Page 47 of Five Stolen Rings
Prom is something I’ve been dreaming about for months—years, even. Food and dancing and music; a beautiful dress, beautiful hair, surrounded by friends.
My dress is beautiful. It’s black, floor-length, classic, with a halter top and a low back. It’s the end of junior year so I finally have some curves, and my dress hugs them all the way down until it hits my knees, where it flares out. My hair is pulled into an elaborate updo, and although my shoes are secondhand, I’m confident no one can tell or even see them well enough to wonder.
There’s a little tiara on my head because I’ve been crowned Junior Queen; my friends and I are laughing and dancing in the hotel ballroom where Windsor holds the prom every year, the lights low overhead, the music loud, the air buzzing with excitement.
I should be having a blast. But all I can think about is a conversation I had with Jack three years ago, the summer before I started at Windsor.
“What about the dances at Windsor? Are they fancier?” I asked with stars in my eyes.
Jack snorted and threw an acorn at the bird feeder in his parents’ backyard. “Dances are stupid, even at Windsor. Are you really gonna go to that stuff?”
“Of course!” My voice bubbled with excitement as I leaned away from the tree trunk we were both propped against. “It will be fun!”
“Well, if you go, I’ll go too,” Jack said grudgingly. “Save me your first dance at prom.”
“Deal,” I said, and I smiled.
I shake my head now and take a deep breath, trying desperately to get rid of the knot in my throat. It doesn’t matter that we said those things; we were closer then, and younger, and we didn’t know that things would change.
But as much as I tell myself this, my heart isn’t convinced; it still weighs me down, heavy in my chest. I move past it fine—until the first slow song begins playing over the speakers.
My date, Graham, reaches for me from across the group of us who are circled together, and I step forward, feeling uncomfortable.
I’m halfway to him when I find my path blocked by a tall, dark figure who seems to have materialized from nowhere.
Jack—it’s Jack. Where did he come from?
“Jack,” I say, blinking with surprise; he reaches for my wrist and pulls me away, his grip firm but his steps slow enough that I don’t stumble. I follow him without thought, without hesitation, maybe because although my date is fine, dancing with him isn’t something I’m terribly interested in.
“Hey,” I say when we’ve reached a different patch of the dance floor, surrounded by slow-dancingcouples. “What are you—” I break off, looking him over. My jaw drops. “Is that a suit?”
“I’m not a heathen,” he says with a roll of his eyes. His arms snake around my waist and pull me close. “I own dress clothes.”
“I know,” I say quickly, stepping into him. He looks good, his hair neater than I’ve ever seen it, his tall frame lean and muscular. He’s still wearing that same black bracelet he’s worn for years though, the braid fraying. “I’m just surprised.”
He grunts, and I go on.
“Why are you here? You hate everything about prom.”
And I know my friends are probably staring; he whisked me away from my date, this senior troublemaker who skips class and wears black every day. But at this very moment, I want nothing more than to be with him—even if only for this song. Jack is a punk and a jerk sometimes, but I’ve never once doubted that he’s safe.
He feels like home in a way no one else does.
“I’m here,” he says, leaning down to speak into my ear, “to claim my dance. If you’re going to run around pretending to be a shallow, happy-go-lucky airhead, I won’t interfere. But I’m not going to let your prepubescent date take something that belongs to me. And this dance, Princess,” he says in a low voice, “belongs to me.”
I swallow as the knot in my throat grows. “I’m surprised you remember.”
“Of course I remember,” he says with a humorless laugh.
“In that case…it’s yours.” I clear my throat and slide my arms around his neck, something warm blooming in my chest. “This dance is yours.”
His arms tighten around me, his hands finding the bare skin of my back; I startle at his touch,and I notice his eyes widen the tiniest bit too. He swallows and then nods, a sharp jerk of his head.
I’m closer to him than I’ve ever been right now, our bodies pressed together as we sway back and forth, and yet…I don’t hate it.
Why don’t I hate it? Why isn’t it weird? In fact…it feels nice. He smells comfortingly like himself—spearmint and crisp cologne, the way he always smells, and there’s something reassuring about him, too.
He knows me. He knows me so well—not popular, bubbly Stella, but the real me. And as much as we’ve grown apart, he’s still here—honoring our promise.
