Chapter 8

He was twelve again, back in Schaumburg, Illinois, standing in the junior high gym at the first dance of seventh grade.

The place reeked of old basketball games—popcorn, sweat, and cheap body spray. Boys clustered on one side of the bleachers, girls giggling in knots on the other, and a blaring pop song split the no-man’s land between them.

Alex sat on the edge of a bleacher, his sneakers scuffing the polished floor, his dark hair falling into his eyes. One by one, the brave ones peeled off—Tommy Whitaker asking Jenny Carlson, Mike Russo pairing up with Katie Stein—until the floor was dotted with swaying pairs.

He stayed put, a knot of jealousy twisting in his gut. None of the girls glanced his way, and he couldn’t shake the thought that it was because he was different, not like Tommy or Mike. He wasn’t one of the popular kids, the ones who owned the room.

But jealousy was only half the story. The other half was a curdled fear—what if a girl did ask him? What would he do then? Stumble through a dance, hands sweaty, pretending he knew how to act? He tugged at the collar of his too-stiff button-up—the one his mom had ironed and insisted he wear—and wished he were anywhere else.

“Hey Alex,” a voice piped up beside him, breaking his spiral. It was Jimmy Byrne, the skinny, red-haired kid from his math class. He slid onto the bleacher next to him. His freckled face was scrunched in a scowl.

“These dances are so freakin’ dumb. My mom made me come,” he said, pushing his glasses up with a finger. “Said it’s good for socializing. Yeah . . . right.”

Alex chuckled, relaxing a bit. “Yeah, mine too. Thinks I’ll turn into a girl magnet or something.”

The kid flashed a gap-toothed grin of camaraderie. “I’d way rather be playing Call of Duty.”

“Same,” Alex said with a rueful laugh. For a moment, the gym didn’t feel so suffocating.

Then she appeared—a blonde girl from his English class, Emily, pretty in a way that made the other boys nudge each other. She stopped in front of him, hands on her hips, her smile bright and expectant.

“Wanna dance, Alex?”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Before he could mumble a response, she grabbed his wrist and tugged him onto the floor.

The gym spun, lights and bodies blurring, and he was dancing—stiff, mechanical steps to a fast beat. The few of the other kids cheered as they moved into the crowd. His parents would be thrilled.

See, Alex, you’re fitting in!

Then the music shifted into something slow and syrupy. Around him, couples shuffled closer, arms looping awkwardly around waists and shoulders. Emily put her hands on his shoulders, and he reciprocated, his arms around her waist, palms clammy against her back.

This was the moment he was supposed to want—close to a girl, her perfume sharp in his nose, her smile soft in the dim light. The other boys were sneaking glances at their partners.

But he felt . . . nothing. No spark, no thrill. Just a creeping unease, a twist in his stomach.

What was wrong with him? She was nice, pretty even, but it didn’t click. He scanned the gym, desperate for an anchor, and his eyes landed on Jimmy, still slouched on the bleachers.

The kid looked up, catching his gaze, and then—impossibly—the freckled face blurred at the edges like melting wax. The glasses vanished, the hair darkened, and suddenly it was Matthew sitting there, eyes locked on his.

“Matthew!” he cried out.

*

The dream dissolved, and he jerked awake, the sound of his voice echoing in his ears. Matthew’s humming cut off mid-note.

“You okay?” Matthew asked, glancing over, his brow creased with concern. “You called my name.”

Alex blinked, disoriented, as the parking lot near Burge Hall came into focus through the windshield. They were back in Iowa City, the dashboard clock glowing 3:17 a.m.

His face burned, the dream clinging to him like his still-damp underwear.

“Uh, yeah. Just . . . a weird dream, I guess.”

Matthew gave him a quizzical look, but said nothing and didn’t press. He pulled into a parking space and cut off the engine.

“Well, we both need to change into some dry duds and crash. Been a long night,” he said, handing the keys back to Alex. “But, thanks bro. I had a really great time.”

Alex managed a tired smile. “Me too. A steak dinner, a show . . . and a tire change. Got my money’s worth.”

Matthew laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t forget the free patch job,“ he said, gesturing to Alex’s bandaged hand.

They climbed out and walked briskly back to the dorm, the cold breeze against their wet clothes and hair driving them onward. At the front door, Matthew swiped them in with his keycard, and they ducked into the lobby, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands together to get warm.

Matthew led the way upstairs, with Alex trudging behind, hands shoved in his pockets, the echo of the dream still lingering in his mind.