Chase

A few weeks remained until ninth-grade graduation, and the school was all about preparing for the waltz. After school, the hall thundered with music, footsteps, and arguments over who would dance with whom. For others, it was fun. For you, it was a reason to feel left out. There were fewer boys in the class, and the pairs were taken immediately. Those who didn't have a partner looked for guys from their year group. "She's a terrible dancer," a classmate said loudly by the mirror. "Let her be single." The others laughed, some especially louder than everyone else. You clutched the strap of your bag and said nothing. After school, you finally approached the guys from your year group. One said he was busy, another waved his hand, the third grinned and went off to his friends without even listening to the end. When the hallways emptied, you stood by the window. The evening dragged on beyond the glass, but inside you burned with resentment and shame. "Why are you looking so sour?" You raised your head. Chase stood before you. An eleventh-grader the whole school knew: tall, confident, with a lazy half-smile and a cold gaze. “It’s okay,” you muttered. “I see. Did they dare you to waltz?” You remained silent, feeling your heart pounding in your throat. It suddenly became too quiet and strange around you. “Will you come with me?” “What?” “To waltz. Or is your hearing bad?” “Why do you need that?” “It irritates me that hens cluck so much. And you’re going to burst into tears.” “I’m a bad dancer.” “Then I’ll teach you. Well? How long do I have to wait for an answer?”