1976

"Yes! No, no! Not like that! How many times do I have to tell? The banner goes symmetrically above the doors, not..."
Mr. Richards hadn't changed a bit. He was one of those people that defy the cycle of life by simply remaining the way he'd always been. He'd certainly acquired a legendary status by his stable continuity, and all of us were pretty sure he came out of the womb reprimanding teenagers in that heavy Brooklyn accent of his.
"I'm sorry, sir, you want do it yourself?" I innocently asked, winking at my friend — whom all of you have already met — , and mr. Richards gasped loudly at this bold question. He then simply shrugged and gestured for me to come off the steps so he could put up the damn thing himself. That's mr. Richards for you. I jumped off, interlinking arms with Jessica, all bell bottoms and silk scarfs rustling through the schools' gym.
"So! You excited for the prom?"
I made a face.
"Uagh! You gotta be. Everyone is. I think Lionel wants to ask you!"
I spin around on the heels of my boots, pointing up a finger. As I tried to form words, Jessica had already rushed me along, ignoring my subtle exasperation:
"Yes! He's totally got the hots for you! So, you gonna say yes?"
Trying to process this heavy load of new information, I vehemently shook my head. No, no. A date to the prom? No, no, no.
"No?! You kidding me?"
Apparently, my thought process had been so uncontrolled I was speaking aloud — a frustrating habit of mine that I couldn't shake.
"I mean...Lionel? I mean he's...not really my type?"
"You mean he ain't Michael?" She dared provocatively. Without the passing of a second, my cheeks turned into a deep shade of red. I could not think about him without doing so.

Three years had passed since I first met him. He was one of those perfect young men you see once in a lifetime or in a sappy novel, but he was there, just popping up on summer day. Leaving again after two weeks of high school after deciding it was a terrible idea for a young celebrity like him, but never leaving my dreams. For some strange reason, we had developed a friendship in those mere weeks, and despite his departure and being completely immersed in the entertainment industry, he'd never quite forgotten about me. We called every couple of months and saw each other maybe once a year. Nothing really, supposedly meaningless. But as soon as I heard his soft voice I was on top of the world. It was never awkward, almost as if we saw each other every day. He told me everything: the cities he saw, his brothers, even his fans ("some good fish", boys will be boys, I suppose), and asked about me with genuine interest. It sometimes seemed he hungered for my high school anecdotes, and I gladly obliged, sensing in him a growing void of loneliness. I sometimes felt as if I was his only connection to the real world.

"He certainly isn't," I proceeded to mumble, staring at my feet. We had left the school, classes were over, and despite the bluest of skies there was a slight breeze that caused me to shiver.
"Listen," Jessica started again, confident as always, "why don't you ask him?"
"Ask who what?"
"Ask Michael? To the prom? Wouldn't he like that?"
My mouth fell agape.
"How do you see that happening?"
She smiled, pulling the strength of the leather bag somewhat tighter around her shoulder.
"Hey, I got some pull. I'm the popular kid, remember?"

As if it were the fifties, I was sitting by the side of the phone, my fingers having memorised the way to type in the number. To call or not to call...that is the question — Hamlet was wrong. I had not spoken to him in a couple of weeks, and this led me to a vicious circle of overthinking: wasn't this too out of the blue? Didn't he think this was childish? Would he be embarrassed by me even asking something like this?
Pang! I was awakened from my thoughts by something ticking my window. I looked at my side, and there it was again, pang. Rushing to the sill, I saw a flushed Jessica gathering little rocks from the pavement.
"Jessica?" I shrieked, immediately laughing at her composure.
"I know you're contemplating to call! I'm not gonna leave until you do!" And to enforce her threats, she made a move as if she was going to throw yet another pebble. I shook my head, pulled the phone to the window and simply dialed the number. With a steadfastness like hers, there was no way around it. Through multiple redirections and service numbers, I finally reached the hotel the Jackson's apparently were staying at. With the nonchalance of the possibility of being called by a fan, I heard Bill's monotone voice, "Jackson's manager speaking. What can I do for you?"
"Hey, it's Y/N. I was wondering, is Michael there?"
I had long left the sill, twirling the phone cord in my hands — accidentally becoming entangled in it in the process.
"Y/N... you're the schoolgirl right? Yeah, yeah...Yeah, Michaels here...let me call him."
My heart started pounding through the sound of stumbling, name-calling, soft thuds...and there it was. The softest and most angelic of voices, that never failed to make me sweep me off of my feet. 
"Y/N? Is that you?"
"Hey, yeah, it is!"
I threw a thumps up at Jessica, who smiled, and having done her duty, left to go home. Michael mumbled something about going to his room for privacy, and I oddly felt my cheeks blushing at the idea of this solitude.
"I haven't talked to you for so long..." 
We engaged in small talk for a couple of minutes, telling each other the latest events like we always did. When a silence fell, I realised it was time for me to drop the question. And so I did. Gently, subtly, and ever so smoothly.
"Hey, have you, per chance, ever attended a prom?"
"A prom? Oh, jeez...No, no, I don't think so. Isn't that crazy?" I heard him grin, completely unaware of what was to come. Well, buckle up, folks...
"Alright. I've got a proposition. I was just wondering if, maybe, if you've got time and even want to, that is...would you like to go to prom with me?"
Silence fell. I squeezed my hands, my eyes, clenched my mouth shut, already cursing my existence for ever proposing something so infantile to one of the most popular teens on the planet...
"To the prom? And is mr. Richards going to be there?"
"What would prom be without mr. Richards?"
"Then you don't have to ask twice!"
I started laughing, out of humour and out of relief, and a big smile covered my face.
"It's gonna be totally lame, and all that... surely nothing special or fancy like studio 54, but—"
"Y/N, stop. You can't imagine how happy I am that you asked me. Prom! Never in a million years could I've believed I'd get to go to prom with one of my best friends."
My heart started racing at the last words. Did he really consider me his best friend? Involuntarily, I started blushing, even though it was just the friendship he acknowledged and nothing else. We didn't need to be anything else.
"I'm glad you said that, Michael. You're one of my best friends, too."

