I stood near the drinks table with a cup of punch sweating in my hand.
One hour passed.
Then another half.
I knew because I kept checking my phone, not because anyone texted, but because looking down gave me somewhere to put my face.
Music shook the floor.
A girl named Brianna dropped her corsage and three people bent to help her pick it up.
I wondered what it felt like to be the kind of girl people noticed when she fell.
Then Caleb Turner walked toward me.
At first, I thought he was heading to the punch.
Everyone knew Caleb.
Tall, broad-shouldered, dark blond hair, easy smile, football captain, the kind of boy teachers trusted even when he was late. He had moved to town sophomore year and somehow became popular without appearing to try. Girls said his name like it tasted expensive. Boys followed his jokes before he finished them.
I had never had a real conversation with him.
Not once.
He was not cruel to me.
He was worse.
He was kind from a distance.
He held doors. He gave polite nods. Once, when someone knocked my books off a desk by accident, he picked them up before I could kneel. His fingers brushed the back of my hand, and he pulled away so quickly I spent the rest of the day wondering if my skin had frightened him.
