“Do you have a second?” she asks in that way that she does, where she already knows the answer or at least expects you to give her the answer she wants.

“Uh, sure,” I say, feeling sluggish.

“So there’s that Sadie Hawkins dance coming up,” she says, a slight shake entering her voice. My eyes finally zero in on her face, and as she comes into focus, I’m pulled into her feelings. I feel hot all at once, like I’ve gotten a sunburn over my whole body, and the bees of stress take up residence again in my stomach. Except, wait, no, it’s not bees. It’s something else. Something writhing and light and not totally unpleasant.

I’m adjusting to the feeling when I notice that she hasn’t said anything for a few seconds and is looking at me expectantly. Am I supposed to say something?

“Yeah?” I say vaguely, just to be safe.

“I was wondering if you wanted to go with me,” she says, a pretty blush appearing on her cheeks. She is pretty, I think, but I’m too distracted by the squirming and the heat and the dripping ooze on my ribs to appreciate it. So distracted that I’ve completely lost track of what she’s talking about.

“What?” I ask.

“I was wondering if you wanted to go to the Sadie Hawkins dance with me,” Caitlin repeats slowly, like I’m being a bit stupid. Which I guess I am. I can tell from the look on her face that she’s sort of already regretting asking me. And then I realize I haven’t given her my answer yet.

“Oh, uh, yeah, sure, Caitlin,” I say, even though going to a school dance is absolutely the last thing I ever want to do.

“Great,” she says with a smile. I smile back automatically, infected by her happiness. It swoops in and clears out the ooze, but leaves the squirming heat behind. “Do you want to—”

“All right, everyone, take a seat,” Mr. Collins calls from the front of the room, interrupting whatever terrifying question Caitlin was about to ask.

“We’ll talk later,” Caitlin whispers, like we share a secret, and I smile back, filled with a momentary warmth. Caitlin’s easy familiarity with me is like putting on an old, comfy sweatshirt that I’d forgotten I have.

As I sit down, I think about how Caitlin and I used to be pretty good friends. Maybe even best friends. She lived down the block from us and we’d play kickball in the street and hide-and-go-seek on rainy days. Her mom would make us grilled cheeses and Caitlin would lend me her favorite Boxcar Children books. It was easy and nice.