While we wait in line for pictures, more people than I’ve ever met in my life come up to say hi to me and Hannah.

“I feel like I’m at my own funeral,” Hannah says between hellos.

“Or wedding,” Clem offers. “Less morbid.”

Tucker and Melissa are three groups ahead of them, and being a tall, fat ginger in heels makes hiding from them impossible, so instead I turn my back.

“Is he looking?” I ask Clem.

“That depends. Do you want him to be looking?”

“Clem, just answer me.” My stomach flip-flops.

She cranes her neck around me. “It’s hard to say. He’s definitely looking . . . around.”

A group of girls in what appears to be different variations of the same dress wave as they pass us. A shorter girl with narrow shoulders and heavy hips doubles back to whisper, “We totally voted for y’all!”

“Eeee!” Clementine claps and lets out a little shriek as Hannah and I eye each other with hesitant excitement.

“Okay, y’all, listen up. Pep-talk time.” Clementine claps her hands atop each of our shoulders, like we’re huddling up at the big game or whatever. “You’re both my favorite people. Shhh. Don’t tell Mom and Dad.”

“Or Grammy,” I add.

Clem shakes her head. “Grammy doesn’t count. She’s a deity. Grandma Camile, too.”

Hannah nods. “Fair.”

“Now, listen up, team, you’re both already royalty, and if you don’t win, it will be the injustice of the decade, but the ones losing out will be them, not you. Because this is only one night in a long line of great ones for both of y’all, but for some of these people, seeing y’all win might be the most epic thing they ever see. Tonight is just our warm-up, babes.”

“Okay.” I let myself believe her completely. It’s terrifying.

We’re a tangle of limbs as the three of us squeeze in for a hug. Maybe being the third wheel isn’t so bad after all.

The photographer directs Hannah and Clementine to step in front of the backdrop under a gold-and-silver balloon arch.

“Wait a minute!” Clem says as she reaches for my hand. “I need both my dates in this picture.”

“Clem, it’s fine. Really.”

“Waylon, get in here,” Hannah demands with a lopsided smile. “Please. I’ve never been on a date with a dude. I gotta commemorate my one and only.”

We do our best Charlie’s Angels pose and a few others before the photographer informs us that there is indeed a line of people waiting. And the whole time I have to force myself not to check and see if Tucker is watching.

Hannah and I track down Mrs. Leonard, who is doing laps around the ballroom in a shiny burgundy pantsuit that screams mother of the bride with a clipboard in her hand and her sparkly pants swishing around her ankles.

“Mrs. Leonard!” I call. “We’re here!”

She spins in a circle, following my voice until she sees me. “Ah, yes!” She gives Hannah and me a once-over. “And don’t you both look . . . handsome.”

I’ll take it.

“Thanks,” Hannah says over the music. “So we check in with you and then what?”

“Enjoy prom! We’ll be crowning king and queen in forty-five minutes.” And then she floats away into the crowd.

“What’s longer?” Hannah asks. “Forty-five minutes or forty-five years? Asking for a friend.”

I feel like I might puke if I even open my mouth right now, so I just shrug.

On one side of us, the dance floor is flush with people grinding on each other who greatly outnumber the teachers trying to pry them apart before anyone gets pregnant.

I turn back to Hannah and Clem. “Can we please find a dark corner where we can count down the next forty-five minutes in peace?”

Clementine sighs and stares at the dance floor with a forlorn look on her face. “But afterward we dance? Win or lose?”

Hannah takes her hand and kisses each of her knuckles. “Win or lose.”

Clementine holds her other hand out for me, and we find a table at the back of the room, near a large bay window overlooking the golf course.

I watch as friendly faces trickle in. Millie is in a striking hot-pink tea-length dress with light pink polka dots. She’s draped on the arm of her boyfriend, Malik, who’s wearing a vintage-looking tux with black pants, a baby-blue jacket, and a matching ruffled tux shirt. On Millie’s other arm is Amanda, in a black jumpsuit that dips down low in the back. Close behind them are Ellen, who wears a vibrant yellow gown that perfectly drapes her frame, and Tim. He pulls her through the crowd with their pinkies interlocked in what might possibly be the cutest public display of affection. Rounding out the group is Willowdean, her curls tamed into finger waves and a green velvet gown hugging every curve. She stands by herself, glancing around the room.

A hand reaches out from the crowd behind her, and Bo steps forward in a well-fitted tux. With his free hand, he yanks at his collar and Willowdean laughs as she reaches up for a kiss and then wipes away the smudge of lipstick she left with her thumb.

I shrink back and concentrate on my phone. I like all of those people—a lot, in fact. But I don’t have the bandwidth right now.

While the DJ (who I’m pretty sure is just someone’s brother with a Spotify Premium account) cycles through a few slow songs, the three of us sit there scrolling through our phones when Kyle and Alex saunter up hand in hand in their matching teal bow ties.

“Wow, so this is where the party’s at,” says Alex.

“Do y’all even know how hard we worked on these decorations?” asks Kyle as he plops down beside me. “And you’re over here on your phones.”

I look up from my phone, where my thumb was hovering over Tucker’s contact information. (Would it be so weird to text him even though we’re in the same room?)

“The decorations are perfect, Kyle,” Clem kindly tells him on behalf of the three of us.

Kyle bows his head solemnly. “Thank you.”

And admittedly, the balloon columns and arches are pretty epic. String lights drape from corner to light fixture to corner again, weaving a glittering web all over the ceiling. And every table is ornately decorated with tall centerpieces of vases full of branches dripping with crystals and strips of film. Along the side of the room is a nacho bar and a punch bowl, which is well guarded by various faculty members.

“Kyle,” I say, “this is the shit.”

He perks up, his eyes wide with surprise. “You really think so? Last night, after your performance, Alex and I came straight here so we could get a head start on the twinkle lights. You would not believe how many yards of lights this took. It means a lot to know that you like it.”

“Totally. I especially love the collection of Cullen family cutouts over by the voting booth.” I point over to a couple of well-loved Twilight cutouts that are held together with packing tape and a prayer, including Edward, whose hair is bending forward.

“Alex’s older sister is a former Twihard,” he says over the music.

“Hey,” says Hannah, “once a Twihard, always a Twihard.”

Clementine’s jaw drops. “I’m sorry. What?!”

Hannah shrugs and pulls Clem down into her lap. “I loved those movies when I was a kid.”