"No, I'm okay," I reply. "I think I just need to go home."

Luke stands, and the twins protest in unison. Mrs. Henry quiets the girls, while Mr. Henry walks us to the door. Outside, I take a deep breath of freezing air, and, though it burns my lungs, it helps. Luke holds open the door of the van for me and kisses my cheek before he closes it.

We spend the ride in silence, Luke glancing at me every so often with concern on his face. When we pull into my driveway, he offers to come in.

"Thanks, but I'm fine," I say, wanting nothing more than to run inside.

"Is your mom home at least?" he asks, squinting toward the lighted window in the dining room.

"I'm sure she is," I say, turning and adding, "thanks," before slamming the door without so much as a kiss. I jog up the porch steps before Luke has the chance to get out of the car. Once inside the house, I go straight up to my bedroom, close the door, and get in bed fully clothed. Pulling the covers up to my neck, I squeeze my eyes shut and try to control my erratic breathing. I let my mind go to the damp cemetery; I let myself feel that I am there, standing in the midst of a sea of black.

I know from my notes that I've had some version of this funeral memory for a while. It has been building and growing in the depths of my brain, quietly reminding me that sometime, someone will die.

But until tonight, "someone" is all I knew.

Then Luke's baby sister lying sweet and serene in a shipping box lit the fuse, and here I am seeing it plain as day: the smaller than usual hole in the ground before me, open wide and already swallowing a tiny coffin fit for the miniperson surely lying inside.

"Someone" is a child.

As if it couldn't get worse, another thought punches me in the gut and beats me down to the point where I consider I might never get up again.

It's hazy-a long time from now-but I do remember being pregnant.

What if it's my child?

Isolated and terrified by what I remember, I pull the covers up tighter under my chin, because it's all I can think to do.

My mom isn't here; my dad is long gone. The only person in my life right now is a boy I can't remember. And someday in my future, I will bury a child.

It is all too much.

25.

On the way to Spanish, I check out the Winter Formal posters peppering the hallways; the event is tomorrow night. I know from notes that Luke is taking me, and after spending the last class period with the boy I've apparently been dating for nearly four months, I'm fine with that.

Tense, but fine.

In Spanish, we have a substitute teacher, and Jamie partners with Amber Valentine for pronunciation drills, leaving me to fend for myself against an angry senior TA named Andi who clearly had other plans for the period. I'm not sure what the prerequisites are for obtaining a teacher's assistant gig, but obviously they don't include being good at the subject you're assisting with; Andi's accent is worse than mine.

She's rolled her eyes at me seventeen times and counting, according to the scratch list on my notepad. My revenge is not telling her about the green food particle wedged between her two front teeth.

After class, I rush to catch up with Jamie.

"Hi," I say, when she realizes that I'm walking next to her toward the lunch hall.

"Hey," she says flatly.

"How are you?" I ask, hoping to start mending fences.

"Fine," she says, in an even flatter tone, if that's possible. This is not the day for reconciliation.

"Listen, Jamie, I just wanted to thank you," I offer.

"For what?" she asks, disinterested and avoiding eye contact. I think she just stepped farther away from me.

"For the number. My dad's," I say.

"Don't mention it," Jamie says as she turns in the opposite direction and leaves me standing still in the middle of the busy hallway.

26.

Squeaky-clean, and clothed in a red cocktail dress that shows a little more skin than feels natural today, I tap the tune of "Chopsticks" on the antique table.

"You'll wreck your polish," my mom cautions from across the kitchen, nodding in the direction of my freshly painted nails. She's leaning against the counter, watching me as she sips tea from a steaming mug.

I stop tapping but don't reply.

"Are you nervous about the dance?" Mom asks, making conversation.

I hear the grandfather clock in the living room chime once for the half hour. He'll be here any minute.

"I guess," I say, tossing a curl over my shoulder. In truth, it's not the dance I'm nervous about. It's my life.

Trying to push away the darker thoughts, I focus on the notes before me, spread across the table like the diary of an amnesiac. I used the afternoon to study up on Luke as best I could, cramming more for this date than I will for the SAT later this year. Even still, I could forget something. That thought makes me uneasy; I read on.

My mom and I both jump at the sound of the doorbell.

"Want me to get it?" Mom asks when I stay frozen in my seat.

"Huh? Oh, no, I'll go. I mean, I'm dating him, right?"

"Yep, you are," she says warmly. "And he's a very nice boy. You look beautiful, London. Have fun tonight."

I walk toward the kitchen doorway as if my feet are lead and continue down the small hallway leading to the entryway. I turn right, open the door, and there he is.

There... he... is.

Luke.

Tall but not too tall, trim but not buff, perfect hair, glorious eyes, looking comfortable in his simple black suit, even though I know from the notes that he's more partial to rocker chic.

He's holding a gigantic canvas with a bow wrapped around it.

"Instead of a corsage," he says, offering me a painting of what appears to be my ear. I can see the shadow of the healed piercing that I'll reopen in college.

Wisps of just the right color hair tucked behind. The tiny pitch at the top.

"It's your elf ear," Luke says, grinning. I can't help but laugh and self-consciously touch the body part in question.

He takes a step closer. "It's my favorite ear," he whispers into my left lobe, sending chills down my spine. He stands back again and regards my ensemble. "You look great," he says without hesitation. "Nice shoes."

