by Anna Todd
Your high school prom seems like a ridiculous thing to get upset over, but you can’t help it. It was a growing agitation, a domino effect. One of your friends got a box of chocolates and a sign with a stereotypical prom pun on it, and suddenly, it was an avalanche. Your friends were getting serenaded at lunch, decorations were being put on their cars, the whole nine yards. And there you were, always there to jump around with excitement. Deep down, the fear grew stronger and louder inside—when would it be your turn? You tried hard to be patient, but the closer you drew to prom, the more evident it became: You were about to be the third wheel to, like, twelve people.
Thirteenth wheel? That doesn’t sound too lucky.
It’s been a daily struggle to hide your slight bitterness. For weeks you’ve pent up your responses, grinning and bearing far too often through dress shopping, boutonniere picking (your friends insisted you get one for yourself instead of a corsage—how unique!), and all the usual prom-preparation festivities. You know your friends only mean the best by including you, but it doesn’t make any of it sting less. If anything, it makes you feel like some sort of charity case, what with the way they pay special attention to your choices, no matter how outrageous they are. You even tested the theory once and stepped out of the dressing room in chunky heels colored a gaudy orange chevron pattern. They absolutely adored them!
It’s not that you don’t have a date that’s put you in a tizzy—it’s that you’re the only one alone. If things had gone like they previously had at formals, you and your friends would’ve gone stag together, no problem. But now they have people to focus on, and color schemes to match, and other things that you, being dateless, just wouldn’t understand. When you aren’t being cocooned with sudden, suffocating reassurance, you feel a little like white noise.
Worst of all, what would happen when you actually got to prom and all your friends have someone to dance with? What would you do, dance around them?
You somehow managed, against all odds, to get out of every nail and hair appointment that your friends tried to get you to join in on. For the entire day you’ve been blasting angry rock music, messing with different eye-shadow palettes, and mentally prepping yourself for the awkward, lonesome night to come. But all the preparation in the world isn’t nearly enough. You’ve resorted to stalling in the garage when you should be well on your way to the Italian restaurant your friends booked.
Your phone buzzes, the message appearing at the top of your screen. It’s a text from one of your friends, chock-full of one too many smiling faces and hearts: Hey, are you on your way yet? We’re all here!
Just reading it makes you want to hop out of the car and declare a night-in with Netflix. Your friends getting to the restaurant before you was never part of the plan. You intended to slip in quietly, take your seat in the farthest corner of the booth, and participate in as little conversation as possible so as to guarantee minimal humiliation. But coming to dinner late is the closest equivalent to bounding in and exclaiming, “I’m going stag!” Cue the flagrantly fake sympathetic faces and the halfhearted comments about how great you look!
Just the thought of it makes you want to gag. You ignore the message, swiping it away from your screen so that only Twitter remains. Feeling disgustingly desperate, you compose what might be your hundredth complaining tweet today. What better place to get your innermost frustrations out than a very public online journal like Twitter?
Pressing send on the tweet, you refresh your page a few more times. Nothing exciting. Nothing worthwhile. You sigh, observing your position. If you leave your house right now, you might make it to the restaurant before all the meals are served. Having a decadent, cheese-laden meal to occupy yourself with so you can ignore all the lovey-doveyness that’s about to go down is imperative. You decide to give your Twitter one last refresh.
A new tweet comes in from Michael Clifford, the lead guitarist of your favorite band, 5 Seconds of Summer.
@Michael5SOS: No one asked you?
You laugh. No username is mentioned in his message, just the words. You imagine to yourself every meme that’s ever had No One Asked You printed over them in bold letters. Michael’s the type of guy to appreciate a good meme—he had been joking about Grumpy Cat at the show earlier this week. It was in the town a couple minutes away from yours, but, of course, you couldn’t go. You just followed it avidly via Twitter hashtag.
Just then, another tweet comes in.
@Michael5SOS: How’s this?
