It's finally here, the night I've dreaded for days—junior prom. My phone screen is a blinding kaleidoscope of social media updates. X, Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat – they're all blowing up with pictures from my baseball bros, the other junior legacies, and every junior with a working smartphone. There are the obligatory couple pics, the awkward group shots, and endless selfies that all look the same. Even Mr. Charles, bless his tragically un-hip heart, somehow managed to post in the #juniorprom25 hashtag thread a blurry selfie of himself in a too-tight tuxedo giving a thumbs-up. Hilarious.

Jake texts me a photo; of all people, it's him and Cindy. My jaw drops. In my wildest dreams, I never thought he'd finally step up and get that date. But he has. I'm honestly proud of him, a little pang of envy hitting me, not for Cindy, but for the uncomplicated joy he feels. I text him back, going for my usual snark:

Me: Hope she knows where your harmonica is, Mikel. I follow it up with two LOL emojis. Not a minute later, Jake shoots me back.

Jake: Good one, bro. Shame you and Lily ain't going to the dance together. I saw a pic of Cameron on Instagram. He posted, "Me and Lily! #juniorprom25 Dream Come True!"

Seriously? That preppy golf bot is going to do that to me? Rub it in? The sheer audacity. My thumb hovers over the keyboard.

Me: Et tu Brutus.

Jake: Listen, you started it.

He's not wrong, which makes it even worse. Not happy, I just let it slide. There's no denying it now; I burned my bridge with Lily. It sucks, and it's going to be a gut punch walking into that dance knowing she's there, looking stunning, but not with me. At least, I still have Abigail backing me up, oblivious to the fact that she's part of a grand deception. Otherwise, who needs enemies when I have my "good friends" like Jake and the rest of the junior legacies practically laughing in my face? Well, not directly at me, but the collective Bayman snicker is loud enough. Regardless, I let Jake know how thrilled I am for him and his date. Still shocked he managed to get her to say yes after last year's disaster.

After spending the next few minutes just scouring through social media, watching my fellow friends and other juniors sharing pics of what's going to be their special night, I notice the clock. Realizing I need to get ready, I finally begin to prep myself in my room, staring at the custom-made suit my parents surprised me with. I am so happy it's not a hand-me-down. Sorry, Ethan, my poor bro had to borrow Dad's suit during his junior prom. Dad's suit felt like something salvaged from a 1970s disco, probably smelled faintly of mothballs and questionable life choices. Ethan was lucky he saved enough money from his football gigs to buy his own suit for his senior prom.

For me, I'm just happy I don't have to relive the "good old days" of hand-me-down formal wear. I know my father would at least be happy to see his second boy experience some semblance of Wilcox tradition. But who the hell wants that? I mean, to Dad, he'd be smiling ear to ear about tradition. For me, I'd probably be puking honestly. So, as I stare at my suit, it's a sleek, tailored fit in deep navy blue, with a crisp white shirt and a perfectly tied black bow tie. The suit jacket has subtle, elegant stitching, and my shoes are polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the chaos in my brain. I talk to my Jeremy Werner poster again, hoping for some kind of last-minute encouragement, some divine intervention, but all I can think about is that I'm about to put a girl I genuinely care about into a potential nightmare. The question keeps circling in my head: out of all this mess, who are my real friends? And is I really one of them?

After a few more futile touch-ups to my perpetually unruly hair, I head downstairs, immediately greeted by a chorus of "awes" and a full-on smooch attack from Mom. I playfully go along, but as she does her mom-thing, I can see Ethan leaning by the entry to the kitchen, struggling to hold back a laugh. Dad beams with pride, looking like he just won the lottery.

He walks close to me, handing me a dandelion corsage in a small plastic box—I specifically requested it. I heard Mom and Dad wanted to give me a violet corsage, something traditional and "elegant," but I insisted they find a dandelion one. Because there's something special about dandelions that only Abigail would understand, a small, selfish act of genuine connection amidst all the fakery. Grabbing firmly onto the box, I can hear Dad.

"I hope you give your date a good night, son."

My date, right. I told them it's not Lily. I didn't tell them I'm bringing Abigail, just some random Junior girl who had a crush on me since Freshman year, a convenient, non-descript cover.

"I sure will, Dad," I lie, my voice a little too tight, dreading for something bad to happen to Abigail tonight.

"I can bring you and your 'date' a ride with Ness," Ethan offers as he walks closer to me, his smirk playing on his lips. I can see his look. The way he emphasized "date." Yeah, he's seen through my lie immediately. That's what having an annoying older brother gets you. But after I spilled everything to him about Abigail, he knows exactly who my "date" is.

