DANCING WITH MYSELF • EDDIE MUNSON

one

You were more than a little caught off guard when Chance Gallagher asked you to the senior prom.

Chance was popular, Chance was on the basketball team, and you were just Chrissy Cunningham's snarky best friend. The "bitchy" one—yeah, that was your identifier (so that you wouldn't be confused with her other, much perkier friends). You were confident that ninety percent of the student body had no idea what your actual name was. To them, you were simply Chrissy Cunningham's Bitchy Best Friend. Depressing as that was, it was an enormous step up from constantly being referred to as her "chubby" best friend. All that dieting must have finally paid off.

Needless to say, you were a little skeptical when Chance Gallagher, dressed in his green letterman jacket, showed up at your locker six weeks before the big night.

He swung by and said, "Hey, you..."

In hindsight, that should have been your first clue that this was going to end in disaster. Hey, you? Come on, the boy clearly didn't know your name. But at the time, you weren't thinking about that. No, you were too busy admiring his long dark hair, those deep-set brown eyes, and that shy, crooked smile that slowly crept up the side of his face...

"Hi," you said back, and you thought your voice sounded oddly high-pitched for some reason, like Minnie Mouse. You had to clear your throat and try again. "Hey, uhh, what's up?"

"Nothin' much." Chance paused and ran his hand through his hair. Shamelessly, you watched him do it, and you caught yourself wondering if his hair was as soft as it looked. It probably was.

"I was just thinking," he went on, "you know, about prom coming up..."   

You retreated into sarcasm. "Oh, is prom coming up?"

"Uh... yes?" Chance cocked his head, looking so confused.

You winced. "Sorry, just ignore me. So, what about prom?"

"Well, I was wondering if anyone asked you yet."

You squinted at him for a second, thinking, Seriously? "Uhh, no, no one's asked me yet."

"Good," said Chance, nodding and smiling, and you stood there, thinking, Wow, those are some white teeth.

Then, while you were distracted by those white teeth, he snuck in a quick: "So you wanna go, then?"

You blinked slowly. Once. Twice. "I'm sorry... what?"

"I'm asking if—"

"You're asking me to prom?"

"Well, I'm trying to, but you're making it kinda difficult..."

"Well, I'm a difficult person," you said under your breath. Then: "Wait a minute, is this like a Taming of the Shrew scenario? Is there a Bianca somewhere in this?"

Chance's brow furrowed. "Taming of the what?"

"The shrew."

"What's a shrew?"

"Well, it's actually a small, mouse-like animal, but it's also the word for an ill-tempered woman, which is the definition I'm referring to—not the mouse, obviously, although I could see the mouse making sense too, you know, within a different context... Anyway, The Taming of the Shrew is a Shakespearean comedy. We read it in English last week. We took turns playing the parts... well, not me, I mostly just read the stage directions. See, I've got a thing about public speaking and, you know, speaking in general..."

"Really? 'Cause you seem pretty good at it..." Chance was smiling at you.

And now you were smiling back... and laughing, too. It was a colorful laugh that burst out of your chest like confetti out of a New Year's Eve popper. "That was a good joke," you said. "I liked that..."