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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.
“Hard not to. You move like water.”
Partners paired off in awkward clusters. Melody’s date, a quiet boy named Leo from her chem class, was late. She scanned the crowd—couples giggling, stepping on toes, checking phones. Her stomach tightened. melody marks prom night practice
At 9:47 p.m., before the chicken dance could ruin the mood, Dominic appeared beside her.
Then a hand appeared at her elbow.
“She is.” He held her gaze a moment longer than necessary. “So. Prom night. Two weeks. You have a date, but… would you save me a dance? A real one. Not the chicken dance they’ll inevitably play at 10 p.m.”
Melody laughed, real and unguarded. “Your abuela sounds wise.” Before she could overthink it, she placed her hand in his
“All right, everyone,” called Mrs. Cranston, the history teacher turned reluctant choreographer. “Find your partners. We’re running the entrance and first dance twice, then open floor.”