"Thanks," I say, grinning with my whole body. Most guys don't notice footwear. "You look nice, too. I expected a band T-shirt under your jacket or something."

"Naw..." Luke says with a laugh, showing off a prominent dimple on his right cheek.

I carefully lean the painting against the foyer wall and grab my coat. Luke offers me his hand, and just as we're ready to leave, my mom makes a perfectly timed appearance to wish us well. I could kiss her for being armed with a digital camera and for forcing us to stop and pose before we take off.

Luke leans over and gets the door for me, and once we're out of my mom's earshot, he bends down and whispers, "The dress is hot."

Shivers run down my spine, and I am thrilled that I get to spend the whole night-well, almost the whole night-with him.

Luke drives to school, and because the dance is in the gym, we park in the teachers' lot. Even though it's allowed tonight, it feels scandalous.

Inside, the disco lights rage and the music is one notch higher than deafening. Scanning the room, I see Carley Lynch surrounded by Alex Morgan and some other cheerleaders, all wearing dresses so low-cut that I'm embarrassed for them.

In the opposite corner, I spot Jamie just as her eyes catch mine. Our gazes hold steady for a moment, and then she looks away. In a lovely black dress, she is standing to the right of a boy I don't recognize.

A second passes before my hurt wanes and I remember that Jamie and I will continue to be friends long after this evening. She might not know it right now, but she doesn't hate me.

I follow her eye line, and my stomach lurches a little when I realize that now she's staring at Mr. Rice, who is chaperoning tonight. I consider that I might actually be sick when he gives her an inviting look no married teacher should ever throw in the direction of a sixteen-year-old girl.

Luke must have noticed, too. "Come on, let's dance," he says, before I can get lost in my thoughts.

We move to the center of the dance floor and are immediately awash in a sea of sparkling stars, courtesy of the disco ball. I drape my wrists over Luke's shoulders, and all at once, the strength of his arms around my waist, combined with the melodic song we're swaying to, makes me fantasize about marrying him.

This could be our song.

I let the smooth lyrics carry me away, and I enjoy the moment and the fantasy until it heads down the road toward children. And then the darkness is there, my mind asking questions I don't want to answer.

Is the dead child mine and Luke's? Is that why I don't remember him? Because what we share together will be too painful?

I pull Luke closer and smash my cheek into his shoulder, squeezing my eyes shut in an effort to make the darkness go away. Somehow he knows to hold tighter, too, and though he doesn't see the tear escape my eye, he rubs my back as if to say: "It'll be okay."

I never want to let go.

Luke and I dance like we're glued to each another for three slow songs, before the DJ speeds things up.

My ears fill with a remixed version of a disco classic that will play at practically every wedding and party I'll attend for the rest of my life. The brave kids dance, while those who are either too cool or too awkward move to the outskirts. I'm not sure which group we're in, but we slowly make our way to the fringe.

"Want some punch?" I ask.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Luke asks back.

I shrug and Luke agrees. "I'm going to say hi to Adam, but I'll meet you for a roll in the snow," he says, pointing to a group of benches decorated with fake snow.

Laughing and shaking my head, I walk to the punch table and grab two clear plastic cups. I wait my turn, fill them, and move to a snowy bench and sit down.

Gabby Stein, from PE, and her date, Christopher Osborne, are sitting on a bench two over from mine. Both look at me like I smell like dirty socks. Neither knows it yet, but Christopher will be valedictorian when we graduate next year.

Right now, however, despite looking uncannily like Superman, Christopher is nothing but a small, helpless animal that's fallen prey to Gabby's boa-constricting embrace. I can't help but long for the PDA police as I quickly look away and wish like crazy for Luke to hurry up.

"Sorry," Luke says when he finally settles in next to me. "Adam's chatty tonight."

"No problem," I say, handing Luke his punch. He chugs it and sets the cup in the snow next to a bunch of other empty cups littering the faux outdoors.

"Having fun?" he asks. His eyes wander to the make-out session two benches down, and he quickly looks back at me.

"Of course, I always have fun with you," I reply, feeling slightly guilty for my use of the word always.

"Dance not your scene, though?" he prods, reading my mind.

I let out my breath and laugh. "Not really, no. I mean, it was fun for a few minutes. The slow dances were nice. But these shoes are killing me and I'm hungry."

He laughs with me, then stands and pulls me up with an easy swoop. "Let's go, then," he says.

"Okay, let me just run to the restroom first," I say.

"All right, I'll wait for you by the doors," he replies, kissing me gently before I make my way to the girls' bathroom closest to the gym.

Inside, there are at least five girls admiring themselves in the massive mirror over the sinks. Without catching any eyes, I find an empty stall and then scoot through satin and tulle to a free sink.

Washing my hands, I feel someone's stare in the mirror.

"I know you never asked him about me," Page Thomas says in her most accusatory voice.

This is why I should never come to social events: I am not social. I'm definitely not going to prom.

"Sorry?" I say, pretending not to have heard. Maybe I can stall her long enough so that I can dry my hands and leave.

"You should be," she says, eyes narrowed, face puckered. She spins around, her white-blonde hair trailing after her, and leaves the bathroom.

I'm finished, and the other girls are now staring at me. So, I'm forced to follow Page.