He glances over his shoulder. “I got pulled over and searched here a couple days ago.”

She looks at him, trying to figure out if he’s kidding. “Are you serious?”

He nods, eyes on the road, fingers pressed against the scan button on his radio, trying to find an appropriate song. He pauses for a few seconds, shakes his head, and makes another attempt to find the song.

“Why?”

“They said I smelled like weed and my eyes were red. They made me get out and they searched my whole car. I just got out of a double shift at Pac Sun—of course my eyes would be red—and I told him that, but he didn’t believe me.”

“That sucks.”

He sighs. “Ooh, you can’t put your hands there!” he mimics bitingly. “Fuckin’ cops.” He glances at her, points, and smiles. “I love the hair, by the way.”

She laughs. “Thanks.”

After a few seconds of mixed songs ranging from Taylor Swift to Lil Wayne, he finally finds the song he wants: “Swagger Like Us,” by TI, Kanye West, Jay-Z, and Lil Wayne. He grins to himself and turns the volume and bass knobs up at the same time.

“There we go!”

As they drive past the video store, she can picture the two of them pulling into the parking lot, blasting this song from his black truck as they do so.

No one on the corner has swagga like us…

No, no one does.

No one on the corner has swagga like us…

Wow, who’s in that truck? They sure made a hell of an entrance.

Because no one had swagger like them.

He backs into a parking spot at the prom, avoiding the valet parking section, opting instead for a sign telling him that he could park the truck himself. The keys are hanging in the ignition like a uvula in the back of someone’s throat. There are two bottles of water nestled into the cup holders, and they each grab one, tap the bottles together, and take a quick swig.

“Ready?”

“Yup.”

He jerks the keys out of the ignition and opens the door. She does the same, and they begin the trek up to the building. Rain clouds are hovering over them, threatening to destroy their hair and outfits, so they quicken their pace. Her heels clack uncomfortably against the pavement, and she sighs.

“I can’t deal with these shoes,” she informs him, clutching a fistful of her dress in one hand to keep it from dragging on the ground.

He chuckles. “Yeah. I don’t remember the last time I wore pants above my ass.”

There’s only one other couple when they arrive at the front door, a junior and his sophomore date. One of the teachers there smiles at them as they climb the steps.

“Hi, guys, don’t you two look nice.”

They don’t really know how to respond to this because they’ve never had the teacher in class. Finally, he decides a simple “thank you” will suffice, and he says so.

“Can we go in?” he asks.

“Not yet, we’re just waiting for the master list to make sure no one sneaks in. Pictures should be starting up in a few minutes, though. You guys will be first in line,” he tells them, stating the obvious.

He nods, biting the inside of his cheek. They stand outside for a few minutes, and every so often he tries to put his hands in his jacket pockets. He had discovered earlier, at her house, that they were fake, just little slits of cloth that he can barely fit a fingernail into. He’s still fooled, though, and she can hear him swear lightly under his breath.

Kids start pulling up in limos and fancy cars that obviously aren’t theirs, but no one they talk to climbs out. After making brief eye contact, they silently decide to go down to the photographer and get their picture taken.

The camera’s set up on a patch of grass that looks more like turf, and her heels sink into the dirt before she can stop it. They don’t end up being first in line—the teacher lied—but they’re okay with that, because as they approach the front, they’re suddenly burdened with what package they should choose. He grabs a pricing and packaging chart, holds it between the two of them, and they stand huddled over it, as if it’s secret information no one else can see.

“I hope you have money for this,” he tells her, looking up, locking his bright blue eyes with her dark brown ones.

Her mom only gave her fifteen bucks. “I, uh, I have some money,” she stammers, unsure now of if they could even get a five-by-seven for that price.

He laughs and grins at her, tossing his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes. “No, I’m kidding.”

“I’m gonna have to pay you back.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “It’s fine, my parents gave me money for ‘em. Now what package do we want?”

She shrugs. “I don’t care.”

They’re at the front of the line now, and he’s faced with a pressure decision due to her indecisiveness. A lady sitting behind a laptop smiles at them, a cash box sitting at her feet. She asks if they’re ready, and he nods.

“What package?”

He pauses, glances at her, then says, “Your best value.”

“Okay, that’s fifty.”

Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t think he notices. Fifty bucks. She doesn’t even know what their best value is. Now the pressure’s on to take a fantastic, fifty dollar picture.