The day had arrived, almost the hour even, and my heart had long ago started pacing quicker and my palms started sweating. I had let the details of the event know to Michael, and he had promised to pick me up, but I hadn't heard a single word from him since. And now that everyone was getting ready to leave, I felt lonely, agitated, anxious. I had let my classmates know he was going to be there, and I would make a complete fool out of myself I would show up without him. My ninth grade fears suddenly started creeping up on me: to once again be the outsider, the weirdo, the one who's stood up by her supposed prom date. I stared at myself in the mirror, the once so perfectly ironed swing dress already starting to show its first creases. I felt ridiculous, as if I was kissing a frog hoping it would turn into a Prince. But frogs don't turn into princes and major boy band members don't turn into prom dates, and magic isn't real. A deep sigh escaped my lips as I fell back into the sofa, the embodiment of hopelessness. Before my mother could coax me with reassuring words, attempting to relax myself and to soften the impact of the imminent heartbreak, the doorbell rang...

I was too sober at that point to get up. It was probably Jessica arriving to pick me up when she realised no-one else was going to. I listened to my fathers' large footsteps making their way to the door, the soft creak of the opening... and a big "Hello, Michael! My God, how you have grown since last I saw you!"

Immediately, I jumped up, my mother giving me an I told you so look, quickly straightening out my dress while I brushed my hair back with my hands. I felt my neck and cheeks flush, tried to give myself some air by dramatically waving my hands...oh no, I heard his familiar light steps on the stairs, his voice calling my name... "Mom! I'm not ready!" I whispered, but she just winked and left the room, and before I knew it, he stood in the doorway. My heart stopped, and for a moment, my breath hitched in my throat — making it impossible for me to utter a word. It had been a long time since I last saw him and his everlasting beauty had never grown on me. He wore a light, linen suit that almost neighed to a lilac colour.
"Y/N!" He called out as almost a sigh, stroking the pockets of his trousers. He seemed a little out of breath, his chest heaving up and down. Besides the usual shock of seeing him every once in a blue moon, I felt my cheeks tingling with a different sensation, noticing how incredibly handsome he looked.
"Michael..." I greeted him, and we shyly stood together in the room together, not truly knowing what was to do now. He made his way over to me, slowly, asking me how I was doing and following up on the usual pleasantries. When he stood in front of me, rather closely, he brushed his hand against my upper-arm.
"You look beautiful."
I nodded. "You don't look too bad yourself, mister. How many stylists worked on ya?"
He laughed and pinched my cheek, and our usual playful banter returned as if everything was normal — as if he were back in my class three years ago.
"So, shall we go? I think I made it late already!"

Things were back to normal and I tried to suppress any romantic feelings I thought I was having. We arrived at the prom in an expensive Bentley — I had banned the driver to the back of the car so I could drive it myself. I felt like a celebrity at a red carpet arriving with such a notorious singer on my arm, but more even like I was here with my best friend. We rushed through the school hallways, running wildly beyond lockers and classrooms, messing up our hairstyles and suits.
"We made it!" We stood in front of the opened doors. I grabbed his hands in mine, locked eyes with him. "Are you ready for the most normal-high school experience you'll ever have, Michael?"
His gaze wandered restlessly, but I believed it was more out of excitement than anything else.
"I am, Y/N!"

