The gym smelled of floor wax and nervous anticipation. Melody Marks stood at the edge of the basketball court, now transformed into a mock ballroom for prom night practice. Streamers in school colors hung limply from the bleachers, and a senior with a laptop played a tinny version of “At Last” through portable speakers.
Then a hand appeared at her elbow.
“You know,” Melody whispered, “I think your abuela would approve.” melody marks prom night practice
Melody blinked. “You watched me?”
“Looks like you need a partner.”
Before she could overthink it, she placed her hand in his. Mrs. Cranston cued the music. Dominic led—not stiffly like the other boys, but with a confident, easy rhythm. Melody followed, and something clicked. The foxtrot steps she’d drilled alone suddenly made sense in tandem. They glided past the cluster of frozen couples, past the snack table, past the baffled eyes of her classmates.
“I saw you practicing in the hallway mirror during fifth period,” he said quietly. “You’re actually good.” The gym smelled of floor wax and nervous anticipation
“You promised me a dance,” he said.