“Do you want to dance after the announcements?”
It was exactly like a film. And she was the lead actress for once, rather than the best friend.
He had asked her to dance.
As in come up to her in front of everyone and asked her to save him a dance. Had her “Yeah, sure” been calm enough? She was fretting it had been a bit squeaky but he had said “Cool” back, and smiled at her, so that was all right.
Sartre said hell is other people, but he obviously never experienced a winter heat wave in the Georgia Lowcountry. Six weeks ago, my best friend and I were drinking cocoa laced with swiped rum, huddled under covers on the couch, oohing over the fat, lacy snowflakes that drifted into frozen piles on the sidewalks. Today, I’m trying to resist fainting from the broiler-like temperatures. In winter.
While the same can probably be said of countless other schools across the country, prom at Longbourn isn’t just a rite of passage — it’s considered by many (at least those who matter) to be the social event for future members of high society. Longbourn girls don’t go to the mall to get their dresses. No, they boast couture from designers whose names adorn their speed dial.
It doesn’t matter if it’s the real world or fictional,” I insisted. “Crushes are the best part of liking someone, and they are completely safe. You get all the benefits of fantasising about someone, but none of the he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not drama. It’s all the good parts with none of the parts that make you lie awake at night all angsty.