Attached is a selfie of Michael, hair bright and neon red, holding a piece of paper over the lower half of his face. Scribbled in Sharpie is one word: PROM?
You feel a brief rush of adrenaline, and your eyes dart toward the username that’s tagged in the photo. You’re bracing yourself to see Luke, Calum, or Ashton, the other members of 5SOS, or maybe even somebody from another band—an inside joke the fans will be left to wonder about.
The last thing you expect to see is your username.
The notifications come in like a hailstorm. Your feed fills with a million OMGs and AHHH!s that reflect everything you’re experiencing both internally and externally. You bump your head against the roof of the car jumping in your seat.
Michael Clifford just asked you to prom.
Another text comes up from your friends, but you swipe it away immediately. You can barely form a coherent thought, much less any sort of reply about how late you are. Hands shaking, you type YES again and again and again before sending it off. Chances of his seeing it, if he’s not looking at your profile, are astronomically slim.
A moment passes. You scroll through your notifications, taking in all the retweets and favorites Michael’s post is getting. They’re flooding in so fast, you barely notice one sticking out from the others.
@Michael5SOS just followed you
You barely have the time to scream about it before your phone makes a pinging noise. A new direct message.
@Michael5SOS: You said you missed the show this week. You live around there?
Your phone seems to be permanently in caps lock. You reply YEAH and send it, hopefully before he can look away from his phone. Timing is everything—if you don’t move quickly enough, your message could get lost in the shuffle of fans with follows who are always spamming him to get noticed.
Luckily, he catches it.
@Michael5SOS: I’m still in the area.
@Michael5SOS: Where do I pick you up?
@Michael5SOS: I mean, if you really want to.
Michael Clifford, you think to yourself, of course I want to.
You send him the details, your heart bursting. A part of you feels like none of this can be real, that what you’re actually interacting with is probably a really popular troll account that somehow managed to get verified. But the proof is astonishing. It was Michael Clifford, the real, actual Michael Clifford, holding the paper in that tweet—a tweet that now has over twenty thousand retweets. It’s barely been three minutes since he sent it out.
@Michael5SOS: Cool. I’ll be there in an hour.
@Michael5SOS: Need to find a suit first.
@Michael5SOS: See you there (:
When you set your phone down in the cup holder, you bring your hands to your face. Leaning into the steering wheel, you let the horn ring out as you scream with happiness. It’s a good thing nobody’s in the house, else they might’ve barged into the garage and yelled for you to cut it out and leave already. But it’s just you—you and the car horn, squealing high-pitched and deafening over Michael Gordon Clifford.
When you finally gain your composure, you decide it’s time to get a move on. You’re about to put the car in reverse, but don’t know what’s worse—driving barefoot or with your massive heels. Feeling suddenly short on time, you rush up to your room for another pair of shoes, tossing the heels in a backpack with your boutonniere. (Which, as of now, isn’t just for you anymore!)
Feeling rejuvenated in sneakers, you back out of the garage with jittering hands. The radio is playin
g something upbeat and techno, which you turn up to screeching volume to distract yourself. Despite your best efforts to sing along to the song, it’s nearly impossible to keep your mind on anything other than what Michael might be doing. Maybe he’s asking one of his band members for a suit. Maybe he’s looking for the right tie to wear. Maybe he’s already on his way.
The possibilities are enough to fill up the entire drive to school. Only when you’re pulling into a parking spot do you remember you were supposed to go to the restaurant. You have a multitude of new questioning texts from your friends, wondering where you are. For a moment, it makes you grin. They think you’re not going to prom anymore because you don’t have a date.
This will blow their minds.
Simply for dramatic flair, you choose to ignore their texts. All of them neglected to mention Michael’s tweet, so you assume they haven’t checked Twitter yet. You’re almost glad it’s this way—now, they’ll be very surprised when they see the two of you together. It’s not every day your friend skips dinner and shows up at prom with a member of one of the most popular bands in the world.