"That's fine, but I'm good," I continue, trying to at least impress the folks with my newfound maturity. "I've already arranged an Uber Black."

"Sad you don't want Ness to be part of the evening," Ethan says, though he looks genuinely impressed by my initiative.

"It's okay, Ness should be good without me. Besides—" I'd like to continue, knowing what I heard about the after-party Riley, of all people, is hosting. A true spectacle, I'm sure. But to avoid surprising the folks with details of potential teenage debauchery, I keep quiet.

"You sure?" Ethan asks, his eyes still holding a hint of suspicion.

"Yeah, like I say, got everything covered," I reply, trying to sound confident, like I actually have anything under control.

Ethan gives me a sad, knowing smile. "Alright, little bro. Make it a night to remember, for you and her."

"Sad it's not Lily," Dad says, a bit dismayed, his brow furrowed. "I always liked her with you. I just thought..."

I shake my head sorrowfully but don't say Abigail's name, fearing Dad's full reaction to the "Kooky Abbie" situation. Mom catches my eye, and like only a mother can, that intuition of hers... she knows. Just like Ethan. Though, I can see she respects my silence, giving me a silent nod of understanding. She comes over to hug me, enveloping me in the scent of her perfume and laundry detergent.

"Don't forget, be honest to her," she whispers in my ear, her voice barely audible, but vibrating with a quiet insistence.

I startle a bit, the words piercing through my self-deception, but I understand. She then winks and kisses my cheek again, wishing me a good night. Dad adds, "Have fun and don't be too late from the after-party."

Great, Dad knows about the after-party. No surprises there, I guess. Yet I play it cool. "I promise," I say, though I highly doubt that promise can truthfully be honored. You never know what will happen at the after-party, especially with Riley hosting.

Once the sleek black sedan of the Uber Black glides up to the curb, I get in, still clinging to the corsage box, quickly saying bye to my family. I can spot Mom blowing kisses, Dad cuddling to her as he gives me a casual wave, and Ethan giving me a quick, almost sympathetic, salute. Several minutes later, my ride brings me to Abigail's borough in the Lower Sixth District. I get out, holding onto that precious corsage, hoping to make her happy, even for just one night. Walking to the duplex townhouse, I pause when I see Miss Li standing by her doorway behind the screen door, a shadow in the dim porch light.

"Look at you," she purrs, her tone dripping with an almost sarcastic impressiveness, her eyes sharp. And then she gives me a sarcastic yet stern warning that feels like a threat cloaked in politeness. "Take care of Abbie, if not..." She trails off, her gaze unnervingly direct.

"It's okay, Miss Li," I try to convince her, a faint tremor in my voice. "I will."

"You better," she gently warns me again, though her voice holds the weight of countless unseen battles. She then launches into one of her infamous war stories, speaking of ancient grudges and forgotten techniques. "I know some torture techniques. I may be old and crumpled in this body. But I've still got some tricks up my sleeve." She then points a gnarled finger at me, her eyes glinting. "Don't make me use them."

I carefully nod, almost shaking a bit. Never knew Abigail's sweet, quirky neighbor was a secret torturer, on top of being a legendary storyteller and babysitter. What a bizarre and terrifying collection of skills.

Just before I can knock on the other door, I hear it opening from the other side. There I spot Mrs. Perez, her face alight with a warm smile, welcoming me in. "Slater," she says gleefully. She then hollers, her voice echoing in the small space, "Tu amigo especial está aquí, mija!"

I'm puzzled, wondering if I heard "amigo especial" (special friend) correctly. In her world, I'm the special one. I see Abigail's brother, Hugo, hunched over his phone, dabbing furiously at the screen, glancing at me briefly with his usual guarded expression before returning to his digital world.

As I hear my phone buzzing in my pocket, a familiar, unwelcome vibration, I quickly glance at the screen. Notifications flood my social media feeds, a fresh onslaught mentioning #PrinceSlater&KookyAbbie and, a new one, #countdowntoweirdom. My heart sinks. I can't tell, was I followed here? Are they watching me? I highly doubt I have a spy camera hidden within me, but the sheer speed of these updates, the instant connection between my actions and their digital reaction, makes my skin prickle. Unsure why I'm freaking out, why this feels so unease, I don't know how to respond. And as I ponder more, my internal panic spiraling, I suddenly hear Abigail coming. To my surprise, she appears, escorted by Sophia, who gives me a look that says, don't mess this up.

I mean... wow!

