Rumor Mill - Phil

Chapter 9

"Phil?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Would you go to prom with me?"

I glance at Dan, confused. It's Saturday, the day before my parents' homecoming, and Dan has no intention of leaving.

"What?"

"Would you go to prom with me?" he repeats, as if I didn't hear him.

I give a small smile. "That's an American thing, we don't have a prom." 

"I know, but, like, theoretically. Would you?" Dan's head is in my lap, it has been since I sat down on the couch to read some Stephen King, and he looks up at me hopefully. 

"Well, yes, if you wanted. Though we might get beaten to death. Or thrown out. You know, since we're two guys." 

Dan laughs. "Who in their right mind would mess with me? With my reputation? I could bring a goat as my date and no one would touch me." 

I smile down at him, and I realize how far my perception of him has come. He's just Dan now, not Dan Howell, with the fierce reputation, and the alcoholic parents, and the vicious rumors behind his name. He's Dan, who holds the door open for dates, and says 'I love you' way too early, and asks boys to theoretical proms, and gives grandiose speeches when he's unsatisfied with his situation. 

He takes my silence as a cue to continue speculating. "You know, we could go tuxedo shopping, and I could buy you roses, and we could hire a crappy limo service with a driver that's seen one two many spoiled white girls in their backseat, and you know, we could dance to sappy-ass music while something stupid and inconvenient like balloons or feathers rain down." 

"Dan, I don't know if prom is quite like it is in American teen drama movies."

"What, you mean I'll never find my John Bender?" 

I flick Dan lightly on the head. "There's no prom in The Breakfast Club, smartass." Dan laughs, reaching up and grabbing my hand to kiss it. I look back down at my book before Dan speaks again, quieter now.

"Will you dance with me?" 

"What, right now?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not really much of a dancer."

"Me either. Can we try?"

"There's no music." Dan sits up, heaving himself to his feet and holding out his hand. 

"Come with me?" I watch him for a second, raising an eyebrow, before shutting my book and letting him pull me to my feet. He leads me to my room, where he sits down at my computer, glancing up at me. "Mind if I look up something?" I shake my head, and he wiggles the mouse, screen brightening, and for a second I worry that iMovie is still up and he'll see the video I'm editing, but it's fine because when it flickers to life, it's simply my generic desktop. He opens the web, typing smoothly into the search bar, smiling when he sees what he wants. "It has speakers, yeah?" I nod, and he clicks the mouse once, a grainy song beginning to play, with soft acoustics and a record-like scratch to it. I recognize it soon enough. 

I Can't Help Falling in Love With You. A song made famous by Elvis Presley, now performed by some voices I don't recognize. Dan taps the desk a few times, biting his bottom lip and pushing the chair back, standing and turning to me, his hand outstretched. It's so sweet it's sickening, but I take his hand anyway. 

He pulls me to the center of the room, holding me like I'm fragile, his right hand loosely intertwined with my left, his left arm wrapping around my waist, and my free hand placed lightly on his shoulder. We're awkward, and a little too tall for dancing, but we laugh when we trip and Dan sings along softly, off-key and broken up with quiet laughter, and he looks down at me with affection, and I feel nervous, but not overwhelmingly so, just filled with positive apprehension and speculation. We sway slowly, turning clockwise to the flowing tones of the song.