I need to leave this table, this bar, possibly this planet.
“Beck, wait,” Gracie calls out, half-standing. “That’s not what I said, I mean it is, but not—not like that.”
I don’t stop.
I can’t.
I head for the hallway that leads to the back exit, lungs burning, heart pounding like I’m trying to outrun myself.
You’re an idiot,I tell myself.
For ever thinking you had a chance.
For forgetting your place.
I was never the guy she would choose.
I was the neighbor. The friend. The boy with glasses who she protected.
For one brief, shining moment, I hoped maybe I could be more.
Now I know better.
Grabby Hands
Gracie
Age 18
The disco ball spins and glitters high over our heads. I spend half the night staring at it over my date’s shoulder, wondering how the decorating committee got it up there. The gym ceiling has to be at least twenty feet tall. I didn’t know ladders came that big.
Jimmy’s hands are everywhere, on my hips, my waist, constantly trying to slide around to grip my ass. Right in front of everyone. The part that really bugs me, the part that actually pisses me off, is that he’s doing it because he likes itandbecause he wants everyone to see. So he can brag later. That he bagged the prom queen. That he can touch me like he owns me.
Fuck that.
“Stop it, Jimmy,” I snap as I plant both hands on his chest and shove him back.Hard. Let the rest of the school seethat. Let them gossip about it tomorrow at lunch. About how Gracie Smith made a scene at senior prom. About how I had the audacity to reject the great Jimmy Hamilton.
All-state quarterback. Football golden boy. Future NFL player.
As if any of that matters to me.
I have my own things to be proud of. My own future to care about.
“Come on, Gracie,” he whines, grabbing for my hand, but I’m already gone.
I push through the crowd, ignore the friends calling my name, dodge the boys asking me to dance. Along the wall, cookies and snacks are laid out beside a massive crystal punch bowl. Someone pours a generous scoop of unnaturally red liquid into my cup, and I drink it so fast I hit the bottom before I feel the burn.
Fire tears down my throat.
I cough into my fist once. Twice. Then glance around, wondering who was bold enough to spike the prom punch. It’s like something straight out of an ’80s rom-com.
The drink doesn’t cool me down. I’m still sweaty, angry, buzzing, so I shove open the metal doors leading out of the gym and burst into the night.
Cool air hits me, lifting the ringlets Suzy and my mom spent hours putting into my hair earlier, the two of them lingering over every pin and curl, dabbing at tears, emotional because this was my last school dance. The air dries the sweat at my neck and slows my heart to something closer to normal.
Once my eyes adjust, I head around the corner of the building to the back, where I know there’s a metal picnic table the janitors use for smoke breaks. Beyond it, the land drops away into an open field, dark and wide, the grass rippling softly in the night breeze. A farmhouse sits in thedistance, one porch light glowing like a steady watchful eye, and farther still I can make out the low shapes of barns and fence lines cutting across the land. Crickets hum. Somewhere out there, a cow shifts and snorts, the sound carrying easily in the quiet.
All I want right now is to be alone.