Abigail looks completely different, like she just stepped out of a movie screen, a real-life Samantha Baker from Sixteen Candles, but even better. Her hair is done in soft, elegant waves that frame her face perfectly. She's wearing a simple yet elegant teal dress that fits her perfectly, somehow making her look both graceful and confident. And she's even got a bit of makeup on, subtle but enough to highlight her striking features. She looks... she looks genuinely stunning. The word "kooky" couldn't be further from my mind.

"Whoa," I murmur, genuinely amazed, the word escaping before I can filter it.

Mrs. Perez rushes over to hug her daughter, tears already welling in her eyes. "Estoy tan orgullosa de ti," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.

Sophia smiles, a rare softness in her usually stern demeanor. "I always knew she could look like this. Took a while."

Even Hugo, the perpetually unimpressed, lowers his phone for a second. "You look awesome, sis."

Abigail blushes, a faint pink coloring her cheeks, and murmurs her thanks. She walks over to me, a shy but radiant smile on her face. I hold out the dandelion corsage. Taking it out of the clear plastic box, my hands feel clumsy as I slowly apply it to her left wrist, careful not to snag the delicate fabric of her dress. As she observes it, her expression changes from surprise to pure, unadulterated wonder. She's speechless, just letting her face do all the talking. I can see how amazed and happy she is, her eyes shining brighter than any star. But Sophia, ever the pragmatic one, looks puzzled.

"What's with the one dandelion?" she asks, clearly unimpressed by my botanical choice.

"Abigail would know," I say, a small, knowing smile touching my lips.

Sophia turns to Abigail, who just feels so transfixed onto that single, humble flower. Not getting an immediate answer, Sophia still remains flummoxed, her brow furrowed.

"Dandelions represent Jupiter," I explain, the fact rolling off my tongue easily now. "Just like how Jupiter's your favorite planet."

Sophia turns back to me and just gives me a quick, unreadable, "okay-like" reaction. Abigail finally manages to glance at me, her eyes brimming with a soft gratitude. "Thanks, Slater." Her voice is a whisper, but it's loaded with more meaning than any grand speech.

Mrs. Perez nods approvingly. "He's a good friend, mija."

"He is," Abigail whispers, grinning like I've never seen her before, a genuine, joyful expression that makes my chest ache.

Seeing her reaction, her pure, unadulterated happiness, I just feel worse, the dread curdling in my stomach. What might happen once we approach the dance? Whatever twisted plan the other legacies, and especially Zach and his minions, have arranged. I can almost taste the bitter disappointment that's about to hit her.

"Alright, time for pictures!" Mrs. Perez insists, her eyes shining. She quickly grabs for her small, old-fashioned camera, like a seasoned paparazzi.

As she gets back to quickly give Abigail one last minute prep, Sophia sneaks up to me, looking ever so protective, her small frame radiating fierce loyalty.

"Don't hurt my friend," she warns, her tone low yet serious, her eyes narrowed.

"I won't," I reply back, my voice firm. "I got her back. Always."

Sophia doesn't say anything else, she just gives me one last assessing look before moving over to the sofa once Mrs. Perez alerts everyone it's time for the pictures—lots of them. As I cling to Abigail, our arms linked, we both smile at each other, a strange tableau of genuine affection and underlying deceit. As I hold onto her, we actually pose for six different shots, a whirlwind of flashes and posed smiles, before Mrs. Perez is finally satisfied.

Even though Abigail is smiling high, her face radiant, there's a guttural tightness ripping through my throat. It's like an aching scratch, a persistent annoyance. An unnerving feeling as I continue to showcase my fake smile, a grimace masquerading as happiness.

***

Inside the sleek black limo car, we are ready on the way up north to the City Park's conservatory where the dance is being held. The air is thick with unspoken words. While the driver remains a silent, stoic presence during the entire ride, Abigail has been whispering something, some fascinating, possibly space-related nonsense about galactic dust and nebulae. But I don't really pay attention, because I've been silent since I got back in the car, my mind a whirl of anxious projections. The memory of Lily, the last time I saw her at the gym, her face etched with a sadness that mirrored my own. "We have been through a lot, Slater. And... I do love you. However... it's too late. Slater, please... you just got to let me go." That final goodbye, the ghost of her kiss on my cheek. It still stings.

Then, from out of nowhere, Abigail reaches to me, her small hand gently touching mine. I turn to her, snapping out of my self-pitying reverie.

"Can we take a shortcut to another park?" she asks, her voice soft, almost pleading. "Just for a few minutes."

