"This story is about the boy I loved. This is about his suffering. This is about my suffering. All of it due to one thing. Affluenza."
TW : Key themes of suicide.
Sebastian Grey. Golden boy, trust fund baby, and Braylen Adams' mortal enemy. Braylen...
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THE CHANDELIER LIGHTS illuminate the ballroom and I stare up into the brightness, anything to distract me from the task at hand.
Robyn nudges my arm and I look up, blushing. Mrs. Pruitt glares at me, her wrinkly skin sickly under the yellow light. "Pay attention, Mr. Adams. Otherwise you'll be unprepared for the Graduate Ball."
I fight back a groan. Normal high schools did proms; the Academy held their annual Graduate Ball.
A bunch of expensive dresses and suits, glasses of apple cider and champagne, and an unhealthy amount of drama. Who danced with who, whose dress showed their slightly pudgy stomach fat stored over from Christmas, who wore the same tie.
And at the center of it all was the waltz dance.
Every senior was required to learn it and perform it at the ball. It was something to look forward to from your freshman year until now. I, however, never really understood the hype.
"What's the point?" I mumble, but my voice comes out loud in the quiet room. Every eye turns to me and I blush deeper.
"Excuse me?" Mrs. Pruitt asks, pushing up her eyeglasses on her face.
I swallow hard, looking around the room for support. My eyes land on Sebastian's. He was sitting on the floor like the rest of us, leaning back on his hands, looking at me. Sebastian grins widely, sending me a wink and a small nod. I turn back to Pruitt. "It's a bit outdated. Nobody dances the waltz anymore. Unless they're an extra on Dancing with The Stars."
A few kids snicker around the circle and I flush with triumph. Pruitt's eyes narrow. "Get up. Now."
The crowd around me dissolves into "oohs" and "ahhs." I resist the urge to stick my middle finger up at the traitors. I stand up slowly, wiping my sweaty fingers off on my dress pants.
"Since Mr. Adams has so much to say about waltzing, perhaps he could demonstrate?" Mrs. Pruitt says. I lower a glare at her.
"The man will grab his lady's waist. No further than the waist, however. This could end up as a very scandalous night," she says, giggling at her own joke. "The lady will rest her left hand on his shoulder and they will join hands with the other. As so." She slips her wrinkly hand onto my shoulder. With a sigh, I grab her waist. A kid whistles loudly and I stick up the middle finger behind her back.
"Man will step forward with his left, woman will step back with her right," she instructs, and we fall into an easy rhythm. Oba had been drilling me the waltz steps since I was a freshman. As we waltz across the floor I see Sebastian looking at us with a solemn glint in his eye.
