignity as I can muster, I shimmy out of that foam like my pride didn’t wash away with my makeup.

Man, I was stoked about a real-life foam party. I forgot one minor detail. Foam is made of water.

3

GABBY

Zeke leads me into the gym on the second story of The White House.