City Park is not that far. The dance is probably starting in the next two minutes. But realizing what might happen once we arrive—the inevitable humiliation, the crushing realization for Abigail—my dread grows, suffocating me. I'm actually fine with being late. Maybe the longer we delay, the better. Maybe the entire school will decide the prom is lame and go home. A boy can dream.

"Sure," I respond, surprising myself with the quickness of my agreement. I convince the driver to take the detour, promising him a very big tip, enough to cover his therapy sessions after tonight. He eventually relents, a sigh escaping his lips. I know he didn't expect a four-stop ride, but at least he can post about this experience in one of those Uber driver forums, probably titled "My Most Bizarre Prom Night." I soon adjust the entire ride destination on my Uber app, adding another stop. And I think I know exactly which park Abigail wants to go.

Appleton Park.

Once there, we walk our way to Abigail's favorite spot, lying completely down on the dewy ground next to the ancient willow tree. I don't care about messing up my custom tux; it's already been through enough. And I can see Abigail doesn't care about messing up her beautiful teal dress, her eyes already fixed on the heavens. We soon stargaze, discussing the familiar white dot that has always captivated Abigail and has, against all odds, drawn me in too. Jupiter. She points out constellations I still can't quite grasp, her voice hushed with reverence.

Abigail lets loose, criticizing her own abilities to explain the vastness of the universe, and then expressing her desire to embrace a different, more social side of herself, a side she's always felt hidden. She thanks me for helping her, for being patient, for showing her a world outside of her books and her anxieties. I want to tell her she's made me friendlier, more accepting, that she's cracked open something inside me I didn't know was there. But I can't stop thinking about the dumb dare, the whole Bayman King competition, and whatever insidious plan the others have concocted for us at the dance. The words stick in my throat like peanut butter.

After a few more minutes just staring at the stars, the silence between us both comfortable and excruciating, Abigail eagerly gets up, a sudden burst of energy. She's ready to head to the dance. Surprised she still wants to do it, after all this quiet, honest time. I've been more reluctant, more dread-filled. I just can't go there.

"Abigail, let's just stay here and stargaze," I plead, desperate to convince her, my voice betraying the futile, feeble attempts I have left. Though she shocks me again.

"We can do more after the dance," she says, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

Getting back up, I wish I would have the weight of this ground keep anchoring us down, keeping us safe in this bubble of quiet. "I mean, who wants to go to stupid junior prom? I actually would rather wait for Senior Prom. It's way cooler." I sound pathetic, even to myself.

"Come on, Slater," she urges, her smile unwavering. "The stargazing can wait. Let's go have fun! What's the problem?"

I hesitate, knowing the hyenas are at that junior prom, ready to feast on our unsuspecting presence. I try to stop her again, a desperate last ditch effort.

"We can skip it. Let's skip it together, stay here, shucks, I would rather go to the museum right now. Or get some chili dogs from Bennie's." I keep begging her, throwing out every ridiculous suggestion I can think of. As I grab her hand, a flicker of hope that she'll agree, she rejects it surprisingly. Her touch, usually soft, is rigid.

"I want to go now! Now! Right now!" Abigail gets defensive, her tone sounds a bit off, a sharp edge to her voice I haven't heard in weeks. Her posture stiffens, her eyes become a little too bright, a spark of manic excitement in their depths.

"Have you taken your medicine?" I ask, my voice trembling, the question tasting like betrayal but feeling necessary.

She snaps, her voice rising, "Yes, I have! Don't be stupid, Slater, I want to go to the dance! Let's go!" She then turns abruptly and marches towards the limo car, her movements stiff and unusually rapid.

Seeing her go, a wave of cold realization washes over me. I have no choice but to tag along, my mother's words—"Be honest to her"—creeping inside me, a haunting refrain. If Abigail has been upfront about her struggles, about her vulnerability, I can't keep lying to her, can't keep playing this ridiculous façade. The more I've embraced her world, her quirky obsessions, her genuine kindness, the more this mask I've been wearing is... almost fracturing, creating an unbearable ache in my jaw. My hands clench unconsciously, tight fists in my tux pockets.

As we reenter the limo car, the plush interior now feeling like a gilded cage, ready to embark on the unknown at the dance, I force myself to pretend to be happy. Abigail is vibrating with excitement for something she thought she'd never experience, her face alight with an innocent joy that I am about to shatter. Every mile closer to the dance now, the more this suffocating dread is drawing near, a cold, heavy blanket settling over me.

Seeing Abigail's jubilant face, her unguarded anticipation, I realize with sickening clarity that I might have to do something drastic to protect her, even if it means breaking her heart tonight. Because I know it's already hurting mine.