It felt like stepping into a war zone. Grenades of baby-rock pumping into the air, and the enemy was everyone's faces, hauntingly staring at the newcomer, or more like the old acquaintance that turned out better then anyone else had. I held his hand, I squeezed it harder than he did mine. I had my gun cocked, ready to fire when the signal sounded. My defence was up... but the battlefield was empty, and wasn't even a battlefield, just the gym dance floor — with teenagers rocking back and forth as if the biggest star among their contemporaries wasn't visiting their prom. It was a big relief, the way everyone simply said hello, asked how he was doing the way you'd ask an old friend, shaking his hand and moving along. Michael wore a big smile, undertaking it all, engulfing himself in the simplicity of high school dances. Maybe this truly was his one shot at normalcy. We found Jessica with Lionel, wearing a tauntingly low top and some Abba pants, and she met Michael with a big hug.
"I was beginning to think you were gonna stand her up!" she teased, as we sat down at one of the round tables. Michael looked at me, up and down quickly, "her? Never!"
There it was again, that feeling I had tried to, unsuccessfully rather, neglect and subdue, bubbling up like lava, leaving a burning path in its wake. It was a strange feeling, or no, rather it was strange to realise there was a certain feeling at all. There was such a strong connection between him and I that could not be annulled by distance in time and space. The way we understood each other without words seemed a miracle from beyond this world — dare I say it? Heavenly. I know he felt the same: though he had not said it literally, he'd written me countless times about it (he was a great letter-writer, even though his handwriting and spelling was terrible), and the way he looked at me was enough. I dared not call it love, because it would have belittled what we had.

Everything seemed to go by immensely fast, but time stood still when the band started playing a more slow and romantic song. My date hesitatingly looked around the room before locking eyes with me, then raising his eyebrows and slightly nodding to the dance floor where we'd made a fool out of ourselves just moments ago.
"What?" I teased him, pretending I did not understand. He dramatically sighed, stood up, turned around on his heels, took his hands in mine and asked: "Dear Ms. Y/L/N, will you be so kind as to grace me with, hm, say, a dance or two? Or at least for this song?"
"Why, I believe I will! Though my slow dancing is even worse then my pops and locks."
Raising me up and gently pushing me toward the dance-floor, I heard him mumble under his breath that he'd guide me. And he did. He placed his arm around my waist, took my right hand and mischievously wiggled his eyebrows. I could've fainted...my cheeks were embarrassingly red as I avoided his eyes by gazing at the floor, but I was a clumsy fool and hurt his toes multiple times. When my heel accidentally nailed his toe, he, in a rather sassy way, pushed me back and shook his head.
"Girl, do you have two left feet? Take off your shoes!"
I stared at him in wonder.
"No!"
"You're gonna have to, missy."
"I...no!"
"Want me to do it for you?" He already grasped at my feet dramatically, but I jumped back and took them off myself — all sighs and eye rolls while I was at it. What was he planning? He took my shoes, demonstratively putting them next to the dance mat.
"Alright," he began when he returned, "come here."
"What?"
"Stand on my feet. I'm not going to tell you twice."
Oh, my wounded heart! My bleeding, beating heart! It was going 120 miles per hour down the high way...
"Michael..."
He pulled me towards him, so that I had to what he asked. I felt his torso against mine as I fell into his lean but strong shoulders. His arm was wrapped around me to secure me to him, my cheek pressed against his. Was it his or my heart that I felt beating so loudly?
"Ready?" He whispered.
"I'm not sure," I whispered back, but he just laughed and started gracing the dance-floor as if we were at a Regency ball. I started laughing and squealing at his extravagant moves, swinging me like a doll on a string, and I let him. We were rather clumsy, but it didn't matter: all I felt was his strong embrace and his chest against mine. I prayed the heavens to let us be entrapped in this dance forever, even long after our feet would get numbed. This felt right, in every way. At the same time, my happiness was bittersweet — at the end of the night, he would leave again, disappear into the world of smoke and mirrors and prettier girls then I. I shook my thoughts away, letting the moments all the more count...

There we were again. In front of my door, my heels in my hand as I tried to stay cool and collected. We looked at the ground as if we could find our words there.
"I really had fun last night," Michael mentioned, and I nodded.
"I'm glad."
My heart was racing but my stomach was filled with sad, lazy butterflies, barely moving and knowing there was no race to be won. They'd settled for this and it was okay. We said our goodbyes, and he turned on his heels, slowly making his way to the car. This was it then. My hand found its way on the doorknob, ready to close this chapter in my life, until...
"Wait!"
He sprinted toward me, clasped my hands in his and said: "Isn't this supposed to be a part of prom night?"
He kissed me. In the light of the small bulb above the front door, he kissed me, his hand on my cheek and my head dancing in the night sky. It was no passionate kiss, not fuelled with electric and fire, it was a friendship kiss that ventured between unclear opposites. It must've lasted only seconds, as he already pulled back. He smiled and jumped off the patio.
"You're crazy, Michael Jackson!"
As he ran off, he turned around one last time.
"That's why you like me. I'll see you around!"

—

Someone requested a part two for ninth grade, which is my very first short story on here, and I thought it was a great idea!

I, once again, updated the cover for this story because I have no self control lmao

Any other ideas my loves? <3

Love,
magiconthemoon