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“You look nice,” he said, standing by my door.

“Thanks.” His suit fit him nicely, making his shoulders look sharp and his waist narrow. “You look nice, too.”

“Thanks. This is the suit I wore to my grandfather’s funeral.”

My eyes went wide. “Oh, I’m so sorry?—”

“Don’t be—he was a jerk,” he said, then winced. “I have no idea why I said that. Please forget that I said that.”

“Done,” I said, with a smile. Then he smiled back and—in a perfect world, now is when I would kiss him. But we were still officially paused. After prom. I would kiss him after prom. He took a step away from me, giving me an expectant look, and I went after him, following him in.

Other girls more tied into the social hierarchy than me, ones that seniors and juniors could bully into caring, had spent the last few hours gussying up the gym for us. But not everything was running smoothly yet—there were couples queued outside, waiting to give their tickets and go in, holding hands, leaning against each other. Whereas Darius and I stood, close, but not touching.

I, uh, let my hand bump against his and then he caught it, and I caught his back, and then I was marveling at the wonder ofwhere his skin was smooth and where his fingers were bony and how warm his hand was in mine. I looked over and up at him out of the corner of my eye, and saw him looking back, and suddenly this was a full on crush.

Then someone shouted, “Darius!” once we got inside, and attempted to take him away from me.

Alcohol was not allowed at prom. This did not stop some people from drinking before they got here. Mason’s friend Bruce lurched in, trying to have a private conversation with Darius.

“Got any more of that stuff you gave Mason?” He thought he was whispering—he wasn’t.

“I’m off the clock tonight,” Darius said, pulling me closer by example.

“Come on, man?—”

“I’m busy,” Darius said, louder, and then took me and pulled me completely aside, so we both turned our backs on him, stepping out of line. “Sorry about that.”

“Hazards of being with a popular boy, I guess.”

“I am not popular. I’m a necessary evil. But popular’s not the word.”

We remerged with the line where we had been. “You could be, if you wanted to though.” It seemed to me though that popularity wasn’t a choice—you could try, up to a point, but after that it was something that you had or that you didn’t, that you were or were not. Darius had that extra something innately. It wasn’t just the dealing.

“No. That’s what got me into trouble back home. It’s easier not being popular, believe me.”

Maybe. If being popular meant dealing with people like Danny. Or worse yet, being him. “Do you miss it? Home?”

“Every day. The people, the weather, the places. I hate to tell you, but it’s a thousand times better out there.”

Anywhere was better than here, by default. “I believe you.”

“You only see half the state on TV. Not everyone’s tan, and not everyone surfs. But the vibe is just different. When you’re there, you know.” He stroked his thumb down mine and I missed the fact that the line started moving until he pulled me forward. “I know you just want to ask how come I got stuck out here.”

I pulled back but didn’t let go. “I was working up to it. I kind of figured you didn’t start dealing in Kansas, what with our state’s friendly drug laws.”

“You’re right. My parents thought a location change would give me a fresh start.”

“But why did you need one?” I pressed against him as other couples crowded us.

“Because I was stupid, and young, and running with a rough crowd. I was smarter than that, I just got caught up in having something to prove.”

We could finally see into the gym ahead of us through the open doors—with the fog machines cranked it looked like a cave of wonders. “And now?”

He handed over our tickets and we went in. “I’m still dealing—but I’m safe. Out here, there wasn’t anyone worth proving anything to, until I met you.”

Suddenly I knew exactly how Dorothy felt when she got whirled up into that tornado. I was definitely not in Kansas anymore.

“Do you want a drink?” Darius asked, helpfully covering my awkward silence.