It’s only 7:00 p.m. and most everyone is still at their dinners, so you’re one of the first attendees here. The poor volunteer mom outside the front doors of your school gives you a weird look as she takes your ticket, ripping it in half mostly for show. She puts both pieces in a wastebasket, notifying you that everywhere but the gym is off-limits tonight, and that you should Have a great time. Her tone is strangely accusatory, and you get unnecessarily offended by it. Only when you walk away from her does the strangeness of your situation occur to you. You’re entering prom at least an hour earlier than most everybody else and completely alone. She had every right to be weirded out by you.
The gym is completely decked out for prom, but only a few couples are inside, dancing awkwardly to a DJ’s terrible remix of Top 40 pop. You hesitate by the doors. Entering the gym would feel like walking in on some intimate moment of pubescent affection. You decide to wander around for a while, even though the volunteer mom said everywhere else was “off-limits.”
You didn’t like her tone, anyway. Serves her right.
Going to the end of the hall, you take a seat on the floor against a locker, making sure you’re positioned where you can still see the gym. You DM Michael, reminding him to send you a message when he arrives so you can meet him by the door. He doesn’t answer, but a part of you expects it. So long as he shows up, you’ll survive.
Somewhere around a half an hour passes. Other people start arriving in small trickles until, finally, they’re shuffling into the gym by the dozens. They pass right by you in their bright taffeta gowns, their generic black tuxes, laughing together like there’s something to laugh about.
You recognize almost all the faces, but it’s sort of strange to see them all dressed up. Formality is quite the change from the shorts and T-shirts you all wear regularly. Your friends pass in the gowns you assured them were perfect, dates on their arms like cologne-scented candy. A football player struts by in a dark blue tuxedo, and it takes you by surprise. Some people you simply never see in a suit.
Your breathing, quick as it already is, speeds up a little faster.
Michael Clifford has always been one of those people.
As students make their way into the gym, you check your phone at least a thousand times in one minute. Still nothing from Michael. You contain your mild panic as best as you can, but when the flow of people coming in deteriorates to almost nothing, you can barely take it. Where is he?
As you’re beginning to think you’ve been stood up, your phone pings with a new notification.
Suddenly, you can exhale. It’s Michael.
@Michael5SOS: Where are you?
You scramble to your feet, nearly jogging down the hall as you remind him to wait by the front. I’ll be right there, you write, and your stomach flutters just typing it out.
The mom stationed outside the entrance looks surprised to see you again when you push open the front doors. You can almost feel the judgment oozing from her pastel cardigan.
“I’m meeting someone,” you tell her.
“Really?” She gestures to the front of the school, which is deserted. “Where?”
You feel your pulse start to race. “He’s coming. I swear he is.”
Moving down the sidewalk, you look around in the darkness. Feeling helpless, you check your phone. Two new DMs, sent only a minute apart.
@Michael5SOS: Where was the school again?
@Michael5SOS: I can’t find you.
Your heart sinks. He can’t find your school. He’s never going to—
Suddenly, a voice comes up from behind you, close to your ear. “Just messing with you.”
You jump, whirling around with a yelp.
And here he is. Michael Clifford’s grin is bright, and crooked, and even better than in any picture you’ve ever seen. His suit is a size too big, but somehow it makes him look all the more charming. It’s a stark contrast from what you’re used to seeing of Michael in onstage pictures, guitar in hand, wearing black jeans and a band T. To see him so blatantly out of his element—suit, tie, and all—is almost more shocking than that he’s here, standing right before you. In his hands he holds a bouquet of lavender flowers, which are wrapped in a grocery-store bag. He must’ve just bought them.
For you.
“Oh my God,” you whisper.
Michael laughs, stepping close to give you a hug. He’s tall—so much taller than you imagined he’d be. You can barely wrap your mind around it. He’s actually here.