The photographer leads them to a corner with a couple of bushes behind them, and positions him first. He’s facing diagonally, and the photographer has her stand in front of him. She’s expecting him to put his hands on her waist, so she turns her back to him and stands still. The photographer stares at her.

“Uh, turn around. He’s not gonna bite you.”

“Oh. Okay. Ah, jeez.” She pivots quickly and her heel gets caught in her dress. She stumbles and almost runs into him, but manages to stop just in time.

“Put your right hand on her left side.”

He does.

“Put your left hand on his back.”

She does.

“I don’t know how to do the hands,” he says, holding out his left hand. She looks at him and does the same, so that their hands are hovering over each other’s, not touching until the photographer takes their hands and places them together.

“Okay, guys, on three. One, two, three.”

There’s a flash, and she panics a little, wondering if she blinked. She thinks she blinked. She just ruined their fifty dollar pose because she couldn’t not blink for a single goddamn picture.

The photographer examines it for a second, then dismisses them, saying that it’s good and they’re free to go.

She really hopes she didn’t blink.

“What the hell is this?”

They’re walking around the dining room, trying to find their table. He’s leading the way, craning his neck to read every placard in the middle of each table.

“What table are we?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Twenty-eight. Twenty-eight, twenty-eight, twenty-eight. C’mon, we just passed goddamn twenty-seven! Wait, what was that, three?”

“This is insane,” she tells him.

“Okay, new plan,” he says, not ceasing in his search. “If anyone asks, we’re looking for people to talk to. We know where our table is, we’re just looking for people.”

“Sounds good.”

They finally find their table, next to table four.

“Oh, that makes sense,” he mutters, rolling his eyes.

They claim two seats next to each other at the table and check out the favors. He grabs the silver box in front of him and opens the lid, trying to figure out what it is.

“Aw, it’s a little picture frame.”

She’s got a dark blue, almost black, coffee cup sitting in front of her. She wraps her fingers around the handle and swigs it nonchalantly. He glances at it.

“Do you drink coffee?” he asks.

“No.”

“Wanna trade?”

“Sure.”

He takes the cup and she takes the frame, and they simultaneously turn to watch as everyone else mills in and finds their own tables. Two of her friends who are sitting with them come and take two more seats at the table.

“Hey, guys.” He grins and nods at them. They say hi to him as well, and she begins a small conversation with them as one of his friends comes over. His best friend and her ex-boyfriend—the same person—comes to the table with his date, a girl from another school. He squeezes her shoulder as he passes and they grin at each other; there are no hard feelings.

They make small talk and greet other friends as they enter and start their own scavenger hunts for tables. This lasts until someone starts calling tables to go get food, and theirs is one of the first ones called. They separate in line, talking with friends and taking a few pictures with classmates not sitting with them. While she talks, her fingers play around with the elastic holding the corsage around her wrist. She smiles to herself as she remembers back to her house, when he tried to put it on her.

“I’ve never put one of these on, so please don’t judge me on it.”

She laughs. “Don’t worry about it.”

He gently lifts it out of the forest green box and inspects it, finally stretching the band into a circle with his fingers.

“Okay, I think I’ve got it.”

He slides the corsage, red flowers with a light black ribbon and silver flecks, around her wrist and grins. “Looks good.”

She’s an incredibly picky eater, and takes in the food with a wary eye. She can deal with salad, so she tosses some into her plate. A roll? She’d love one. There are some noodles slathered in some type of butter sauce, but they’re accompanied with onions and other foods. She grips the spoon’s handle and cautiously scrapes some noodles up against the side of the container until she manages to ease them onto her plate. She only gets three, but she’s satisfied with that—it’s better than nothing. The last offering looks like fish, but after asking her friend, realizes that it’s chicken covered in a slimy coating of sauce. She’s got to bite the bullet on this one, no matter how bad it may taste, she’s got to force it down.

That doesn’t mean she has to get a big piece, though.

When she returns to the table, he’s already there, a pile of foods crowding his plate. Once she’s sitting and taking a sip of her water, he notices the three noodles, shafted over to the side of her plate. He points to them with his fork and looks at her quizzically.

She grins. “It didn’t go so well.”

He grins back, swallows his mouthful of food, and laughs. “I can tell.”