Em stood on her tiptoes, looking for Drea, for JD, for Gabby, for anyone. She needed an anchor, some way to tether herself and get her bearings.
It was easy enough to locate Gabby, at least. Em had arrived in the middle of the crowning ceremony. Pierce Travers was already standing awkwardly onstage, wearing a crown and a sheepish smile. In black dress pants, a white shirt, and a blue tie, this King of Spring was the picture of clean-cut cuteness, Em had to admit. She could see how he would be the next Zach McCord . . . only less skeezy. Hopefully.
Next up was queen, which was Gabby, no big surprise. As she made her way to the stage in the middle of a roar of whistles, cheers, and applause, Gabby literally sparkled. She was the perfect queen in a strapless pink dress, a white belt, white wedge heels, and a head of bouncy curls. Instead of demurely accepting her crown and going to stand near Pierce, Gabby grabbed the microphone and cleared her throat.
“Thank you so much for this honor,” she said, her voice reverberating throughout the room, which went silent at once. “But I won’t be wearing the Queen of Spring crown this year.” Quiet gasps and whispers buzzed through the gym. “Instead, I’d like to give it posthumously to Sasha Bowlder, who left us too soon.” She took a breath and continued. “Nights like these probably made Sasha miserable,” Gabby said, and Em’s heart swelled as she watched her best friend address the crowd. “We forget, as we go through our daily lives here at Ascension, that not everyone is as happy as we are,” Gabby said. Em heard sniffling coming from some of the girls near the drink table. “I know I often forgot, while Sasha was alive. And so, I’d like to give her this crown tonight. It’s a small gesture to show that we’ll try to remember from now on.”
Everyone, including Em, applauded wildly as Gabby walked off the stage on Pierce’s arm, smiling and brushing off the crowd of people who instantly surrounded her. Gabby pushed her way to the corner where a bunch of shaggy-haired, vest-clad musicians were standing, probably urging them to get the music going again. Em started toward her.
Then she saw him: his hair, his shoulders, his neck. JD was standing just a few feet away, with his back to her. Her heart sped up and she could feel the heat rising up her neck and into her cheeks.
Then he turned, and she was even more flustered. He didn’t look cute, like he usually did. He looked hot. His slim jeans, dark blazer, white shirt, and lime-green bow tie, the Converse sneakers peeking out from under his cuffs, his crooked grin—it came together just right.
“Um, hi,” she said, hoping the dim lighting was enough to hide her raging blush. “I just got here.”
“I know, I saw you come in,” he said as the band started playing again. Em waited expectantly for him to say something more, but nothing came.
“Who . . . who are you here with?” Em didn’t want to know the answer, of course, but she had to ask. She took one step forward to make sure she could hear his reply. He stayed put.
“No one,” he said, holding up his spare ticket with a shrug. “I was going to ask Drea—just as friends,” he added with a sarcastic roll of his eyes. As if he owed her an explanation. . . . “But she said she had some other stuff to take care of.”
There was a brief moment of silence between them. His eyes went from her face to her dress, lingering for a moment at the draped neckline, which followed the lines of her clavicle.
Then he sighed, as though he didn’t want to say the words that came out of his mouth. As if he just couldn’t help himself. “You—you look beautiful,” JD said. “You’re, like, glowing.”
Em’s heart swelled. She had doubted she would ever hear such kind words from him again. She grinned and looked down at her shoes. “Oh. Thanks.” She looked back up at him, right into his hazel eyes, the ones she’d looked at so many times before. She found something there, something she wanted to crawl into, like a goose down comforter in the middle of winter. “Can we talk? Someplace a bit . . . quieter?”
Just then the song changed. It was a slow one this time, and couples started pairing off on the dance floor. JD looked wary. “I don’t know, Em. Things have been so screwed up. . . .”
“Can we dance, then?” She tried to keep her question light. She just couldn’t let him get away, not this time.
He hesitated. Then: “Yeah, I guess. Sure.” He spoke in a low, scruffy voice that Em had never heard before. She took his hand and led him to the edge of the dance floor; once they found a spot, neither of them knew how to proceed—how close to stand, or where to put their hands. Em thought about other dances, other guys—Steve Sawyer holding her hips at last year’s homecoming dance, or Andy Barton putting her hands around his neck at the Spring Fling.