“You scared me to death!” you tell him.
“That was the plan!” He holds out the flowers, nose crinkling. “Uh, these are for you. They didn’t have any corsages, so . . .” When he notices you pulling the plastic box containing your boutonniere out of your backpack, his eyes light up. “Whoa, you actually have one? You work fast!”
“My friends told me to get one for myself,” you explain. “They were getting them for their dates, so they didn’t want me to feel left out or anything.”
He takes the boutonniere with a look. “Wow. Some friends.”
“I don’t think they meant for it to be insulting. But still.”
He lets you fasten the flower on his suit jacket. When you’re done, he points to it with gusto. “Look at that. It’s absolutely perfect! Here, let me just . . .” He seizes the bouquet from your hands, ripping a rose from its stem.
“Whoa, dark. I didn’t know you were so violent, Michael.”
He chuckles, tying the stub of a stem around an elastic bracelet. When he’s finished, he presents it like a waiter would show a platter of hors d’oeuvres. “One makeshift corsage. I hope you like it.”
“Absolutely perfect,” you say.
“Good. I had it made just for you.” He gestures to the school entrance. “Shall we?”
You lead Michael to the front doors, giving the volunteer mom a semicondescending look as you pass by. The first battle of today that you’ve won.
When the two of you step inside the gym, it’s nothing like a movie. The mediocre music doesn’t come to a screeching halt. Heads don’t turn in unison in your direction. Jaws don’t drop at how hot you look next to a—ahem—celebrity. In fact, prom carries on its merry course, barely acknowledging your entrance at all.
“It’s not much,” you point out to him, fidgeting. The lavender, slightly wrinkled papier-mâché decorations and modest strings of lights around the basketball court can only pale in comparison to the grandeur of all the concerts he puts on and award shows he attends. You get a wave of inadequacy imagining what he thinks of it.
But Michael turns to you and smiles, pleased as ever. His green eyes glint with the kind of amusement a child would have in the line for a roller coaster. “I think it’s great! I mean, what prom isn’t a little lame, right? That’s the best part.”
Not until you start walking through the crowd of your classmates do the double takes start co
ming. At first you try to tell yourself that maybe it’s just his colorful hair catching their eye, but the expressions you start catching in your peripheral view tell you that it must be a little more than bright hair dye.
If Michael notices the stares, he gives little indication. He’s cheerful as ever as you move to the other end of the gym, never once letting go of your hand. If anything, he grips it tighter. Somewhere around every other second you have to remind your heart to be still. Even then, it won’t comply.
You make a stop by the refreshments table, which boasts a slim selection of pretzels, homemade cookies, and a cooler of lemonade. By now it’s all been picked over—a sorry display of crumbs and lemonade diluted with melted ice.
Michael scoffs sarcastically, pointing at the soggy mess with pseudo-disdain. His Australian accent turns into that of a snobby British aristocrat, and it is so forced that it’s comical. “God, what is this? No caviar?”
You laugh, playing along. “Our deepest apologies, Mr. Clifford. We were informed of your attendance far too late to properly prepare.”
“Pishposh! You should always be prepared for me!”
As the two of you laugh together, you can feel the eyes of at least a dozen people on you. You can’t tell if they’re staring because it is Michael Clifford, or because they think it’s a guy who looks a lot like him. Probably a mixture of both.
“What’s the matter?” Michael asks.
You lean in to whisper, “Everybody’s looking at us.”
“Are they?” He turns away from you to look at everybody. At least five jaws drop in unison. Their eyes dart from Michael to you with envy—perhaps even a hint of hatred. You’re about to get upset, but you consider the situation for yourself. If someone else from your school showed up to prom with Michael Clifford, you’d be a little (a lot) jealous.
As Michael examines the dance floor, there’s a tap on your shoulder. You’ve barely looked over in their direction before you’re flooded with weak hurrahs from your friends and their dates.